Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Wonderland"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

48

HENRY AND I MET Rachel Weinberg and Blanchard the next day in Revere. Lou Coffone and his geriatric crew had chosen a one-story cracker box off 1A called the 3 Yolks. A place that proudly advertised eggs at both breakfast and lunch. Rachel was dressed in an ornate white blouse with lapels that spilled over a black jacket. Her pearl earrings must’ve choked the oyster. While we waited, she dabbed at the partially wet table with a folded napkin. The table was well-worn Formica and the booth padded in orange vinyl.

“Who needs the Four Seasons?” I said.

“Me,” she said.

Outside a row of plate-glass windows, I spotted Z standing next to my Explorer. He said he would rather keep watch while we talked. Keeping watch meant he did not have to listen to another speech by Coffone and Buddy.

“Why here?” Rachel said. “We could have met in town.” She crumpled up the wet napkin and left it for the waitress.

“Old and set in their ways,” Henry said. “They’re scared shitless because of what happened. This place is familiar and safe.”

Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Unless you’re worried about salmonella.”

“The whole thing did start a little dicey,” I said. Henry nodded.

“That was unfortunate,” Rachel said.

“Perhaps we should call Jemma Fraser?” I said.

Rachel’s face colored. “Why?”

“Since she’s now running Rick’s company.”

Rachel looked me over and then nodded. “Unfortunately,” she said.

“Would have been nice to know,” I said. “Given the circumstances.”

“Her current position is tenuous,” she said. “These people trusted Rick, and they will trust me.”

“It would have been nice to know,” I said.

“Her position will be short-lived.”

I nodded and decided on two eggs with rye toast. Henry eyed me as I ordered. He smiled at my selection. Rachel and Blanchard ordered only coffee.

Coffone and Buddy walked in a few minutes later. Coffone wore a yellow polo shirt again embroidered with the Ocean View logo and the word President. His white hair had been swept back boldly, face pink with a fresh shave. Buddy was hunch-shouldered and unsmiling in a gray tracksuit and thick white tennis shoes. Schlubby and potbellied, in shoes fastened with Velcro.

“Mrs. Weinberg wanted to hear the board’s concerns,” Henry said. “I thought it best to do it in person.”

Coffone nodded gravely. Buddy studied the menu and fingered at a tooth.

“It’s kind of gotten complicated,” Coffone said. “We don’t want to make any major changes until we find out what’s going on.”

“What’s going on is that someone killed my husband for trying to do business in Boston.”

“I’m sorry about Mr. Weinberg,” Coffone said. “But that contract can be contested. We liked your husband a lot. And we liked his plans for the Ocean View. But now, I mean, hell. It’s all very different. He’s no longer a part of this. A person doesn’t know what to think.”

Rachel Weinberg leaned her head back. She took in a deep breath. “Bullshit,” she said. “You want to sit around with your dicks in your hands until you see who’s going to take charge for the widow. Or are you fishing for more money?”

I enjoyed the company of Rachel Weinberg.

“This has been a bad shock to all of us,” Coffone said.

“I’m sorry my husband’s brutal murder has been so hard on you,” Rachel said.

Buddy looked up from his menu. He signaled the waitress and asked for a western omelet with french fries. He continued to work at whatever was in his tooth with his little finger.

“If the picture cleared up,” I said, “would that make a difference?”

“Like if whoever did this was locked up?” Buddy said.

“Exactly, Buddy,” Henry said.

Coffone shrugged. Buddy followed.

Blanchard drank coffee. He turned his head very slightly, studying Z, who was outside, leaning against my SUV. Z had his arms across his chest, watching traffic zip by on 1A. No judge had ever been as sober.

“I can legally hold you to the agreement,” Rachel Weinberg said.

“Lot has happened.” Coffone gave a smile befitting a condo board president. “People have been killed. Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we have consulted with a new attorney.”

Henry looked at me. He had not been notified.

“Has anyone at the Ocean View been approached in the last few days?” I said.

“Since Big Chief got his ass handed to him?” Buddy said.

