Robert B. Parker's Wonderland (6 page)

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.”