Mason picked Mickey up at nine o'clock that night in front of Blues on Broadway. He was still driving the TR-6, counting on the cool to carry into the casino. Mickey had told Mason that he was working crowd control at the bar and that Mason should pick him up there instead of at his apartment. Mason was pretty certain that Mickey's apartment was also his office above the bar, but saw no reason to tell Mickey. At least, Mason figured, he'd always know where to find him.

Mickey was waiting on the sidewalk when Mason pulled up. "Is there a crowd inside that needs to be controlled?" Mason asked.

"Not unless you count three guys who don't have four teeth among them," Mickey answered. "If Blues doesn't get out soon, I doubt that any PR campaign will save this joint. It's going to shrivel up and blow away before spring."

"Did you do what I told you?" Mason asked as he pulled into the light traffic on Main Street.

"Piece of cake. I used a computer at the public library to print out a hard copy of Fiora's bank records, and I put it in your desk just like you told me."

"And what about the rest?" Mason asked.

"That's the part I don't understand," Mickey answered. "I e-mailed the file to Rachel Firestone just like you told me, but I delayed the actual transmission until ten o'clock Monday morning. What's up with that?"

"It's an insurance policy. We're going to trade the disk to Fiora. He'll suspect that we kept another copy of the disk or a hard copy of the records, and he'll send someone back to search my office. Hopefully, when he finds the copy you put in my desk, he'll be satisfied. If he doesn't hold up his end of the deal I'm going to make with him, Rachel will get the e-mail with the records. If Fiora comes through, we'll cancel the e-mail."

"And if he tries anything rough, we can tell him about the e-mail," Mickey said.

"That is a very bad idea. If he knows about the e-mail, he can force us to tell him how to cancel it."

"How?" Mickey asked. Mason pointed to Mickey's black eye. "Oh, yeah," Mickey said. "I forgot. So what do we do if he tries anything rough?"

"Duck," Mason said.

"I'll try to remember that. Does Fiora know we're coming?"

"Yeah. I called the casino this afternoon and left a message. I think we'll get the VIP treatment."

Mason used valet parking to give Fiora the added comfort of holding his car keys. Mason wanted Fiora to think the odds were all with the house on the game they were about to play. Mason had to press, but not too hard, take risks, but not too large.

Tony Manzerio was waiting for them when they walked in. He didn't speak, settling for the universal sign language of goons everywhere-a nod of the head that meant follow me and keep your mouth shut.

Mason and Mickey did as they were nodded to do, trailing a respectful five steps behind Manzerio. People moved out of Manzerio's way without being told or nodded. The man was large enough and his eyes were dead enough to trigger the flight side of the survival impulse in most people. Mason caught the there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I expressions on the faces of many they passed.

The route to Fiora's office took them on an elevator marked private, through a door marked authorized personnel only, and down a corridor marked secure area. None of which made Mason feel any safer.

Manzerio knocked at an unmarked door, opened it, and led Mason and Mickey inside Fiora's office. The office was plain, almost spartan, a sharp contrast to the extravagance of the casino. The brown carpet, cream-colored painted walls, and unpretentious functional furniture looked more governmental than gaming. A window looked out over the Missouri River, a black view without dimension or detail.

Fiora sat at a poker table playing solitaire. "Did you search them?" he asked Manzerio without looking up.

Manzerio didn't answer. Instead, he ran his porterhouse-sized hands up and down their sides, torsos, legs, and arms. "Nothin'," he said.

"Good. Wait outside," Fiora told him.

Fiora turned over the cards that were still facedown until he found the one he wanted. Smiling, he ran through the rest of the cards and declared, "How about that! I won again."

"Odds always favor the house," Mason said. "Cheating takes the suspense out of it."

"I'm a businessman, Mason, not a gambler. The crap table is for suckers. I need an edge, I take it. I don't make business a game of chance."

"I like to think of it as supply and demand. The market moves buyers and sellers to the middle where they can make a deal," Mason said.

"Your message said you wanted to make a trade. What do I have that you would want?"

"My law practice," Mason said.

"How could I possibly have your law practice, Mason?"

"It's on the hard drive you ripped out of my computer last night. Client files, my receivables, my payables. The works."

"That must be inconvenient for you. What's the matter? Didn't you back your stuff up? I don't know much, but I know that much. I got people working for me that don't do nothing but back shit up."

"Actually, I did back up one thing," Mason said. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the disk. "It's not much really. Just some bank records you might be interested in."

Fiora's eyes hardened. "You are taking a hell of a risk coming to my place offering to trade my records to me. Why don't I just have Tony come in here and take that disk and throw your ass in the river?"

Mason didn't flinch. "You said it yourself, Ed. You're a businessman. Buy, sell, trade, but don't take chances. I'm the same way. I was out of line meddling in your business and I'm sorry. Last night, you convinced me that you had nothing to do with Jack Cullan's murder. I don't need to clutter up the defense of my client with extraneous bullshit that the judge won't let me get into evidence anyway. I'm offering you this disk in good faith, the same way you gave me the pictures of Beth Harrell. All I want is my hard drive. You can delete your bank records."

"And I'm supposed to believe that you don't have another copy of this stashed someplace?" Fiora asked.

"I can't help it if you're not a believer. I'm a lawyer, not a rabbi."

Fiora studied Mason for a minute. "Come over here, Rabbi Mason. I want to show you something."

Mason joined Fiora at the window. The light from inside the office and the lack of light outside made the view opaque.

"Is there something I should be looking at?" Mason asked.

"You might find this interesting," Fiora said. There were two switches next to the window. Fiora hit one, and the office went dark. He hit the other, and the prow of the boat where Mason had celebrated New Year's Eve was bathed in a spotlight. "Nice view, don't you think, Mason?"

Mason repressed an involuntary shudder. "It's terrific. What's your point?"

"Every public area of this boat is under constant video surveillance. Even if the state didn't require it, I'd do it. I want to know everything that happens on my boat. That prow is a very popular spot. Lovers like to make out there. Losers like to jump off. We got to watch it all the time."

"It must be tough to video in the dark," Mason said.

"Nah! We got these nighttime cameras make it practically like your living room. The technology is fantastic. This case of yours works out okay, you come back and we'll watch some home movies. What do you say?"

Fiora was giving Mason a mixed message. He was telling Mason that he knew what had happened on New Year's Eve and still had the proof. Maybe it was an offer to tell him who had tried to kill him, and maybe it was a not-so-subtle threat.

"You serve popcorn?"

Fiora laughed once without conviction. "You're good with the jokes. Don't be too funny, Rabbi Mason. You and your altar boy here, have a seat, make yourselves comfortable. I got to check with my computer people and see what they've done with your hard drive. It may be they already wiped it clean. In the meantime, why don't you give me that disk of yours so I can check it out?"