I just stared at Buddy. I waited. Buddy craned his head to the kitchen, looking for his western omelet. There was great clamoring in the kitchen. The cook rang a bell.

“Nobody,” Coffone said. “But we’re all scared to death. Nobody even wants to go to the store or get their dry cleaning. We just kind of want to be left alone now.”

“Holdouts,” Rachel said under her breath.

Coffone nodded. “What would you do? This is the only thing we got left. What we get from this deal is how our children and grandchildren remember us.”

Rachel Weinberg rolled her eyes. She grabbed her purse and stood. Blanchard pushed his chair back and waited. “This is the last goddamn thing Rick wanted to see through,” she said. “Think about that legacy.”

Coffone opened his mouth.

Rachel Weinberg held up a finger to silence him.

“Excuse me, but I’ll be gone for two days,” she said. “Now that my husband has been reassembled, I have a funeral to plan and attend. I hope your nerves settle by the time I get back.”

Rachel Weinberg walked out. Blanchard widened his eyes and followed.

Henry and I sat there with Coffone and Buddy. Everyone stayed quiet while we ate.

“Should have ordered the hash,” I said.

49

“ARE YOU BUSY?” Wayne Cosgrove said.

“Extremely,” I said, phone cradled against my ear.

I had spent the afternoon cleaning my office, refiling files, and looking in catalogs for a new sofa for Pearl. The Vermeer prints now hung razor straight.

“So I guess you don’t have time to find out what I found out about Weinberg’s political donations?”

I put down the dustpan, and sat at my chair with the phone. Z looked up at me from the cushionless sofa, reading a copy of The Ring. The blues and purples on his face had faded to a yellowish hue.

“On the official contribution list, I found pretty much the expected,” Wayne said. “He greased the palms of everyone he should. Right and left. He gave a few thousand here and there. Senators, congressmen. Council folks in Revere. Usual suspects.”

“Okay.”

“But being the true muckraker I am, I also looked into contributions given to super-PACs in the Commonwealth,” he said.

“Which I understand is legal.”

“A candidate can take as much money as he or she wants from a super-PAC, but the Supreme Court says all donors must be made public. And late last year, through his front Envolve Development, it looks like Weinberg gave nearly a half mil to a super-PAC run by the brother of Joseph G. Perotti.”

“Great Caesar’s ghost.”

“And you might ask what Perotti has to do with casino licenses?”

“Mr. Cosgrove, just what does Joseph Perotti have to do with casino licenses?”

“As speaker of the house?”

“Yep.”

“Everything.”

“Aha.”

“Damn right.”

“What’s your bar tab running now?”

“You’ve gone from a bottle of Blanton’s up to a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle.”

“The seventeen or the twenty-three?”

“I like my bourbon ancient.”

“Done.”

“Just wait,” Wayne said. “I followed up. Dug deeper. Quarterly reports were just filed for Perotti’s super-PAC. I did not see Weinberg’s name or anyone related to Envolve.”

I waited. Z had set aside his boxing magazine and listened.

“But I did see a more-than-generous contribution from someone else,” Wayne said.

“Harvey Rose?” I said.

“Which means our illustrious speaker has jumped ship.”

“Did the donation confirm that?”

“What do you think?” Wayne said.

I thanked Wayne and hung up. I looked to Z. He sat up straight and set his cowboy boots on the floor. Pearl looked from me to him, waiting for a word. I wondered if Pearl knew much about super-PACs.

“Seems like we now know the missing link.”

Z nodded. “Who?”

“A politician,” I said. “Shocked?”

“Cree takes everyone on faith. Especially white politicians. Why would they lie?”

“This one sold out Rick Weinberg before he got killed,” I said. “Be good to know why.”

Z stood up. “Why don’t we go ask?”

I smiled. “Let’s.”

50

Z AND I SPENT the afternoon on Beacon Hill.

I showed him the Hall of Flags, Doric Hall, and the murals opposite the main staircase. The State House was indeed grand in marble, mahogany, and brass. I took interest in murals of the Civil War and our war with Spain. Z studied the rotunda mural of John Eliot preaching to the Indians and the giant stained window of an Indian in a grass skirt. It read “Come and Help Us.” Z was not impressed.

