Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Wonderland"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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NOVELS BY ROBERT B. PARKER

THE SPENSER NOVELS

Robert B. Parker’s Lullaby (by Ace Atkins)

Sixkill

Painted Ladies

The Professional

Rough Weather

Now & Then

Hundred-Dollar Baby

School Days

Cold Service

Bad Business

Back Story

Widow’s Walk

Potshot

Hugger Mugger

Hush Money

Sudden Mischief

Small Vices

Chance

Thin Air

Walking Shadow

Paper Doll

Double Deuce

Pastime

Stardust

Playmates

Crimson Joy

Pale Kings and Princes

Taming a Sea-Horse

A Catskill Eagle

Valediction

The Widening Gyre

Ceremony

A Savage Place

Early Autumn

Looking for Rachel Wallace

The Judas Goat

Promised Land

Mortal Stakes

God Save the Child

The Godwulf Manuscript

THE JESSE STONE NOVELS

Robert B. Parker’s Fool Me Twice (by Michael Brandman)

Robert B. Parker’s Killing the Blues (by Michael Brandman)

Split Image

Night and Day

Stranger in Paradise

High Profile

Sea Change

Stone Cold

Death in Paradise

Trouble in Paradise

Night Passage

THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS

Spare Change

Blue Screen

Melancholy Baby

Shrink Rap

Perish Twice

Family Honor

COLE/HITCH WESTERNS

Robert B. Parker’s Ironhorse (by Robert Knott)

Blue-Eyed Devil

Brimstone

Resolution

Appaloosa

ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER

Double Play

Gunman’s Rhapsody

All Our Yesterdays

A Year at the Races (with Joan H. Parker)

Perchance to Dream

Poodle Springs (with Raymond Chandler)

Love and Glory

Wilderness

Three Weeks in Spring (with Joan H. Parker)

Training with Weights (with John R. Marsh)

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

Publishers Since 1838

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, USA

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com

Copyright © 2013 by The Estate of Robert B. Parker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Published simultaneously in Canada

ISBN 978-1-101-62122-6

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Joan.

Nobody tougher.

Contents

Novels by Robert B. Parker

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

1

HENRY CIMOLI didn’t mince words.

“Have I ever asked you for a favor?”

“Nope.”

“In all the years I’ve been knowin’ you and Hawk,” Henry said, “I haven’t asked for jack squat.”

“Jack or squat has never been stated.”

We sat at an outdoor table at Kelly’s Roast Beef, facing the ocean at Revere Beach. It was early spring, and people had rediscovered shorts and T-shirts. I was particularly interested in the return of the skirt, bare legs, and high heels with thin straps. Not that Revere was a fashion mecca. Revere was a working-class town and Revere Beach was a working-class beach. But you could live well on the beach, and the seafood and Italian restaurants along the boulevard were very good. I had ordered a bucket of clams from the take-out window.

“I take calls for you guys, keep Pearl when you and Susan want to leave town and moon over each other.”

“Pearl loves you, Henry.”

“Do I complain?”

“She says you withhold affection.”

The wind was sharp and cold, but the sunshine warmed you during the lulls.

I sampled a few fried clams from the bucket. Sadly, I learned Kelly’s did not serve Blue Moon ale, or any beer, for that matter. One cannot enjoy fried clams with a Coke Zero. I dipped a few more in tartar sauce, and studied a leggy brunette in a flowy skirt standing outside the beach pavilion. She kept the skirt from blowing away with the flat of her hand while she walked. Maybe Revere was on the verge of becoming fashionable.

A couple paunchy guys in coveralls stained with grease got up from a table and patted their stomachs. One belched. Perhaps not.

“Do I detect a request for a favor?” I said.

“Why?” Henry said. “Because I’m saying I never asked for one?”

“Did I tell anyone about the time you wore lifts to that Hall of Fame banquet?” I said.

Henry stood about five-four and weighed about 134 pounds. But 133 of it was muscle, and in his youth, he’d gone toe to toe with Willie Pep. Some of that still showed in his face. He had a lot of scar tissue around the eyes; his knuckles looked like thick pebbles. He was a hard and tough man despite my claim that he had once been a member of the Lollipop Guild.

“So you owe me?” he said.

“I’d do it anyway.”

“What?”

“Whatever you’re going to ask.”

“I don’t like asking for stuff,” Henry said. “I wasn’t brought up that way. Say no if you want. Don’t worry about what I said. I’m just ticked off about all this crap.”

“Fried clam?”

“You could lose a little weight, Spenser,” Henry said. “Z told me you’ve been into the donuts again. You know how many calories are in one donut?”

“Next you’ll want me to give up sex.”

