Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Wonderland"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

23

I DRANK BRANDY while Susan and Weinberg debated the ethics of gambling. The brandy was very good. The debate was a little heated. Rachel Weinberg and I followed, heads on swivel, and would occasionally interject some pithy comment. Some of mine were clever. But for the most part this was the Susan-and-Rick show. The Harvard shrink versus the Las Vegas billionaire. Weinberg did not stand a chance.

“What I offer is entertainment,” Weinberg said. His voice low and gravelly, his hands clasped in front of him. Earnest. “It’s about the experience. The fun. I don’t just do slot machines and craps.”

“But isn’t that how you make most of your money?”

“Not true,” Weinberg said. He picked up a wineglass and twirled it. “Most of our profits come from the hotels. The shows. It’s pizzazz and glitter.”

“But gambling is central,” Susan said.

“It’s part of the experience.”

“I’ve had several patients who say it is the only experience,” Susan said. “Not many leave your hotels winners.”

“Don’t you win if you have a good time?”

“Some might call that hyperbole,” Susan said. She smiled the smile that could disarm North Korea.

“And you?”

“I’m mainly curious about your take on what you do.”

“We try and discourage those kinds of people,” Weinberg said. “That’s not the clientele we want.”

“Ah.” Susan leaned in and opened her brown eyes wide. “And you are not concerned about those who say crime and vice will feed off the neighborhood? When it’s public what you want, you’ll be faced with countless studies of increased prostitution and drug use.”

“I’ve been running casinos my whole adult life,” Weinberg said. “A little wind doesn’t scare me.”

“Boston is not Las Vegas,” she said.

Weinberg smiled and contemplated what Susan said while she sipped some wine. Rachel Weinberg cleared her throat and asked me why I thought the Sox were so goddamn lousy this year. She wore a pair of diamond earrings as big as fists.

I shrugged. “It keeps a long and storied tradition going.”

“Revere is a working-class town,” Susan said.

“So is Vegas.”

I smiled at Rachel. She rolled her eyes at me.

“I don’t mean to be judgmental,” Susan said. “Just a pragmatist, based on experience with addicts.”

Weinberg nodded. He grinned and spoke low enough to give careful emphasis to his words. “But you know how many jobs I’d bring to that town? Doesn’t that offset the losers? You know what this project will do to revitalize the beach? The customer we target isn’t from Boston. We don’t want local. We want the high roller. We want jobs and infrastructure. We want to bring back the original Wonderland.”

“I hate to break it to you, but it was never much of a pleasure palace,” I said. “Although I do have a soft spot for a hound named Momma’s Boy. Came in six-to-one on a twenty-buck bet. Kept me bucks up that week.”

“I can’t stop you from leaking my plans,” Weinberg said. He turned to me and finished his long-suffering glass of wine. “I don’t blame you for being upset about some extremely unprofessional behavior by my employees.”

“I’d use a much stronger term,” I said.

“I can promise you I will deal with it,” Weinberg said. “I can also promise you I will make a more-than-fair deal with your people. You open up Pandora’s box with other developers and this thing will go tits up. I have to own that parcel to present a complete plan to the state board. You fuck me, and you will fuck your clients.”

“Now, that’s a motto,” Susan said.

“He’s not kidding,” Rachel Weinberg said. “Can you get us a private meeting with the condo board? Let Rick do his shtick and see what they decide. You still want to go to the Globe and lay it out, go for it. But that’s bad business.”

“Bad business is sending leg breakers to harass residents and the people who protect them.”

“Agreed,” he said. “That’s not my style. Mr. Blanchard is conducting an internal investigation of how that happened.”

“I’d be glad to explain it to him.”

“What can I offer you?” Weinberg said.

“I want what’s best for my client,” I said.

Susan smiled at me. I think she was having a great time.

“Okay, then,” Weinberg said. There was much laughter at the end of the table. The Actor separated his hands by a foot and announced, “Like a fucking horse.” Laughter echoed throughout the dining room. Weinberg rolled his eyes and turned back. He looked appraisingly at me and Susan. He jabbed a thumb at me and said, “What’s a nice Jewish shrink doing with a goy with a twenty-inch neck?”

