Final judgment

TWENTY-TWO

Carol Hill’s lawyer, Vince Bongiovanni, had asked her typical softball questions at the arbitration about how wonderful her marriage had been until Charles Rockley started harassing her. It was a standard tactic designed to elicit sympathy.

Mason knew it was lost on Vanessa Carter, who was more likely to find sympathy in the dictionary between shit and suicide than in a plaintiff’s well-rehearsed tears. Especially after Galaxy’s lawyer, Lari Prillman, shredded Carol’s warm and fuzzy story, ripping out the last thread with Carol’s admission that she’d had an affair with one of the casino bartenders.

In addition to its marginal value as soap opera, Carol’s testimony had included enough information for Blues and Mason to track down her husband, Mark, who worked at the GM plant in the Fairfax Industrial District and did his drinking at a bar not far from the plant called Easy’s. That’s where Blues and Mason found him just after six o’clock either winding down from the week or winding up for the weekend.

Easy’s was a one-room cinderblock dive with no windows, blue lights, and bar stools worn to the nails. Friday after work was prime time and the bar was full of men who had traded hard hats for cold beer. A jukebox pounded out country music, love-gone-bad songs sending some men home and others back to the bar. Two waitresses worked the room, their hard-bitten faces offering no comfort. The bartender, a dirty towel slung over his bony shoulder, made change and conversation.

Blues shouldered his way to the bar and paid ten dollars more than the price of two beers, the heavy tip a fair price for a line on Mark Hill. He navigated back to Mason, who was standing near the door, squinting while his eyes adjusted to the perpetual dusk.

“That’s him,” Blues said, aiming his bottle at the man sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar, shoulders hunched, head down. “Bartender says he’s a mean drunk. Likes to mix it up.”

Hill was husky, broad in the shoulders, heavy in the gut. He was wearing a barn jacket that padded his shoulders, giving him an even more rounded look. Mason guessed that he was in his mid-thirties, though he looked older. Probably been working the same assembly-line job long enough to be bitter, more so after his wife humiliated him.

He finished his beer, shoving the mug away from him, a silent signal to the bartender for a refill. He chased it with a shot of whiskey, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He was drinking at a steady pace that would blind him before the night was over. No one talked to him. Even in the crowded bar, people kept their distance. The bartender had him pegged.

Mason slipped through the crowd, rested his elbow on the bar next to Hill, and waved a twenty-dollar bill at the bartender. Blues lingered a step behind him.

“A shot and a beer for my friend,” Mason said.

Hill turned his head toward Mason. “I know you?”

“Nope,” Mason said, taking a draw on his bottle.

“Then you ain’t my friend, so why you wanna buy me a drink?”

His eyes were glassy and his speech was slow, more suspicious than slurred.

“Because I want to talk to you.”

Hill narrowed his eyes, turning away. “I buy my own drinks.”

“Don’t you even want to know why I want to talk to you?”

“Don’t give a rat’s ass. Fuck off.”

“It’s about Charles Rockley.”

“Don’t know him,” Hill said, rapping his empty mug on the counter to summon the bartender.

“Sure you do. He’s the guy at Galaxy that screwed your wife-not to be confused with the bartender she was banging.”

Hill slumped toward the bar as if he’d been slapped. Mason took the fake and didn’t see Hill reach inside his coat, barely catching the flash of steel as Hill whipped a knife at his throat.

Blues grabbed Hill’s wrist as he cleared his jacket, twisting it until Hill dropped the knife on the bar. Mason scooped it up, closed the blade, and slipped it into his pocket. The bartender made a point of looking the other way. If anyone else noticed, they kept it to themselves. Blues was right. Hill didn’t have a friend who gave a shit.

Blues leaned in against Hill’s face, still gripping his wrist. “Let’s get some air.”

Mason and Blues flanked Hill, impersonating three buddies ready to hit the road. They hustled him out to the parking lot and up against the side of Mason’s SUV. Blues frisked him, nodding to Mason that he was unarmed. Mason climbed into the backseat from the driver’s side as Blues shoved Hill in from the passenger side, slamming the door shut.

“Who the fuck are you guys?” Hill asked.

“Just a couple of sailors on leave looking for a good time,” Mason said.

