The Last Witness

Chapter Fourteen

New Year's Eve fell on a Monday. No one had tried to kill him since Blues had turned down the prosecutor's plea bargain. Mason didn't know whether that was just luck or whether thugs took off the week between Christmas and New Year's.

Mason sat at his desk late in the afternoon gazing out the window onto Broadway. It was a slate-gray day, the sky nearly the same color as the pavement. It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Black ice made of frozen slush and grime was pocketed along curbs and buildings the length of Broadway. It hadn't snowed in two weeks, but it hadn't been warm enough to melt the hard-core remnants of the last storm.

There was a strip shopping center across the street and a block south, the edge of which he could see from his window if he leaned forward far enough. Christmas lights had been strung along the outside of the stores in the center. The owner had turned them on even though it wasn't quite dark yet. The lights he could see-red, green, blue, and white- twinkled weakly in the fading light. They needed the night to shine.

There wasn't much traffic. Most people had already gone home to get their game faces on for the night of celebration that lay ahead. The only phone calls he'd had all day had been from Mickey Shanahan, asking Mason's advice for the last-minute preparations for the club. New Year's Eve was the biggest night of the year in the bar business, and Mickey had devoted himself to its success.

Mason had taken Mickey to visit Blues at the county jail so they could discuss Mickey's plans for New Year's Eve. Mason had explained to Mickey that he could go by himself, but Mickey had declined. Jail, he'd told Mason, was a place you should never go without someone who knew how to get you out. They had met Blues in the visiting room separated by the double-paned, bulletproof glass.

"Blues, I've got a terrific idea for New Year's," Mickey had bubbled.

Blues had raised his eyebrows and looked down at Mickey through the glass, doubting whether Mickey was capable of such a thought.

"It's a bar," he had told Mickey. "I've got Pete Kirby's trio booked already. I've lined up extra bar and kitchen help. All you have to do is keep the booze and the food moving."

Mickey had waved both hands in protest. "No, no, no. You've got it all wrong, Blues. This is an opportunity. A huge opportunity. We bill the night as a benefit for your legal defense fund. It'll be a knockout."

He had looked back and forth at Blues and Mason, who both had shaken their heads. "No fund-raiser," Blues had said.

"Not a chance," Mason had added.

"Okay, okay. Plan B. You guys will love this," Mickey had insisted. "We do a murder mystery. You know, hire actors to stage a murder. Involve the people in the bar in solving the crime. Plant clues, stuff like that. Reveal the killer at midnight. I'm telling you guys, it will be fantastic!"

Blues had pressed his hands against the glass like he wanted to reach through and strangle Mickey. "Just say hello to the people when they come in, take their money, and don't fuck it up."

Mickey had overcome his anxiety of going to the jail and had shuttled back and forth, pleading with Blues to approve one scheme after another. Blues had told Mickey that if he came back again, the guards would arrest him.

Mickey had called Mason a dozen times that day with last-minute pleas to approve one off-the-wall idea after another. Mason had said no to the first ten, and hung up on the last two.

He'd spent the rest of the day going over his notes for the preliminary hearing. He didn't think Patrick Ortiz would reveal anything more about his case than was necessary to convince Judge Pistone to bind Blues over for trial. The evidence of Blues's fingerprints at the scene would be more than enough.

Mason had listed the witnesses he expected Ortiz to call on the dry-erase board. The maid would testify that she had found Cullan's body. The coroner would testify to the cause of death. Bern Harrell or Pete Kirby would testify about the fight at the bar and Blues's threat. Harry Ryman would testify about his investigation. A forensics investigator would testify about the fingerprints.

Mason glumly admitted to himself that had no evidence to work with. The last two weeks had yielded nothing that changed the core facts of the case. He had no doubt that Judge Pistone would find probable cause to believe that Blues had murdered Jack Cullan. The press would have a field day, its monstrous appetite satisfied for the moment. Leonard Campbell would smile into the cameras on the courthouse steps and boast about doing the people's business. The image made Mason want to puke.

The phone rang again. The clock on Mason's computer screen said it was just after five. He let it ring twice before picking it up.

"Listen, Mickey," he said. "Just do it the way Blues told you. It's not a carnival."

