by Ace Atkins
We drove back to the nearby dirt lot in time to see the black Lincoln pull away. Blanchard drove inland, and we followed them around to three more sites. Susan would be flying home in a few hours, and I tried to contain my excitement, with little luck. In place of food, I tried to imagine our options for dinner.
“I’d rather be watching Ms. Fraser,” Z said. “Nice legs.”
“The same woman who sent thugs to Ocean View and in turn busted your teeth and knee.”
“Yep,” he said. “I like to look at her like I’d look at a prairie rattler.”
“I take it a prairie rattler is deadly.”
“Could be,” Z said. “Depends on where you are bitten.”
“And you had casinos as well as snakes on the rez?” I said.
“The casino came after I got my scholarship,” he said. “When I went home, many people liked it. But what’s not to like about a check in your mailbox?”
“I don’t think anyone in Revere will get that same deal.”
“Maybe Henry will,” Z said.
“One can hope.”
“How long till you approach Weinberg?” he said.
I took a breath, watching the black Town Car a few lengths ahead. “No time like the present.”
19
BLANCHARD PULLED OUT onto Veterans Highway. Z and I followed through Revere Beach and Chelsea and back through the tunnel to downtown. The Lincoln drove south on Tremont and down past the Performing Arts Center and under the Mass Pike into Bay Village and further into the South End. We were silent. Z kept several cars back and did not change lanes unnecessarily.
“You do much parallel parking in Montana?” I said.
“Just between two buffalo.”
“That come in handy?” I said.
Z said, “Frequently.”
We crossed over Mass Ave and past the Northeastern campus. The South End soon became Roxbury and the brownstones and quaint boutiques soon became twenty-four-hour bars and convenience stores and soul-food restaurants. The Town Car took a hard left turn onto Malcolm X Boulevard and then slowed at an entrance to the community college parking lot. Z kept driving down the block, studying the Town Car in his rearview mirror. At the next light, I told him to double back and follow more closely.
“They see us,” Z said.
“Yep.”
“Next?”
“They saw us a while back,” I said. “They’re leading us.”
“Where?”
“A rabbit hole.”
The Town Car turned into the parking lot and stopped hard down a long row of cars. Z braked. Another car came up hard behind us and braked within an inch of the bumper. The Town Car threw it into reverse and Z maneuvered out. I placed my hand on the wheel and shook my head. The door of the Town Car opened and Blanchard got out. He studied the parking lot, straightened his jacket, and walked to the driver’s window. He knocked on the glass and waited. Z looked to me. I shrugged. Z let down the window.
“You are starting to piss me off,” Blanchard said.
“Give it time,” I said. “It only gets worse.”
Blanchard studied my face. I smiled. He glanced at Z’s face and narrowed his eyes, seeing the bruises. Z did not smile.
“When I pull out,” Blanchard said, “I don’t want to see you in my rearview. I don’t want to see this car in Revere. I don’t want to see it parked across from the Four Seasons.”
“Hold on, can you speak a little slower? I’ll take notes.”
Blanchard shook his head and the doors to the sedan behind us jacked open. Two toughs in slick suits and slick shirts piled out. We did the same. Z stood tall and cool, busted hands loose by his sides. I did not recognize the other men. Z studied them with no emotion.
“I’d like to talk to Mr. Weinberg,” I said.
“I bet.”
“About Wonderland.”
“What about it?”
“Ask him,” I said.
“My ass is starting to hurt, Spenser.”
“My apologies.”
I reached into my leather jacket. The hard guys behind me were itching to pull pieces they probably had never fired. I winked at them. Blanchard didn’t flinch when I reached. He stood with arms across his chest and only made a motion to check his watch. Nice watch. Rolex Submariner. I handed him two faxed sheets. On both pages, a corporate name had been circled. One from Nevada. One from Massachusetts. And in a miraculous way, the two names and addresses matched and there was little room for discussion on what this all meant. He looked at the pages and lifted his eyes at me. He had wrinkles in his forehead and a five-o’clock shadow had started to show at nine a.m. “So fucking what?”
“Give it to Weinberg,” I said.
“So he owns the dog track.”
“Give it to Weinberg.”
He crumpled up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder.
“I have more paper,” I said.
“I bet you do.”
“And a friend at the Globe who’d love to print that story.”
“We all got friends.”
“Should run 1A and all over the Web,” I said. “You don’t think that will make property values shoot up? He’s gone to too much trouble to keep this quiet to blow the roof off now.”
Blanchard walked away. He turned back around. He looked again at his Rolex.
I said, “Tell Weinberg I look forward to hearing from him.”
Blanchard shook his head but grinned. He turned back to the Town Car, climbed inside, and peeled off. The men in suits did the same.
“And now?” Z said.
“We wait.”
“How do you know they will reach out?” he said.
“Because we’ve given them no choice.”
“But how can you be sure?”
