"Need a fourth for bridge?" Mason asked him.

"Move your ass, wise guy," Tony answered. "Mr. Fiora wants to talk to you."

"Lucky me," Mason said. "I didn't even have an appointment."

Mason walked past Tony, straightening his jacket with a studied nonchalance. Tony shoved Mason between the shoulder blades. Mason spun around, ready to shove back.

"Hey," Tony told him with a shrug. "Your collar was messed up. I was just straightening it."

Mason said, "Perfect. A hood with a sense of humor."

He turned back to the poker room and stepped inside. Tony closed the door behind him, but stayed outside.

The poker room was six-sided. There was a small, well-stocked bar on the back wall and a door that opened into a bathroom on another wall. A poker table shaped the same as the room stood in the center of the floor, covered in green felt. Stacks of hundred-dollar chips surrounded a dealer's shoe filled with four decks of cards. Captain's chairs upholstered in soft brown leather sat in a ring around the table. Wall fixtures provided the only light through frosted-glass shades. Paintings of foxhunts hung on the walls, giving the room the look and feel of an English gentlemen's club.

Mason had seen pictures of Fiora in the newspaper. The head shots were of a man in his forties, slicked-back dark hair, narrow eyes, square chin, and a nose that had been broken more than once. The rest of his body fit the newspaper image of a street fighter. Fiora was little more than five-five, tightly muscled and tightly wound. His tuxedo hung loosely on his slender frame, as if he wanted to avoid being hemmed in by his clothes. He was standing at the bar, pouring himself a scotch, when the door closed behind Mason.

"So, Tony found you."

"Not easy in a crowd like that," Mason said.

"Not hard either. Video cameras picked you up when you came in with that bitch from the newspaper. What's her name? Rachel something?"

"Firestone. Rachel Firestone."

"Yeah, Firestone. You banging that broad? I hear she don't dig guys."

"If you're such a big fan of hers, why did you send her an invitation?"

"You think I made up the list? My PR people did that.

They invited everyone with a pulse but you. You, I didn't invite."

"I'd hire new PR people. Leaving me off the list could have ruined your party."

Fiora studied him. "You're a smart guy, aren't you. Always wising off. Tony told me that you gave him some shit the other night when he tried to talk to you. Offended him. Made him think you weren't listening."

"Is that why Tony is standing guard outside the door? To make sure I listen?"

"And to make sure nobody bothers us while we're talking."

"Tony the multitasking marvel. I'm sure his mother would be proud," Mason said.

Fiora pulled a cigar from his inside jacket pocket, sniffed it, licked it, and clipped it before burning the end of it with a wooden match he struck against his thumbnail. Mason had smoked cigars years ago, but quit when he got tired of waking up to a mouth that tasted like a garbage truck at the end of its run. He still liked the aroma of a good cigar and Fiora's cigar qualified.

"You don't give up, do you?" Fiora asked him, pointing his cigar at Mason to underscore his disappointment.

"I don't respond well to structure," Mason answered. "What do you want?"

"I thought you were the one who wanted to ask me questions."

"You'll just lie to me. I'll wait until you're under oath. Then I'll let you commit perjury."

"Perjury! Bullshit! I got nothing to lie about."

"Then why are you trying so hard to make my client plead guilty to something he didn't do?"

"Who says he didn't do it? Him? You? So what? He should take the deal the DA offered him. Everybody will be better off. Including you. Did you explain that to your client?"

"He wasn't moved. He figures if you kill me, he won't have to pay my bill."

"You keep up the jokes, Mason. Just remember what a good time you had when it's all over."

"What makes you think Jack Cullan's files will stay hidden just because my client pleads guilty? If those files are so valuable, someone will find them. Then what will you do?"

Fiora set his drink on the bar and walked slowly around the table until he was nearly on top of Mason. Fiora gave up more than half a foot and thirty pounds to Mason, but standing in front of him, eyes blazing, Fiora couldn't have cared less. He knew, as did Blues, that violence leveled all kinds of playing fields.

"Any motherfucker digs up dirt on me, I'll use it to bury him. Got that, wise guy?"

Mason was tired of being pushed and pulled by cops, politicians, and thugs. He said, "Sure. Now I've got news for you. Any motherfucker who threatens me, my client, or my dog, better have more than an ape guarding his door. Got that, wise guy?"

Fiora ran his tongue over his lips, pushed it around the inside of his mouth, and reached his hand inside his tux jacket. He pulled out a gun and rested the end of the barrel on Mason's chest.

"You got more balls than sense, Mason," he told him.

"Helps in my line of work," Mason answered, and pushed the gun away. "Happy New Year."

Mason pulled the door open and tapped Tony on the shoulder. Tony turned sideways so he could see his boss. Fiora nodded and Tony stepped aside for Mason.

"Hey, Mason," Fiora said. "You find those files, come see me. We'll do some business."

"Not likely," Mason said.

"Don't be stupid, Mason. You'll live longer."

"Doing business with you? Not likely," Mason repeated, and headed back into the crowd.

Mason retreated to one of the many bars that ringed the gaming tables, ordered a beer, and watched the crowd from his stool, his back to the bar. He added Fiora's name to the list of people who wanted him to find Cullan's files for them. He could live with the deals he'd made with Rachel Firestone and Amy White, but wasn't willing to bet his life on a deal with Fiora.

Not far from where he was sitting, a band of cheerleaders surrounding a craps table screeched as someone ran a hot streak even hotter. The shooter was the celebrity of the moment, mistaking a statistical anomaly for good looks, charm, and wit. Anything was possible while the dice were hot. A collective moan rose from the hangers-on and side-betters when the shooter shot craps. His last reward was a few claps on the back as people shifted their loyalties and hopes to the next shooter, welcoming him with a joy and rapture usually reserved for tent meetings.

Mason caught a glimpse of Rachel now and then. Once she was taking her turn at rolling the dice, basking in the instant adoration of her own good luck. Not long after, he saw her huddled with another woman, a lanky brunette in a black pantsuit and open tuxedo shirt, sharing full-throated laughs and long looks. Mason had assumed that Rachel was on the prowl for a story, not companionship. Instead, he realized, she was using the night to lose herself in the anonymity of the crowd and give free rein to impulse. Tomorrow, no one would remember.

Just after eleven-thirty, Mayor Sunshine arrived and began working the crowd. Amy White hung at his side, whispering the names of contributors who sought him out. She scanned the crowd, looking for opportunities or trouble. Her eyes caught Mason's for a moment, and her calculus was quick as she steered the mayor in the opposite direction. Mason tipped his bottle toward her in a small salute, acknowledging her good call. If she saw his gesture, she ignored it.

Thousands of balloons had been gathered in nets suspended from the cavernous ceiling. Confetti cannons were aimed in a cross-fire pattern to blanket the crowd. Scoreboard-size digital clocks had been mounted throughout the casino to count down the final minutes until midnight. Time was running off the clocks in hours, minutes, seconds, and tenths of seconds. It was eleven forty-five and the clocks were racing to the finish line. Two of the clocks were visible from the bar, and two men seated next to Mason were arguing loudly whether one clock was faster than the other. They decided to settle their dispute by betting which clock would first strike twelve.