“Women make you stupid.”

“Not all,” I said, eating more clams. A blonde had taken the brunette’s place, wearing wedge heels, tastefully frayed chino shorts, and a light blue button-down shirt with several buttons open. She wore designer sunglasses on top of her head and shifted her hips as she strolled.

“She could.” Henry motioned.

“Talk slower,” I said. “I can’t understand you.”

“So you want to hear it or did you drive up to Revere on a Sunday to eat a bucket of clams?”

“I’m motivated equally.”

Henry craned his wrinkled neck over his shoulder, watching for anyone within earshot. Satisfied that a young couple with a toddler posed zero threat, he turned back. “We got some problems at my condo,” Henry said. “I tried to handle it myself, but the cowards sent three guys the other night. They told me if I didn’t shut up, that they were gonna toss me out my window.”

“What floor is your unit?”

“Fourth floor.”

“You’re so light, you could blow away.”

“This ain’t funny.”

“Okay. Tell me about these guys.”

Henry shrugged. Several seagulls landed on a table next to us, and started to scrap over half an onion roll.

“The guy talkin’ was a thick-necked steroid freak. He had a tattoo on his neck and crazy eyes.”

“Lovely.”

“Other guy was black, not as juiced-up, but just as thick. Third guy was older, with long hair and a goatee. Didn’t look that tough. Maybe he’s the shooter. He had that look, trying to show he was a hard guy.”

“Names?”

Henry shrugged.

“I didn’t ask for references.”

The gulls yammered a bit until the victor took his spoils and flew across Beach Boulevard.

“What’s it about?”

“Some asshole wants to buy up the condo and buy us all out,” Henry said. “It’s a decent price. But I like the place and don’t want to move. I mean, look at the fuckin’ view.”

“It’s fucking grand.”

“And there are memories and all.”

Ten years ago, Henry had met a woman. She was ten years younger and she had given him eight good years. Lots of dinners and trips to the Cape. Two years ago she’d died of cancer. He never spoke of it, but in his office I’d seen a prayer candle next to an old photograph. They’d bought the place together, Henry moving out of the gym and fifteen minutes away to the condo.

“So I won’t sign the paper,” Henry said. “A few more of us feel the same way. There’s a nice Jewish couple up on eight who don’t want to leave, either. One of these dumb shits made an anti-Semitic remark to the woman when she was bringing in her groceries. Used some bad language about her in front of her fucking husband.”

“Who’s the guy wants to buy the building?” I asked. “I could pay him a visit and reason with his more enlightened side.”

“If I just needed head busting, I would have called Hawk.”

“Where is Hawk?”

“Miami,” Henry said. “Guarding some rich broad in South Beach.”

“You know the company who wants to buy your building?”

“Nope,” Henry said. “They sent some lawyer to come speak to the board.”

“When was this?”

“Last week.”

“And you publicly objected?”

“I ain’t alone,” Henry said. “Half of us want to stay, others just want a fast buck. They’re old and tired and looking for the easy way out.”

“Why not just take their money,” I said, “if it’s a fair deal? Move back into your apartment at the gym. Maybe it’s time for Z to find his own place.”

“The money is okay but not great,” Henry said. “I was considering it until they started to press. I don’t like people pressing. Pisses me off. Being told what to do.”

“I can relate.”

“Figured you would.”

“When’s the next board meeting?”

“Tuesday night at seven,” Henry said.

“Do they serve refreshments?”

“All the bullshit you can eat.”

“Wonderful.”

“I sure like to know what kind of piece of crap sends some hoods around to harass a bunch of old people.”

“I can most certainly find that out.”

2

“YOU TOLD HENRY that I was putting on weight?”

“I told him that you ate too many donuts,” Zebulon Sixkill said. “He decided you had put on weight.”

“Is there no loyalty from my Native American apprentice?”

“Pale Face shouldn’t take more than his fair share.”

We were running along the Charles River that Tuesday morning. The promise of an early spring had turned to gray skies and spitting rain. But it was warm enough to wear athletic shorts and a blue sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. Z was pushing me a bit, keeping a faster pace than I preferred. My pace was slow and even, knowing I could outlast him on the five-mile route along both sides of the river. Maybe if I’d been a D-1 running back like Z, I’d have been swifter of foot.

“How long have you known Henry?” Z asked.

“Since I was eighteen.”

“You and Hawk?”

“Hawk and I.”

“So there isn’t much you wouldn’t do for the man?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Me either,” Z said. “He didn’t have to give me a place to stay when you started to train me. I was a mess. All that booze and sloppiness. On the juice. I still don’t know why he did it.”

