Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Wonderland"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

9

BEFORE MEETING WAYNE, I had started braising a nice slab of brisket by placing it in a Dutch oven and adding some chopped carrot, parsnip, and onion. I sprinkled in a bit of kosher salt, pepper, coriander, Worcestershire, and a can of tomato paste and chicken stock and left the whole thing to cook at 350. When I returned, my apartment smelled heavenly. I put on a Duke Ellington album and started work on a tomato jam. I felt a jam would go nicely with some biscuits and a hunk of white cheddar.

A pleasant darkness had settled over Marlborough Street. I popped the top from a Sam Adams Alpine Spring, cracked a window, and watched the streetlamps glow on the wet sidewalks. I made the biscuits, cut them on a butcher block, and placed them on a greased cookie sheet to bake.

I felt so overworked, I opened another Sam Adams and called Susan. After four rings, she picked up.

“I was in the shower,” she said.

“Does your phone have a camera?”

“Can’t you think of anything else?”

“Well,” I said. “Despite your absence, my apartment smells like Shangri-La.”

“I would have thought you would have been at my place, gazing lustily at my photograph.”

“May I serenade you with ‘Moon River’?” I said.

“Let Andy Williams rest in peace,” she said. “I’ve just finished with a very lengthy lecture.”

I hummed the first few bars and drank some more beer and looked out at the streetlamps. A couple walked hand in hand along Marlborough. They were not talking, only smiling. Content. “And what was today’s lecture?”

“‘Functional Subgrouping and Other Innovative Methods for Resolving Conflict.’”

“I can fly down immediately to speak as an expert.”

“Kicking the crap out of someone has not been proven an innovative approach.”

“Someone needs to do more research,” I said. “What about threatening?”

“Is that what you’ve been up to?”

“Henry Cimoli asked for a favor.”

“And Henry Cimoli never asks for anything.”

I took another sip of beer. I checked the timer on my biscuits. Pearl sniffed at the oven. She looked disappointed that I was not paying closer attention to the impending meal.

“He in fact noted that very point.”

“I take it the favor did not require you and Hawk greasing gym equipment.”

“Nope,” I said. “He asked for me to use my own time-tested method for resolving conflict.”

“And the conflict?”

Susan sounded a million miles away. Her voice was never a substitute for the smell and touch and presence of the whole package. I sighed and told her about the conflict.

“Not a smart negotiation,” Susan said.

“Nope.”

“And what if these people offer more money?”

“That’s up to Henry,” I said.

“And who are these people?”

“I’m pretty sure they need Henry’s apartment as a block in a big-time casino development.”

“I thought that hadn’t been decided.”

“Ducks are being placed in a row.”

“Ah, the infamous ducks,” Susan said. “So what do you do now?”

“Make sure no one harasses Henry.”

“You can’t do that forever,” she said. “And besides, he’d hate that.”

“True,” I said. “It would slight his honor.”

“Why don’t you just call Quirk or have Rita’s firm file a civil suit?”

“That might slight my honor.”

“To report a crime?”

“I’d rather handle this myself,” I said. “I think the players here have been adequately discouraged. Now we want to discuss the issue with the source.”

“And if they return to harm Henry?”

“I will discourage them even more.”

“By yourself?” Susan said.

Pearl stopped sniffing and looked up at me with pleading yellow eyes. She had developed a sixth sense for when biscuits were ready.

“Nope,” I said. “I’m using the opportunity to train my Native American apprentice.”

“That is something.”

“It is.”

“And how is he doing?”

“Tough and resourceful,” I said. “He’s getting better about making his own decisions. He isn’t just waiting for me to tell him.”

“Always a good thing.”

“He continues to train with Henry,” I said. “Besides a sloppy left hook, he could probably put half of Boston in the hospital.”

“Can you note that in a job referral?”

“Yep.”

“And his drinking?”

“He drinks,” I said. “But he continues to control it.”

“Like you.”

“Like me.”

“Does training Z have something to do with your Lone Ranger complex?”

“Is that a thing?” I said.

“You mean a psychiatric condition?”

“Yep.”

“Most definitely.”

“Returning to those thrilling days of yesteryear,” I said. “How about you call me later for an adult conversation?”

“Perhaps.”