“Actually, it’s only nineteen and a half,” I said.

“Would you believe he recites poetry?” Susan said. “He even appreciates art without prodding.”

“No kidding,” Weinberg said. “Seriously. What about real art? You like Picasso?”

“I prefer my guitars without noses.”

“I just bought this fucking portrait Picasso did of his lover during the war,” Weinberg said. He stated it as if he’d just returned from a Labor Day sale at Sears. “It’s big and nuts. I’m going to design an entire casino around its colors. The shapes and energy of it reach out at you. I saved it, really. The asshole who owned it before put his fucking elbow through it. Can you believe that?”

“He likes to put art in the casinos,” Rachel said. “We both think art is meant to be seen by the masses. Why put art in a stuffy museum? Let everyone experience it in an amazing setting.”

“What was that broad’s name?” Weinberg said.

“Who?” Rachel said.

“Picasso’s mistress. The woman in the painting.”

“Dora Maar.”

“Yeah, Dora Maar. He ended up leaving her because she reminded him of World War Two. Crazy. It’s just called Woman Seated in a Chair,” Weinberg said. He smiled very big. “But it’s a knockout. I collect all that shit. Miró, Basquiat, Soutine. But Picasso. Picasso is my man. I could have bought a jumbo jet for what I paid for it. But you know what? There are a lot of jumbo jets. Only one Woman Seated in a Chair.”

I smiled at Susan.

“Plans call for an art wing at Wonderland,” Rachel said.

“So there’s already a blueprint?” Susan said. “That’s confidence.”

“I’ve seen this place in my head before the gambling law was passed,” he said. “What you remember as a dog track, I think of as the original Wonderland. The place that inspired Walt Disney. One of the first amusement parks in this country.”

“I remember some crummy rides during the summer at the beach,” I said. “And a peep show with a woman named Boom Boom Beatrice.”

“This was at the turn of the century,” Weinberg said. “It sat right where the dog track was built during the Depression. That’s how the track got the name. Last year I started collecting all this shit from the original amusement park. I had my designers try to match the décor. It was all Art Nouveau, just gorgeous. This was in 1907, ’08. Everything was constructed to match the drawings from the Alice book. The original engravings by Tenniel. Amazing. You must have felt like you were really going down the rabbit hole with these rides. Mushrooms bigger than cars. Disappearing cats with only the eyes. Rooms that would grow smaller and smaller as you walked into them. It was all like some crazy kind of dream.”

“That sounds like Revere,” Susan said. “A crazy dream.”

“I even want the cocktail waitresses to be blond and dress like Alice. Only sexy. You know? We’ll get chicks in bunny suits running through the casino every hour or so, holding on to a pocket watch like they got to take a piss.”

“Performance art,” I said.

“I know you two are being smart,” Weinberg said. “But I happen to like smartasses. You’ll see what I mean if I can present this all to the board. I can wrap in some incentives for them if we get the license.”

“I would have thought that had been decided,” Susan said.

“We have other problems,” Weinberg said.

The waiter walked over and dropped off a variety of desserts on white linen. Lemon sorbet. Cheesecake. Crème brûlée. Some type of chocolate mousse within a chocolate cake.

“It’s like falling into another world,” Weinberg said, stabbing at the chocolate cake. “You can leave all the outside-world shit and baggage and fall down the rabbit hole.”

“With Alice the waitress,” I said.

“Server,” Rachel Weinberg corrected. “Cocktail waitresses are tacky.”

Susan grinned, took a single bite of the crème brûlée, and passed it to me. Susan had an iron will. I, on the other hand, had a large neck.

“I can’t promise anything,” I said.

Weinberg slapped me on the shoulder. He grinned and winked at his wife. She ignored him and tried a bit of the lemon sorbet. Most of her brandy remained in her glass. The waiter swept away my empty glass.

“‘If everybody minded their own business,’” I said, “‘the world would go around a great deal faster than it does.’”

“Who said that?” Weinberg said.

“A powerful woman.”