“Because he saw some promise,” I said. “Henry has always had an eye for talent.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Yep,” I said. “How are you with everything?”

“I drink sometimes,” he said. “I don’t drink because I’m an alcoholic. I drink because I like the taste.”

“You can stop?”

“Sure,” he said. “Just like you.”

“In the past, I struggled with the stopping.”

“I can stop.”

We jogged for a bit, working to control our breathing, rounding the bend of the river by Harvard Stadium. I had just invested in a new pair of New Balance 1260s, feeling patriotic hitting the ground in American-made running shoes.

“Must have been something to trust me,” he said. “When we met.”

“I needed someone to pass along my knowledge to,” I said. “And also could use a little help from time to time.”

“And you will put in a good word with the state,” Z said. “As a reputable citizen of the Commonwealth, noting my fine and upstanding character.”

“Three years,” I said. “The law says you’re under my watch for three years.”

“And then?”

“You have a private investigator license and trade.”

“Not much of a future as a head breaker.”

“Unless you’re Hawk,” I said. “But Hawk is equal parts ass-kicker and philosopher.”

“The Thoreau of Thuggery?”

“Susan is right.”

“About what?”

“You’ve been hanging around with me too long.”

“So where do we start with Henry?”

“I’ll make some calls,” I said. “And we observe.”

“Wait for those guys to show up?”

“Yep.”

“And Henry will push the point?”

“Henry is not a subtle man.”

We turned north onto the Harvard Bridge, making our way toward MIT, where we’d follow the bike path below Mass Ave, past the Longfellow Bridge and over to the dam, where we’d cross back over into the city. Z had yet to let up on the faster pace, seemingly still annoyed I’d taken an extra donut last week.

“Would be good to know who hired them,” Z said.

“We can ask nicely,” I said.

“Does that ever work?”

“Almost never.”

3

THE HARBOR HEALTH CLUB had been upscale longer than it had been low-rent. I knew it when it had been low-rent, before the waterfront was rebuilt with luxury hotels, slick office buildings, and million-dollar condos. Henry had changed with the times, adding the latest Cybex machines, treadmills, and stationary bikes. There were a lot of mirrors, a juice bar, and cubicles to meet with personal trainers. Henry had even recently added a glass-walled workout room, where women participated in something called Zumba. Z and I had little interest in Zumba but appreciated the taut young women in sweat-stained spandex who filed out of the room. Some of them even smiled at us as we took turns on the bench press. We decided to add more weight in appreciation.

“Maybe we should take a Zumba class,” I said.

“Might hurt our reputation.”

“Or maybe we could recruit some of the young ladies to the boxing room?”

“Susan might not like that.”

“Who would know?” I said. “She’s lecturing at the University of North Carolina this month on the psychology of adolescents.”

“Years of research?” Z said, sliding onto the bench and slowly repping out 275 as if the bar were empty. He took his time, pausing the bar on his chest as I’d taught him, not pushing the weight but working on breathing and controlling the weight.

Henry walked up to study us, watching as Z clanged the weights down on the rack and stood up. He wore a white satin tracksuit, right hand in his pocket and a grin on his face. “You turkeys gonna pump some iron or just ogle my clientele?”

“I’m teaching Z the proper way to accomplish both.”

“You ever think about investing in some workout clothes?” Henry said. “They’ve improved in the last century.”

“Not everyone benefited as much from Jack LaLanne’s death,” I said.

Henry snorted. Z smiled as I slid onto the bench and started into a slow rep.

“I’ll have you know this workout suit is custom-fitted,” Henry said. “Probably cost more than your whole freakin’ wardrobe.”

I paused the weight on my chest, pushing out a couple more reps. I wanted to say something about shopping in the kids’ section but kept it to myself, concentrating on the weight, the pause of the bar on my chest, exhaling as I pushed the weight upward. I finished the twelfth rep and re-racked the weight.

“Any more trouble?” I said.

“Nope.”

“Thought we might follow you home tonight.”

“I don’t need babysitters,” Henry said. “I need you to do that detective thing. Find out who these crapheads are.”

“Crapheads have muddied the water,” I said. “The prospective buyer is a corporation with an address listed as a P.O. box. The corporate contact registered with the state seems to be a phony.”

“What about their lawyer?”

“I called him,” I said. “He was less than forthcoming.”

“Hung up on you?”

“Twice.”

“I told you he was a prick.”

“He’s a lawyer,” I said, shrugging.

Z had moved on to triceps presses with a fifty-pound dumbbell. He made it look easy. And for me, it wasn’t as easy as it used to be. Of course, I wasn’t in my twenties and just a few years away from college football. I had lasted only two years at Holy Cross before joining the Army, never being a fan of the rah-rah coaches or taking orders.

