by Joel Goldman
“What do you want, Lou?” He sounded tired, as though he’d been worn down by something tougher than a mile swim.
“Answers. What’s going on with you and O’Malley?”
“You’re out of it. Keep it that way. It’s for your own good.”
“Okay. Let’s try something else. Why did Sullivan revoke his will?”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know. I checked his file yesterday. He executed a codicil six months ago revoking all prior wills.”
“He never said a word.”
“Have it your way. Somebody shot up my car and ransacked my house last night. I’m starting to take this personally. You owe it to me to tell me what in the hell is going on!”
Scott didn’t answer. He shook the water from his face, wiped his bloodshot eyes, and pulled his goggles down, pushing off and clawing at the water as he kicked away from Mason.
Leaving the club, Mason grabbed a sandwich at the food court in another downtown office tower. He suppressed his fear of a repeat of last night’s drive-by shooting with the myth that there was safety in a crowd. He didn’t think Camaya would risk a shootout between McDonald’s and Panda Express.
He kept a watch for people shooting at him from speeding cars while he walked to the county courthouse. He checked the court file on O’Malley’s case to see if anything new had been filed. Nothing. It was the same story at the federal courthouse with St. John’s lawsuit. He decided to pay another unscheduled visit to St. John.
“Mr. Mason, you’re going to have to learn to make an appointment just like everybody else,” St. John said as Mason walked past his secretary.
McNamara was in his usual spot on the couch. Mason was beginning to wonder if he slept in a kennel at the foot of St. John’s bed every night.
“Look, Franklin, I don’t feel much like everybody else lately. I’d like some information.”
“Gee, Counselor, don’t you like getting shot at?” McNamara grinned, enjoying his keen wit.
“Can’t you housebreak this guy?” McNamara started to get up, but St. John pointed to the couch. “Good boy, Gene, that’s a good boy.”
“Mr. Mason, don’t press your luck. You may not have enough to go around, from what I understand.”
“I don’t understand any of this. Maybe you can educate me.”
“You’ve obviously aggravated the wrong person. Given your charming demeanor, I know you find that hard to believe.”
“What do you know about Jimmie Camaya?”
McNamara’s ears pricked up. Mason pictured him with his tongue out, humping St. John’s leg.
“No one’s ever been able to pin anything on him. He enjoys a rather celebrated reputation. If he’s involved, you’re in way over your head. We can give you protection if you’ll tell us what you know.”
“I’ll tell you anything you want, except that I’m dumber than dirt. Kelly Holt thinks he’s the guy who shot up my car last night.”
“If Camaya was shooting, he most assuredly wasn’t aiming at your car. My reports are that Holt returned fire. He’s not used to that.”
“Does he do floors and windows too?”
“I heard about your house. My sympathies. Such a violation. I assume that whoever did that and Camaya have the same employer. Why are you attracting all this attention?”
“I got into this mess when Scott Daniels asked me to check the firm’s exposure from Sullivan’s relationship with O’Malley. It’s been downhill since then.”
“Help us with that and maybe we can help you.”
Mason considered the implications of the offer. St. John thought Mason could help him nail O’Malley and the firm. Mason had mixed emotions on the subject. He didn’t like the idea of being a moving target. But he couldn’t get excited about putting himself in St. John’s hands.
“Thanks for your time. I’ll think it over.”
Mason tried the county courthouse again in the hopes that he might run into Kelly at the public health department. The clerk told him that he had missed her by an hour.
He started to call her when he realized his cell phone was on silent and he’d missed a message from her yelling at him for leaving without his police escort. There was also a message from Blues that he had retrieved his briefcase. He hung up and called his landline at home, checking his messages. There were three hang-ups. He couldn’t think of anyone who would call and not leave a message. Unless they just wanted to be certain he wasn’t home.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Mason decided to try his luck with Angela. He was certain that he hadn’t been restored to the office guest list, so he waited for her in the parking garage. It was a confusing maze of levels going up and down in opposite directions at the same time that even a cheese-starved rat couldn’t navigate, but it made a great hiding place.
He waited in a dark corner near Angela’s car, until she had her back to him before approaching her as she opened her car door.
“How’s the radio traffic and troop movements, Angela?”
He caught her elbows when she jumped, falling backward into him.
“Jesus Christ, Lou! You scared the shit out of me.”
He may have, but that didn’t explain why she was pressing her bottom against his crotch instead of running away.
“Sorry. I’m just trying to be more careful in my efforts to reach old age. Can I buy you a drink?”
She turned around but didn’t back up. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. You’ve got official leprosy, and it may be contagious.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve had my shots. And we made a deal. I’ll be straight with you if you’ll be straight with me.”
“Okay, get in. But I pick the bar.”
She chose a place called The Limit on downtown’s West Side. Dim lighting left him almost blind until his eyes adjusted. He was the only man in the place. The chalkboard sign at the door announced a seminar on alternative treatments for AIDS.
“Surprised, Lou?”
“I didn’t think anything could surprise me after the last few days, Angela, but you are full of surprises.”
“Because I brought you to a lesbian bar?”