“Hmm,” Weinberg said. He tossed an AmEx Black card on the table. “Smart broad.”

Rachel smiled at her husband. Susan gave me a wicked grin. “‘Curiouser and curiouser.’”

24

“SO YOU NEGOTIATED a peaceful and profitable resolution for the Ocean View residents?” Susan said.

“Z won’t like it,” I said. “Nor will it make sense to him.”

“But it makes sense to you.”

“It works best for Henry,” I said, shrugging. “Z has to learn that the physical aspect of the job is separate.”

“That kind of beating would be hard not to take personally.”

“You don’t negotiate with the hired help.”

“And aren’t you the hired help?” Susan said.

“No, ma’am,” I said. “Just a simple interloper. Now that my work is done, I’ll ride off into the sunset.”

“Where’s the horse?”

“Parked on level three.”

Susan smiled, leaned in, and kissed me. We stood together for a long while outside security at Logan. People milled and swayed around us like a current. I had already handed over all three of Susan’s suitcases at ticketing. And had tipped extra for hernias.

“You really think Weinberg will keep his word?” I said.

“I would be surprised if he went back on what he said,” she said. “Might bruise his sense of ethics. However warped they might be.”

“I think he’s lying about not knowing about the sluggers.”

“Cynic.”

“You?”

She shrugged. “It’s possible for employees in a large company to make decisions without the boss.”

“Henry can decide what he wants to do,” I said. “If the money is as good as I think, he’s won the fight.”

“Just promise me that we never have to dine with that freak show again.”

“Promise,” I said. “Two weeks?”

“Two weeks.”

“And what am I to do with myself for two weeks?”

“Take Pearl for long walks, take in a few movies.”

“Is it too late to learn how to darn socks?”

“Why does everything that comes out of your mouth sound dirty?”

I grinned. Susan leaned in again and wrapped her arms around my neck. She smelled of lavender and good soap. I could feel my heart speed as she turned, blew me a kiss, and disappeared into security. Even with a heavy heart, I studied her backside until she was gone.

I sighed, walked back to my SUV, and drove in a light rain to the Back Bay and my office. The skies darkened and the rain grew heavy. My office reverberated with the gentle hum of the air conditioner. I opened my desk drawer and found a bottle of Black Bush. I lifted it to the light and twirled the bottle in my hand. The amber-colored liquid was enticing.

But instead I stood up, grabbed my Everlast gym bag, and headed to the Harbor Health Club. Sometimes a good sweat did more than the bottle.

Z was there. As was Henry. Z was already on to his second round of training. Henry had him working out without gloves or focus mitts. Z could do little more than shadow-box. As he moved and slipped, Henry shouted out dirty tactics applicable only on the street.

“Punch him in the throat,” Henry said. “Elbow him in the temple. Take it to the kidneys.”

I gave them a wide berth and started out slow, wrapping my hands, jumping some rope, doing some stretching. By Z’s fifth round, I started into the speed bag. And by his sixth and final round, I was feeling pretty good, knocking the hell out of the heavy bag. “Guy was a bleeder,” Henry said to Z. “A fighter fights long enough and that scar tissue will open up like wrapping paper.”

Z nodded, keeping his eyes on Henry as he spoke. Z moved slowly but deliberately, punching at his own reflection. His right eye was still swollen, and he moved with a limp.

“You don’t want that life,” Henry said. “I wouldn’t wish a boxer’s life on nobody. If you got the brains to get out, get out. Unless you know—or are crazy enough to think—you’ll be a champ. There ain’t a lot of middle ground.”

I was on to the double-end bag, jagging and slipping, and timing the rebound of the weighted bag on elastic. Two and out. One and out. Slip. Slip.

“Look at Spenser,” Henry said. “He got out when the getting was good.”

The buzzer sounded. I got some water and tried to catch my breath. Rain tapped against a lone window at the back of the room. Z zipped his gym bag and hobbled toward the door.

“Henry’s the best at biting ankles,” I said. “Doesn’t even have to bend down.”

Z attempted to smile and kept going.

“You okay?” I said.

Z nodded.