“Bullshit! Lemme go,” Hill said, reaching for the door, changing his mind when he saw Blues on the other side.

“We’ll let you go just as soon as we’re done talking.”

“Well, I got nothing to say to you, asshole. So if you and your buddy are gonna bust me up, let’s get it over with.”

Mason believed him. The booze couldn’t mask the resignation and resentment in Hill’s voice. He’d been kicked so many times he expected it. The best he could hope for was to get in a few licks of his own before someone turned out his lights.

“We just want some information about Charles Rockley, and don’t tell me you don’t know who he is or my friend will get very annoyed.”

Hill peered out the window at Blues, who stared back before turning around and blotting out the window with his back. He looked at Mason, who gave him no room.

“What do you want to know?”

“All I know is that Rockley worked at the Galaxy and harassed your wife. She sued him. Fill in the blanks.”

“That fucking cousin of hers, the smartass lawyer. It was his idea.”

“You mean Vince Bongiovanni? Your wife’s lawyer?”

“Yeah. Vince said he was dying to pop the Galaxy on account of what happened after Ed got killed.”

“Ed who?” Mason asked.

“Ed Fiori. He owned the boat when it was called the Dream Casino. Got himself killed a few years ago. Hell of a thing. Galaxy bought the boat out of Fiori’s estate. Vince said they screwed Ed’s family on the deal.”

“Why does Bongiovanni care what happened to Ed Fiori?”

“Who the fuck knows? They’re all related. Carol and Vince are cousins; Fiori was their uncle. Anyway, Carol bitches to Vince that this guy Rockley is coming on to her at work. Won’t take no for an answer. Vince says how bad is it? Carol, she says it’s bad, but it ain’t so bad. Vince says the worse it is the more it’s worth. Next thing I know, she says the guy raped her. Vince, he says ka-ching.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I’m gonna cut Rockley’s nuts off. Vince tells me to sit tight ’cause there’s more than one way to get money out of a casino. So I go along like a dumbass and she makes a fool out of me at that hearing when that bitch lawyer gets her to admit that she was hosing one of the bartenders all this time I’m wantin’ to kill Rockley to protect her honor. Fuck her and the bartender and Rockley! You satisfied?”

Mason nodded. “Almost. When was the last time you saw Rockley?”

Hill tugged at his chin, stalling. “At the hearing. Guy’s a punk. Him and me ended up in the head at the same time. He sees me and grabs his crotch. Tells me you want some, come get some. Vince showed up or I woulda popped the little shit.”

“How about Carol? Did she run into him at work after the hearing?”

“She’s been off since before the hearing. Too much mental anguish,” Hill explained, not hiding his sarcasm.

“You don’t buy her mental anguish?”

“Hey, I’m buying whatever Vince and Carol are selling long as I get my share of the money.”

Carol’s claim against Galaxy included a claim on behalf of her husband for loss of consortium, a quaint legal term that meant loss of a spouse’s services caused by the defendant’s wrongful conduct. Services was loosely translated as sex. How frequent before compared to how frequent after. Then put a price on it. Carol testified that she and Mark screwed like rabbits until having sex with Rockley made her hate to be touched. Lari Prillman asked how she found the time when she was spending so much of it shacked up with the bartender. Mason doubted Mark would see a nickel for loss of his wife’s services even if Judge Carter weren’t being blackmailed. Rather than break that news to Hill, Mason changed subjects.

Lari Prillman had never identified the bartender by name during the hearing. Mason thought that was unusual but attributed it to Galaxy’s desire to avoid dragging another employee’s name into the case. Carol Hill didn’t volunteer her lover’s name, which made sense to Mason.

“The bartender. You ever get his name?”

Hill’s face reddened. “Johnny Keegan.”

“How about Keegan? You going to cut his nuts off?”

Hill looked away from Mason as his eyes filled. “I’m done talking. Lemme outta here.”

Watching Hill die a little more made Mason feel ashamed for kicking him when he was down. “Sure. Sorry we hassled you.”

“Right. You and everybody else.”

Mason opened the door, got out, and stood aside. Hill slid out, drawing his coat around him. Mason couldn’t tell if the tears on Hill’s checks were from the booze, the cold, or the pain. Hill brushed them away and headed for his truck.