"Then it's settled. What we'll do as the cortege heads for the plantation, Mr. Castillo, is go to the Belle Visage. We can have our little talk in private and then go out to the plantation. You can ride with me. How does that sound?"
"Sir, I don't know what the Belle Visage is."
"It's a gambling hell on the coast. There's a place there where we will not be disturbed."
"Whatever you say, sir. But there is one other problem. I have to establish contact with my cousin."
"Your cousin? May I inquire what that's all about?"
"Excuse me," Torine said, "but I just heard the band play 'Hail to the Chief.'"
"Charley, I can handle things until you get to the… plantation," Vic D'Allessando said, as they saw Lieutenant Colonel McElroy walking up to them. "Colonel, you want to come with me or go with Charley?"
"Charley?" Torine asked, seeking guidance.
"I'll see you at the plantation," Castillo said.
"You stay here, my dear," Winslow Masterson said. "I'll go get the children and your parents." He started for the stairs, then stopped and turned. "If you are seen with me, Mr. Castillo, there might be interest that at the moment neither of us wants. Can you get to the Belle Visage by yourself?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then, I'll see you there," Winslow Masterson said, and started again for the stairs.
Castillo looked at D'Allessando. "You have wheels, Vic?"
"Not to spare, Charley."
"You have the Secret Service guy on your radio?"
D'Allessando nodded.
"Tell him that I need a Yukon here, right now, for I don't know how long."
"You can do that?"
"You can do that and we'll see what happens."
D'Allessando tilted his head slightly.
"You on, Ogilvie?" he said.
Mrs. Masterson looked at him with great curiosity.
"He's got a radio under there," Castillo explained.
"Mr. Castillo wants a Yukon at the Globemaster right now," D'Allessando said. There was a pause. "All he told me was to tell you he wants a Yukon here, now."
D'Allessando straightened up and announced, "On the way, Charley."
"Now tell them to find Fernando Lopez-he's my cousin, he's in the VIP section, and they know it-and bring him here."
D'Allessando bent his head again and repeated the order, and then said, "They'll do it."
Betsy Masterson's eyes met Castillo's.
"My father-in-law is just like Jack, isn't he?"
"Yes, ma'am, I was thinking the same thing."
"I guess it's the genes," she said. [FIVE] Estancia Shangri-La Tacuarembo Province Republica Oriental del Uruguay 2355 25 July 2005 Jean-Paul Bertrand watched the ceremonies taking place at Keesler Air Force Base on CNN.
They are really making a show of it, he thought, with somewhat grudging admiration. And then he thought, That's precisely what it is, a show. Jack gets himself shot, and they're acting as if he were the secretary of state, and all he was was chief of mission in a third-rate embassy.
The President arranged the show for his own agenda.
Jean-Paul got to watch not only Betsy and the kids this time but his father and mother as well. There was a camera long shot of the family walking behind the casket as it was slowly marched off the airplane.
Daddy looks fine, old but fine; not as one would expect of someone who nearly died of a heart attack. Mom must have her hands full with him. Jack's father looks just like Jack. And so does the older boy. What the hell is his name? Do they call him "Junior" or "the Third"?
The cameras were trained, too, on the reviewing stand as the family took their places beside the President. The President not only kissed Betsy but put his arms around her in a compassionate hug.
If that's not for the purpose of putting the ignorant masses who voted for him in a receptive state of mind for what he's going to say, then what is it for?
The secretary of state also embraced Betsy and kissed her, then did the same to Ambassador and Mrs. Lorimer and then the kids.
Daddy at least had the dignity to look a little offended. God, how I loathe that arrogant little bitch! She's nearly as bad as the President!
"My fellow Americans," the President began, and Jean-Paul Bertrand almost switched the television off then, but curiosity stayed his hand.
"I come here tonight bearing two messages.
"One is from you.
"The American people offer their profound condolences to the families of J. Winslow Masterson and Sergeant Roger Markham, USMC, who gave their lives in the service of the United States.