“We’re talking Weinberg’s language.”
“What’s that?”
“Money.”
20
I PICKED SUSAN UP at Logan at 6:30, and by ten we were redressed and sitting at her table at Rialto. There was a friendly interlude on Linnaean Street in an attempt to make up for lost time. And, of course, Susan needed at least an hour to shower and dress. It took me ten minutes. But after the interlude and the dressing, we finally sat down for dinner. “Stunning,” I said.
“What did you expect?”
“Nothing less.”
“You don’t look half bad yourself.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s the other half that’s a real mess.”
We toasted our adventures with a glass of Riesling for Susan and a Ketel One and fresh lime juice gimlet for me. The liquid shimmered in the glow of the table’s candle. White curtains billowed about the velvet furniture.
“Pearl will expect some quality time tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Susan said, taking a small sip. “But I’m famished and have made a habit to never eat in an airport.”
“Never?”
“Ever.”
“The most nourishment I had all day was licking the bottom of a Dunkin’ Donuts box,” I said.
“And why was that?”
“Z and I were working a tail job.”
“So you found a way to get him to work,” she said.
I nodded.
“How is he physically?”
“He’s walking on the leg,” I said. “He probably should have surgery. But he should have had surgery after college, too. His face looks rough. His hands are busted up. All that will heal.”
“But you think he’s back on the sauce?” Susan said.
“Maybe.”
“And did you ask him about it?”
“Yep.”
“What did he say?”
“He wouldn’t acknowledge it.”
“Of course.”
; I picked up the menu, studying it for perhaps two seconds, and decided on the lamb chops with mashed sweet potatoes and Asian sautéed kale. Susan kept contemplating and further contemplated after we were read the specials.
“And another round,” I said.
“I’ve barely finished mine.” Susan squinted at me. She took another dainty sip. Given the same wine, I would already be into my third. The waiter arrived with another gimlet.
“And how is Chapel Hill?” I said.
“I like the campus better than Duke,” she said. “Both are basketball-obsessed.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“And good restaurants.”
“Even better.”
“There’s a place called Crook’s Corner that serves something called shrimp and grits and a wonderful barbecue plate,” she said. “I didn’t have the barbecue, but it made me think of you.”
“And new friends?”
“There are some wonderful people on the faculty,” she said. “But I look forward to returning to my practice.”
“I’m sure your practice looks forward to your return.”
“Theory is not practice,” Susan said. “I like the practice.”
“Me, too.”
Susan touched the stem of her glass and smiled. The Rialto stereo played Dave Brubeck.
“And the situation with Henry?” she said.
I took a breath. “Evolving.”
“Did you find the source of his troubles?”
“I did.”
“And now?”
“We wait.”
“Who was it?”
I told her about Jemma Fraser, Rick Weinberg, Lewis Blanchard, and Wonderland. Even a bit about catching up with Bernard J. Fortunato.
“And he’ll offer a better price before being outed as the buyer in the Globe?”
“Definitely.”
Susan looked bored. She let out a long breath, her lower lip protruding in a lovely pout. “Let’s not talk business.”
“Okay,” I said. “May I then ask what kind of underwear you’re wearing?”
Susan grinned. The grin was very full and very wicked. Her teeth were very white against her dark skin. She wore the thinnest of gold chains around her neck. “An absolute teenager,” she said. I shrugged and sipped my drink. Susan placed her hand over mine.
21
I DID NOT HEAR from Weinberg or his people all the next day. I checked in with my answering service several times while Susan and I frolicked with Pearl. We later shopped at Harvard Square and ate a late lunch at the Russell House Tavern, accompanied by a couple of Bloody Marys.
At five, I drove back to the Harbor Health Club and followed Henry home. He parked and went up to his apartment with a jug of red wine under his arm. There was no sign of trouble. I returned to my office to check my mail, hoping Weinberg or Blanchard had slipped a note under my door. No such luck. I picked up the bills I had found under the mail slot and sat at my desk. Night was just coming on, and I opened a window and sat down in my chair, contemplating dinner choices with Susan. We had talked about Grill 23, and although I did love Grill 23, I thought about Meyers and Chang in the South End. I was inspired by the thought of Korean barbecue sloppy joes.
Jemma Fraser knocked on my door.
“I take it you didn’t stop by with restaurant recommendations?” I said.
I opened my right-hand desk drawer and waited for Blanchard or another tough to follow her. But she closed the door with a light click and took a seat. I closed the drawer.
“Your office is exactly the way I expected.”
“I’m saving up for a neon sign of a smoking gun.”
“And I like your real voice better.”
I shrugged with modesty.
“Fooled me,” she said. She wore an immaculate cream-colored sheath dress that pinched in at the waist and accentuated the shape of her shoulders and tan skin. She wore a couple of gold bracelets on her left wrist. Her dark hair hung loose and straight around the shoulders.
