When No One Is Watching (22 page)

The reception was held at Ridge Country Club, in the heart of the Beverly neighborhood. Danny was in a state of euphoria, and the evening passed as a happy blur. He tried his best to chat with each of the guests at some point during the evening, but with over two hundred friends and relatives in attendance, he found it impossible to have a meaningful conversation with anyone. But there was one serious conversation he needed to have.

The evening was getting late, and most of the crowd was either dancing to the upbeat music played by the energetic rock-and-roll band or watching the dancers. Danny looked around the room until he saw her, sitting at a table near the back, as far from the din as one could get. He took a seat next to her. “Our little girl looks beautiful tonight, doesn’t she, Karen?”

She smiled at him. “She certainly does. And happy, too.”

They looked at each other in silence for a long moment. Except for Allie’s graduation ceremonies, Danny hadn’t seen his ex-wife since she had left him ten years ago. To his eyes, she hadn’t aged a bit. Her fair skin was still flawless, with barely a trace of a wrinkle. Her blonde hair still looked natural and radiant. She looked as alluring to him as she always had, but something about her was different. There seemed to be an air of serenity about her, which certainly had never been there during their marriage.

“You look good, Karen.”

“Thanks. So do you, Danny.”

“Allie tells me that Bill is a great guy, and she’s never seen you happier. I’m glad things have worked out so well for you.”

“Thanks, Danny. I am happy. Life is good again.”

Danny stared down at the table. “I have to admit, when I heard that you and Bill were getting married, it hit me hard. It hurt—partly because it was a painful reminder that I’d lost you, but also because it got me thinking again about why I lost you. I know how badly I must’ve hurt you when I was drinking the way I was. I tried to apologize in that letter I sent you right after I joined AA, but I really need to say this to your face.”

He looked up into her pale blue eyes, which stared back with a kindness and understanding he had not seen in them for a long time. “I am truly sorry for what I put you through, Karen. It was cruel and selfish of me to treat you the way I did. I just hope you can understand that the way I behaved was never a reflection of my feelings for you. I honestly loved you and cared for you more than I can ever say, but I know I didn’t act that way. I was out of control. Alcohol had a grip on me that I couldn’t break, and you suffered because of it. Thank God, I finally was able to break that grip, but I know it was too late.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I want you to know how deeply sorry I am and that I don’t blame you in the least for leaving me. I gave you no choice. And I’m truly happy that you’ve been able to build a new life and that things have really worked out for you. You deserve to be happy.”

Karen’s clear blue eyes had become red and misty. “I never doubted your heart, Danny. I knew it was your addiction that caused you to do the things you did. You’ve always been the most kindhearted, compassionate man I’ve ever known. That’s why I fell in love with you, and that’s why I married you. And I’m so proud of the way you’ve turned your life around. Allie keeps me posted. She talks about you all the time, and I love hearing it.”

There was a long silence between them. Karen glanced toward the dance floor and saw Bill walking in their direction. She picked up a napkin and wiped her eyes. She bit her lip to keep her voice from breaking. “Have a great life, Danny,” she whispered in a soft voice, smiling at him warmly through watery eyes. She squeezed his arm affectionately as she rose from her seat and walked toward her husband.

Late that night, Danny sat in his living room armchair, the house dark but for the wavering blue light emanating from the lava lamp. He thought back over his daughter’s life, trying to conjure up as many memories as he could—from her birth, through her childhood and teenage years, up to the present. It was a pleasurable exercise, one that filled him with a sense of well-being as he reflected upon what a happy life she had lived and what a promising future lay ahead of her.

His ruminations took him back to other aspects of his past. He thought about his ruined marriage. He thought about the promising career that never panned out the way he had envisioned. Then he thought about his life as it was today. He felt an overwhelming sense of joy as he reflected upon the special relationship he enjoyed with his wonderful daughter, who was embarking on an exciting new life. He thought about his conversation with Karen. He felt a comforting sense of closure, knowing that he had made his peace with her and that she had succeeded in making a fresh start and was genuinely happy. Then he thought about his own station in life. He was sober, he had good friends, and he was doing something that mattered. He drifted off to sleep in his chair, a feeling of peace and contentment settling over him as he realized that he, too, was in a very good place.

