The Second Life of Nick Mason

by Steve Hamilton

  Time slowed down as the bullets ripped through the two bodyguards’ chests, hearts blown apart before they even knew it was happening. Then the two drivers, each with a gun drawn from his belt and half raised when he brought his 20s together and the men were dead before their brains’ signals reached their trigger fingers.

  Now it was just the fifth man, Tyron Harris, who didn’t have a gun after all, just a laptop bag that he held out in front of him like a shield. Two and a half seconds barely gone, but Mason could take his time. He could breathe and look down the sight of the one gun in his right hand. Finish his job and walk away.

  But then Harris’s bag was already falling and behind it he saw the two barrels of the sawed-off shotgun. He heard a sound and saw the flash from one barrel as it took away his hands and his guns. Another sound and another flash and his chest was gone. Just enough time left to look in Harris’s face as he heard that same sound a third time.

  He opened his eyes and sat up in his bed, breathing hard. The morning sun was shining through the window.

  It was a chime. A doorbell.

  He got up and put some clothes on, meeting Diana just as she was coming down the stairs. It was early, but she was already dressed for work.

  “Are you expecting someone?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  He went down and opened the door. Lauren was standing on the little cement porch with Max sitting patiently at her feet. As soon as he saw Mason, the dog went past him and up the stairs, into the town house.

  “I had my car today, so Max and I thought we’d stop by before work,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  He stood there for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to handle this.

  “I thought, from the other night . . .” she said, her face starting to turn red. “I mean, we talked about me bringing him over . . . And you didn’t come to get Max yesterday, so . . .”

  “Hello, whose dog is this?” It was Diana from somewhere behind him.

  “This is Diana,” Mason said. “She manages the restaurant.”

  Lauren looked up at Diana as she came down the stairs. “Um, hello,” she said.

  Diana gave Mason a look and reached out to shake Lauren’s hand.

  “This is Lauren,” Mason said. “She works at the pet store over on Grant Street.”

  The two women eyed each other closely.

  “I see,” Diana said with a cool smile. “And this is her dog?”

  “No,” Mason said. “Max is mine.”

  “That’s interesting,” Diana said. “Were you planning to tell me?”

  Mason got quiet. Both women stood there, watching him.

  “Can we step outside for a moment?” Mason said to Lauren. Then to Diana, “Excuse us, please.”

  He guided Lauren outside to the sidewalk.

  “I’m working at her restaurant,” he said. “I haven’t found a new place yet.”

  “I’m sorry, Nick. I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, trying to keep his voice cool and even. He’d been working so hard to follow his rule about keeping his personal life and his professional life separate, a rule that seemed more vital now than ever. Even if it was more and more impossible. Having Lauren here at the town house and, hell, having her meet Diana . . . This did not belong on the program.

  “I got a lot of stuff going on today,” he said. “Would you mind looking after Max for a while longer? I don’t want to leave him here all day alone.”

  “I could probably do that.”

  “I’ll try to stop by your place tonight. It might be late.”

  Lauren looked at him carefully. “You’re gonna call me first, right?”

  “Yes,” he said. Then he went back in to collect Max, who already seemed interested in the pool. Diana just stood there, watching him. By the time he got Max back downstairs, the garage door was open and Diana was already driving off in her BMW.

  “That’s your roommate,” Lauren said as she watched the car disappear down the street.

  “Like I said—”

  She put a hand up to stop him. “You don’t owe me any more explanation, Nick. I’ll see you later.”

  She gave him a quick kiss and he could feel the hesitation even then. But then she smiled and got in the car with Max.

  Mason let out a long breath and went back inside to get cleaned up for the day. A few minutes later, he was in the Camaro on his way to the restaurant. He hadn’t gotten the chance to talk to Diana about the cars, but he noticed when he got there that she had parked in back of the building again. There were no parking spots on the street, but when he went in the side lot he got the space closest to the street. Anyone coming by would see the car there.

  He went inside and found her in the kitchen.

  “Lauren seems like a lovely girl,” she said to him. “And Max seems like a great dog. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

  “How much trouble are we in?”

  “You’re lucky I love dogs,” she said, handing him the keys to the BMW.

  Mason left the kitchen. He was still shaking his head when he got into her car. Then he settled back in the seat and his assignment came back to him. An almost smile left his face as he started the car and headed out into the day.

  When he got to Fuller Park, both of Harris’s cars were parked in front of the house. One car had spent the night there. The other must have arrived in the morning to pick up the woman. He watched her come out and leave in that car. Harris was back to one driver and two bodyguards.

  They all got in their car and left.

  He followed them through the South Side again. It was a different set of businesses today, including the barbershop and the restaurant from Mason’s original list that they hadn’t hit the day before, but it was the same routine. Go in and pay a quick visit, Harris carrying his laptop. There was one laundromat where Mason could actually see in through the window. Harris sitting there at a table with the laptop open, the manager sitting down next to him. The bodyguards standing by, looking serene. Harris gave the man a hug when he stood up, then he and the bodyguards came out and got in the car and went on to the next business.