“Can I buy you lunch?”

He shook his head. “I was going to wrap my knee and go for a walk,” he said. “I need to work out some stiffness.”

“You want company?”

“No,” he said. “I’m fine. Need to think on some things.”

Z nodded to me and headed to the showers. Henry walked up as I waited for the next round.

“How is he?” I said.

Henry shrugged.

“His heart’s not in it,” Henry said. “He’s dragging ass.”

I shrugged. “It’ll take time.”

“Now we’ll see what he’s made of.”

“I know.”

“You know more about a fighter by how he loses. Not how he wins.”

“You’re teaching him to fight dirty.”

“Bet your ass,” Henry said. “You should’ve taught him more.”

“I did,” I said. “But I think he froze in the moment.”

“Ain’t no rules out there,” Henry said. “Kick ’em in the nuts if nothing else works.”

“I am a fan of that technique.”

I took on the speed bag for another round and finished it off with a round of shadow-boxing and heavy back work. I wiped the sweat from a fresh towel that smelled of bleach and approached Henry. Half out of breath, I said, “Rick Weinberg wants to deal.”

Henry smiled. The heavy bag still rocked on the chains, swinging to and fro, the spindle squeaking. The rain continued to tap harder on the lone window. Henry and I walked back toward his office.

“Can you set up something with the condo board?” I said.

“Yeah,” Henry said. “But how will we know we can trust him?”

“I’ll get Rita Fiore to keep him honest.”

“You know the terms?”

“I know he’ll sweeten the deal to each unit owner with a bonus if he gets the casino license.”

“So we get zip if he doesn’t get the license?”

I nodded.

“What did he say about sending out his gorillas?”

“He apologized,” I said. “He said it wasn’t his style and would investigate why it happened.”

“Come on.”

“It’s what he said.”

“How much you think he’ll raise his price?”

“Don’t know.”

“What the hell do you know?”

“Susan met him. She thinks he’ll shoot straight, too. But now it’s up to you and the Ocean View people to decide.”

“You done good.”

“Shucks.”

Henry unlocked his office door. Henry always locked his door when he roamed the premises. Someone might take his framed picture of Gina Lollobrigida. Z sauntered by the picture glass facing the gym, dressed in black jeans and a black silk shirt opened wide at the neck. His hair was combed straight back.

“You gonna tell Z that we’ll deal?”

I nodded.

“He’ll still want to find those men who cleaned his clock.”

“The agreement is for the condo,” I said. “Not for closing the books.”

Henry smiled at that, the phone on his desk ringing. He let it ring. “What do you think would’ve happened to you if you and Hawk had kept boxing?”

“Fame and fortune?”

“And back rooms of spaghetti joints fighting over a C-note.”

“Free spaghetti is nothing to sneeze at.”

“Who told you to get in with the cops, get a trade?”

I looked to Henry. He nodded, took a seat at his desk, and propped up his tiny white running shoes. As he placed his hands behind his head and flexed his biceps, he muttered, “Damn straight.”

25

I WAS ON MY first cup of coffee and taking Pearl for her morning constitutional when my cell rang. The rain had stopped, leaving a fine, lovely mist in the Public Garden. Pearl sniffed the moisture-dappled tulips as I answered.

“Spenser’s pet-sitting service,” I said.

“You wear many hats,” said Jemma Fraser.

“I only have one client,” I said. “She demands much of my attention.”

“I see.”

There was a long pause and a long sigh. “There is an offer on the table,” she said. “Mr. Weinberg wanted me to present this to you. And to arrange a meeting with the board at Ocean View.”

“And here I was hoping you missed my rakish wit.”

“Shall we say an hour?”

“We shall.”

We agreed to meet at the Starbucks across the street, and she hung up. Or I suppose she might have said “rang off.” I turned back to watch Pearl snuffle among the daffodils. Mission accomplished.

We returned to my office with twenty minutes to spare before the meeting. I spent the time cleaning my gun and reading the latest on the Sox’s three-game series with Oakland. I was only halfway through when I reached for my jacket and walked across the street. Jemma was there, standing at a side table facing Boylston and adding sugar to a very frothy coffee. I smiled at her and nodded. I ordered a plain coffee and joined her at the bar.

