Wonderland

by Ace Atkins

  58

  GINO FISH DID BUSINESS out of a brownstone on Tremont Street, in the South End. A plate-glass window next to the door read DEVELOPMENT ASSOCIATES OF BOSTON. You had to walk down a few steps to get to the door and enter a room walled in red brick. A handsome young man in his twenties greeted me at a small desk. The room was the same; the young man was new.

  “What happened to Stan?” I said.

  “He retired.”

  “Put out to pasture?”

  The young man smiled. He looked like a J.Crew model in a slim-fitting navy suit worn without socks. A large diamond sparkled in his left ear.

  “Tell Mr. Fish Spenser is here.”

  “Does he know you, Mr. Spenser?”

  “We’re old pals.”

  That may have been stretching it a bit. But the young man kept smiling as he disappeared behind a purple velvet curtain. After a few moments, Vinnie Morris appeared. He didn’t say anything, only looked me up and down.

  “What do you have going on back there, a puppet show?” I said.

  “Yeah,” Vinnie said. “Punch and Judy.”

  There was a larger room behind the purple curtain and more exposed brick, with worn floors that probably were made from the Mayflower. The light was dim and colored by Tiffany lamps. Tasteful antiques filled the room, including Gino Fish. Who was more antique these days than tasteful.

  “To what do I owe the honor,” Gino said.

  “Would you believe I’m in the market for a Chippendale desk?”

  “No,” he said. “I would not.”

  Gino stood from behind an old, well-polished desk and nodded me toward a chair in front of him. He took a seat back at the desk and spread his hands very wide. “Vinnie, please have Michael bring us some coffee. A little cream and sugar for our guest.”

  I nodded.

  “For an Italian crime boss, you often sound a lot like Alistair Cooke.”

  “My father made sure his children were given the best educations.”

  Fish smiled. The smile was uncomfortable but controlled. Gino’s newest young man appeared with a small tray filled with a French press, a sugar bowl, and a creamer.

  Vinnie took a seat on a brown leather couch. He leaned forward in the dim light and made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was listening to every word. I tossed him the flash drive to see his quick hands in action. Vinnie, being Vinnie, caught it in his left hand like a trapped fly.

  “Got this in the mail, Gino,” I said. “It’s a pretty well-detailed account of payments from your various companies to the esteemed Joseph G. Perotti.”

  Vinnie leaned back into the couch. Gino placed his hands flat on his knees. His skin had become more paper-thin, and the number of liver spots on his hands had grown. His eyes were hooded, and his lips were thin and purplish. He smelled like a basket of potpourri.

  “So?” Gino said.

  “Thought you might want it back,” I said.

  “Very generous of you.”

  Gino and Vinnie exchanged looks. Gino turned to me and slowly lifted his chin. He swallowed and then turned his attention to the coffee. Michael stepped forward and poured a cup for Gino and then for me. As he left, he pulled the curtain shut as if separating first class from coach.

  “And what do you want in return?”

  “Your undying gratitude?”

  Gino looked to Vinnie. Vinnie shook his head and looked at the floor.

  “And what else?”

  “I want to know who killed Rick Weinberg and why.”

  Gino leaned back in his seat. He left the coffee on the table, a wisp of steam curling up in the glow of the Tiffany shade. He pursed his purple lips. “And if I had him killed, I would lie to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you came anyway.”

  “As a show of good faith.”

  Gino nodded. He tented his long fingers before him. I never was sure why people did that when they were thinking. I thought they often did that to telegraph contemplation. I usually just tapped at my temple to fire up my brain.

  “I have no idea who killed Rick Weinberg.”

  “You say that with such conviction.”

  Gino nodded.

  “Obviously, there are some who have benefited by Rick Weinberg’s death.”

  Vinnie and Gino exchanged another look. Gino nodded to Vinnie.

  “Mr. Fish and Mr. Weinberg had been business partners.”

  “Till death do you part?”

  “Yep,” Vinnie said.

  “And now Mr. Fish does not care to work with Jemma Fraser?”

  “She did not impress me,” Gino said.

  “I figured you would be immune to her obvious charms.”

  Gino took in a long breath. He leaned forward and added a lot of cream but no sugar to his coffee. His eyelids drooped. “I don’t owe Rick Weinberg or any of his people a thing. I’ve found it may be to my advantage to work with another party.”

  “And that would mean Harvey Rose and his group in Eastie,” I said.

  Gino sipped his coffee. He artfully crossed his legs, his ankle touching the edge of his knee. He just smiled with the thousand-yard stare.

  “May I infer from your silence that I’m correct?”

  Gino smiled and sipped again.

  “You do know who sent you that fucking thing,” Vinnie said.

  I shrugged.

  “Do you really think we wanted to kill that broad?” Vinnie said. “Jeez. Mr. Fish only wanted to speak to her.”

  “About taking something that didn’t belong to her.”

  “Now you got it, Spenser,” Vinnie said. “Now you got it.”

  “I will do you another favor,” Gino said. “There has been an ill wind blowing in from the west since Mr. Weinberg’s death. There are individuals who have arrived in Boston who have not been invited, nor do they have any business being here.”

