It sounded like he was reading Mason his own rules. Mason put the phone away. He stood at the back of the car for a long time, looking out at nothing. He turned down the volume in his own head until it was close to silence. His daughter’s face came to him, then a vision of her running across a soccer field. He held on to the image for a full minute. Then he started moving.
He tried the gloves on for a moment, just long enough to pick up the knife and put it in his right pocket next to the phone. He took the gloves off and slid them into his left pocket.
Mason knew that the Chicago firearm laws were a joke, with no automatic jail time even if you get caught carrying around a machine gun. But knives? They had that shit covered in this town. Nothing over two and a half inches, nothing spring-loaded, and another vaguely worded law that all but banned open carry. You can carry a Boy Scout jackknife in your pocket, not on your belt, and that’s about it.
He paid his money at the door. A long flight of stairs led up to the main floor, with a strip of white light on each step. The music was already loud as Mason started his way up. It got louder with each step, until he reached the top and everything opened up into an airplane hangar–sized area with three runways and a half-dozen other circles of chairs, all facing dance poles. There were maybe a hundred men in the place, every race represented. Women danced on all three runways, but the more private areas were empty except for one in the far corner. Mason didn’t have to look for more than a second to see that that’s where Harris and his crew were sitting.
The music kept pounding in his ears. The lights were flashing and making everything look not quite real. Mason chose a chair near the middle of the room, facing Harris’s corner. One of the waitresses came by and bent down over him, showing plenty of skin. He ordered a Goose Island and settled in to study the room.
Threats. Witnesses. Exits.
One of the dancers drifted over and gave him a little wave. She was wearing only a G-string. That was the law. You keep the bottoms on and you can serve alcohol. Mason gave her a nod and then looked back across the room.
The club’s best dancer was on the pole over there. The men were all watching her, and Mason could see the blond woman sitting in the chair next to Harris. Her hair seemed to glow in the half darkness. He saw her smiling, the white flash of perfect teeth, sitting there on the arm of the man who seemingly owned the whole city that night. She was enjoying herself and watching the show with just as much enthusiasm as the men around her.
Mason counted the men. There were five, including Harris. The whole crew. This night out was their big reward for standing around and looking hard all the time or else sitting in a car for hours on end, even overnight.
The dancer who had waved to Mason was on the pole closest to him now. He took out a twenty, didn’t want to stand out as the guy who just sat there and never tipped anyone. She caught his eye and came over close, getting down on her knees so Mason could slip the bill into her G-string. She blew him a kiss and went back to her pole.
The music seemed to get even louder. The lights kept flashing. Mason took a hit off his beer and then put the glass down.
This could be the night, Mason said to himself. All I need is for him to be alone. Just for a few seconds. Then I’ll get my chance to do the unthinkable for a second time. And he’ll never leave this place alive.
As he looked over again, Mason saw one of the bodyguards stand up, walk along the back wall, and disappear behind a partition. The men’s room. Two minutes, the man came back. He sat down on the other side of the woman and then Harris himself stood up. The bodyguard was halfway to his feet again when the woman put a hand on his forearm. She gestured to the dancer as if saying, No, keep him right here, put on a show for him.
The bodyguard sat back down. Harris kissed the woman and walked along the back wall alone, retracing the bodyguard’s route to the men’s room.
Mason stood up.
He made his way to the back of the room, moving slowly. His movements were all careful, perfectly thought out. Don’t move like a man on a mission. Don’t look over at the party in the corner. Keep looking at the dancers because they’re the only reason you’re here. If someone spots you, if one of them gets up to intercept you in the bathroom, you’re just a customer. A nobody.
The music got louder and louder. The lights kept flashing.
Mason went behind the partition. He paused at the door to the men’s room, waiting a moment to see if one of the bodyguards was about to put a hand on his shoulder. It didn’t happen. They were all watching the show out there.
One last moment to turn back, Mason thought. One last chance not to be the person who will do this.
Why me? That same question coming back to him yet again. He still didn’t have an answer.
But it doesn’t matter, he thought. Not now. You made a deal. You signed a contract. You have no choice.
Do your job.