“There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts on Exeter,” I said. “I guess it’s too late for corn muffins.”

“Yes,” Jemma said. She passed over a sealed legal-sized envelope. I felt like we were in a John le Carré novel. “It is.”

She again wore the snug, stylish raincoat knotted at the waist. Brown leather riding boots artfully lifted her a few inches. She held sunglasses in her open hand. She tucked them into her purse before reaching for her coffee.

“Those heels put us on equal footing,” I said.

“You don’t like me very much.”

“You hired some thugs to harass a good friend, and in turn, beat up my colleague.”

“Oh,” she said. “Yes. Sorry about that.”

“Somehow I doubt your sincerity.”

I reached for the envelope. It was a bit like an impromptu birthday gift. Do I open it here or in privacy? I didn’t want her to see my face if I was disappointed. “Weinberg says you acted on your own.”

She sipped her coffee.

“Any response?” I said.

“Are we finished here?”

“I suppose I need to see what Mr. Weinberg has offered.”

“He has attached contact information.”

“Wouldn’t that be you?”

She pursed her lips and studied my face. Her eyes met mine and then turned toward the open space along Berkeley. “Not anymore.”

“A real shame,” I said.

“I have been terminated.”

“How long have you been in the States?” I said. “Shouldn’t you say ‘sacked’?”

“When Mr. Weinberg fires you, you have been terminated,” she said. “My last bit of business was to deliver this to you. After that, I am done.”

I nodded. “Truly sorry.”

“Even though you got me fired?” she said. “Mr. Weinberg thought I might have crossed a few lines.”

“Henry Cimoli would agree.”

She studied my face some more.

I grinned at her and toasted her with my coffee cup.

“Best of luck with your clients.” She turned on a heel and disappeared out into the soft rain. I took the fresh cup of coffee and the envelope containing the new offer and walked back across the street to my office. I almost felt bad for her. But not quite.

26

RICK WEINBERG put on a great show. As he spoke, I waited for fireworks to shoot from his backside and an American flag to unfurl above his head. The condo board was all smiles. They didn’t just accept him, they loved him. The deal was very sweet. I would need a CPA to help me configure all the zeroes. And there were free buffet vouchers for when Wonderland opened. No self-respecting AARP member would turn down vouchers.

Z and I sat in the back row of folding chairs. No thugs showed up. No threats were made. Rita Fiore sat in front of us, occasionally turning around to roll her eyes. She was no fan of the free buffet or a literary discussion of Charles Dodgson. “What a crock of shit,” Rita whispered.

“But how’s the contract?” I said.

Rita shrugged. “Our attorney says it’s good,” she said. “But I could do without the PowerPoint and Mickey Mouse nonsense. All we need to know is how much and when.”

Weinberg wore khaki slacks and a light navy sweater over a white dress shirt with a rather long collar. His teeth were still nearly blinding at twenty feet. His voice was soft and gravelly, not pleading as much as trusting. If he talked any longer, I might have to hand over my wallet.

“We can all be winners here,” Weinberg said. “You can be a part of the resurgence of this entire beach. It starts with a grain of sand. A dream.”

Z looked as if he might fall asleep. His sizable arms were crossed over his chest, straining the fabric of his black T-shirt. That morning, he seemed more present but more silent than before.

Weinberg recognized Lou Coffone, board president, who sat beside him. Coffone stood and hiked up a pair of powder-blue pants toward his armpits with pride. Weinberg had the touch of making everyone he met feel important. A knowing smile. The two-handed handshake. Buddy, the old man who had lamented his keyed Cadillac days before, seemed to be fine with the world. His dyed black hair gleamed in the fluorescent light. He had his arm around his portly wife, who had exchanged the leopard-print muumuu for a blue pantsuit.

I leaned in to Rita. “Funny how a hundred grand can change attitudes.”

“A hundred grand extra for every blue hair in this shitbox,” Rita said.

“Worth Cone, Oakes, and Baldwin’s time?”