"The second message is from me," the President went on. "It is to those who committed the cowardly murders of these two good men.
"I say to you that this outrage will not go unpunished. I have ordered…"
Jean-Paul Bertrand switched off the television.
It would have been nice to see more of the family, but if the price to do that is looking at that man while he mouths such nonsense, it is simply too high.
XIII
[ONE] Penthouse C The Belle Vista Casino amp; Resort U.S. Highway 90 ("The Magic Mile") Biloxi, Mississippi 2230 25 July 2005 When the dark blue, nearly black, GMC Yukon XL pulled up in the brilliantly lit drive of the hotel, the driver's door was opened by a doorman in what looked like the uniform of an admiral in the Imperial Russian Navy.
"Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort," he announced. "How may I be of service?"
"You can tell me where I can park this thing," the driver said.
"We have valet parking, sir."
"No," the driver said, and showed the doorman his Secret Service credentials. "I keep control of the vehicle. And I need it close, in case it's required in a hurry."
"Oh," the doorman said. "Is one of you gentlemen Mr. Costello?"
"My name is Castillo," Charley said, from the backseat.
"And you are Mr. Masterson's guest, sir?"
"Uh-huh."
"Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort, Mr. Castillo," the doorman said and opened the rear door. "Mr. Threadgill, the manager on duty, will be here momentarily."
Castillo and Fernando Lopez got out of the Yukon.
Fernando Lopez was an enormous man-six-foot-three, two hundred thirty pounds-with a full head of dark black hair and a swarthy complexion. He was wearing a dark blue suit, a crisp blue shirt with a white collar, a red-striped tie, and black ostrich-hide Western boots.
"If you want to get a cup of coffee or something," Castillo said to the driver, "I think this will probably take about an hour."
The Secret Service agent nodded but didn't say anything.
A tall, thin, elegantly dressed man in his late forties walked up to them.
"Mr. Castillo?" he asked and, when Charley nodded, put out his hand. "Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort, Mr. Castillo. My name is Edward Threadgill, and I am the manager on duty. If you'll follow me, please?"
He led them through the lobby. In a lounge to one side, three enormous television screens showed Air Force One taxiing toward a runway.
He stopped before an elevator, somewhat dramatically flashed a plastic card, and then demonstrated how the card operated the elevator door. He then presented the card to Castillo.
"He'll need one of those, too," Castillo said.
"Certainly," Mr. Threadgill announced, produced anotherplastic card, and handed it to Fernando. "There you are, sir. And you are, sir?"
"My name is Lopez," Fernando said.
"Welcome to the Belle Vista Casino and Resort, Mr. Lopez."
"Thank you."
Threadgill bowed them onto the elevator.
The elevator ascended, then its doors opened on a large foyer. Threadgill led them to one of the four doors opening off it, ran the plastic card through another reading device, and then bowed them through the door.
Penthouse C was a large, elegantly furnished suite of rooms. Threadgill threw a switch, and curtains swished
open, revealing a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows offering what in daylight would be a stunning view of the Gulf of Mexico, the sugar-white sandy beach, and the highway running along the coast. Now, a few lights twinkled out on the water and U.S. 90 was an intermittent stream of red lights going west, white lights going east.
There was a basket of fruit on a coffee table, and beside it a cooler holding two bottles of champagne.
"If you need anything, gentlemen," Threadgill said, "there are buttons in every room which will summon the floor waiter. There is of course twenty-four/seven room service."
"Thank you very much," Castillo said.
"Is there anything else, or may I leave you?"
"I can't think of anything, thank you very much," Castillo said.
Fernando Lopez waited until the door closed after Threadgill, and then said, "Knowing you as I do, Gringo, I'm sure there is some very simple reason why we are here in a suite normally reserved for really heavily losing baccarat players."
"Baccarat players?" Castillo asked.
"Yeah, this place is world headquarters for people who want to drop a couple of hundred thousand playing baccarat. You didn't know?"
