Robert B. Parker's Wonderland (5 page)

“I am deeply offended.”

“Cut the shit,” Wayne said. “I’m cheap. Get me a bourbon.”

“You and William Faulkner,” I said.

“‘A man shouldn’t fool with booze until he’s fifty, and then he’s a damn fool if he doesn’t.’”

“Bill say that?”

“He just might have.”

An old Asian man in thick glasses wearing the formal dress of a waiter came by and asked for our order. I ordered a couple glasses of Blanton’s, neat, with ice water on the side.

“Where water should reside,” Wayne said, settling into the chair and watching cars pass along Arlington, spewing water from the gutters. The businessmen and women getting off work made their way to the downtown bars and restaurants, carrying umbrellas and wearing slick coats.

The bourbon arrived. We sipped for a while. The old Ritz was a truly good place for a late-afternoon drink. There were comfortable leather chairs, English hunt paintings, and on cold days, of which there were many, a crackling fireplace. Even though it had chain ownership, it would always be the Ritz, feeling more like the salon of an old estate than a hotel bar. I toasted Wayne with my glass. He had already finished his.

“How is Susan?” he asked.

“Teaching at Chapel Hill for the semester.”

“How’s that going?”

“It makes sex tough.”

“Unless it’s phone sex,” Wayne said. He grinned.

“Yeah, but I always get tangled in the cord.”

I motioned to the waiter for another drink for Wayne.

“So what do you need to know?”

“Besides just unveiling the great mystery of the common man’s everyday world?”

“Yes, besides that.”

“You wrote a story about a real-estate development company called Envolve.”

“Since the paper has shrunk, I cover a little bit of everything.”

“So you know Envolve?”

“Maybe,” Wayne said. “They all have silly names like that.”

“They ran into some trouble with that big hole next to Filene’s Basement.”

“Oh, yes,” Wayne said.

“Any reason they might be particularly hot for a run-down old condo in Revere?”

Wayne shrugged. He leaned forward, thinking more of the question. “It might be unrelated. But . . .”

“Go on.”

“You ever read the paper, Spenser?”

“Mainly just
Arlo and Janis
. Sometimes
Doonesbury
.”

“Well, if you cared to read more than the funny papers, you may have heard that Massachusetts just passed a law to bring casinos to our great Commonwealth.”

“Gee, that rings some bells.”

“There are three licenses up for grabs,” Wayne said. He sipped a bit of whiskey. “One in western Mass, one down south that is pretty much a shoo-in for the Wampanoag tribe, and then one close to the city. That’s the big one, and lots of big players are making their bids.”

“You think that’s what’s happening?”

“How hot for the property are they?” Wayne said.

“Enough to send some thugs out to facilitate the purchase.”

“Smells like casino land to me.”

“Who are these guys?”

“Envolve is probably just the purchasing company,” Wayne said. “If it’s one of the biggie gaming companies, they would never use their own names. If they did, the owners’ price would soar.”

“Who are the players?”

“Well, the front-runner is Rick Weinberg’s outfit.”

“Why do I know that name?”

“Ever been to Las Vegas?”

I nodded.

“Well, he owns half of that,” Wayne said. “His old man was a bookie who ran bingo parlors in Philadelphia. He’s been working to bring casinos into Mass for years. That’s what these casino companies do. They try to push the legislation, laying out millions of dollars to lobby, and then hope they get a license if the law passes. And securing land in Revere would be a major step.”

“So how does one secure a license?”

“There is a four-person board, consisting of the governor, the secretary of state, and the speaker of the house. When they convene—”

“Which they have not.”

“Once the board convenes, they will select that fourth member and begin the licensing process.”

I nodded.

“Where is it?” he said.

I told him.

“Sounds like a puzzle piece that fits nicely with the old Wonderland dog track.” He ran a finger around the edge of his bourbon glass. He nodded. “It’s a rumor. But a good one.”

“And who owns the track?”

“I’m not sure,” Wayne said. “I can make some calls.”

“And I can check on Weinberg.”

“Well, he’s not the only one trying for this license,” Wayne said. “He has some real competition with this guy named Harvey Rose, who is the hometown favorite. Rose’s buying into the Suffolk Downs parcel.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Ex–Harvard professor,” Wayne said. “Got a Ph.D. from MIT. Hell, he’s not Joe Broz, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“God rest his soul.”

“But when it comes to money and power, throw out the rules.” Wayne tossed back more of the bourbon. “Weinberg and Rose and a few other long shots are fighting like hell now that the gaming law has passed. I would be very interested if Weinberg was trying to turn the old dog track into part of his casino proposal. We just assumed everything would happen at Suffolk Downs. It’s already got the land and it’s on the county line. Much closer to the airport and downtown. And you throw in horse racing to the layout and it makes sense.”

“What do you think about all this?”

Wayne shrugged. “Some say it could be a massive influx of cash, more jobs, more tourists. A true boost to the sagging economy.”

“Do I detect a note of pessimism for your fellow man?”

“You detect realism,” Wayne said. “I don’t want to know how you got pulled into this, but watch your back.”

“For a Harvard prof named Rose?”

“What about ‘Las Vegas outfit’ did you not understand?” Wayne said. He took a long pull of bourbon. “I don’t write obits. Even for old friends.”

“Mobbed up?”

“Weinberg has a reputation,” he said. “Rose, not so much. He’s a number-cruncher. I mean, if he wasn’t CEO of a gaming corp, he’d be working for Gillette or Capitol One. Or go back to teaching at Harvard Business School.”

“So why work for a casino?”

“Because it’s a machine for printing money,” Wayne said. He smiled and finished the bourbon, then stood up.

“It’s nice knowing an ink-stained wretch like yourself. I couldn’t make those connections with a keyboard.”

“There aren’t many guys like us left,” Wayne said. “You can’t trade technology for shoe leather.”

“Keeps me bucks up and you in high-end hooch.”

The waiter asked if we would like another round. We declined and he laid down the check in a handsome leather cover.

“That’s why I always liked you, Spenser,” Wayne said. “You are the most sophisticated thug I ever met.”

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.