Wonderland

by Ace Atkins

“Officially speaking.”

  “Yep,” Blanchard said. “He is the key to whoever gets the license.”

  “You mind if I ask you something?”

  “Shoot,” Blanchard said.

  “Was it Jemma’s idea to send the leg-breakers to the condo?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And Rick did not know.”

  “He fired her, didn’t he?”

  “Actually,” I said. “No, he didn’t.”

  “Whatta you mean?”

  “Jemma said they lied about the firing to keep the Ocean View board thinking in the right direction.”

  “Shit, sounds like something she’d do,” Blanchard said. “She can’t stand not winning. Not at anything she does. Hell, she learned everything she knows from fucking Harvey Rose.”

  “I know she used to work for him.”

  “Not just work for him,” he said. “He was her mentor at Harvard. He fucking made her.”

  “Holy smokes,” I said.

  “Goes back a long time,” he said. “A really deep, twisted relationship. Mr. Weinberg said he hired Jemma because she thought just like Harvey Rose. But was a hell of a lot better-looking. He used to say things like that.”

  52

  WHEN I ARRIVED at the Harbor Health Club the next morning, Jemma Fraser was working out with Z. He had brought her into the boxing room to show her the fundamentals of the jab. Dressed in a white tank top and black satin shorts without shoes, she smiled attentively at her trainer. She looked to be very fit.

  “The toughest and loneliest sport in the world,” I said.

  “Breathe,” Z said to Jemma. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  Jemma took a deep breath and did not turn. She kept on attacking the bag with sloppy yet significant punches. Z smiled and walked toward me. His hands were expertly wrapped in red tape.

  “I tried to call,” I said.

  “She wanted to leave the hotel,” Z said. “And she wanted to learn some self-defense stuff.”

  I was still dressed in street clothes with my Everlast workout bag over my shoulder. Today was a day for weights, not boxing. I needed to put some thought on the recent developments.

  “Henry wants to see you,” Z said. He canted his head toward the office and turned back to Jemma. She had yet to acknowledge my presence as she worked out a simple left jab over and over. Her brown hair was tied up in a high ponytail. Z had forced her into a steady, even sweat. She had her breath working and her concentration was all on the bag.

  I strolled into Henry’s office, dropped my bag at my feet, and said, “What’s the haps?”

  Henry was paying bills, half-glasses down on the end of his nose. There was a stack of envelopes on his desk and an old-fashioned ledger bearing Henry’s distinctive scrawl.

  “You see Z is working with Mata Hari?” Henry said.

  “He says she needed to learn some self-defense.”

  “Z’s the one who needs to watch out.”

  “He’s a smart kid,” I said. “He’ll keep it professional.”

  “At that age, I couldn’t even spell ‘professional.’”

  I sat down. I had once counted nearly sixty framed photos of boxers, wrestlers, and weight lifters on the wall of Henry Cimoli’s office. Many of them were long gone, and the pictures were bent and faded. Henry took off his glasses and tossed them on the table. He rubbed his eyes. “Got to say, Z looks better.”

  I nodded.

  “He’s lost the limp,” he said. “Got real zing and pop in the punches.”

  “Maybe he’s showing off.”

  “Nah,” Henry said. “He’s back on center.”

  “Just what did you say to him after the beating?”

  “I told him when a fight is over, it’s over.”

  “He carried that rage with him.”

  “He doesn’t think what happened to him is finished,” Henry said. “I told him to put it on the shelf for a bit. Use it when you need it. Being mad all the time screws up your head and tires you out.”

  Henry walked to a shelf by his lone window and rattled some vitamins into his hand. “You know, I boxed for twenty-nine years and never hated nobody.”

  “Never?”

  “Nope.”

  “Different on the street.”

  “It is, but it isn’t,” Henry said. “Throw out the rules. But a fight is a fight. Bein’ mad clouds your brain.”

  I changed into my workout clothes and launched into a circuit on the machines. I started off with my upper body, shoulders, chest, triceps, and then onto back and biceps. I jumped from one exercise to the next, giving myself no rest or downtime. I finished off working my legs and lower back. I counted off two minutes on the clock and repeated the circuit two more times. I used heavy weights, taking it up to twelve to fourteen reps on most exercises. On the last cycle, I felt fatigued but strong. I was past the point of showing off in the gym or maxing out with weight. I was interested in endurance and strength. Someone may be stronger or faster, but they couldn’t outlast me. Nobody could outlast me. Except maybe Hawk. Hawk could outlast Atlas.

  As I headed to the shower, I glanced into the boxing room. Z was still there with Jemma. He was teaching her to throw a hook, hands on her hips, showing how they should flow loose and easy. He rotated her hips again and again. She smiled and giggled.

  I dressed in my street clothes and left without a word. I was driving back to my office when Healy called.

  “I got something I want to show you.”

  “I have been warned about conversations that start that way.”

  “We got two shitbirds we’re pulling out of a Dodge Charger parked in Chelsea,” Healy said. “Both shot in the head. Whoever it was got close enough to whisper in their ear with a .22 pistol.”