Rachel Firestone said, "What's not a carnival? Who's Mickey and what did Blues tell him to do? Are you planning a New Year's Eve jailbreak? Tell me what time and I'll get a photographer over there."

"Shit," Mason said. "I told him not to call me at work. You reporters are too clever. I knew you'd figure it out."

"I'll make certain it's front-page, above the fold," she told him. "All seriousness aside, what's going on?"

"Mickey is a tenant in the building who's running the bar while Blues is on vacation. He wants to turn the bar into the Circus Maximus for New Year's. Since he's the only one who's called me today, I figured it was him."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"You didn't. What's on your mind?"

"New Year's Eve. What else? You have any plans?"

"It's against my religion. Besides, what happened to your girlfriend the rugby player?"

"Fear of commitment."

"Hers or yours?"

"Mine. I figured you would be the perfect date. I'm on the rebound and I don't like guys. Who could be safer for a girl at the peak of her vulnerability?"

"You make it sound irresistible, but I think I'll pass. I'm not in a party mood."

"I haven't told you about the party yet. You might change your mind."

"Okay, where's the party?"

"The Dream Casino. Invitation only and I've got one. Does your tux still fit?"

Mason perked up. He doubted that Ed Fiora would talk to him about Cullan's murder, but he figured it couldn't hurt to ask. The worst Fiora could say was no. The preliminary hearing was in two days and Mason needed something. He couldn't think of any reason not to try and get it from Fiora, except for Tony Manzerio. Mason didn't think Fiora would whack him in the middle of his casino on New Year's Eve in front of hundreds of witnesses.

"I don't own a tux, but I've still got my bar mitzvah suit. Will that be formal enough?"

"Perfect. I'll pick you up at nine o'clock."

Rachel rang Mason's doorbell at exactly nine. He finished smoothing out the knot in his tie before he opened the door.

"Man, oh, Manishewitz!" Mason said.

Rachel swirled into the house, wearing a full-length mink coat. She slipped one arm effortlessly out of her coat, letting it slide down the other into a pile on the floor, revealing an off-the-shoulder, knee-high black sheath that clung to her body as if she were born with it on. Hands on her hips, she bumped to the right, then grinded to the left, allowing the entry hall light to reflect off the diamond tennis bracelet and diamond stud earrings she was wearing. The heavy gold-braided chain around her neck and the gold and diamond Rolex watch she wore on her other wrist completed her Fort Knox ensemble.

"Am I not fabulous?" she demanded of him.

Mason was wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. Next to Rachel, he felt funereal at best.

"Fabulous doesn't belong in the same sentence as you. You're going to break every heart in the place. The men will die because you won't be interested in them and the women will hate you."

"Only the wrong women, honey. The right ones will know."

"What? You have a secret handshake?"

"Can't tell you. That's what makes it a secret."

"How do you afford all this glory on a reporter's salary?"

"I'm different."

"Why? Because you're gay?"

"No, because I'm rich. Let's go."

Casinos are built on the myth that luck lies in the next roll of the dice; the optimism that prosperity is in the next card and not just around the corner; and the greed of human beings dying to spend the rent money to cash in on something for nothing. Casinos sold euphemisms by the pound. Gambling was gaming. Blackjack dealers were buddies. Losers were high rollers.

Mason knew the truth-the house is not a home. He'd represented a string of people who'd put their faith in hitting on sixteen and hit the skids instead. Some went home and beat their wives and kids. Some stole from their employers to cover their losses. Some went to liquor stores to get drunk and decided to rob them instead.

Mason wasn't naive enough to blame the casinos entirely. No casino ever rounded people up at gunpoint and made them empty their pockets. The casino owners, from the entrepreneurs like Ed Fiora, to the shareholders of the publicly traded companies, knew there was a lot of money to be made in the stuff of dreams. Winning big was the American dream writ large.

The lobby of the Dream Casino was carpeted in deep red and gold, the walls papered in a soothing creamy shade, and the whole area lit by cascading floodlights. Above an arched entryway to the casino, images of demographically correct winners had been plastered on the wall. Three couples- one white, one black, one Hispanic-were locked in ecstatic embraces as poker chips rained over them. The casino's slogan made the point. Take a Chance! Make Your Dream Come True!

