Robert B. Parker's Wonderland (11 page)

“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.”