“It’s not something I would have thought—or thought about. You just seem so interested in men.”
“I am. Exclusively. I come here when I don’t want to be bothered by men. These women understand that and respect my privacy. Besides, there’s not much chance of running into Scott here, is there?”
They both laughed, breaking the tension. A waitress took their drink orders, beer for Mason, a martini for Angela.
“What’s happening at the office?”
“All hell broke loose after you and Sandra left. Scott and St. John had a real pissing match.”
“We ran into St. John on our way out. He had a court order freezing the firm’s assets.”
“That’s what was so funny. The two of them were fighting over whether the federal court order freezing the firm’s assets trumped the state court order appointing a receiver to run the firm.”
Mason smiled at the image. “Who won?”
Angela giggled. “I did. I told Scott we were screwed either way.”
“You have the wisdom of Solomon.”
“And very big ears. After St. John left, Vic Jr. showed up again. He and Scott had their own screamer in the conference room.”
A waitress brought their drinks. Mason sipped. Angela finished hers in two gulps.
“What was that one about?”
“I only caught bits and pieces, but it was mostly about the fees we charged his father for work we didn’t do. In the meantime, half the staff has quit and the clients are panicked. Scott hired the security guard to keep out the press.”
“And me.”
Mason signaled the waitress to bring Angela another round. Several women waved at Angela from across the bar. She caught their eyes and waved back, all smiles. The waitress set another martini on the tab
le and wiped up the water ring left by the empty glass.
“Angela, I need some answers.”
“Don’t ask me questions I can’t answer.”
“Can’t or won’t? Someone is trying to kill me, and it has something to do with the firm. You know more about what’s going on there than anyone else. You’ve got to help me.”
“You give me too much credit. All I know is what I read in the papers.”
Mason waited, not wanting to press too hard. The volume of the bar’s background music had picked up, prompted by the arrival of the after-work crowd.
“Do you remember when Sullivan changed his will last winter? You were one of the witnesses.”
“Sure. Diane asked me to be a witness. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Did you know what changes he made in his will?”
“C’mon, Lou. That was six months ago. I don’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday.”
“I’m not interested in your diet. Just do your best. Was Sullivan in the conference room?”
She hesitated, realizing that his questions were serious ones and that he expected serious answers.
“No. Diane was the only one there. We waited about ten minutes, but Sullivan didn’t show up. Finally, she just gave me the document and told me to sign it, and she would take care of the rest later.”
“So you never actually saw Sullivan sign it?”
“I know that’s against the rules, but we do it all the time with notary signatures.”
Mason hoped she was loosening up, so he decided to take the plunge. “Angela, do you remember our conversation the day after Sullivan’s body was found—”
“—when you did your big-shot impression and told me you were in charge?”
She couldn’t resist the chance to tease him. He smiled without taking his eyes off of her.
“Actually, that was old news by the time I got to your office. You already knew, and I’ve been wondering how you got the word so quickly.”
She reddened, swirled the ice cubes in her glass, and drained it. She looked down the length of the bar as she answered.
“Like I told you, Lou, radio traffic and troop movements.”
“I don’t think so. Only Scott, Harlan, and I knew before the partners’ meeting. I was the first one in your office after the meeting. Try me again.”
No answer. Mason took the telephone bug out of his pocket and dropped it on the table. Angela’s death grip on her glass was answer enough.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
“You had me going for a while, Angela. You followed the first rule of the con artist. Tell the truth you have to tell. A little honesty buys a lot of credibility and makes it easier to lie about the important stuff.”
She wouldn’t look at him, but she looked her age for the first time since he’d known her. She shrugged, as though it was no big deal.
“All I wanted was something I could use to bargain with Sullivan. I knew that he’d hold my unauthorized loan from the firm over my head forever. There weren’t enough blow jobs to pay that debt off.”
“So why bug Scott’s phone and Harlan’s phone too?”
“I didn’t care where I got the information as long as I could use it.”
“When did you find out about the subpoena?”
“After the retreat. I came to the office every Sunday night to check the tapes. Scott had called someone, and they talked about it.”
“Who did he call?”
“It was a man’s voice that I didn’t recognize.”
“Why did you remove the wiretaps from their phones and not Sullivan’s?”
“God knows I wanted to. I was afraid what Scott might do if he found out. I didn’t want to deal with another partner who could blackmail me between the sheets or anyplace else. So I got rid of the ones in Scott’s office and Harlan’s office first. I was going to take out Sullivan’s, but the cleaning crew showed up. I didn’t want someone saying they’d seen me in Sullivan’s office, so I left. I planned on getting rid of it on Monday, but you ordered his office sealed before I could.”
“What did Scott and the other man talk about?”
“Scott told the other guy that Sullivan was dead. Then Scott told him that he’d convinced you to handle the grand jury subpoena. The guy got mad, but Scott told him that he could control you. Then the guy told Scott to find some documents and hung up.”
“What documents?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are the tapes, Angela?”
“In a safe place.”
“Does anyone else know they exist?”