  By the end of the afternoon, Mason had put in another long day of watching. He was starting to worry that they’d eventually clock him. You can only trail a man for so long, no matter how well you do it, before he turns around and takes a good look at you.

  The next stop was different. They headed back north, over the river, and parked by a little coffee shop near Homan Square. The three men got out and went inside. Mason saw Harris sitting at a table with two strangers. His bodyguards were at a separate table nearby. Half an hour later, all five men came out together. Mason got his first good look at the men Harris had been meeting with. They were both wearing dark suits. One man was older and acted like he was in charge of the whole meeting. His hair was cut close, so fair it was almost white, and there was something almost paternal about the way he put his arm around Harris’s shoulders. There probably weren’t too many men around who did that.

  Mason had seen enough cops in his life. These were definitely cops.

  They stood outside on the sidewalk for a few minutes. Then the two cops got into a black Audi and drove away. Harris and his men kept talking for a moment. Their friendly smiles were long gone. Then they got into their car and left.

  Mason followed them downtown, where they parked outside Morton’s again. Harris was clearly a creature of habit. A weakness, perhaps, but not when you travel with an army.

  Quintero said I’d be getting some help, Mason thought. Whatever that means, I sure as hell haven’t seen it yet.

  The same woman showed up and looked just as blond and gorgeous getting out of her car after shopping or waxing or whatever the hell someone who looks like that does all day. Harr
is kissed her and then they all went into the restaurant. When they came out two hours later, Mason was ready for the cars to separate again, but this time they both headed out in the same direction.

  Mason pulled out behind them, tracking them through town. They passed right under the expressway. They weren’t going back to Fuller Park. They were heading west on Lake Street, into new territory. Then both cars slowed down in the right lane, turned off into a parking lot, and it all made sense.

  It was a strip club.

  Mason pulled in after them. He parked a row over and watched everyone leaving the cars. Harris and the woman. All of the men. They weren’t going to leave anyone sitting here in the parking lot.

  A strip club meant noise and confusion and very little light except on the stage. It sure as hell meant distraction, unless these men were from some other planet. Mason stayed there in the car, his cell phone in his hand. He looked down at the screen for a long time. Finally, he called Quintero.

  “They’re all at a club,” he said. “There may be an opportunity.”

  “Open your trunk,” Quintero said. “Lift up the spare tire.”

  He got out of the car and opened the trunk with the phone still held to his ear. He pulled up the carpeting to expose the spare tire compartment. The tire was secured with a nut, so he had to find the tool bag in the trunk’s side compartment to loosen it. He looked both ways down the parking lot, then pulled up the tire.

  There was a pair of black leather gloves. There was no gun.

  What the hell, he thought. He picked up the gloves and saw the knife underneath. The blade was folded inside, but he knew one push of the button would release it. Six inches long and no doubt razor-sharp.

  “Listen to me,” Quintero said. “Take a moment, get your head on straight. If you’re not focused, you’ll do something stupid. Keep your eyes open. And don’t do anything unless you have a clean exit.”

  It sounded like he was reading Mason his own rules. Mason put the phone away. He stood at the back of the car for a long time, looking out at nothing. He turned down the volume in his own head until it was close to silence. His daughter’s face came to him, then a vision of her running across a soccer field. He held on to the image for a full minute. Then he started moving.

  He tried the gloves on for a moment, just long enough to pick up the knife and put it in his right pocket next to the phone. He took the gloves off and slid them into his left pocket.

  Mason knew that the Chicago firearm laws were a joke, with no automatic jail time even if you get caught carrying around a machine gun. But knives? They had that shit covered in this town. Nothing over two and a half inches, nothing spring-loaded, and another vaguely worded law that all but banned open carry. You can carry a Boy Scout jackknife in your pocket, not on your belt, and that’s about it.

  He paid his money at the door. A long flight of stairs led up to the main floor, with a strip of white light on each step. The music was already loud as Mason started his way up. It got louder with each step, until he reached the top and everything opened up into an airplane hangar–sized area with three runways and a half-dozen other circles of chairs, all facing dance poles. There were maybe a hundred men in the place, every race represented. Women danced on all three runways, but the more private areas were empty except for one in the far corner. Mason didn’t have to look for more than a second to see that that’s where Harris and his crew were sitting.

  The music kept pounding in his ears. The lights were flashing and making everything look not quite real. Mason chose a chair near the middle of the room, facing Harris’s corner. One of the waitresses came by and bent down over him, showing plenty of skin. He ordered a Goose Island and settled in to study the room.

  Threats. Witnesses. Exits.

  One of the dancers drifted over and gave him a little wave. She was wearing only a G-string. That was the law. You keep the bottoms on and you can serve alcohol. Mason gave her a nod and then looked back across the room.