“I think my biscuits are burning.”

“Has it gotten that bad?”

“You have no idea.”

10

THE NEXT MORNING, I drove twenty minutes to Revere and parked in an empty space along the beachfront to wait for Henry’s white Toyota. The waves tumbled along the sand while I listened to player interviews after a heartbreaker with the Yankees. Even with the addition of Adrian Gonzalez, I did not feel optimistic about the season. I thought about calling Mattie Sullivan. But she would probably just offer that they were sucking big-time.

I ate two corn muffins and drank a large coffee. I searched around the dial for some palatable music. When that failed, I turned off the radio just as Henry’s car appeared from a parking garage. I squashed the sack from Dunkin’ Donuts and followed.

Susan was right. Henry would hate to have a babysitter. As far as he was concerned, the matter was over. There was a conflict and then a fight. The fight was won and it was finished. But in my experience, greedy people seldom consult rulebooks or play by honorable standards. Case in point, sending a trio of goons to bust the kneecaps of a formidable but old man. I kept on Henry as he took the tunnel into the city and hung back as we approached Atlantic. I parked outside the aquarium for a good ten minutes before grabbing my gym bag and heading into the Harbor Health Club.

“What took you so long?” Henry said. He was watching a pudgy middle-aged woman in a headband perform an assisted pull-up.

“Sorting my underwear to color,” I said.

“Bullshit,” he said. “I spotted you at the curb. You were eating a fucking donut.”

“It was a corn muffin.”

“How many?”

“One.”

“Since when do you eat one of anything?”

I shrugged. The woman completed her reps with significant assistance from Henry. She got up from the machine and wiped her brow with a hand towel. She called Henry a brute. I grinned and mouthed the word “brute.”

Over her shoulder, Henry shook his head and mouthed the words “Up yours.”

I changed into shorts and an old gray sweatshirt and walked back to the boxing room. I wrapped my hands and faced the mirror, working on a quick round of shadow-boxing. After the first round, I picked up a leather jump rope and amazed and delighted myself with a few tricks. I had a good sweat going. Then I pulled on a pair of sixteen-ounce gloves for some heavy bag work. Henry strolled into the room, arms crossed over his chest, and watched. He listened as I worked out some frustrations in a barrage of combos. I tried out a few different ones Henry had never seen, just to show off a little. The three-minute round finished with an electronic buzz. I placed my gloves on top of my head and walked to the water fountain.

Because of the gloves, Henry thumbed the button for me.

“I just got a call,” Henry said. “Condo board can sell with majority of votes. It’s in the original deed or something.”

“Not good.”

“I tried to round up some support,” he said. “I’ve lived there for ten years. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“You’d have a good case to sue.”

“For crissakes,” he said. “How long would that take? I’ll be dead by the time they write the check.”

I leaned in for more water. Henry pressed the button again.

“Unless we had something on them,” Henry said.

“You got a good case for harassment.”

“That’s chickenshit stuff,” he said. “They’d lie their way out of it. I want to know who these people are. Stick it to them. You know, hit ’em where they live.”

“What would you say if the proposed buyer wanted to knock down your building for a casino?”

“Now, that’s something,” Henry said. “Jesus, how long were you gonna keep that from me?”

“I don’t know for sure,” I said. “I’m still connecting the dots.”

“These people gave us a lot of grief. If we could make them pay through the nose . . .”

“But is that enough?” I said.

“You mean that they get what they want?” Henry shrugged. “I’ve been thinking of expanding the gym. With that much cash, I could afford to build a second apartment. Maybe it’s time for a change anyway. When I’m up there sometimes I kind of think on things.”

I nodded. I knew who he was talking about.

“How good is the source on this casino business?”

“Solid,” I said. “But not definite.”

“The board would need more for leverage.”

“Still working on it,” I said. “But you need to know, the more I push, the more they might push back.”

“Good thing I got some first-class sluggers who owe me,” he said.

“’Tis.”

“So until we settle, it’s gonna get a little dicey?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s Sitting Bull?”

“Sleeping.”

“What the hell?”

“He watched your place all night last night,” I said. “This morning we traded.”

“You fucking guys.”

“Don’t cry, Henry,” I said. “You might break something.”

“You fucking guys.”

