"Car trouble?" Mason asked, still unable to make out the man's features.

When he didn't get an answer, Mason's internal windchill hit bottom. His new best friend stepped in front of the headlights casting a nightmare's silhouette. He was wearing a full-length topcoat and a fedora jammed low on his brow.

Mason couldn't see the man's face except for the frozen gray breath that leaked from his mouth like poison gas.

Mason reached for his car door, hoping to put some steel between him and the man, but he was too slow. In the next instant, the man grabbed Mason and spun him around, pinning Mason's face flush to the side of the Jeep, the frozen surface burning Mason's jaw. Mason stiffened, trying to leverage his hands against the Jeep and drive his hips and back against the man, but the side of the Jeep was too slick and the man was too huge. He leaned in hard and close to Mason's face. The wet wool of his topcoat smelled like a dog left too long in the rain and his breath tasted of coffee, cigarettes, and licorice. He'd been standing in the storm waiting for Mason.

"You get one chance, you understand that?" the man said.

"Right. Sure. One chance. That's easy enough," Mason answered.

"Your client's gonna get a deal. Make sure he takes it."

"What kind of deal?" Mason asked.

The man jammed his knee into the small of Mason's back. Even partly cushioned by the man's topcoat, it sent a paralyzing jolt through Mason's kidneys. "The only deal that will keep him and you alive. Got that, smart boy?"

"Got it," Mason managed through clenched teeth.

The man released his grip and Mason crumpled to the pavement gasping for air. When he looked up, the man and the car were gone.

Mason crawled out of bed Friday morning feeling as if he'd slept in the middle of a rugby scrum. The blow he'd taken to his back had scrambled his internal organs and hardened his soft tissue. He was relieved that there was no blood in his urine. His kidneys had been shaken but not stirred.

Ed Fiora was the only person Mason knew who had been involved with Jack Cullan and had a charge account at Thugs R Us. Mason had called the Dream Casino the day before and asked for Fiora. His call had been immediately transferred to an enthusiastic telemarketer named Dawn.

"This is Dawn. May I make your dream come true today?"

Mason had told her, "Absolutely, Dawn. Just connect me to Ed Fiora."

"We have a fabulous special offer today," Dawn had continued. "I can sign you up for the Dream Casino's free Super Slot Ultra-Gold New Millennium Frequent Player Bonus Point card. It's personal and confidential."

"So is my business with Mr. Fiora."

"Just swipe your card through the card reader on any of the Dream's fabulous slot machines and each time you pull the handle, you'll receive, absolutely free, ten bonus points. You can redeem your bonus points for fabulous prizes, beginning with two nights at the Dream's Riverboat Casino Resort in Lake Winston, Mississippi, for only twenty-five thousand points. Isn't that fabulous?"

"No, Dawn, it isn't. Fabulous would be not spending two minutes in Lake Winston, Mississippi. Fabulous would be you putting down your script, listening to me, and connecting me to Mr. Fiora. That would be really fabulous."

Dawn had started sputtering into the phone, caught somewhere between tears and ticked off. "One moment, please," she had managed.

The next voice Mason had heard was all New Jersey bent nose. "Sir, do we have a problem here?"

"Who's this?" Mason had asked. "One of Frank Nitti's boys?"

"This is Carmine Nucci, guest relations. Who the fuck is this?"

"You're making that up, aren't you, Carmine? I mean your name's not really Carmine and the accent is phony. This is like part of the entertainment. Am I right?" Mason had asked, though he was certain that none of it was made up. Not Dawn. Not the bonus points, and not the threat laced through Carmine's voice like battery acid.

"Hey, pal. You want to make jokes, call Comedy Central. You want an Ultra Gold slot card, we'll give you one. You want to bust my girl's chops, I'll stick this phone up your ass you come around here."

"How many bonus points is that?" Mason had asked, and hung up before Carmine could reply.

Mason had called back, this time asking for the business office, identifying himself as a lawyer, and asking to speak with Mr. Fiora concerning a criminal matter. Three underlings later, none of whom sounded as if they'd ever left the Midwest, Mason had spoken with a woman who had identified herself as Margaret. Margaret had explained that she was an assistant to Mr. Fiora.

"My name is Lou Mason. I'm an attorney," Mason had repeated. "It's very important that I speak with Mr. Fiora about a criminal matter."

"May I tell Mr. Fiora what the nature of the matter is?" Margaret had asked.

Mason couldn't tolerate people who didn't take their own calls, who hired other people just to answer the phone calls transferred to them by other people who'd been hired for the same purpose, only to ask the caller the nature of the matter. He had pictured Margaret sitting at her computer, scrolling down the list of criminal matters that would be worthy of Ed Fiora's attention.

"You may tell Mr. Fiora," Mason had said with thin patience, "that the nature of the matter is the murder of his lawyer, Jack Cullan, and what he might know about it."

"I see," Margaret had said with more disappointment in Mason than concern for her boss. "I see," she had repeated as if the words had cured her astigmatism.

"So, if you'll just connect me to Mr. Fiora, I'm sure he'll want to talk with me."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Mason," she had said without a trace of regret "Mr. Fiora is not available."

"And when will he be available, Margaret?"

"I don't believe that he will be available at all, Mr. Mason. I'm so sorry."

"Margaret, you aren't even close to sorry. You aren't in the same zip code as sorry. Sorry would be that Mr. Fiora had a terrible accident on the way to the office, was rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery, but can work me in this afternoon. That would be sorry. This is just a mistake. A big mistake. You tell Mr. Fiora I said so."

"If you insist, Mr. Mason," Margaret had said in a tone that was more gotcha than gracious.

Mason replayed his conversations with Dawn and Margaret as he settled his six-foot frame into his rowing machine and slowly began easing the kinks out of his back. Mason's ropy muscular build was ideal for sports like rowing and rugby. His body was tough, resilient, and he could take a punch better than first appearances suggested.

He set the digital readout for ten thousand meters, and gradually lost himself in the soothing repetitions of the stroke. The rowing seat slid backward with each leg drive and rode forward with each pull of his upper body. He imagined that he was sculling across the freshly poured surface of a lake, the ripple of his lean wake cutting the unbroken water as he slipped unnoticed through the morning's enveloping mist.

A quick look around reminded Mason that he was rowing in the middle of his dining room and that his rowing machine occupied the space that had been home to a table that seated eight. The table, the chairs, and the rest of his worldly possessions had been reduced to a pile of broken legs, glass, and splinters by the Kansas City auxiliary of the Chicago mob. It was their way of saying he shouldn't have taken work home from the offices of Sullivan & Christenson.

The experience had taught him that less was definitely more when it came to home furnishings, proving anew his aunt Claire's theory of men and their stuff. His house had been a gift from his aunt Claire on the occasion of his marriage to Kate. He had grown up in the house under his aunt's watchful, if relaxed, eye. The two of them had decorated it in a combination of early clutter, sixties, retro kitsch, and whatever struck their fancy at neighborhood garage sales. His aunt Claire had moved out when Kate moved in. Kate had tried to bring order, if not taste, to the chaos and failed. Their marriage hadn't fared any better.