  “Anyone we know?”

  “Seems these guys are from out of town,” Healy said. “Tourists in from Las Vegas. Both of them with records as long as your arm.”

  “Lovely,” I said.

  53

  I SAT WITH HEALY in the passenger seat of his unmarked unit. We had a pretty good vantage point to watch the detectives and crime scene techs work. I was never really sure what the techs did these days, but Rita Fiore assured me they focused mainly on confusing juries. The coroner had already removed the bodies by the time I arrived. Now there were several yellow cones placed in spots where evidence had been found.

  “No shells, of course,” he said. “But we should find a nice .22 short bouncing around in their skulls.”

  “Who are they?”

  “James Congiusti and Anton Nelson,” Healy said. “AKA Jimmy Aspirins and the Angel of Mercy.”

  “Inspired.”

  “Jimmy Aspirins because he takes care of the Mob’s headaches—”

  “Naturally.”

  “And Angel of Mercy because who the fuck knows. Nelson is a demolitions guy. Federal agent I called in Vegas says Nelson once blew up a dentist’s office because he pulled the wrong tooth.”

  “What was Jimmy’s specialty?” I said.

  “Crazy son of a bitch used a cordless drill into people’s heads.”

  “And what were their ties with our beloved Commonwealth?”

  “Zip,” Healy said. “This looks like an encroachment.”

  “Of which someone was extremely resentful.”

  Healy nodded. We had the windows down in the sedan. Parked along Shawmut Street, we had a lovely view of an endless row of sagging and paint-deficient triple-deckers. Empty trash cans, busted and turned upside down, lay along the curbs. Chain-link fences guarded front yards as big as area rugs. Another gorgeous day in Chelsea.

  “What are you hearing?”

  I shrugged.

  “May I remind you that I have saved your ass on many occasions?”

  “My ass is ete
rnally grateful.”

  “I’m getting a lot of pressure from the hill on this one,” Healy said. “I can’t turn something on Weinberg and I start hearing whispers of my retirement.”

  “And then what do you do?”

  “Watch soaps with the wife and drink light beer.”

  “Did I not put you in touch with Weinberg’s second in command?”

  “Belson put us in touch after the shooting.”

  “A mere technicality.”

  “Didn’t get us anywhere.”

  “At least we know this thing is being stoked from Vegas,” I said. “But I’m not sure who is allied with whom.”

  “Whom?”

  I nodded. “Have you spoken to Harvey Rose?”

  “This ain’t my first day on the job, Spenser.”

  “What did you think?”

  “I think he’s a schlub,” Healy said. “I think he resented Weinberg, but I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who knows people like Jimmy Aspirins exist.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you know?”

  “I know the Sox are sucking this year,” I said. “And that Charles Mingus is the finest double bass player that ever lived.”

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” Healy said. “I think there is a whole group of hoods in Boston who don’t want a casino to ever happen. They can’t get it into their thick heads that it’s happening whether they like it or not. But every day they continue to screw with the process is another day of big profits.”

  I shrugged again.

  “Jesus. What?”

  “Or maybe they want a piece of the action,” I said. “And they are not evolved individuals when it comes to business negotiations.”

  “Three men dead,” Healy said. “And we got zip.”

  “Be nice to know who is negotiating exactly what.”

  “You got something on that?”

  “Gino Fish has removed his welcome mat.”

  “And your other hoodlum friends?”

  “That’s no way to describe some of the city’s most valuable resources.”

  “Hoodlums.”

  “At least they come honest,” I said. “It’s the ones in disguise that concern me.”

  54

  DEAN AGARWAL KEPT a neat and tidy office, as neat and tidy as one would expect of the head of Harvard Business School. A pal of mine named Bill Barke had made the introduction, Bill being a one-phone-call guy, and that afternoon I found myself drinking coffee with the dean in Morgan Hall. Agarwal was a professional academic, the framed paper hanging on his wall telling me he’d been educated in Bombay, London, and Cambridge. I noted from his bookshelf that he had authored several books with titles such as Leadership in the 21st Century, Leadership Through Economic Crisis, and Leadership and Building Trust.

  Agarwal was a dark man, slight of frame, with a very shiny bald head and thin, trendy glasses. He was warm and polite, and spoke with a British accent overlaid with subtle tones of India. His hands were small, but he had a firm and assertive grip. He wore a light khaki suit and looked a bit like Vijay Amritraj, only with much less hair.

  “Harvey Rose was one of our great stars,” he said. We sat a short distance from a large desk in a cluster of chairs set about a table with good china and a coffeepot. “I taught organizational behavior to many glum students. Harvey would attract hordes to courses that were somewhat unorthodox at the time. He said the key to corporate success was simple if you understood how to accurately predict consumer behavior. Many of the faculty frowned upon his methods, feeling they bordered on emotional manipulation, but one could not deny his genius.”

  “Did he strike you as a future casino mogul?”

  “Frankly, I never saw Harvey leaving the safe haven of academia,” Agarwal said. “On paper, Harvey is spectacular.”

  “And in person?”

