Wonderland

by Ace Atkins

  Henry held Z in his lap, pressing the shirt against the bleeding and bruises, the broken ribs and bones.

  “Breathe,” Henry said. “Come on. Come on. Breathe.”

  “He’ll make it.”

  Henry dabbed more water across his face and busted eye.

  “How do you know?” he said.

  “Because he finished it,” I said. “He won.”

  There were more sirens, coming closer, echoing from the parking lot. Z opened his good eye and smiled. Henry grinned and shook his head. “Son of a bitch,” the old man said.

  66

  VERY EARLY THAT MORNING, I stood with Healy on the right side of a two-way mirror, watching Brian Lundquist interview Rachel Weinberg. We’d been there for more than two hours at 1010 Commonwealth and the interview had been ugly to watch. Rachel started off indignant and that soon spooled into rage. Henry stayed with Z at Mass General.

  “What do you think?” Healy said.

  “I’m glad we’re on the right side of the mirror.”

  “She’s nuts,” he said.

  “Perhaps.”

  “She blames Jemma Fraser for her husband being a cock hound.”

  “She blames Jemma Fraser for being the right kind of bait.”

  Healy shrugged. “Same difference.”

  “All the other women didn’t bother her,” I said. “What bothered her is being replaced.”

  “You know how much money she gave up?” Healy said.

  “You know how much power she gave up to Jemma?”

  There was no place to sit on the other side of the looking glass. The room was bare and clean. In the old days, places like this were filled with empty coffee cups and cigarette butts. The cleanness of the space made everything seem very clinical.

  “But she has not confessed,” Healy said.

  “Nope.”

  “And she won’t.”

  “Nope,” I said. “Still, she won’t have much of a choice but to make a plea.”

  Healy nodded. When they picked up Rachel Weinberg at the Four Seasons, Lewis Blanchard had followed. Blanchard had spent an hour with Lundquist, Healy, and me before they interviewed Rachel. He had been very forthcoming.

  “Can he trade what he knows for a deal?” I said.

  “Don’t see why not.”

  “Even though he killed two men?”

  “Fucking Jimmy Headaches and the Angel creep?”

  “Jimmy Aspirins,” I said. “The Angel of Mercy.”

  “Whatever.”

  We were both tired of listening to the one-way conversation, most of it through Rachel’s harried attorney. He was a young guy in smart black glasses wearing a pajama top under a khaki overcoat.

  “Why not,” Healy said. “I’m not crying for those guys. You think a jury would?”

  I watched Rachel Weinberg lean back in her chair and firmly shake her head. She wore a lavender sweatsuit, her face a dull white without makeup. Gold and diamonds sparkled on her fingers and around her neck.

  “Fucking bastard,” she said. “Fucking bastard.”

  “Who’s she talking about?” Healy said.

  I shrugged. “Maybe all of us.”

  “How is Z?” Healy said.

  “Busted up and broken.”

  “I’ve seen you that way a time or two.”

  “It’s character building.”

  “If you make it through.”

  We watched while Rachel Weinberg’s attorney stood, held up his hand, and stopped the questioning. He looked silly with his overcoat open, revealing his poorly buttoned pajama top. Rachel Weinberg sat looking down at her hands, deep in thought. No more rage but something like resolve.

  “Oh, tiger lily,” I said to the glass. “If only you could talk.”

  “What?”

  “She was pushed,” I said. “And now she’s trying to make sense of it.”

  “By what?”

  “By a mathematical system.”

  I left 1010 and got into my Explorer. I drove to Mass General and stayed there for ten days. Susan flew home. Henry watched Pearl.

  67

  I MET VINNIE MORRIS nearly a month later at one of the big open pavilions at Revere Beach. The weather was good that day, with a bright, strong sun and heavy waves that broke across the sand. I had brought Pearl with me. I had strategically parked across from Kelly’s Roast Beef, promising her a few morsels in exchange for the company.

  Vinnie walked up onto the empty pavilion and threw down a copy of the Globe. There had been a front-page story that morning by Wayne Cosgrove. Gino Fish had been featured prominently.

  “What the hell?” Vinnie said.

  The tone of his voice made Pearl scatter back a couple steps and bark. I put my hand to her head.

  “Easy.”

  “Easy?” Vinnie said. “You want me to be fucking easy?”

  “I was talking to Pearl.”

  “We can’t have this,” he said. “You gave Gino your word.”

  “I told Gino others were aware of the flow of money.”

  “You said it couldn’t be proven,” Vinnie said. “I was right there. I fucking heard you.”

  “I said I wouldn’t help prove it one way or another.”

  “But you told this reporter about Gino and Perotti.”

  “Actually, he told me,” I said. “I only had the bank information. I’m terrible with math.”

  “Jesus,” Vinnie said. “The FBI raided Gino’s office this morning. They pulled Perotti out of the State House. You know what this looks like?”

  “Business as usual?”

  Pearl still stood at attention. She was still not overly fond of Vinnie’s tone. But the sudden whiff of Kelly’s on the ocean breezes calmed her. I patted her head again.

  “You know what this means?” Vinnie said.

  “I’m off Gino’s Christmas card list.”

  “You damn well know.”

  I nodded.

  Vinnie stared at me. I was reminded of long-ago meetings in the company of the late Joe Broz. The newspaper pages fluttered between us. Seagulls glided on light breezes off the breaking waves. “You damn well know.”

  He left the pavilion. I sat down with Pearl. We both watched Vinnie get into his car and disappear north. Pearl sniffed at the shifting wind.

  We walked a bit on the beach and then drove back to Cambridge. Susan was waiting for us, four bags packed and ready for five days on Cape Cod. Half of one of the bags was mine. Z was staying at my apartment while I was gone, closer to physical therapy and a therapist Susan had recommended.

  As we hit Route 3, Susan turned to me and said, “How did it go?”

  “Vinnie is perturbed.”

  “Vinnie will get over it.”

  “Not this time.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I think we all got played a little,” I said. “Some more than others.”

  “Z said you believe Harvey Rose was aware Jemma Fraser would destroy the Weinbergs the whole time.”

  I nodded.

  “That’s very confident.”

  “Not if you know the odds,” I said.

  “And Rose walks?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hands clean.”

  “You tell me,” I said.

  “Do you think Harvey Rose is a sociopath?”

  “I think Harvey Rose is an interesting addition to the Boston ecosystem.”

  “And perhaps a system now minus Gino Fish.”

  “Charges of bribery won’t harm Gino Fish,” I said. “It will only enhance his reputation.”

  Susan nodded. I turned to look at her on a straightaway. Her black hair was down and flowed loose and very thick. She wore a black cotton dress and leather flats, a thin gold chain around he
r neck.

  In the backseat, Pearl’s collar jingled as she reached with a hind leg to scratch her ear. Gold afternoon light filled the car as I placed my right hand on Susan’s. She leaned in to my shoulder, and I could feel a familiar swelling in my chest. We were quiet all the way to the Sagamore Bridge. Crossing the canal, I had hope for a great many things, and tried not to dwell on things I could not change. I thought about Z and wished the same for him.

  “Together again,” Susan said.

  I nodded and drove, the road open and wide across the bridge.

  • • •

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