Less than an hour later, I’m in a dark hotel room on the near south side of the Loop. I remember this place: Mason and I came here spontaneously one night after dinner at Everest, drunk on rich food and champagne and each other. Lightning and thunder promised a storm that night, but we ignored good judgment and the one cab that passed and walked through the empty Financial District, his arm around me. I couldn’t have complained about a single thing. When it started to rain, Mason and I ducked under an awning. He kissed me, and the next thing I knew we had a room here. I thought I was in heaven.
It’s not as nice as I remember.
As far as I can tell, Mason hasn’t called in to report what went on at my condo tonight. It would be a stupid question to ask. Out the window, I imagine the city lights to the north look like a gigantic jewel box. To me, it’s all a blur. The only thing that’s clear is that I should already be dead.
Mason comes out of the bathroom with a towel. I lie on a thin, scratchy bedspread, my head propped on a thick pillow with a cover that smells of chlorine.
“Water’s ready,” he says. He’s run a bath for me. As if the water will cleanse the memory of this night: the taste of Fado’s gun, metallic like blood in my mouth; the vision of Smitty, eyes just like his brother’s, standing over me, ready to take my life. Then Mason, out of nowhere, coming to my rescue, like a hero in a movie.
Except I don’t count on a happy ending.
“Are you going to kill me?” I ask.
He sits down next to me, pulls me toward him, and puts the towel around my neck. I wonder if he’s planning to drown me in the tub. I bend to him like a rag doll, my strength gone. I want to end this horrendous game. I have run out of strategies.
“It’s okay, Sam,” he says. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“You might as well,” I say.
“Everything I’ve done has been for you,” he tells me, as though I should be ashamed of myself.
I knew he’d say something like that, but somehow, even after everything that’s happened, I still want to hear his explanation. I want to know why he lied to me.
“I know you were the one who hit me over the head,” I say. “I know you killed Fred. And you set me up.”
“I was only trying to save your ass,” he says, letting go of the towel. “You weren’t supposed to be with Fred that night.”
“But I was there. And so were you. You killed my partner, and you let me think I did it.”
“Wade was supposed to be there,” Mason says. “When you showed up instead, everything went to shit.”
“Does Wade know about this?”
“Yes, Sam.”
Wade, who I thought was a friend. He said he didn’t want to act like my father, then he looked me straight in the eye and lied to me. Just like my dad.
“You and I both know Wade’s been looking for a comfy way out of the job ever since he was shot,” Mason says. “Problem is, he’s a chickenshit. He talks a good game, but he’s got no follow-through.”
“You let me believe it was my fault,” I say, and Mason nods. I can’t believe I’m saying it and he’s agreeing. I sit up against the headboard and it knocks into the wall, loose from too many nights of activity.
“I never meant for you to be involved,” Mason says, brushing a long black hair from my shoulder—Fado’s, I’m sure. “I know you, baby. You never would have gone along with us. We’re taking money from drug dealers. It’s illegal. It’s crap.” He puts his hand on my leg and I know he’s about to lay it on thick.
“But I did it for you. For us, so we could get out of here.”
It’s twisted but I wanted him to say that. Though I know better, some part of my heart is still pulling for him. I tell myself that no matter how I feel, I have to act like I’m ready to hear more. I place my hand on top of his, but I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see the flicker in his eyes.
“Like we talked about, all those nights in the squad,” he says. “Remember? You agreed with me: Our livelihood depends on criminals. We’re not making a difference. We’re just balancing the scales. You and I sat waiting for two weeks for some two-bit thief to screw up so we’d get a paycheck. We did some savvy detective work, arrested the guy, and in no time he was back on the street. So what are we supposed to do? Sit and wait for him to screw up again? It’s futile. I’m tired of balance. I want the scales tipped in my favor.”
“So you hurt the people you love?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you, Sam. When I saw you come up those steps after Fred, God, my heart stopped. I had to think quick. I did what I thought was best—” He pauses when his cell phone rings. He checks the caller ID display and continues without answering—“I did what I had to do. I knew you’d be traumatized, but I thought we’d get through it. I never thought you’d come out of it with the crazy idea that Trovic killed Fred. That’s when things went bad. When you started your Trovic campaign, the wrong people started getting suspicious.”
“What did Trovic have to do with anything?” I ask. “He was a child molester. Fred picked him up for sexual assault.”
“He was arrested for assault. He was never booked for dealing heroin. Or for being our contact for the guys we’ve been taxing.” The thought of Mason working with a scumbag like Trovic makes the touch of his hand feel poisonous. I push him away.
“Trovic was never arrested because you corrupt assholes were keeping him on the street for cash,” I say. “Then you killed him because he got in the way. And then Fred got in your way, and you did the same to him. And now I’m in your way. So what happens to me?”