11

TIRED YET DOGGED, I returned to my office to learn all I could about Rick Weinberg and his gambling empire. I found many interviews with The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, and Forbes. But what held my attention most was a profile on a site called vegasinc.com on a new hire for Weinberg. A woman named Jemma Fraser.

“Aha,” I said.

She was indeed a British citizen, a heavyweight in the gaming industry, and the VP of Weinberg Entertainment. According to the interview, Jemma Fraser looked forward to opening up new markets in states where gaming has been illegal. She also talked a bit about her own experience in Hong Kong related to casinos in Macao. I added an “oh-hoh” to the “aha.” They worked well together.

I printed off a few of the stories and a corporate bio and added them to the Ocean View file. By noon, I had pushed my body and mind to their limits and decided to make a pilgrimage to Eastern Lamejun Bakers for some flatbread and hummus. I also threw in some Armenian pickles, Kalamata olives, and fresh feta, to keep up my strength.

I stopped off a second time at a grocery in Harvard Square for a six-pack before heading to Susan’s place. There was much to be done.

All seemed well at Susan’s. I emptied her mailbox, checked all the locks, and ate standing up at her kitchen counter. I enjoyed a beer and caught a bit of Susan’s perfume lingering. I closed my eyes and smiled and entertained the idea of a ticket to Raleigh-Durham for the night.

But Pearl needed to be fed and walked. Sixkill needed to be instructed in the ways of the gumshoe. And Henry’s interests needed to be protected. Perhaps more protected than ever, once it was known by the players that he wanted more money.

I cut off a wedge of feta and slid it onto a piece of flatbread I’d heated in the toaster oven. The morning classes at Harvard had let out and the streets were filling with cars and students. You could hear them as they passed Linnaean Street, debating the academic issues of the day. I ate a couple olives and opened up the hummus. The Avery White Rascal ale tied it all together nicely.

I dialed up Rita Fiore. A secretary said she wasn’t available, but Rita called back twenty seconds later.

“I hear Susan is out of town.” There was a huskiness in her voice.

“But her kitchen holds such sweet memories.”

“You’re sniffing around her kitchen?” Rita said. “That’s pretty whipped, Spenser.”

“I’m standing up eating a Mediterranean feast with some cold brew from Boulder, Colorado.”

“Shall I chill the martinis?”

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Why, of course.”

“Speak lawyer to me.”

“Are you in jail again?”

“Nope,” I said. “I have a client. Actually, it’s Henry Cimoli. You remember Henry?”

“The old boxer.”

“Yep.”

“And?”

“And a casino developer from Vegas is trying to push Henry from his home.”

“Do tell.”

“I believe a billionaire casino developer is rubbing his greedy hands together for Henry’s condo,” I said.

“What do you mean, you believe.”

“The buyer has remained hidden,” I said. “And I need some hard proof.”

“And you’re calling for one of my young and energetic paralegals to go and pull some property records for you?”

“Ownership will be buried pretty deep.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“If this is what I think it is,” I said, “your firm could be negotiating for a substantial amount of money.”

“Not my area of expertise,” Rita said. “I’m strictly criminal. But Cone, Oakes, and Baldwin does employ several lawyers that would salivate at the proposal.”

“Of course they do.”

“And lawyers do love money,” Rita said. “How come you’re not going to lecture me on principles or your moral code?”

“Henry will need more backup than I can provide.”

“I’m sure the firm can file a nasty civil lawsuit that could tie up their people for some time.”

“Until they make an offer.”

“That’s generally the way it works.”

“The company belongs to Rick Weinberg.”

“Wow,” she said. “I heard Donald Trump spit-shines his shoes.”

“The company he’s using in Boston is called Envolve Development.”

I gave her addresses and needed information both on the Ocean View and Wonderland. She was quiet for a moment, and I heard the scratching of pen on paper. “I’ll send one of the kids to wade through the property records,” she said. “If the ownership is intentionally hidden, this could take some time.”

“And how can I reimburse the firm for their precious time?” I said.

“I think you know.”

“That property belongs to Susan.”

“I prefer to think of it as a rental.”

“How about a two-martini lunch instead?”

“Sold,” Rita said.