Castillo shook his head.
"So what are we doing here?" Fernando asked.
"Thank you for not asking in the truck," Castillo said.
"That's the answer?"
"Masterson's father and I have to talk. We can't do that at his place-which he calls the plantation-because the widow's father has a bad ticker, and we don't want to upset him. He sent me here."
"What do you have to talk about? Wait. I'll rephrase that interrogatory: What the fuck is going on?"
"So I don't have to repeat everything twice, can you wait until he gets here? He should be here any minute, and I need a drink."
"Okay. I could use a little belt myself," Fernando said.
"What did that guy say about a floor-waiter button?"
"There has to be a bar in here," Fernando said.
He walked to a panel mounted on the wall and started pushing buttons. One of them caused a section of the paneled wall to move, revealing a small but well-stocked bar.
"Eureka, the gold!"
They had just enough time to fix the drinks and touch glasses when Winslow Masterson walked into the suite.
"I couldn't get away as quickly as I had hoped," he said. "But they were ready for you?"
"Yes, sir," Castillo said. "I took the liberty of…"
"You're my guests," Masterson shut him off with a gentle wave of his hand. "And a drink seems entirely appropriate at this time."
He went to the bar and poured himself a drink from the bottle of Famous Grouse that Fernando had used.
"The economics of this place has always fascinated me," Masterson said. "God only knows how much it costs them to maintain something like this, and since they are obviously not in the business of being a friend to man, there has to be a profit motive. It would therefore seem to follow that their hospitality is offered only to those who have-or are likely to lose-an enormous amount of money at the tables. Where do such people- and so many of them-come from?"
"I was thinking just about the same thing, sir," Fernando said.
"Excuse me, sir, for my breach of courtesy. I am Winslow Masterson."
"My name is Lopez, sir. Fernando Lopez."
"And you're a Westerner, Mr. Lopez. May I say I admire your boots?"
"Thank you, sir. Texan. San Antonio," Fernando said.
Masterson drained his drink and made another.
"Mr. Castillo tells me you're cousins," Masterson said.
"Yes, sir."
"Years ago," Masterson offered, "I had some business dealings with a delightful chap in San Antonio, who had your Christian name, Mr. Lopez, and your surname, Mr. Castillo. I don't suppose…"
"You may be talking about my-our-grandfather, sir," Charley said.
"Did your grandfather have a magnificent Santa Gertruda bull named 'Lyndon J.'?"
"Grandpa was not an admirer of President Johnson," Fernando said, "and Lyndon J., even as a calf, produced amazing amounts of droppings, so when it came to naming the calf for registering…"
"So your grandfather told me," Masterson chuckled. "What is it they say about a small world?"
He's making small talk, Charley thought. He's delaying hearing what he knows he won't like to hear.
What do I do? Bring him back to earth, so I can go out to his farm?
No. Fuck it. Vic's out there. The Mastersons are safe.
We just brought his son home in a flag-draped casket.
Let him do whatever he wants to do.
"I was distressed to learn he had passed," Masterson said. "My deepest condolences to you and your family."
Then he turned and walked to the plate-glass windows and looked out at the twinkling lights on the gulf.
A very long moment later, with his back to them, Masterson said, "Gambling has been going on here on this coast for centuries. Did you know that?"
"No, sir," Charley said, "I didn't."
"No, sir," Fernando added.
"The very first gamblers were the freebooters, the pirates,who plied their profession here," Masterson went on. "They had the custom of raffling off the more comely of the females they had removed, together with other valuable property, from vessels they intercepted entering or leaving the Mississippi River."
"I didn't know that," Fernando said.
"It is, I suspect, why my wife is a bit vague when discussing our ancestors. It is one thing to take some pride in them having been free men of color in New Orleans, before the war of cessation, and quite something else to acknowledge how they achieved that status."
"Excuse me?" Fernando asked.