Mason stands up, his patience waning, but I don’t care. I have nothing to lose.
“How many of you are in on this?” I continue. “Is Sarge going to be the next one to blame me for something I didn’t do? Is the chief going to pin the next homicide around here on me?”
“It doesn’t go above me,” Mason says, keeping his voice soft to remind me he’s in control.
The leader of the pack. I should have known.
“I know my limits, Sam. I’ve been trying to get out of this mess for months. IA’s on to us. My guys know it. We all want out. But we can’t just quit. You don’t just walk away from drug dealers. We needed a way to make a clean break from them without upsetting the order of things. Trovic offered me a deal that promised enough cash to go our separate ways, and I jumped on it.”
“And Fred?” I ask. “He didn’t?”
“You think Fred’s so innocent. Fred was the one who hooked us up with Trovic in the first place.”
“So why did he take the fall for the rest of you?”
“IA coerced Fred into taking a deal from the state’s office.” Mason sits back down, this time on the corner of the bed, and it bows like there’s no box spring. “They had him in a pinch, and he was ready to fold. Fred arrested Trovic again and threatened to turn him in if we didn’t call off the deal. I guess that was Fred’s attempt to warn us.”
“If you knew Fred was pinned, why didn’t you call it off?”
“It was too late. Trovic was on his way to Florida the minute he posted bail. His bosses didn’t want him to wait around like bait. A deal’s a deal, they said, and the deal’s going through, just as soon as Fred is no longer a risk. I tried to convince Fred to stay in with us. I tried to convince Trovic’s bosses to hold off. They thought I was trying to play both sides, so they made me take care of Fred to prove I was legit. When it came down to it, I had no choice. It was Fred or all of us.”
“Fred,” I say, “and Trovic, and Bruce Zahner, and your wife?”
“I didn’t kill Bruce,” he says. “I hired him to follow you, yes. He was supposed to keep you out of the way.”
“He was the one who went after Susan.”
“He was framed. Trovic’s family did it. To send a message. This whole thing went in the shitter when you brought up Trovic.”
“Why did you kill him in the first place?” I ask.
“When we started this thing, it was understood: in or out, quiet or dead. As soon as Trovic went down south, he started bragging about his connection with the Chicago PD. I knew the news would make its way back up here before he did. Trovic dug his own grave, as far as I’m concerned. We had to get rid of him.”
“That was your last-minute trip. That’s why you couldn’t go to Vegas.” For some sick reason, I’m relieved he wasn’t in Florida looking at real estate.
“I had it all worked out. He was MIA, and everyone assumed he’d found the wrong crowd down there. I had already retrieved the heroin, so his bosses didn’t care where he was. We were going to kill Fred and do the deal and be done with it. No one got suspicious until you started blaming Trovic for killing Fred. His family thought he was on a cruise ship. They hold me responsible, and they’ve been after me ever since he turned up dead.”
“And they came after me because they thought I was in on it.”
“I told them you didn’t know about Trovic; I told them you didn’t have anything to do with it. I even asked Trovic’s bosses to set them straight. But the bosses felt the situation had gotten out of hand and they wouldn’t get involved. Then, when you got out of jail after Susan’s accident, the family thought I’d sprung you. They were convinced we set this whole thing up.”
“They killed Bruce. They tried to kill Susan. They killed your unborn child, Mason. And all of this for what?”
Mason’s expression does not change.
“They killed your child,” I say again.
“Susan will be okay.”
“You blamed me.” I won’t back down now. “And you almost got me killed.”
“None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for you.” He stands me up. “Once you were involved, I needed to keep you as far away from this as I could. I even had Wade try to steer you away. I needed you to hate me.”
“It worked.”
“It was on purpose. Trust me, Sam—all of this, the lying, the confusion, the death . . .” He pauses, and I know he’s thinking about the child. “It’s all been for us.”
“How many of us?” I know if I actually say Deborah’s name, I run the risk of blowing this. If he is taking her away with him, then I’m dead for knowing. If he isn’t, I may as well be dead for suggesting it. I watch Mason’s lips curl, as though he’s suppressing the slightest grin. I know he knows exactly whom I’m talking about, but somehow he turns the grin into a polite smile, like he’s talking to someone who’s senile or mentally challenged. He takes my arm.
“You still think I’m cheating? I kept tabs on you. I know whose cell phone you’ve been answering.”
It is useless to argue about fidelity. Neither of us can win.
“Who are you taking to Florida?” I ask.
“I thought we decided on California,” he says. “Come on. Let’s get you in the tub. It’ll all be different in the morning.” He leads me into the bathroom, and I let him. It would only take one sincere gesture, one honest look, to sway me, but I know he’s incapable. I know he is holding something back from me, like he always has. I follow his lead. I may not get out of this alive, but it’s the only way I’ll ever find out the truth.