“No. An FBI agent interviewed me last week. He asked about the wiretaps but I didn’t confess.”
“Did he interview you at the office?”
“At home. He said he didn’t want to disturb me during the day because he knew how crazy things must be at the office.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He said the FBI’s investigation was very confidential and that I should keep quiet. Otherwise, the suspects could be tipped off. Since I knew who had done the taping, I wasn’t about to open my mouth.”
“What was the guy’s name?”
“I don’t remember, but he gave me his card.” She fumbled in her purse and produced Gene McNamara’s business card.
“Angela, I need the tapes. Someone tried to kill me. The tapes may help me figure out what’s going on.”
“Sorry, Lou, but I’m not sticking my neck out. They’ll find out who did the taping, and then I’m finished.”
“Just give me the tapes, Angela, or at least let me listen to them. I’ll make certain your name stays out of it.”
She stopped stirring her drink and looked at Mason as if about to answer. Her gaze went over his shoulder to the front of the bar and froze.
“Oh, shit!”
She looked down, but it was too late. They had company. Mason turned around.
Diane Farrell took a long drag on her cigarette, dropped it on the floor, and ground it out with her heel. She began a slow walk toward them, stopping along the way to kiss one woman and squeeze the butt of another.
“Well, Lou, are you coming out of the closet or are you just curious? Really, Angela, I thought you had better taste.”
She dismissed Mason with a pathetic sigh, gave Angela a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, and headed for the bar.
“Let’s get out of here,” Angela said. She left a twenty-dollar bill on the table and he followed her out.
“Sorry, Lou,” she said hurriedly as he caught up to her. “You’ll have to walk back to your car.”
“I don’t get it. It’s no big deal when you take me into that bar. Then Diane shows up, and you can’t wait to get rid of me.”
“You’re right, you don’t get it.”
“Then what is it?”
“You’re the problem. Scott told the staff that we weren’t supposed to talk to you or Sandra. I’ve got enough problems without losing my job. Don’t do this again.”
“We can help each other.”
“I don’t think so. Good-bye.”
The air was thick and still. The peaks of the thunderheads were no longer visible as clouds rolled over the city. People quickened their pace. Mason marched in double time, watching the clouds and the cars.
Anna and her wayward husband were holding hands on their front porch when Mason pulled into his driveway. Any guilt he had about the TR6 vanished with Jack’s friendly wave. At least something was working out.
The salvage crew had swept through his house, leaving a card table and chairs in the kitchen and his computer and bed frame upstairs. A pile of underwear and socks was on the floor of his closet. The rest of his clothes were piled in one corner of the bedroom.
There were three messages on his landline. Blues said he was tired of Mason not answering his cell phone and to meet him for dinner at eight at Constantine on Broadway. He checked his cell. The ringer was turned on, but for some reason his calls we
re going straight to voice mail. The second message was from Kelly, saying she had to go back to Starlight and would call him tomorrow. The third call was from Sandra Connelly. He replayed her message twice.
“Lou, it’s Sandra. I’m meeting Vic Jr. at seven thirty tonight at a bar in the West Bottoms. The address is 312 Front Street. Meet me there. I want a witness.”
Mason wasn’t crazy about the idea, but he figured it would still be light out, and Vic Jr. had never struck him as dangerous. Besides, even if Sandra did carry a big knife, he knew she was counting on him to be there. He’d be only a few minutes late for dinner with Blues. The first drops of rain were beginning to fall as Mason left.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Mason’s grandfather, Mike, was a butcher in a slaughterhouse in the West Bottoms. He was also a saloonkeeper and a ward healer and anything else that would put food on the table during the Depression, all of it in the West Bottoms, a floodplain that drank in the overflow from the confluence of the Kansas and Missouri Rivers.
His last career had been in the wrecking business. When Mason was a boy, his grandfather took him to work on Saturday mornings at MM Wrecking Company. The office was on the first floor of a warehouse that stored the leftover, cast-aside guts of buildings and businesses that Mike Mason somehow turned into cash. Mason spent the mornings hunting for magnets while his grandfather shuffled papers.
Mike Mason got his start in the wrecking business through Tom Pendergast, the political boss who ran Kansas City and a good part of Missouri during the Depression. Bagnel Dam had just been finished, damming up three rivers and creating the Lake of the Ozarks. Pendergast’s concrete company had provided the cement and Pendergast doled out the leftovers, one of which was the scrap that had been salvaged from the project.
Mike Mason asked Pendergast if he could gather the scrap and sell it. Pendergast gave his blessing and waived his usual cut as he often did for his boys who made sure the voters turned out and voted Democratic. MM Wrecking outlasted Pendergast.
Mason played with his memories as he pulled alongside Sandra Connelly’s BMW. She had left it in the parking lot of a five-story, redbrick warehouse that backed up to the Missouri River, Hamlein Furniture painted in faded yellow above the windows on the fifth floor. A loading dock dominated the front, steel-paneled garage doors closing off the dock’s three bays. There was an entrance on the west for walk-in traffic. The bar was across the street, a half-lit neon sign in the front window promising free beer tomorrow.