CHAPTER 33
V
ic Slazak blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the Acey Deucey Bar. Outside, the sun was shining brightly at the beginning of what was certain to be another blistering hot day in Las Vegas. Inside, it was cool and dark. The smell of stale beer reminded him of the dive bars he’d frequented on the South Side of Chicago. The patrons also reminded him of home. Their accents were different, but for the most part, it was an assemblage of the working class and unemployed—some quiet, some friendly—lost souls seeking respite and shelter from their struggles with the outside world through the elixir of the alcoholic beverage.

 

That’s where the similarity with Chicago’s drinking establishments ended. This was clearly Las Vegas, as evidenced by the colorful slot machines scattered around the premises and the fact that a dive bar could draw a crowd at eight o’clock in the morning. That was not a reflection of the fact that boozers were more plentiful in Vegas; it was simply a natural consequence of the fact that days and nights were reversed for many in Sin City. Nighttime was prime time at the casinos, and many of the all-night gamblers wound up at places like this early in the morning, not quite ready to call it quits. Also, an entire element of the working population, like Slazak, lived a nocturnal existence, working the night shift and then finding their way to local drinking establishments like the Acey Deucey Bar when most of the rest of the world was having breakfast.

Slazak found a seat at the bar and ordered a shot and a beer. This had become his routine. He’d been working nights as a security guard for one casino or another since he’d landed in Vegas ten years ago. It was a depressing existence. He had no real friends, but then he had gotten by without any real friends throughout most of his adult life in Chicago. The difference was that he had loved his work then. He was a born investigator and considered himself as good as any in the business. That work gave him a sense of pride and a sense of purpose, both of which were sorely lacking now.

Slazak didn’t need the money, since he had “retired” with his full pension from the Chicago Police Department. He worked because it gave him something to occupy his time, but he could never escape the feeling that the work was demeaning and beneath him. His primary responsibility was escorting patrons off the premises when they were unruly, either because they were drunk or because they had lost their shorts gambling. His other duty was shooing away hookers who didn’t understand the concept of subtlety. The good ones were discreet and well behaved, and management was more than happy to have them around, because they were good for business. Slazak had gotten to know most of them and had become friendly with a few, which he considered perfectly natural, since he and they walked the same floor night after night, performing their respective jobs.

This morning, Slazak’s mood was even more sour than usual. His boss, a foul-tempered, self-important bully who could never have held a job with any respectable police department, had just chewed him out for spending too much time consorting with the working girls. It took every ounce of self-restraint Slazak could muster to keep from punching out the pompous little shit, and he was still seething as he flung back the shot of whiskey and chased it with a long swallow of cold beer.

Slazak’s eyes drifted to the television behind the bar, where he saw footage of Illinois Governor Blair Van Howe waving to the crowd at a Chicago White Sox baseball game after throwing out the ceremonial first pitch. The sound was turned off, so he couldn’t hear the commentary, but the caption at the bottom of the screen read “Van Howe Widens Lead in Polls.”

Perhaps it was the homesickness triggered by the image of his beloved White Sox; perhaps it was the scolding from that incompetent little prick of a boss; or perhaps it was a sight of a man whom he considered a liar, a hypocrite, and a despicable scoundrel on the cusp of being elected to the most powerful position on the planet. Whatever the reason, his mood transformed from sullen and irritable into a simmering rage.

Slazak glared at the smiling visage of the Democratic candidate for president. “You lying scumbag!” he said in a venomous voice. “I’ve had it with this shit. It’s time to finish what I started!”