Mason and Rachel passed under the arch in a crowd of people thick with fur coats and jewels. Mason looked at Rachel. Her eyes glittered more than her diamonds, and her red hair shimmered like woven rubies. Mason was certain that if she'd worn pearls, they would have paled in comparison to her alabaster skin. He shook his head, mourning the loss of Rachel to heterosexual men, himself in particular.

Hidden fog machines spewed white clouds in the path of the partygoers, creating a mystical sensation as they entered the casino. They may not have been walking into a dream, but the effect was like passing into another world.

"Can you believe this?" she asked Mason once they emerged from the clouds into the casino. "It's a hundred and fifty thousand square feet; one of the biggest casino floors outside of Vegas and Atlantic City. Look at the people!"

Thousands were jammed hip-to-elbow as far as Mason could see. Rachel may have had an invitation but, judging from the crowd, Mason figured he was the only person with a pulse in the city who hadn't gotten one. The crowds around the tables were so deep that the players had disappeared from view. The only open areas were in the pits, where pit bosses patrolled under the watchful eyes of the hidden cameras that ran the length and width of the casino.

Mason knew from other cases he'd defended that every person who entered a casino was videotaped from the moment he arrived until the moment he left. The only places that cameras weren't allowed were the bathrooms, and security guards patrolled them on a regular basis.

Rachel said, "I'm going to check my coat and wander. I'll meet you back here at midnight. Have fun."

Mason surveyed the sea of people. There was a bank of slot machines to his right, each one singing out its electronic siren call. Bells and whistles begged the players for more money. Women wearing thousand-dollar designer dresses sat on stools in front of the slots, padded gloves on their right hands to avoid calluses from pulling the handle, plastic buckets in their laps to collect their winnings. They whooped and hollered as the slots paid off.

A casino was one place that welcomed smokers, and a heavy cloud floated above the crowd, turning blue and gray depending on the light that filtered through it. No one seemed to mind. Even the nonsmokers were working too hard at having a good time.

Mason plunged into the crowd. He nodded and smiled at a few familiar faces, and pretended not to notice those who stared at him a little too much. A woman planted herself in his path. Her platinum hair was piled as high as her dress was cut low. The breasts of a well-endowed twenty-year-old practically poured out of her gown. Had the rest of her been as young as her bosom, Mason would have enjoyed the view. As it was, he tried to look away, but the press of other bodies around them made it practically impossible.

"Got ' em for Christmas, so might as well unwrap 'em," the woman told Mason as she cupped her hands under her breasts. Her speech was slurred and her stride was unsteady. Mason thought her breasts were the only things keeping her anchored.

"Deck the halls," he told her.

"Deck this, sweetheart," she told him as she grasped his groin, laughed, and moved on to find her next grope.

Mason wedged himself into a blackjack table long enough to win two hundred dollars and give up the chair before it turned cold. He sliced his way through the crowd until he reached a wall of private poker rooms. He leaned with his back against the wall and watched the crowd. A few minutes later, Tony Manzerio, wearing the largest tuxedo ever made, stepped out of the room to Mason's left, forcing the crowd to go around him and cutting off any escape route for Mason.

Mason's throat tightened as if his shirt collar had suddenly lost a size. He wasn't thrilled to see Tony again, but preferred the casino to Blues's parking lot. Mason changed his mind when Tony flashed him the gun tucked in the shoulder harness under his tux jacket. Tony motioned Mason into the poker room.

"Need a fourth for bridge?" Mason asked him.

"Move your ass, wise guy," Tony answered. "Mr. Fiora wants to talk to you."

"Lucky me," Mason said. "I didn't even have an appointment."

Mason walked past Tony, straightening his jacket with a studied nonchalance. Tony shoved Mason between the shoulder blades. Mason spun around, ready to shove back.

"Hey," Tony told him with a shrug. "Your collar was messed up. I was just straightening it."

Mason said, "Perfect. A hood with a sense of humor."

He turned back to the poker room and stepped inside. Tony closed the door behind him, but stayed outside.