At about four o’clock, the House broke for the day and I found a spot to rest my elbows on a filigreed iron banister.

Forty minutes later, Joseph G. Perotti, house speaker, emerged from his office. He made his way down the marble hallway with official clicking of his official shoes. He was discussing a matter of great importance to a flustered young woman in a navy pantsuit. She held many files in both arms. Perotti was empty-handed.

“Speaker,” I said.

He smiled. He offered his hand. Politicians often do goofy things like that to strangers.

“I am one of your proud constituents,” I said. “Duke Snider.”

“Glad to meet you, Duke,” he said. He shook my hand with both of his. Z continued to watch with detached interest down from the third-floor railing. An imposing statue of Roger Wolcott had his back.

“May I have a moment of your time?”

“I’m already late,” he said. “My secretary sets my appointments.”

“Is that how you met both Mr. Rose and Mr. Weinberg?”

Perotti stopped his happy skip down the marble steps. He turned to me. Perotti was a rotund little man with thinning gray hair and a brushy gray mustache. He wore rimless glasses in gold frames. I waited and he told his aide to meet him at the bottom of the steps. Perotti leaned in. “You fucking people from the Globe,” he said. “I just got through answering questions for that son of a bitch Wayne Cosgrove, and now you brace me on my way out.”

“Bracing?” I said. “Nope. Only asking. I’m not with the Globe, but I’m sure Mr. Cosgrove will appreciate your comments.”

“Who are you, then?”

“Just a constituent interested in the fate of some land in Revere.”

“What do you want?”

“When did you tell Rick Weinberg you switched teams?”

Perotti shook his head. His face grew red as he peered down the marble staircase to his young aide. He nodded very quickly. She trotted off. Time was short. Perotti began to move again, holding on to the rail, trying his best to escape me.

Z watched from above.

“Were you brokering a deal with Gino Fish,” I said, “or on your own?”

“I don’t know any such person.”

“Everybody with an office in the building is aware of Mr. Fish.”

“Not me.”

“But you were to broker a deal,” I said. “Pave some roads.”

“Bullshit,” he said. “Bullshit.”

Perotti rested for a moment at a landing near the bottom of the stairs. He wiped his brow with the flat of his hand. He was potbellied and winded. The aide had returned with a couple of house security guards. They began to approach. I looked up; Z had disappeared.

“All I want to know is why Rick Weinberg was killed. I leave you out of it.”

“I never met the man,” he said. He grasped the railing again and continued his descent.

I followed.

“What else did Harvey Rose offer?”

“You are insane,” he said, just as we hit the last step. Each security guard grabbed one of my arms. They asked what I had done. I looked to Perotti, and he blanched. I ripped free of one of the guards and raised my fist high in the air. “Free the Sacred Cod.”

“Sir,” a guard said.

“Insane,” Perotti repeated.

He and his aide clacked off. The guards escorted me out of the building. Z was waiting for me on the steps where Beacon meets Park. He had found a comfortable spot on a bench. “Why’d they let you go?”

“Perotti told them I was just an ordinary nut.”

“Which means he has something to hide.”

“Yep.”

“And he will jostle the source.”

“One can hope.”

Z pushed himself off the iron bench. I could tell he was still in some considerable pain. He walked down Beacon and back toward my office. The day had warmed, and we removed our leather jackets as we strolled. It was hard to be dignified when you had just proclaimed to worship a fish.

51

I MET LEWIS BLANCHARD that night at the Bristol Lounge. Happy hour was over and the bar had thinned of patrons. We found a small table only a few steps from the taps and drank cold Sierra Nevadas as we discussed details of Rick Weinberg’s funeral.

“She wanted me to stay here,” he said. He toasted me with his second beer.

“Punishment?”

“Didn’t say that,” Blanchard said. “She said she trusted me to continue working in her absence. I should have been there. I should have gone.”

I nodded. “A lot riding on Wonderland.”

“And now with the white-hairs spooked, holy crap,” he said. “You think they’re holding out?”