I switched places with Z. He’d pulled his long black hair into a ponytail, his wide face covered in sweat. The front of his gray T-shirt read Rocky Boy Rez, Box Elder, Montana.

“Is there a lot to do in Box Elder?” I asked.

“Why do you think I stayed in Boston?”

“Numerous liberal coeds wanting to right their ancestors’ wrongs?”

“Nope.”

“Or because you worked for a bloated, self-absorbed, immoral creep and sought spiritual guidance from a Zen master?”

“There was that,” Z said.

We met Henry in the parking garage thirty minutes later. I was driving a dark blue Ford Explorer that year, decent legroom for men of a certain size. Henry pulled out in a white Camry, and we followed him up Atlantic and down into the Callahan Tunnel and intermittent flashes of fluorescent light, taking 1A up past Logan, through Chelsea, and on into Revere Beach. I had the radio tuned low to a jazz program on WICE, Art Pepper on horn. The tired triple-deckers and sagging brick storefronts whizzed past.

“A good friend of mine used to vacation in Chelsea,” I said.

“You’re kidding,” Z said.

“Have to know the guy,” I said. “Grew up in Lowell.”

Henry lived in a 1960s condo with the architectural inspiration of a Ritz cracker tin. The condo building was ten stories, with small jutting balconies hanging from each unit and a wide portico facing the water. A sign over the entrance read Ocean View in a fine, detailed script. I parked just across the street in an empty slot by the beach. I had cracked the windows and the wind had kicked up a bit, slicing in the sound of the ocean and smell of salt.

“And what’s the plan if they approach Henry?” Z said.

“Persuade them to stop.”

“How far do we go with the persuasion?”

“Fists,” I said. “No guns. Unless they want to up the ante. But we carry to make sure. This is not one of those situations where you make that play first. Other times call for it.”

Z pulled a .44 revolver from a shoulder rig. He popped out the cylinder, checked the load, and clicked it back into place. It was a big gun. But Z was a big man.

I watched for Henry locking his car and carrying his gym bag up a concrete walkway to the condo’s front entrance. I offered Z a piece of bubble gum, but he declined. I chewed and admired my reflection in the rearview mirror, looking rakish in my Brooklyn Dodgers cap and leather bomber jacket. I fiddled with the radio a bit. I smelled the salted breeze coming from the sound.

I glanced up to spot three men surrounding Henry’s slight figure under the portico. One of them knocked the gym bag from his hand. Henry responded with a left hook to the guy’s nose. The guy went down. His buddies rushed Henry and started pushing him. Henry set into a fighter’s stance.

“Saddle up,” Z said. “Here we go.”

4

ONE OF THE MEN pressed his hand to his nose, lots of blood oozing through his fingers. Henry had done well. “You come at me again and you’ll get it in the bazoo, too,” Henry said.

The men weren’t listening. They had switched their attention to Z and me after we drove up and slammed the Explorer’s doors. We all stood in a happy grouping under the portico. No one moved or spoke. Henry stepped back and lowered his dukes a bit. “Nice night,” I said.

One of the men was olive-skinned, with the build of a fire hydrant, and a tattooed neck bigger than his head. He was walleyed, with a skinny mustache and goatee and black hair cut short and combed forward to disguise a receding hairline. His pal was black, with a long face, patchy beard, and that thousand-yard jailhouse stare. He’d gotten pretty good at it, flicking his eyes from me to Z, watching our hands and waiting for one of us to make the play. The bleeder was taller than the other two, and older, maybe my age, with a thick head of brown hair and a lean, weaselly face. He also had a goatee with some gray in it.

He leered at me. It was hard to be scary while stemming a bloody nose with one hand.

“Henry, you want to introduce us?” I said.

“Yeah, this is Moe, Larry, and Fuckface.”

“Nice to meet you guys,” I said. “Especially you, Fuckface. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Walleye said. His thick neck melted into his leather jacket.

“How much are you guys getting paid for the shakeup?” I asked. “Because it’s really not worth it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Bad language is scary,” Z said. “You scared?”

There were guns there. There were always guns. But no one made a play for the guns, because once they made that move, there was no going back. So we stood around at awkward angles under the portico, three against three, no one wanting to move. A lot of noise of crashing surf and buffeting ocean wind. I shifted my weight from one leg to another. I’d recently purchased a pair of steel-toed Red Wings for such an occasion and my feet felt solid and confident in them. Beside me, Z loosened his shoulders and rolled his neck from side to side. Henry stood beside him and spit on the ground between us and the jolly trio.

“Walk away,” I said. “And don’t come back.”