  “Jimmy Aspirins and the Angel of Mercy.”

  “Wouldn’t you like some sugar in your coffee?” Gino said.

  I added a couple cubes and milk. I sat back and drank coffee. Say what you want about Gino Fish, but he was a solid host. If he had brought out tea biscuits, I might have been convinced to work for the other side.

  “And who hired them?” I said.

  Gino widened his eyes. “That is the question, isn’t it?”

  “Did you have them killed?”

  “No.”

  He drank some coffee. He looked to Vinnie, who leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Vinnie popped a piece of gum into his mouth and waited.

  “Anyone else ask you to make inroads on Beacon Hill?”

  Gino touched the parchmentlike skin that hung from his neck. He took in a deep breath, eyelids slowly drooping back into place. “Those men you mentioned do not come cheap. They are well connected and well paid. And they got in my way.”

  I nodded. I was not thrilled with the way this was headed.

  “Vinnie knows a man named Zebulon Sixkill who has recently fallen under my tutelage,” I said. “If you find him caught in the crossfire, I would appreciate him remaining unharmed.”

  Gino uncrossed his legs. He stretched his neck and rubbed his fingers across his jawline. “And I would like the same arrangement for Mr. Perotti. Can you see to this?”

  “That may be more difficult,” I said. “Some other people know.”

  “But can they prove it?”

  I shrugged.

  “Let’s keep it that way, Mr. Spenser.”

  Vinnie looked at me, seeming odd in his tailored suit and neatly barbered hair, and blew a huge bubble. The bubble popped in the brick room like a gunshot.

  59

  “THAT LYING LITTLE BITCH is making a goddamn mess out of everything,” Rachel Weinberg said.

  “
It certainly appears that way.”

  We sat together in the back of the black Lincoln, with Lewis Blanchard at the wheel. I had been summoned to accompany Blanchard to Logan to pick up Rachel. I had dressed in jeans, a herringbone jacket, a blue button-down, and no tie. I did not want to appear overly eager. But I did come armed with news of the winds swirling in Boston, ill and otherwise.

  “First she hires some local hooligans to scare people from a condo we need,” Rachel said. “And now she’s breaking into Harvey Rose’s offices to blackmail him. This is why she has no business running our company. Rick would have never acted like such an idiot. She has gone batshit crazy.”

  Rachel smoked down one of her thin cigarettes. The windows were up because of the rain and fogged the car. The windshield wipers sliced water from the gray landscape of overpasses and on- and off-ramps.

  “I don’t know if she broke into his office or if she had someone do it,” I said. “I am merely speculating.”

  “Who the hell else would do it?” Blanchard said from the front seat. He did not turn around; the Town Car dipped down into the Sumner Tunnel. The sound of the engine roared, muffled in the enclosure.

  “Were you aware that Jemma had studied under Harvey Rose?” I said.

  “We knew she worked for him and we knew she went to Harvard Business School,” Rachel said. “Hell, she wouldn’t let us forget. But when she came over to us it wasn’t like Harvey Rose was gonna write a recommendation letter. He was pissed. That was the start of some bad blood between him and Rick.”

  “She never told you that they had been close,” I said. “Or that she had been his intern while in Boston.”

  “No.”

  “Why do you think she’d keep that a secret?” I said.

  “Because she’s a lying piece of trash,” Rachel said. “She has blindsided me about every order of business since Rick’s death.” Rachel pounded the armrest with the bottom side of her fist.

  “Did you know she would be his successor?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I had to vote on it. Rick wanted it so damn badly. But Jesus, I didn’t imagine what would happen. Or that she would try to fuck me over with the board. I just got back from a meeting in Vegas where they offered me a buyout. They want me off the board and to take a fucking check. Who do you think broached that simple subject?”

  “What did you say?”

  “You ever see that scene in Mommie Dearest when Faye Dunaway stands up and tells the board at Pepsi-Cola, ‘Don’t fuck with me, fellas’?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s the G-rated version of my little speech.”

  “And Jemma was there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Was a young man with her,” I said. “A big Native American guy.”

  “No,” she said. “But why the hell not? I bet she’s fucked her way around the world. Twice.”

  We emerged from the tunnel, the river appearing to the right. We passed under the Longfellow Bridge and by the boathouse. I assumed we were headed back to the Four Seasons, though Blanchard had not said. I did not speak until we turned left at Arlington and the Public Garden, nearly at the Four Seasons’ front door. “You heard about those two dead sluggers from Vegas,” I said. “Ever hear of them?”

  “You think they worked for Jemma?”

  “Or against her,” I said. “They weren’t local talent, and therefore not in my personal Rolodex.”

  “Who were they, then?” Rachel said.

  “Jimmy Aspirins and a guy they called the Angel of Mercy.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “I would not shit you, Mrs. Weinberg.”

  “Lew?” Rachel said. “Sound like anyone we know?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I would recommend taking extra precautions,” I said.

  “A turf war between Jemma and Harvey Rose?” Rachel Weinberg said. “Christ. Just what we need. A whore and a dolt.”