The poker room was six-sided. There was a small, well-stocked bar on the back wall and a door that opened into a bathroom on another wall. A poker table shaped the same as the room stood in the center of the floor, covered in green felt. Stacks of hundred-dollar chips surrounded a dealer's shoe filled with four decks of cards. Captain's chairs upholstered in soft brown leather sat in a ring around the table. Wall fixtures provided the only light through frosted-glass shades. Paintings of foxhunts hung on the walls, giving the room the look and feel of an English gentlemen's club.

Mason had seen pictures of Fiora in the newspaper. The head shots were of a man in his forties, slicked-back dark hair, narrow eyes, square chin, and a nose that had been broken more than once. The rest of his body fit the newspaper image of a street fighter. Fiora was little more than five-five, tightly muscled and tightly wound. His tuxedo hung loosely on his slender frame, as if he wanted to avoid being hemmed in by his clothes. He was standing at the bar, pouring himself a scotch, when the door closed behind Mason.

"So, Tony found you."

"Not easy in a crowd like that," Mason said.

"Not hard either. Video cameras picked you up when you came in with that bitch from the newspaper. What's her name? Rachel something?"

"Firestone. Rachel Firestone."

"Yeah, Firestone. You banging that broad? I hear she don't dig guys."

"If you're such a big fan of hers, why did you send her an invitation?"

"You think I made up the list? My PR people did that.

They invited everyone with a pulse but you. You, I didn't invite."

"I'd hire new PR people. Leaving me off the list could have ruined your party."

Fiora studied him. "You're a smart guy, aren't you. Always wising off. Tony told me that you gave him some shit the other night when he tried to talk to you. Offended him. Made him think you weren't listening."

"Is that why Tony is standing guard outside the door? To make sure I listen?"

"And to make sure nobody bothers us while we're talking."

"Tony the multitasking marvel. I'm sure his mother would be proud," Mason said.

Fiora pulled a cigar from his inside jacket pocket, sniffed it, licked it, and clipped it before burning the end of it with a wooden match he struck against his thumbnail. Mason had smoked cigars years ago, but quit when he got tired of waking up to a mouth that tasted like a garbage truck at the end of its run. He still liked the aroma of a good cigar and Fiora's cigar qualified.

"You don't give up, do you?" Fiora asked him, pointing his cigar at Mason to underscore his disappointment.

"I don't respond well to structure," Mason answered. "What do you want?"

"I thought you were the one who wanted to ask me questions."

"You'll just lie to me. I'll wait until you're under oath. Then I'll let you commit perjury."

"Perjury! Bullshit! I got nothing to lie about."

"Then why are you trying so hard to make my client plead guilty to something he didn't do?"

"Who says he didn't do it? Him? You? So what? He should take the deal the DA offered him. Everybody will be better off. Including you. Did you explain that to your client?"

"He wasn't moved. He figures if you kill me, he won't have to pay my bill."

"You keep up the jokes, Mason. Just remember what a good time you had when it's all over."

"What makes you think Jack Cullan's files will stay hidden just because my client pleads guilty? If those files are so valuable, someone will find them. Then what will you do?"

Fiora set his drink on the bar and walked slowly around the table until he was nearly on top of Mason. Fiora gave up more than half a foot and thirty pounds to Mason, but standing in front of him, eyes blazing, Fiora couldn't have cared less. He knew, as did Blues, that violence leveled all kinds of playing fields.

"Any motherfucker digs up dirt on me, I'll use it to bury him. Got that, wise guy?"

Mason was tired of being pushed and pulled by cops, politicians, and thugs. He said, "Sure. Now I've got news for you. Any motherfucker who threatens me, my client, or my dog, better have more than an ape guarding his door. Got that, wise guy?"

Fiora ran his tongue over his lips, pushed it around the inside of his mouth, and reached his hand inside his tux jacket. He pulled out a gun and rested the end of the barrel on Mason's chest.

"You got more balls than sense, Mason," he told him.

"Helps in my line of work," Mason answered, and pushed the gun away. "Happy New Year."

Mason pulled the door open and tapped Tony on the shoulder. Tony turned sideways so he could see his boss. Fiora nodded and Tony stepped aside for Mason.

"Hey, Mason," Fiora said. "You find those files, come see me. We'll do some business."

"Not likely," Mason said.

"Don't be stupid, Mason. You'll live longer."

"Doing business with you? Not likely," Mason repeated, and headed back into the crowd.