I hung up, placed what remained of my feast into the grocery bag, and drove to my apartment. Pearl was very happy to see me. The early-afternoon sunlight was golden and filled the Public Garden. Willow branches fingered and trailed the edge of the lagoon, leaving soft dimples. A mallard hen and drake paddled around the pond, winding their way to the bridge. The hen was molting, getting ready to make her nest and lay her eggs.

I had always respected ducks. They understood monogamy.

12

RITA CALLED the next day. Three of her best paralegals could not tie Rick Weinberg to Envolve, the company that owned Wonderland, the offer on the Ocean View, or the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. I offered to pay for her time anyway. We settled on the martini lunch at Locke-Ober before it closed for good, and more scintillating conversation.

After I hung up the phone, I nodded at Z, who sat in my client chair.

“Anything?” Z said.

“Nada.”

“So we know, but we don’t know.”

“When the legal trail fails, follow the illegal,” I said. “Write that down somewhere. It’s a good tip.”

Z nodded. He went back to reading the Phoenix.

“Get some rest,” I said. “You’ll watch Henry when he locks up. We’ll switch in the morning.”

“Where are you headed?”

“A den of iniquity,” I said.

“Send me a postcard,” Z said. He never looked up from the newspaper.

Twenty minutes later, I sat in a red vinyl booth in the back corner of the Tennessee Tavern, which was perched at the precipice of the Mass Pike at the corner of Newbury and Mass Ave. The place was appropriately smoky and dark. As usual, the bartender brought me a draft beer and a shot of Wild Turkey that I never ordered.

Lennie Seltzer grinned. “Cheers,” he said.

“Salut,” I said, and drank the shot. The whiskey had been finely aged a good six months, which developed qualities of a heady diesel fuel. I quickly cleansed my palate with a cold Budweiser.

“So what have you heard about Rick Weinberg in Revere?”

“He’s one of a lot of players,” Lennie said. “But Weinberg’s got a freakin’ hard-on for a Boston casino.”

“Nicely said.”

“Thanks,” Lennie said, popping a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and lighting up with a pink Zippo. “Want another round?”

“I have a pint of cough syrup in the car.”

“So yeah,” Lennie said. “These guys are fucking serious. All of ’em. The carnival is coming whether we like it or not.”

“What about the Wonderland dog track?” I said.

“What’s the property record say?”

“Corporate names buried a mile deep,” I said. “I can’t make the connection. Officially it’s in bankruptcy.”

“I miss that place,” Lennie said. “I liked watching the dogs run and chase that rabbit. Lost a lot of business when those fucking PETA weirdos got riled up.”

“Maybe they had a point.”

“Dogs were bred to run,” he said.

“Some are bred to fight,” I said. “That doesn’t mean it’s a good thing.”

Lennie shrugged. He squinted his eyes at me and smoked some more. “I know Weinberg is here and looking,” he said. “But I hadn’t heard anything about him and Wonderland.”

I drank some more beer. I didn’t want to be rude.

“Everything is changing,” Lennie said. He blew a stream of smoke upward and crushed the cigarette. “Don’t matter what we want. Bookies like me are in short supply. First the fucking Internet and now legal gambling in Boston. Christ.”

“What’s the old guard have to say about it?”

“You’re talking about Gino Fish?” Lennie said.

I nodded.

“Why not ask your friend Vinnie?”

“I’d rather ask you.”

Lennie shrugged. “Gino tried to keep it out,” he said. “Greased some palms. They greased more. Hell, we lost.”

“What about now?”

“Don’t know.”

“Is Weinberg connected?”

“He’s a fucking casino mogul from Las Vegas,” Lennie said. “What do you think? He ain’t Walt Disney. I’d really watch my ass if I were you.”

“I’m proceeding with caution.”

“So let me get this straight,” Lennie said. He spread his arms on the back of the booth. “You want me to find out who owns Wonderland because you can’t.”

“Yep.”

“Okay,” Lennie said. “I just wanted to hear you say it. Remember your old pal sometime when you don’t need nothing.”

A working girl in a very short black leather miniskirt and black mesh top with a red bra underneath stumbled into the bar. She gave Lennie a sloppy wink. Lennie acted as if he didn’t know her. “You been busy, Spenser,” Lennie said. “Jesus H. You blew away Jumpin’ Jack Flynn.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“Hawk?”

