"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.