  Agarwal reached over to the table behind us. With a small spoon, he extracted two cubes from the sugar bowl and plopped them into his coffee. He smiled and took a sip. “Less than,” he said.

  “I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “And now you are running a background check on him?”

  “In a matter of speaking,” I said. “I work for the wife of the late Rick Weinberg.”

  “Surely she doesn’t think—”

  “No, she does not,” I said. “But part of my job is to check into the backgrounds of those who did business with Mr. Weinberg. I hope to learn a little bit more about his world and perhaps find some clues.”

  “And even better with a competitor?”

  “Some argue that Harvey Rose was running second.”

  Agarwal took another sip and placed the cup on the saucer. He leaned back into a lemon-yellow Queen Anne chair. “If Harvey had entered the competition, then he had found a formula to win.”

  “I believe his odds have improved recently.”

  Agarwal smiled. “And had Harvey not taken his current position and left the business school,” he said, “this would be his office.”

  The dean had a nice view of Shad Hall and some tennis courts. I added two sugars and a little bit of cream to the coffee.

  “Besides being a mathematical genius,” I said, “why would a Las Vegas company hire a fairly bland figure like Harvey Rose?”

  “The system.”

  I drank some coffee. I waited for more.

  “Surely you have heard about the Rose system,” Agarwal said. “It was quite the buzz in all the journals.”

  “I only keep up my subscription to Guns and Ammo.”

  “Harvey was the first to say the gaming industry was no different than any other form of retail,” he said. “He applied the same approach to the consumer as he would if he was working for JCPenney. What I would call a very macro point of view. Star Gaming hired him as a consultant and were so impressed with the results, they offered him the CEO position. What he’s done for them is really quite genius.”

  “And what is that?”

  “He got his best consumers to tell him everything,” Agarwal said. He smiled, pleased with the tidbit of information. “True genius. He gave everyone who came into his casino something called a Star Card. The more you played, the more points you would get. You could follow your card online and win dinners and trips. But you could also win a windbreaker or a Frisbee. He wanted everyone to add up their points.”

  “I once earned a beer stein from S&H Green Stamps.”

  “One and the same,” he said. “The prizes at the base level were worthless. But the data he was able to collect was priceless. He could track an individual every time he or she set foot in a Star Casino. He used a massive data bank to build computational models that predict the behavior of every consumer. Especially their ideal.”

  “The Star Card.”

  “Precisely,” Agarwal said. “Profits soared. Casinos raked in billions. He has doubled the number of Star Casinos to thirty or more.”

  “Because of a formula?”

  “Harvey can stand back and take an unemotional appraisal of a business situation. His moves and reactions are purely mathematical.”

  “And this is revelatory?”

  “Very.”

  “Do you recall a student who was here when Harvey Rose taught?” I said. “A woman named Jemma Fraser. She was or is a British citizen. I don’t have the dates.”

  “We do have certain privacy standards.”

  “Of course,” I said. “But just to verify she was a student.”

  “That should be easy enough to find out.”

  He opened the door to an anteroom and requested the information from his secretary. He promptly closed the door and returned to our grouping.

  “The name seems familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “She was one of Mr. Rose’s protégés.”

  A
garwal shook his head and surreptitiously looked at his watch. The door opened and the secretary appeared with a computer printout. She smiled at me as she walked out.

  “Ah,” he said.

  “You know her?”

  “Vaguely,” the dean said. “I think she worked with Harvey in some capacity.”

  “Can you tell me more from her student record?”

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot share academic information, Mr. Spenser.”

  “I’m looking for more personal,” I said. “Do you know someone who knew her?”

  He held the paper loose as he thought. He fluttered the paper in his fingers, studied the information in hand, and then called his secretary again. The door opened, and she appeared. This time she did not smile at me. I felt we were keeping her from something.

  “Can you find out if Stephanie Cho is teaching today?” he said.

  The secretary nodded and the door closed. Agarwal nodded.

  “A lead?”

  “I believe I have someone you should meet.”

  “Goody,” I said.

  55

  “OF COURSE I REMEMBER Jemma Fraser,” said Stephanie Cho. “We called her the Duchess because of the accent and the attitude. She always wore these killer tall riding boots. God, that was a while back.”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  “Other MBA students,” she said. “I’m pretty sure she attended Oxford and worked for some private equity group before coming to the States. Knew everything and thought everyone else was a lesser being. All the men, and some of the women, were crazy about her. But she didn’t really mingle. We had some classes together. Can’t say I liked her very much.”

  We sat together at a table outside Spangler Hall, the student union of Harvard Business School. I had bought Stephanie a tall iced mocha. I had decided against more coffee and drank bottled water. Now out of sight of the dean, I again sported my Brooklyn Dodgers cap and slumped a bit in my chair.

  “Do you remember the classes?”

  Stephanie Cho thought for a moment. She was a pretty girl, a bit heavyset, with blunt-cut black hair and a wide face. She wore a short-sleeve cowboy shirt that fit tightly around her chest and upper arms. She tapped her front tooth as she thought. “Machiavelli, for one.”