I shrugged. “I think they may be genuinely scared shitless. And a bit greedy.”

“Gaming commission will want detailed plans in a few months,” he said. “In a couple weeks we got to pony up a half mil for the registration fee.”

“Nonrefundable,” I said.

“If we can’t get this parcel, how are we supposed to get all of Revere behind us?” Blanchard said. “I want this for Mr. Weinberg. I really do. I mean, Christ, he used to come here as a kid. His dream was to bring back Wonderland. So much work to go to waste. Who wants that putz Rose to get the license?”

I nodded. I drank some more beer. I got to it. “Lewis, do you know who Joe Perotti is?”

“Holy Christ.”

“Nope,” I said. “He’s the house speaker of this great commonwealth.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Mr. Weinberg left a trail of very large bread crumbs.”

“Rachel is going to be pissed.”

“You don’t owe him,” I said.

Lewis leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand over his jaw, nodding. “We need him,” he said. “Who else knows?”

“He’d promised to push Wonderland through.”

“Yes,” Blanchard said. “The reason why Rachel didn’t want him involved in your investigation. Holy crap.”

“Did you know he accepted twice the amount of Rick’s donation from Harvey Rose?”

Blanchard’s mouth opened and hung there for a few seconds.

“You really didn’t know.”

“Perotti had been elusive lately,” Blanchard said. “He was the main reason Mr. Weinberg was in Boston. He was trying to nail down Perotti on terms.”

“Percentages?”

“I don’t know the details,” Blanchard said. “Like we said, Mr. Weinberg preferred those terms to be worked out direct.”

“Did Rick ever say where this money would be funneled?”

“Nope.”

“Mention the name Gino Fish?”

“I know who he is,” Blanchard said. “I know he was the one person who had to get behind all this if it were to happen.”

“Did he?”

Blanchard shrugged. “Was yet to be determined.”

I leaned back. I drank some more beer. A man in a tuxedo and a woman in a sparkly dress sidled up to the bar. The woman was giggling. The man had a smug look as he patted her backside. If I patted Susan’s backside in public, I’d meet her left hook.

“What can you tell me about Jemma Fraser?”

Blanchard grinned. He leaned forward. He had recently cut his receding silver hair. The cuffs of his blue oxford had been rolled back to the elbows, showing off thick forearms. He looked like he’d broken his knuckles plenty of times. “What do you want to know?”

“Is she to be trusted?”

Blanchard grinned some more. “Hell, no.”

“You find her recent replacement as CEO a bit shady.”

“You don’t?”

“I find some of the family dynamics tricky.”

“You mean that Mr. Weinberg was shagging her while he got the board to approve the contingency clause.”

“That’s the one.”

Blanchard tilted his head. He crossed his legs. Two men having a nice business drink after a day making sales. The waitress returned and asked if we’d like another round. We did.

“Let me say I don’t think Jemma had Rick killed,” Blanchard said. “I think she had more to gain with Mr. Weinberg doing what he was doing.”

“What was that?”

“Taking care of Jemma.”

“And what if Harvey Rose is now taking care of Speaker Perotti?” I said.

“We’re fucked.”

“Officially speaking.”

“Yep,” Blanchard said. “He is the key to whoever gets the license.”

“You mind if I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” Blanchard said.

“Was it Jemma’s idea to send the leg-breakers to the condo?”

“Absolutely.”

“And Rick did not know.”

“He fired her, didn’t he?”

“Actually,” I said. “No, he didn’t.”

“Whatta you mean?”

“Jemma said they lied about the firing to keep the Ocean View board thinking in the right direction.”

“Shit, sounds like something she’d do,” Blanchard said. “She can’t stand not winning. Not at anything she does. Hell, she learned everything she knows from fucking Harvey Rose.”

“I know she used to work for him.”

“Not just work for him,” he said. “He was her mentor at Harvard. He fucking made her.”

“Holy smokes,” I said.

“Goes back a long time,” he said. “A really deep, twisted relationship. Mr. Weinberg said he hired Jemma because she thought just like Harvey Rose. But was a hell of a lot better-looking. He used to say things like that.”