“Flynn broke the rules.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t mess with kids.”

“Hoods got rules?” Lennie settled back, amused.

“You have rules.”

“Yeah,” he said. “The fucking golden rule. Whoever has the most gold makes the fucking rule.”

“Speaking of.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Lennie said. He shook his head and scooted out from the booth to find a stool at the end of the bar. I stayed in the booth and finished my beer. The working girl nuzzled Lennie’s ear as he dialed his telephone. He lit another cigarette and pushed the girl away, the bartender bringing him another beer. Ten minutes and three cigarettes later, Lennie returned to the booth.

“And?”

Lennie spread his hands wide, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“What’s in this for me?”

“A favor to be named later?”

“Good enough,” Lennie said. “Yep, Weinberg has the Wonderland track sewn up. He bought it right after it closed. He may have even funded the crazies wanting to protect the puppies to make sure it went tits up.”

“May I ask where this information was obtained?”

Lennie tucked another cigarette into the corner of his mouth and stared at me with great pity.

“Solid?” I said.

“Ain’t it always?”

It was dark when I started back to my apartment. A mile down Commonwealth, I spotted a tail. To make sure, I jockeyed down into the South End for a few blocks. As I lifted my phone to call Z, the car took a sharp turn and disappeared.

That night in the Public Garden, I held Pearl’s leash with my left hand. My right rested on the butt of my .38.

13

THE NEXT MORNING in Revere, I spotted Z’s car. But no Z.

He had parked at a meter across from the Ocean View, a couple spaces from a beach pavilion. I tried calling him, but there was no answer. I left my Explorer on Beach Boulevard and walked up to the front entrance of Henry’s building. I called Henry. There was a lot of wind off the water and it made the cell signal reverberate like a seashell. He buzzed me in and met me in the lobby. Henry looked like he hadn’t slept. His white hair was disheveled. I had never seen Henry disheveled.

“They came back,” Henry said. “Those rotten bastards.”

I nodded.

“They hurt Z,” he said. “Rotten bastards.”

“How bad?”

“Bad.”

I followed Henry to a small sitting area off the lobby. Z sat nearby on a metal folding chair, his head tilted back, a bag of ice on his nose. He had scratches and welts across his forearms and biceps. His blue jeans were torn, boots scuffed. In his other hand, he gripped a bloody towel.

“What happened?” I said.

Z removed the ice and looked at me. He had a busted blood vessel in one eye, and his nose looked broken. One of his legs was stretched out, knee locked. The other leg rested comfortably on a boot heel.

“Two of them,” Z said. As he spoke, I noted a cracked tooth. “I got one of them down and the other pulled a gun. They got my gun and both took turns.”

“How’s the leg?”

“I think my knee is screwed,” he said. “Again.”

“On the plus side, your nose will look more like mine.”

Z did not answer. He leaned over and spit blood into his cup. He looked up at me. A bloody towel hung loose in Henry’s hand.

“We’ll find them.”

“Shouldn’t have waited for the gun.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe you’d be explaining two stiffs to Quirk right now. He may be less lenient on you.”

“I stopped fighting back.”

“Didn’t sound like much of a fight.”

“I quit,” he said. “I didn’t fight back after a while. I think they thought they’d killed me.”

“Takes more than two men.”

“You never get beat like that.” He leaned forward, head in his hands, not looking me in the eye.

“I have.”

“When?”

“So many times I try and forget.”

“Being shot isn’t the same as two men coming down on you,” he said. “I want to kill them.”

“You follow that path, and you’ll work sloppy. Just like in a fight.”

“How much more sloppy can you get?”

“Two against one,” I said. “They took turns holding a gun.”

“Never happened to me,” Z said. “Last man to beat me was you. But you didn’t try to kill me.”

I shook my head.

“You need a doc to check you out,” Henry said, pressing the bloody towel to Z’s face. “Then me and Spenser will come back here and talk to the folks who seen it.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” he said. “This is bullshit.”

I nodded to Henry. We both helped Z up from the folding chair. Z slipped his arm around my neck and limped along, with Henry opening the door for us. Z spit out blood onto the ground while we walked together. He was silent the whole ride to the hospital.