It was 9:00 p.m. in Washington, D.C., and Freddy Salazar sat alone at campaign headquarters, looking at the mountain of mail and stacks of telephone messages on his desk. It was Wednesday, and he’d been on the road for ten straight days, with campaign stops in St. Louis, Kansas City, Chicago, Milwaukee, and Detroit. He needed some late-night catch-up time.

Salazar flipped through the dozens of phone messages, placing them into two stacks, one for the calls he would return himself, and the other for calls he would delegate to staff members. Most of the names he recognized. They included well-known political figures being considered as a possible running mate; influential business leaders, usually calling in connection with fund-raising activities they were sponsoring; reporters with major newspapers or television networks; and politicians of all types from around the country, seeking favors or offering assistance.

One name he didn’t recognize: Victor Slazak. Mr. Slazak had left messages on three consecutive days, the last two bearing notations from his secretary indicating that Mr. Slazak wouldn’t explain who he was or the nature of his business, other than to say that it was extremely urgent and that he didn’t want to talk with anyone other than Mr. Salazar. Freddy crumpled the messages and tossed them into the wastebasket. He was far too busy to waste time with a caller who wouldn’t even explain the nature of his business.

It was close to midnight by the time Salazar had finished going through his mail and fine-tuning his schedule for the next several days. His cell phone rang as he was packing up his briefcase. He answered instinctively on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Salazar, I’m glad I reached you. My name is Vic

Slazak. Got a few minutes?”

Salazar glanced at his watch, irritated that a complete

stranger would call him on his cell phone so late at night.

“It’s almost midnight,” he responded, making no attempt to conceal his annoyance. “What’s this about?”

Slazak got right to the point. “I have information about Blair Van Howe that I think will interest you.”

“What kind of information?” Salazar asked impatiently.

“Information that will blow this campaign wide open. Information that will demonstrate that he’s not as squeaky-clean as he makes himself out to be. There’s some dirty laundry in this guy’s closet.”

“Listen, mister, I don’t know who you are. We get calls from crackpots and attention-seekers all the time. Unless you have something specific to tell me, I’m going to hang up.”

“I understand, Mr. Salazar. That’s fair enough. I’ll be brief. Here’s the story. There was an auto accident involving Van Howe’s former law partner about ten years ago. It happened just as Van Howe was running for Congress for the first time. You can research much of what I’m about to tell you to confirm its accuracy.”

“So what has that got to do with Van Howe?” Salazar snapped. His voice was impatient, but his interest was keenly aroused, since his own staff had spent considerable time and effort researching the incident, trying in vain to find some basis to use it against Van Howe.

“It has everything to do with him—Van Howe was driving the car. He was responsible for killing the other driver. He fled the scene and framed his partner, letting him take the rap and go to jail.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Listen, Mr. Slazak. I know about the accident. The other guy confessed. Why would he do that if Van Howe had been driving?”

“The guy who confessed was an alcoholic who was prone to blackouts. He was good and drunk that night and had absolutely no recollection of what happened, so it was easy for Van Howe to frame him. The poor bastard had no choice. He had to cop a plea or he’d have gotten massacred at trial and sent to prison for a long time.”

Salazar was silent for another long moment, trying to evaluate what he had just heard. His mind was racing at the implications, and he desperately wanted to believe the story, but this was explosive, and he couldn’t afford to be duped. “It’s an interesting story, Mr. Slazak, but frankly, it sounds pretty far-fetched. Why should I believe you?”

“Because I was the cop who investigated this. You can check the Chicago Police Department records. When I started getting close to the truth, I got pulled off the case. My life was threatened, and I was run out of town. I’ve kept this to myself for ten years because I didn’t think it was worth dying over. But now he’s running for president, and people should know what I know.”

“Then, as a cop, you can understand that I need more than a good story. I need evidence. Can you back up what you’re telling me?” Salazar asked, his voice beginning to sound hopeful.

“I’ve got plenty of evidence. Let me tell you the whole story and you can evaluate it for yourself.