He helps me undress and eases me into the water. I don’t find anything endearing about his efforts. His touch is like a stranger’s. I pretend to be comforted, though I feel like he’s settling me into a casket. “Different in the morning,” he said. Like it’s the same now.
“I have to make a call,” he says.
I don’t ask. I’m just glad he’s leaving.
As soon as he’s gone, I get out of the tub. The water is too hot for me, and unlike last time, I’m well aware of the grime in this place. Between the tiles. Around the sink. In the soap dish. I already feel dirty enough. I’m trapped even though this mess has nothing to do with me. Mason and his million-dollar deal that will ruin the lives of countless others. Fred and his willingness to gamble with lowlifes for extra cash. His materialistic wife, getting herself a real suntan, tipping her towel boy with Fred’s pension. And Wade, and his pathetic attempt to get what he thinks he deserves. Greed. This is not because I accused a pedophile of murder. This is all because of greed.
I towel off and put my clothes on. I put my ear to the bathroom door and don’t hear anything, so I carefully turn the handle and sneak out.
Mason is not in the room and I know he’s in the hallway because the door is propped open by the dead bolt. I hear him talking; he’s on his cell phone. I crawl on my hands and knees to get close enough to make out what he’s saying.
“1079 at the Greyhound on Dearborn.”
1079, 1079, what is that? He’s definitely not calling in the catastrophe at my place. 1079, the Greyhound station on Dearborn. I try to ingrain it in my memory. 1079, Dearborn Greyhound. 1079: That’s police code for dispatching the coroner. Is someone going to die at the bus station?
“Yep, two o’clock . . .” Mason says as I crawl between the double beds and grab the hotel phone.
I dial fast and it doesn’t go through. I scan the directions on the phone and dial 9 and then the number again. My hands sweat; my body is hot from the bath. The call goes through. It rings twice. I start to shake.
“O’Connor,” he answers.
“1079 at the Greyhound on Dearborn,” I whisper.
“What the hell does that mean? Where are you? We just got to your place—”
I hear the handle turn on the hotel room door. “Fuck—” I hang up as quietly as I can and push the phone under the bed. I may have knocked it off the hook, but there’s no time to look, so I curl up in a ball on the floor and I begin crying uncontrollably.
It works. Mason doesn’t notice that the phone is gone when he comes over and takes me in his arms.
“Shh, Sam, what happened to the bath?”
“Those kids were going to kill me,” I sob. I’m actually crying because I almost was—and still very well could be—caught, but the effect is the same. Mason wipes my eyes.
“Come on, Sam, hang in there. There’s one more thing we have to do.”
“We?” I say defensively. I jump up from the floor and approach the door to get him as far away from that phone as I can. If it’s off the hook I’ve got about thirty seconds before I’m fucked. Mason follows me.
“I have to meet Trovic’s bosses. They still want to buy the heroin Trovic brought in before he died.”
“But you killed him. And they hate you.”
“A deal’s a deal, so they say. They knew Trovic was a loser. They’re not going to waste a perfectly good stash of black tar on a dead guy. They’re giving me two-fifty up front, with over twice that in interest as soon as it hits the street.”
“The street,” I say. Where we try to stop it.
“You want to know which one?” he says sarcastically. “Truth is, these guys are taking it to the North Shore. Up to Highland Park. Out to Barrington. They say heroin is the new coke for rich high school kids.”
“Well, that makes it okay.”
“Come on, Sam, we’re talking close to a million bucks here. This is the deal I’ve been waiting for. This will end it. And then we can walk away.”
I want to argue but we have to go. Now. “What do you need me for?” I ask.
“Wade. He’s bringing the H, but he’s not leaving with the cash. Actually, he’s not leaving at all. I need you there to make sure of it.”
“Give me one reason,” I say. I don’t want him to think I’m agreeing too quickly.
“I’ll give you two. Wade was the only one who could have told those kids that you were involved in this. He sent those kids to your place. He was willing to let you die for this money.”
“And the other?”
“I saved your life,” Mason says. “You owe me.”
“One was enough,” I say. I start for the door, to get Mason out of the room before he hears the phone, but again the effect is the same.
I open the door and get outside. Mason follows me out.
“This is a complete one-eighty,” he says.
He’s suspicious. So I go back to him and pull the door shut at the same time I grab him and kiss him with all the passion I can muster. I don’t think he hears the faint voice from inside the room: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”
“Let’s go. I just want to end this,” I say. I don’t have the same ending in mind, but if I don’t go along with him he’ll get away with murder. Again.
“I knew you’d come around,” Mason says.
I don’t know if I’m an accomplice or his next target, but Mason was right about one thing: This is the deal that will end it.
He takes my hand, trusting me, and we’re on our way.