“We are the biggest and best in Boston,” Rita said. “Do you think I came here for the cheese and crackers?” She crossed her legs with a huff.

After the meeting ended, Coffone and Buddy braced me at the cheese table.

“It’s unanimous,” Coffone said.

“Yep,” I said.

“Sweetheart of a deal,” said Buddy Cadillac.

I nodded.

“You want some cheese?” Coffone said. “We got some of those good Ritz crackers.”

“You guys are too good to me.”

“Henry said we don’t owe you nothin’,” Buddy said.

“He’s right.”

“But the board feels like you need to be paid,” Coffone said. He hiked up his pants as he spoke. “We knew you’d pull it off. Never doubted it for a moment.”

“That’s what kept me going during dark times.”

“Weinberg, what a guy,” Buddy said. “It’s a sweetheart of a deal.”

Coffone offered his hand. I shook it. What the hell. Buddy did the same, and I shook his, too. Henry looked at me from the far corner of the room. He stood tall, pointed to me, and winked. I made a gun with my thumb and forefinger and dropped the hammer.

Z stood by silently. His face registered nothing.

I walked outside and found Blanchard next to the black Lincoln, its motor running. He reached into a summer plaid jacket for a pack of Marlboros and thumped the box like a pro.

“Ever hear of the surgeon general?” I said.

Blanchard grinned and set fire to the cigarette with a stainless-steel Zippo. The lighter was engraved with the Marine Corps insignia. His buzzed gray hair showed pink scalp in the portico lights. He blew smoke out of his nose.

“How long were you in the Corps?”

“Twenty years.”

“How’d you get into this?”

“Buddy of mine had a security firm in Vegas,” he said. “Good hours. Get to carry a gun. You?”

“I like working for myself.”

“I work for Weinberg because I trust him,” Blanchard said. “Son of a bitch is charismatic as hell.”

“Is he really going to pay girls to dress up like Alice?” I said.

“Why?”

“Thinking of investing in white pantyhose.”

Blanchard exhaled. “Lots of stuff planned.”

Z emerged from the front doors of the Ocean View.

Blanchard stared out at the weak light across the waves. He turned and watched Z walk with a limp.

“Sorry about the kid,” Blanchard said. “That was not Rick Weinberg’s doing. Or my doing.”

I caught his eye for a good long moment. He held the stare and nodded. I nodded back.

Weinberg walked out the front doors of Ocean View. Blanchard scanned the parking lot and the cars parked along Beach Boulevard. Two other men, one on each side of the circular drive, stood guard. Both wore sunglasses and pressed tan suits. Blanchard nodded to his boss. Weinberg walked on.

“You guys put on a nice show,” I said.

“It’s no show,” Blanchard said. “Two years ago, a couple ex-cons kidnapped the Weinbergs’ daughter. They wanted five million.”

“And what did they get instead?”

Blanchard tossed the spent cigarette onto the asphalt. He ground it with the heel of his shoe. Wind kicked up off the sound, and gulls floated in the soft gold light of the beach. “Five mil.”

“Catch ’em?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Know who did it?”

“Part of the deal,” Blanchard said. “Money was delivered and he got his kid back. No questions asked.”

“I would have had some questions.”

“Not Mr. Weinberg,” Blanchard said.

“How about now?”

“There’s always something,” Blanchard said. “He is a very wealthy man. And in case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Weinberg cultivates attention.”

“Really?”

“He once had a helicopter drop him off on the highest point of this construction site in Vegas. There wasn’t jack shit up there. Barely enough room to sit. But he wanted to show everyone he sat on the highest spot in the city. Even if it killed him. Shot the commercial intro from the copter.”

“Sometimes I get woozy walking up Beacon Hill.”

“Guy like you doesn’t get woozy for shit.”

Blanchard grinned. I shook his hand.

“See you around,” I said.

Weinberg blocked my path to Rita and Z. He did not speak. He looked at me for a long moment, broke into a grin, and opened his arms wide. “Thank you,” he said, and reached out to give me a bear hug. The hug was awkward, but Weinberg did not seem to notice.