52

WHEN I ARRIVED at the Harbor Health Club the next morning, Jemma Fraser was working out with Z. He had brought her into the boxing room to show her the fundamentals of the jab. Dressed in a white tank top and black satin shorts without shoes, she smiled attentively at her trainer. She looked to be very fit.

“The toughest and loneliest sport in the world,” I said.

“Breathe,” Z said to Jemma. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Jemma took a deep breath and did not turn. She kept on attacking the bag with sloppy yet significant punches. Z smiled and walked toward me. His hands were expertly wrapped in red tape.

“I tried to call,” I said.

“She wanted to leave the hotel,” Z said. “And she wanted to learn some self-defense stuff.”

I was still dressed in street clothes with my Everlast workout bag over my shoulder. Today was a day for weights, not boxing. I needed to put some thought on the recent developments.

“Henry wants to see you,” Z said. He canted his head toward the office and turned back to Jemma. She had yet to acknowledge my presence as she worked out a simple left jab over and over. Her brown hair was tied up in a high ponytail. Z had forced her into a steady, even sweat. She had her breath working and her concentration was all on the bag.

I strolled into Henry’s office, dropped my bag at my feet, and said, “What’s the haps?”

Henry was paying bills, half-glasses down on the end of his nose. There was a stack of envelopes on his desk and an old-fashioned ledger bearing Henry’s distinctive scrawl.

“You see Z is working with Mata Hari?” Henry said.

“He says she needed to learn some self-defense.”

“Z’s the one who needs to watch out.”

“He’s a smart kid,” I said. “He’ll keep it professional.”

“At that age, I couldn’t even spell ‘professional.’”

I sat down. I had once counted nearly sixty framed photos of boxers, wrestlers, and weight lifters on the wall of Henry Cimoli’s office. Many of them were long gone, and the pictures were bent and faded. Henry took off his glasses and tossed them on the table. He rubbed his eyes. “Got to say, Z looks better.”

I nodded.

“He’s lost the limp,” he said. “Got real zing and pop in the punches.”

“Maybe he’s showing off.”

“Nah,” Henry said. “He’s back on center.”

“Just what did you say to him after the beating?”

“I told him when a fight is over, it’s over.”

“He carried that rage with him.”

“He doesn’t think what happened to him is finished,” Henry said. “I told him to put it on the shelf for a bit. Use it when you need it. Being mad all the time screws up your head and tires you out.”

Henry walked to a shelf by his lone window and rattled some vitamins into his hand. “You know, I boxed for twenty-nine years and never hated nobody.”

“Never?”

“Nope.”

“Different on the street.”

“It is, but it isn’t,” Henry said. “Throw out the rules. But a fight is a fight. Bein’ mad clouds your brain.”

I changed into my workout clothes and launched into a circuit on the machines. I started off with my upper body, shoulders, chest, triceps, and then onto back and biceps. I jumped from one exercise to the next, giving myself no rest or downtime. I finished off working my legs and lower back. I counted off two minutes on the clock and repeated the circuit two more times. I used heavy weights, taking it up to twelve to fourteen reps on most exercises. On the last cycle, I felt fatigued but strong. I was past the point of showing off in the gym or maxing out with weight. I was interested in endurance and strength. Someone may be stronger or faster, but they couldn’t outlast me. Nobody could outlast me. Except maybe Hawk. Hawk could outlast Atlas.

As I headed to the shower, I glanced into the boxing room. Z was still there with Jemma. He was teaching her to throw a hook, hands on her hips, showing how they should flow loose and easy. He rotated her hips again and again. She smiled and giggled.

I dressed in my street clothes and left without a word. I was driving back to my office when Healy called.

“I got something I want to show you.”

“I have been warned about conversations that start that way.”

“We got two shitbirds we’re pulling out of a Dodge Charger parked in Chelsea,” Healy said. “Both shot in the head. Whoever it was got close enough to whisper in their ear with a .22 pistol.”

“Anyone we know?”

“Seems these guys are from out of town,” Healy said. “Tourists in from Las Vegas. Both of them with records as long as your arm.”

“Lovely,” I said.