The black man was nearly as tall as me and had spent a lot of time in the weight room. His biceps tightened and flexed in a black denim jacket. His mouth curled into a smile, showing off a couple gold teeth as he rubbed his patchy beard. “How about we just fuck all y’all up? Don’t make no difference to me.”

“Doesn’t make any,” I said. “You should be more careful about letting double negatives slip into everyday conversation.”

“Fuck your momma,” he said.

“Much better,” I said.

“Oh, yeah?” Henry said, sliding into a fighter’s stance. “How’d you like me to turn your ass into a hat?”

Z looked to me from the corner of his eye. He was relaxed and ready.

Walleye made the first move, tackling me around the chest and driving me back into a thick column, knocking the wind from me. He pounded sloppy, short punches into my ribs until I finally head-butted him and drove him backward. Z was into a scuffle with the black gentleman, landing a solid, bone-shaking right into the man’s temple. Walleye took another run at me as my hands instinctively lifted up to protect my face and I jabbed him twice, landing the second one. A third jab set up a perfect right, and the right rolled into a hook, with all that space under the portico giving me a nice pivot on the back foot to knock Walleye sideways. I turned to Z, who was holding the man’s collar with his right hand as he punched him with his left. Walleye gathered his feet and made another attempt. My feet ached to try out the boots, and within a few feet, I kicked his legs out from him, an audible crack coming from his shin as he lost his balance and fell to the concrete. There was a lot of blood. My right hand was swelling but my breathing was cool and controlled as I pulled a .45 auto from Walleye’s belt. Z’s black hair had loosened and fallen in his face as he turned to me and grinned, the black man at his feet, Z’s foot on his neck, and the man’s face scraped and bloody from the rough concrete.

Z searched the man and pulled a Glock from his jacket pocket.

Somewhere in the fight, the man Henry had hit had run away.

There was blood all over Henry’s white satin workout jacket. But he was smiling until he noticed the blood and said, “Holy Christ. Someone is paying for my damn dry cleaning.”

“I have a terrific deal for you guys,” I said.

“Fuck you,” Walleye said.

Z looked at me with disgust.

“He can’t fight,” Z said. “Lacks verbal skills.”

“Here it is,” I said. “Tell me who hired you and I won’t call the police.”

“You fucking assaulted us,” Walleye said, curled in a ball and holding his busted shin. The black man looked up from the ground and closed his eyes. He wasn’t buying it, either.

“Okay,” I said, reaching for my cell phone, dialing 911. I rattled off the address to the condo.

“Okay,” Walleye said. “Screw it. Okay.”

“Does this mean you wish to cooperate?”

“Don’t call the cops,” he said. “I’m on parole.”

“Maybe you should seek other job opportunities,” Z said.

“And not fight like such a goddamn pussy,” Henry said.

“That, too.”

“Go to hell,” Walleye said.

“Careful, you’re bleeding on my new boots,” I said.

Walleye got to his feet slowly. His eyes flicked from Z to me. Z would not relinquish his foot from his pal’s neck.

“Let him go,” Walleye said. “And give our fucking guns back.”

“Name?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I doubt it,” I said.

“I want my fucking guns back.”

“Nope,” I said. “You got two seconds to give me a name or I’ll see you at your arraignment.”

“I don’t know her name.”

“Her?” I said.

“Yeah, a woman. Nice body. Big tits.”

“Oh, her,” Z said.

“She should’ve come herself,” Henry said. “She could’ve done better.”

“I just got word about a job,” Walleye said. “My cousin told me to meet this broad at the HoJo at Fenway. At that Chinese restaurant. You know the Hong Kong Café?”

“Name?”

“I don’t remember,” Walleye said. “I was too busy staring at her bazooms and counting the money.”

“How’d you keep in touch?”

“She wrote her cell number on a napkin. Told me not to use it unless it was an emergency.”

Z smiled and shook his head. He helped the bleeding man to his feet, smoothing down the man’s denim jacket and brushing his shoulders as if he were a tailor. I reached into Walleye’s back pocket and lifted his wallet. I handed it to him, and after a few seconds, he extracted a folded napkin and handed it to me. I read it and neatly placed it into my jacket.

“A pleasure doing business with you guys,” I said.

They limped unhappily back to a beaten Chevy sedan, Rust-Oleum polka-dotting the doors and hood. The windshield was cracked and the muffler sagged from the rear end, catching the condo’s drive and sparking for a moment before the car turned south on Beach Boulevard and into the night.

“Now you pissed ’em off,” Henry said. “Whoever this is won’t waste the effort on amateur hour next time.”

I shrugged. Z grinned in expectation.