sensing that King's coiled power offset his own height advantage.
"Then you can clean my clock and wipe my ass. Sandra is expensive, but at least you'll get your money's worth."
King closed the distance between them again. Sandra slid in front of him, her back to Mason, her hands on King's shoulders.
"Bell's rung, boys. Round one is over. No blood on the floor. Just lots of testosterone. Come on, Whitney," she told him. "You bought the most expensive table at the Jazz Museum fund-raiser tonight. Don't waste it trying to prove you've got a bigger dick than Lou. You probably do, but Lou doesn't think size matters."
Sandra wrapped her arm around King's shoulder, pulling him to her breast. King smiled again, this time like a wolf, pointing his fingers at Mason like an imaginary gun, dropping the hammer.
"Take my advice, Counselor. Stay away from windows," King said.
Sandra rolled her eyes, pretending King and Mason were just little boys having a play date, all of them knowing that neither of them was playing. King gave Sandra a shove, leaving her a step behind.
"You make friends so easily," Rachel told Mason after King and Sandra left.
"Really," Mason said. "I didn't think he liked me that much."
"Liked you?" Rachel said. "He wanted to kill you."
"I guess old habits die hard," Mason said.
"His or yours?" Rachel asked.
Chapter 13
Dinner ran long. Mason was in no hurry to go home, checking his voice mail while Rachel went to the bathroom. There was no message from Abby, though he had left one for her. Call when you can. He bet that she wouldn't.
Mason lingered outside Camille's after Rachel left, eyeing the Jazz Museum across the street. A pack of valets hustled cars from the front of the museum to a vacant lot a block away, bringing them back when people began to leave. Young guys sprinted for the lot when a guest handed them a claim check like it was the baton in a relay and they were running the anchor leg. The owners pressed tips into the valets' hands when they returned with the cars, the valets palming the bills, checking them on the sly, grunting at the cheapskates, saluting the swells.
He had no place to go and nothing to do when he got there, so he returned to Camille's, took a table in the front window, picked at a piece of pie, and waited for Whitney King to leave. Whitney had either admitted to the drive-by shooting at Mason's house or teased him with the knowledge that he knew about it. The shooting hadn't made the paper, but that didn't mean it was a secret.
Sandra Connelly left before King did. Mason was glad they were traveling separately, having a hard enough time thinking of Sandra as King's lawyer. Not wanting to add consort to counselor. It wasn't jealousy. Sandra could ignite Mason's lust, but she couldn't sustain his romantic affection. He looked past her sharp-edged, hardball style and saw someone he didn't want taken down by her client. They'd been through enough together that he owed her that much.
Summer light surrendered slowly, the heat sticking around, the valets dripping with each dash to the parking lot as the sky purpled, then blackened. The neon street lit up, the honkytonks honked though not with the wild abandon they must have had when Kansas City was a wide-open town in the days between the World Wars. The people on the street tonight were there to look at the past, not make the present.
King left just after ten o'clock, the lucky valet clicking his heels when King tipped him, turning to his mates before King pulled away, flashing a bill and a grin to match. King drove a BMW 7 series sedan, black, the windows tinted. Mason squinted, crunching his eyes to match the car with his memory of the one on his blacked-out street. It was a definite, tentative maybe.
Mason had gotten lucky when he arrived at Camille's, finding a parking place on the street across from the restaurant, allowing him to fall in behind King, separated by a short string of cars creeping west on Eighteenth
"Then you can clean my clock and wipe my ass. Sandra is expensive, but at least you'll get your money's worth."
King closed the distance between them again. Sandra slid in front of him, her back to Mason, her hands on King's shoulders.
"Bell's rung, boys. Round one is over. No blood on the floor. Just lots of testosterone. Come on, Whitney," she told him. "You bought the most expensive table at the Jazz Museum fund-raiser tonight. Don't waste it trying to prove you've got a bigger dick than Lou. You probably do, but Lou doesn't think size matters."
Sandra wrapped her arm around King's shoulder, pulling him to her breast. King smiled again, this time like a wolf, pointing his fingers at Mason like an imaginary gun, dropping the hammer.
"Take my advice, Counselor. Stay away from windows," King said.
Sandra rolled her eyes, pretending King and Mason were just little boys having a play date, all of them knowing that neither of them was playing. King gave Sandra a shove, leaving her a step behind.
"You make friends so easily," Rachel told Mason after King and Sandra left.
"Really," Mason said. "I didn't think he liked me that much."
"Liked you?" Rachel said. "He wanted to kill you."
"I guess old habits die hard," Mason said.
"His or yours?" Rachel asked.
Chapter 13
Dinner ran long. Mason was in no hurry to go home, checking his voice mail while Rachel went to the bathroom. There was no message from Abby, though he had left one for her. Call when you can. He bet that she wouldn't.
Mason lingered outside Camille's after Rachel left, eyeing the Jazz Museum across the street. A pack of valets hustled cars from the front of the museum to a vacant lot a block away, bringing them back when people began to leave. Young guys sprinted for the lot when a guest handed them a claim check like it was the baton in a relay and they were running the anchor leg. The owners pressed tips into the valets' hands when they returned with the cars, the valets palming the bills, checking them on the sly, grunting at the cheapskates, saluting the swells.
He had no place to go and nothing to do when he got there, so he returned to Camille's, took a table in the front window, picked at a piece of pie, and waited for Whitney King to leave. Whitney had either admitted to the drive-by shooting at Mason's house or teased him with the knowledge that he knew about it. The shooting hadn't made the paper, but that didn't mean it was a secret.
Sandra Connelly left before King did. Mason was glad they were traveling separately, having a hard enough time thinking of Sandra as King's lawyer. Not wanting to add consort to counselor. It wasn't jealousy. Sandra could ignite Mason's lust, but she couldn't sustain his romantic affection. He looked past her sharp-edged, hardball style and saw someone he didn't want taken down by her client. They'd been through enough together that he owed her that much.
Summer light surrendered slowly, the heat sticking around, the valets dripping with each dash to the parking lot as the sky purpled, then blackened. The neon street lit up, the honkytonks honked though not with the wild abandon they must have had when Kansas City was a wide-open town in the days between the World Wars. The people on the street tonight were there to look at the past, not make the present.
King left just after ten o'clock, the lucky valet clicking his heels when King tipped him, turning to his mates before King pulled away, flashing a bill and a grin to match. King drove a BMW 7 series sedan, black, the windows tinted. Mason squinted, crunching his eyes to match the car with his memory of the one on his blacked-out street. It was a definite, tentative maybe.
Mason had gotten lucky when he arrived at Camille's, finding a parking place on the street across from the restaurant, allowing him to fall in behind King, separated by a short string of cars creeping west on Eighteenth
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