Wonderland

by Ace Atkins

“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 E
xeter,” 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 o
f 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.

  27

  TWO NIGHTS LATER, at four in the morning, some unpleasant knocking at my door woke Pearl and me from a restful sleep. Pearl rushed to the door to bark loudly as I groaned and followed. I peered into the peephole to see two state troopers. Holding Pearl back by her collar, I opened the door. “I’ve paid most of those parking tickets.”

  “Commander Healy wants to see you,” one of the troopers said. He wore the Smokey the Bear hat tilted across his nose. The other stood at the same height in the identical uniform of the Mass state police. Both were muscular, with square jaws and humorless faces.

  “Sure,” I said. “Want some coffee?”

  “Healy wants to see you now.”

  I held on to Pearl’s collar with two fingers. She showed her teeth. I didn’t blame her. We both needed our beauty rest.