"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 were 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.
He wondered why Vic Jr. had arranged the meeting here. Scott had given orders to the firm's staff to stay away from Sandra and Mason. O'Malley had probably told Junior the same thing. Only Junior couldn't resist Sandra. Mason was not unsympathetic.
Sandra's car was empty, giving Mason a fleeting panic attack until she called to him from the doorway of a nearby storage shed that faced the parking lot about a hundred feet south and east from the dock. Two large commercial trash containers flanked the shed.
"Where's our boy?" Mason asked as he joined her in the shed.
It was a ten-foot-square aluminum can littered with discarded scrap metal and the lingering odor of tenants who'd been too careless for too long with food, booze, and tobacco.
"He's not due until eight o'clock. I wanted time to figure out what we're going to do."
"Does he know I'll be here?"
"No. He said he would only talk to me."
"In that case, I'll move my car."
Mason parked the TR6 in an alley half a block away.
"Say something," she said as he stepped back inside.
"This is a bad idea."
"Don't tell me you're afraid of Junior."
"These days, I'm afraid of my socks. Whose idea was it to meet down here? What's wrong with Starbucks on the Plaza?"
"Vic Jr. insisted. He said he wasn't supposed to talk to me and didn't want to take the chance that we might run into someone who knew him."
Sandra was wearing a hooded, navy nylon pullover, blue jeans, and running shoes. She pulled a slender handheld recorder from the front zipper pocket of her shell and replayed their brief conversation. Mason's voice was muffled but understandable.
"I don't want any questions later on about who said what to whom," she said as she tucked the tape recorder back in its hiding place.
It wasn't too noticeable. Besides, Mason figured that Junior would have something else on his mind if he started talking to her chest.
"When did he call you?"
"He left a message late this afternoon."
They compared notes since last night. Sandra had also met the security guard at the office. She ran into Phil Rosa at the courthouse while reviewing the O'Malley lawsuit. His summary of office conditions matched Angela Molina's.
They decided that Sandra would keep the meeting outside in the warehouse parking lot. If Vic Jr. insisted on going inside, Mason would just have to wait outside the bar. Otherwise, Vic Jr. would see him.
Sandra went back to her car and stared hard at the window on the front of the shed, trotting back to tell Mason he was invisible as long as he hung back in the shadows.
"Be careful," he said.
"Always."
The on-and-off rain was off again when a familiar black Escalade pulled into the parking lot. That meant Jimmie Camaya was inside or close by. Mason was desperate for a way to warn Sandra but ran out of time before he could think of anything.
The Escalade stopped ten feet from Sandra's car. Vic Jr. stepped out the driver's door and walked toward her. If she recognized the Escalade, she gave no indication, leaning against the hood, one foot on the fender, thumbs in her belt loops. She thrust her pelvis at him just enough to be an invitation. He took her arm and guided her toward the Escalade.
"Shit!" Mason said, wishing she could hear him. "Don't get in the car. Whatever you do, don't get in the fucking car!"
Junior opened the passenger door and shoved her from behind. She threw her arms against the doorframe and tried to turn and run, but someone inside the car grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her in.
Another guy, broad and thick, appeared from the far side of the Escalade, hit Junior in the back of the head, hoisted him by the belt, and threw him on top of Sandra and slammed the door.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Mason had a flashback to Harlan's kitchen. He never saw the face of the man who threw him across the floor, but he recognized the swing. The same man climbed into Sandra's BMW and followed the Escalade to the warehouse entrance.
Two men got out of the backseat of the Escalade, one twisting Sandra's arm behind her back as they disappeared inside the building, joined by the man who'd driven Sandra's car. The Escalade rolled back into the street and disappeared into the night.
It happened so fast that Mason had no chance to stop them. He tried his cell phone but couldn't get a signal. He considered going for help but was afraid of what might happen while he was gone, so he picked up a foot-long piece of steel pipe and ran toward the warehouse as the sky erupted in blistering sheets of rain.
Hugging the exterior wall of the warehouse, he ran around to the back looking for another entrance. On the north side, overlooking the river, he found a narrow flight of concrete stairs that led down to a darkened landing.
He bolted down the steps only to find that what had once been a door at the bottom of the stairs was now a brick wall. He slumped against the rail, rain soaked, his chest heaving. He looked up, blinking against the rain, the wall seeming to sway.
Mason rubbed his eyes and climbed the stairs, reaching ground level, when familiar hands lifted him by his collar and tossed him against the wall. His back absorbed the force of the throw as his steel pipe clattered back down the stairs. He gathered himself in a crouch, promising himself that this time would be different.
Mason launched himself at the bigger man's gut, his lunge catching the man by surprise. Shoulders down, he drove the man backward. All he wanted was running room. What he got was a knee in his belly.
Mason sucked in his breath, wrapped his arms around the man's knee, and kept coming until the man fell on his back and Mason rolled off, gasping for air. The man jumped to his feet and planted a boot in Mason's ribs, putting him in his place—back against the wall—and ending the round with a gun pointed at Mason's mouth.
The man was dark, with hair braided into shaggy cornrows. He had a couple of inches on Mason and at least thirty pounds of muscle. It wasn't close to being a fair fight.
He prodded Mason inside the warehouse, where the only good news was that the roof didn't leak. The front was a long rectangle bathed in fluorescent light, a waist-high counter cutting it off from rows of shelves rising to the ceiling. The aisles were too dark to make out their contents.
Sandra sat on a wooden stool, glaring at an invisible spot on the wall, more angry than scared, which Mason figured was just about the opposite of how he looked.
Two men stood in the far corner. The one facing him was coal black and cut from the same mold as the guy who'd captured him. He studied the floor while a short, heavyset man, his back to Mason, chewed him out, leaving no doubt about who was in charge.
The boss's head was a caramel-colored, clean-shaven dome with a crease in the back as if it had once been cleaved. He turned, studying Mason with his one good eye, the other folded into an angry scar that ran from his eyelid to the corner of his mouth.
"Mason," Jimmie Camaya said, holding Sandra's recorder in one hand and a pistol in the other, "I'm glad you could join us. You've saved me a lot of trouble."
He wore a cream-colored tropical wool suit and a pale blue silk shirt accented by a hand-painted tie. The contrast wasn't lost on Mason. A short, fat guy with a good suit and a big gun was one serious motherfucker.
Mason knew what to do in the courtroom when the opposing lawyer was hammering his client into submission. Take control. Fire back with enough objections to make him back off. And never let him see you sweat. He hoped the same technique worked with killers.
"You should have waited at my house last night. You just missed me."
"So you know I've been lookin' for you. Good for you. Julio here will keep an eye on you and Miss Sweet Cheeks until I get done with some other business. He pointed to the man who'd brought Mason in out of the rain.