  Blanchard turned onto Boylston and quickly under the porte cochere. The valet, in his crisp green uniform, approached the rear door. Blanchard looked back, right arm resting on the passenger seat. He waited. Rachel looked at me with pursed lips, crushing the cigarette into the tray.

  “Rose doesn’t have the stomach,” Rachel said. Her jaw was clenched very tight, and she repeatedly shook her head in frustration.

  “And Jemma?”

  Rachel Weinberg nodded in thought. “Goddamn bitch.”

  Lewis Blanchard half turned, drumming his fingers on the back of the headrest. The windows dripped with rainwater, the windshield wipers still going.

  “You have enough people?” I said.

  He nodded, lost somewhere in thought. “That’s all been covered.”

  “If you don’t,” I said. I made an offhand gesture.

  Blanchard nodded. The valet opened Rachel Weinberg’s door and she stepped outside without a word. If someone was going to harm Rachel, under the porte cochere of the Four Seasons would have been impolite as well as ill conceived. Blanchard drummed his fingers some more, looking off.

  “Listen, Spenser,” Blanchard said. “We got this thing now. But we appreciate what you’ve done.”

  “I haven’t done much.”

  “You’ll be paid.”

  “Never doubted it.”

  “But for now . . .”

  “Kind of hard to leave mid-stride.”

  “I may have overreacted, hiring you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You got to understand, I report to a whole fucking committee,” he said. “If it was just you and me, it would be simpler.”

  “I don’t need money.”

  “You got to get paid.” He paused. “You stay on it, it’ll be my ass. Legal issues.”

  “Wish to elaborate?”

  “Nope.”

  Rachel stood close to the Town Car and lit yet another cigarette by the hotel entrance. Four valets waited nearby for the smallest word from their guest. Blanchard turned off the ignition and stepped outside the car. I followed. He offered his hand, and I shook it.

  “Effective immediately?”

  “We got this thing,” Blanchard said. He grinned. “We got it.”

  60

  NOW GAINFULLY UNEMPLOYED, I returned to the Harbor Health Club to see Henry and perhaps beg for a free protein shake or even a smoothie. Alas, Henry had other things on his mind and took me to the apartment he’d loaned Z. After knocking a few times, he reached into his sweatpants pocket for a key, unlocked the door, and pushed inside. I followed.

  The apartment consisted of a wide-open room with an open kitchen, one bedroom and one bath. The walls were bare Sheetrock, the furniture basic and impersonal. The view was nice. Three picture windows looking out onto the harbor. Henry looked into the bedroom and returned, shaking his head.

  Z was gone. He had stripped the bed and left drawers empty. A pile of twisted sheets and towels lay in a heap by the bathroom. Z had always traveled light; most everything in the apartment belonged to Henry. It might have taken him five minutes to pack.

  “Didn’t know he left,” Henry said. “Saw him yesterday. He came in to work out and that was that. He was alone. I didn’t see the broad.”

  “The broad had gone back to Las Vegas,” I said. “She had important business.”

  “Hell of a body,” Henry said. “Getting pretty good with her hook.”

  “All in the hips,” I said.

  “Isn’t everything?” Henry said.

  Rain came in droves, the clouds black and endless out on the harbor. There seemed to be a battle with the dregs of winter and the arrival of spring. Neither one wanted to cede to the other. I took a seat on a couch facing a big-screen television. On a large wooden coffee table stood the last remnants of Z’s tenure at Henry’s gym, an empty bottle of Jack Dan
iel’s. Henry and I saw it at the same time.

  Henry picked up the bottle, twirled it in his fingers, inspecting the label. He nodded and sat across from me. The rain pinged pleasantly on the glass. I wished Z had left us a couple drops of the whiskey.

  “Didn’t see this coming,” Henry said.

  “All may not be what it seems.”

  “Looks like he’s hitting the hooch.”

  “He’s working for me.”

  “Did he tell you he’d left?”

  “Nope.”

  “What does that say?”

  “It says he’ll shout when he needs it.”

  “That’s nuts.”

  “Got to trust him.”

  “How long since you heard from him?”

  “Two days.”

  “Two days,” Henry said. “Christ.”

  Henry placed the bottle back on the coffee table. Wind kicked up from the harbor, rain hammered the glass, and the masts of boats bobbed up and down and side to side.

  “He’s in trouble,” Henry said.

  “He wants to do this alone.”

  “Now you’re talking like a shrink.”

  “It’s how he’ll finish the business,” I said. “He needs me, he’ll let me know.”

  “I say he needs help,” Henry said. “Hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have met the Weinbergs.”

  “Hadn’t been for you, I might be dead.”

  Henry shrugged. “That’s an oversimplification of my role in your life.”

  “Discipline and self-reliance.”

  Henry leaned into the chair. We both sat, watching the storm crack to life across the waterfront. Thunder rattled the picture windows. Lightning zipped in crooked patterns. The harbor churned and seemed to turn black. Quite a show.

  “How come we never thought about training anyone else?”

  “Never saw anyone with as much potential,” I said.

  “You coulda let him go like Hawk.”

  “If he were so inclined.”

  “But he’s not.”

  “Up to him.”

  “And you like passing on your skills to the next guy who does what you do.”