  The club’s best dancer was on the pole over there. The men were all watching her, and Mason could see the blond woman sitting in the chair next to Harris. Her hair seemed to glow in the half darkness. He saw her smiling, the white flash of perfect teeth, sitting there on the arm of the man who seemingly owned the whole city that night. She was enjoying herself and watching the show with just as much enthusiasm as the men around her.

  Mason counted the men. There were five, including Harris. The whole crew. This night out was their big reward for standing around and looking hard all the time or else sitting in a car for hours on end, even overnight.

  The dancer who had waved to Mason was on the pole closest to him now. He took out a twenty, didn’t want to stand out as the guy who just sat there and never tipped anyone. She caught his eye and came over close, getting down on her knees so Mason could slip the bill into her G-string. She blew him a kiss and went back to her pole.

  The music seemed to get even louder. The lights kept flashing. Mason took a hit off his beer and then put the glass down.

  This could be the night, Mason said to himself. All I need is for him to be alone. Just for a few seconds. Then I’ll get my chance to do the unthinkable for a second time. And he’ll never leave this place alive.

  As he looked over again, Mason saw one of the bodyguards stand up, walk along the back wall, and disappear behind a partition. The men’s room. Two minutes, the man came back. He sat down on the other side of the woman and then Harris himself stood up. The bodyguard was halfway to his feet again when the woman put a hand on his forearm. She gestured to the dancer as if saying, No, keep him right here, put on a show for him.

  The bodyguard sat back down. Harris kissed the woman and walked along the back wall alone, retracing the bodyguard’s route to the men’s room.

  Mason stood up.

  He made his way to the back of the room, moving slowly. His movements were all careful, perfectly thought out. Don’t move like a man on a mission. Don’t look over at the party in the corner. Keep looking at the dancers because they’re the only reason you’re here. If someone spots you, if one of them gets up to intercept you in the bathroom, you’re just a customer. A nobody.

  The music got louder and louder. The lights kept flashing.

  Mason went behind the partition. He paused at the door to the men’s room, waiting a moment to see if one of the bodyguards was about to put a hand on his shoulder. It didn’t happen. They were all watching the show out there.

  One last moment to turn back, Mason thought. One last chance not to be the person who will do this.

  Why me? That same question coming back to him yet again. He still didn’t have an answer.

  But it doesn’t matter, he thought. Not now. You made a deal. You signed a contract. You have no choice.

  Do your job.

  Mason pushed open the door and stepped into the men’s room. When the door closed behind him, the volume of the music was cut in half. It felt like he was out of his own body. Somewhere high above, looking down, watching it all happen.

  The man at the sink looked much smaller. A small, weak man with no bodyguards to protect him. The gloves were already on Mason’s hands. The man hadn’t looked up yet. When he finally did, his first glance at Mason was dismissive. A white boy barging into the bathroom, interrupting his solitude. He looked back down and then up again. This might be a tough white boy, judging from the fading bruises on his face. Then he saw the gloves. Which didn’t make sense. No sense at all.

  Until it did. But then it was too late.

  Mason was already on top of him. Harris struggled, trying to elbow Mason in the ribs. Mason stabbed him once in each lung, then the heart. Three rapid jabs, then with one hand closed over his mouth, Mason moved the blade in one smooth motion across the man’s throat. A thin line for one second, then growing into a bright red band. Mason held on tight. That’s the exact moment
he came back into himself. Holding on to the man and watching both of their reflections in the mirror. The man he was holding turned from a drug dealer into a scared man losing his life. A man with a history and a family. A man who grew up in Fuller Park, just on the other side of the Berlin Wall.

  Mason kept holding him. His arms were wrapped tight around him. One last embrace. He could feel the man’s chest heaving as he fought for breath.

  The man’s heart beating.

  Fast. Then irregular. Then not at all.

  Mason felt the man’s life leaving his body. Until he looked at his own face in the mirror.

  It was the face of a cold-blooded killer.

  The blood kept running. Mason let go and Harris hit the sink on the way down to the floor. Mason dropped the knife in the sink, took off the gloves and put them back in his left pocket. Then he backed away from the body on the floor, the blood already pooling on the dirty tile. He checked his clothes. Clean enough. Pushing the door open with his shoulder, he went back out into the noise and lights and didn’t look toward the corner. He made himself move at half the speed his body wanted.

  Walk slow. Walk slow. Walk slow.

  An eternity until he reached the staircase. Down the lighted steps, one at a time. Not looking behind him but expecting the sound of heavy footsteps catching up with him.

  It didn’t happen. Nobody followed him. Nobody paid any attention to Nick Mason as he pushed open the main door and disappeared into the night.

  24

  The brutal murder of an SIS sergeant, then the execution of a prominent drug dealer, both less than a week apart—it all made Detective Frank Sandoval believe that Nick Mason was following a carefully planned hit list. The question was, how many more names were on the list?

  It was after midnight again. Sandoval showed his star to the uniform at the door, then went up the stairs to the club. At night, a high-end place like this should be doing big business, but there was no music playing, no customers, no dancers. The place was lit up with an ugly set of fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling and filled with cops.