Masterson took a long sip of his drink, and continued: "After the Battle of New Orleans, Jean Laffite was pardoned for his services. As were his officers and men. Most of them stayed in Louisiana, but some of them, including a notorious scoundrel, Captain Alois Hamele, and his son, Captain Francois Hamele, originally from Haiti, and before that of course from Africa, came here, where the land was cheaper and there were a number of bays and coves where ships not wishing to pass their cargoes through customs could unload.
"Captain-they used the French term, maitre, in those days-Hamele and his son-commonly known as the fils de le Maitre-decided, upon hearing that Jean Laffite had returned to his sinful ways, and knowing that the authorities would almost surely come looking for other pardoned freebooters, that a change of name was probably-"
"I know where you're going," Charley said. "Son of the Master, right? Masterson?"
Winslow Masterson slowly turned from the window, smiled, and nodded.
"Over the years," he went on, "the Masterson family acquired rather extensive land holdings in this area. Some of it was splendid farmland; some was in timber, and some, like the land on which this splendiferous gambling hell is built, was essentially useless swamp."
"And now," Fernando said, smiling, "I think I know where you're going."
"Perhaps," Masterson said, smiling.
"About fifteen years ago, some gentlemen from Las Vegas came to see me about acquiring this property. I suspect, perhaps unkindly, that they were disappointed when they found that I was not plowing my land walking barefoot behind a mule."
Castillo and Fernando chuckled.
"And I know they were disappointed when I told them I wasn't interested in selling the property. I didn't tell them that not only do I dislike selling property, but in this case my wife had also weighed in. She truly believes that proprietors of gambling hells grow rich on the poor.
"But it is true, I suppose, that everyone has their price, and in this case, the Las Vegas people finally met mine. An absurd, from my standpoint, amount of money. And this apartment, in perpetuity, together with what they term 'full maintenance,' which means I never am billed for anything. I suspect they still entertain hope I will come here, have too much of this stuff"-he raised his glass-"and go downs
tairs and lose it all back to them shooting dice."
Castillo and Lopez laughed.
"Primarily, I use it to house people who come to see me who I would rather not have in my home," Masterson said, and took a sip of his scotch. After a moment, he added, "My wife has never been in the building."
Masterson looked between them for a moment, then drained his glass. He put the glass carefully on the bar and turned to face Castillo.
"Very well," he said. "Enough of that. Please tell me, Mr. Castillo, who abducted my daughter-in-law and murdered my son, and why. And what I can do to avenge his death."
"Yes, sir," Castillo said. "I'll tell you what I know, which isn't very much. When the President heard that Mrs. Masterson was missing in what appeared to be a kidnapping, he sent me to Buenos Aires…" "And you have no idea whatsoever who these people are?" Masterson asked, when Castillo had finished.
"No, sir. I do not. Obviously, it has something to do with Mr. Lorimer. So I'm going to start by trying to find him. If there's anything, anything at all, you can tell me that you think might help…"
Masterson nodded thoughtfully.
"There is a subculture here, Mr. Castillo, of affluent Negroes who can trace their ancestry back to the free men of color. It is simply a matter of our being more comfortable with each other than we are with other people."
"We Texicans have something like that in San Antonio," Fernando said.
Masterson considered that, and said, "Yes, I daresay you would. Your grandfather mentioned in passing that he had ancestors on both sides who died at the Alamo fighting the Mexicans. I don't know about Texas, but here ours is a rather small community. We're primarily Roman Catholic. We send our daughters to the nuns in New Orleans for their high school education, and our sons to the brothers at Saint Stanislaus here in Mississippi for theirs.
"My son went to Saint Stanislaus as I did, and my father did, and my grandfather. So did Jean-Paul Lorimer, as did his father, and-I believe-his grandfather. Jack's mother and Jean-Paul's mother had known each other in the Blessed Heart of Jesus School in New Orleans, and then gone to Spring Hill College in Mobile. It was thus inevitable that Jack would meet Betsy and that they became sweethearts when they were in their teens.
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