Jemma looked around my office some more, eyes stopping for a moment on my Vermeer prints, and raised her eyebrows. “Well, you certainly have gotten Rick’s attention.”
I waited.
“He is not pleased.”
“Heartbreaking.”
Jemma sat very erect in my client chair, her knees together and neck held high. She smelled very good. I would expect nothing less with that accent.
“So Rick Weinberg is annoyed,” I said. “What do we do about it?”
“He does not wish for his plans of development to be made public yet.”
“His decision.”
“But he does not wish to speak to the board about the property, either,” she said. Jemma readjusted the gold watch on her inner wrist, awaiting my response.
“It’s one or the other.”
“I have come here to offer you an incentive of twenty thousand dollars to leave this alone and walk away.”
I let out a low whistle.
She nodded. She smiled slowly at me, her eyes flickering over my face.
“Are you flirting with me?”
She dropped the smile and stared.
“Twenty grand to do nothing?” I said.
She nodded. She crossed her shapely legs. Nice shoes. Dark brown leather, very strappy and tall.
“Shall we have a drink to close the matter?” she said.
“Nope,” I said.
“A man of principle,” she said.
“I am not overly fond of anyone who would send some sluggers to harass old people.”
“A misunderstanding.”
“No kidding.”
“They were supposed to make trouble, but never hurt anyone.”
“They hurt my associate very badly.”
“And did you not hurt the same men very badly a few nights before?”
I shrugged.
“So who is in the wrong?” she said.
“Keep the money,” I said.
“Wonderful.” She raised her eyebrows again. “Terrific.”
“If you keep doing that,” I said, “your eyebrows might stick.”
The eyebrows dropped. Her red mouth pursed. She leaned in close. “You are making a huge mistake.”
“Yikes.”
“Rick won’t be pleased.”
“Double yikes.”
“The offer was generous,” Jemma said, standing. She smoothed down her dress and looked out my window at the lights across Berkeley Street.
“You will let me know,” I said. “My offer is limited. And just in case you wondered, the information still gets relayed if I am . . . um, incapacitated.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
I reached for one of my business cards and wrote my cell number on the back. I stood and passed it to her. She took it, turned on a heel, and huffed out of my office. Her heels made a great racket in the hallway as she disappeared.
Fifteen minutes later, Jemma called.
“Mr. Weinberg would like to invite you to dinner tonight,” she said.
“Golly,” I said. “What on earth will I wear?”
“So you’ll come?”
“Can I bring a guest?”
“Your associate?”
“Nope,” I said. “I assume Mr. Weinberg is picking up the check?”
“Naturally.”
“Then I’ll bring my shrink.”
“Whatever you wish.” She named the restaurant and the time.
I was left with a dial tone and an empty office. I smiled very big. What would I wear?
22
“SO WHY EXACTLY am I joining you for this business dinner?” Susan said.
“Because I said I’d go, I like your company, and I would also like your professional
opinion on this guy.”
“The same guy who sent hoods to rough up an old man and beat up Z.”
“Don’t let Henry hear you say that,” I said. “Next thing you know, he’ll find out he’s short.”
“So you want me to give you a professional appraisal of a Las Vegas casino mogul?”
“Yep.”
“And how will I be paid for my time?”
“I’ll explain later in great detail.”
“I bet you will.”
“And I bet he’s nothing like you believe,” I said. “Salt of the earth. Good, wholesome folk.”
“Who employs hoods.”
“If people didn’t employ hoods,” I said, “I’d be out of work.”
Susan tilted her head and nodded. She picked up a lightweight coat and we walked down from my apartment. We decided to follow Newbury so that we could window-shop while we walked. Newbury bustled in the early night. The little cafés and bars were packed, the boutiques brightly lit. Susan wore an expertly fitted navy dress with a Grecian draped neckline and tan sling-back heels that made her legs look even longer. I wore a crisp white button-down under my J. Press blazer, super-creased dress khakis, and cordovan loafers buffed to a high shine.
Just an average couple on a night stroll, my S&W with a two-inch barrel barely felt behind my right hip.
“So you annoyed him until he invited you to dinner?” Susan said.
“Yep.”
“One of your best skills.”
“Weinberg can’t have this news made public,” I said. “It does and the condo board will be presented with fifteen offers bigger and better than his.”
“Then why don’t you make it public?”
“I want him to apologize to Henry and maybe to Z.”
“Are you serious?”
“It is occasionally possible,” I said. “And I believe he can come through with the money. He wants that property in a bad way.”
We turned left on Mass Ave toward the Hynes Convention Center. A couple steps later, we found the Capital Grille. The restaurant was a chain, and we could have been in Kansas City, Milwaukee, or Tacoma. But in their defense, they served strong drinks and decent red meat. I happened to like strong drinks and red meat. There was a lot of polished brass and mahogany, and pictures of important-looking people, dully lit by Art Deco lamps.