Lennie Seltzer grinned. “Cheers,” he said.
“Salut,” I said, and drank the shot. The whiskey had been finely aged a good six months, which developed qualities of a heady diesel fuel. I quickly cleansed my palate with a cold Budweiser.
“So what have you heard about Rick Weinberg in Revere?”
“He’s one of a lot of players,” Lennie said. “But Weinberg’s got a freakin’ hard-on for a Boston casino.”
“Nicely said.”
“Thanks,” Lennie said, popping a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and lighting up with a pink Zippo. “Want another round?”
“I have a pint of cough syrup in the car.”
“So yeah,” Lennie said. “These guys are fucking serious. All of ’em. The carnival is coming whether we like it or not.”
“What about the Wonderland dog track?” I said.
“What’s the property record say?”
“Corporate names buried a mile deep,” I said. “I can’t make the connection. Officially it’s in bankruptcy.”
“I miss that place,” Lennie said. “I liked watching the dogs run and chase that rabbit. Lost a lot of business when those fucking PETA weirdos got riled up.”
“Maybe they had a point.”
“Dogs were bred to run,” he said.
“Some are bred to fight,” I said. “That doesn’t mean it’s a good thing.”
Lennie shrugged. He squinted his eyes at me and smoked some more. “I know Weinberg is here and looking,” he said. “But I hadn’t heard anything about him and Wonderland.”
I drank some more beer. I didn’t want to be rude.
“Everything is changing,” Lennie said. He blew a stream of smoke upward and crushed the cigarette. “Don’t matter what we want. Bookies like me are in short supply. First the fucking Internet and now legal gambling in Boston. Christ.”
“What’s the old guard have to say about it?”
“You’re talking about Gino Fish?” Lennie said.
I nodded.
“Why not ask your friend Vinnie?”
“I’d rather ask you.”
Lennie shrugged. “Gino tried to keep it out,” he said. “Greased some palms. They greased more. Hell, we lost.”
“What about now?”
“Don’t know.”
“Is Weinberg connected?”
“He’s a fucking casino mogul from Las Vegas,” Lennie said. “What do you think? He ain’t Walt Disney. I’d really watch my ass if I were you.”
“I’m proceeding with caution.”
“So let me get this straight,” Lennie said. He spread his arms on the back of the booth. “You want me to find out who owns Wonderland because you can’t.”
“Yep.”
“Okay,” Lennie said. “I just wanted to hear you say it. Remember your old pal sometime when you don’t need nothing.”
A working girl in a very short black leather miniskirt and black mesh top with a red bra underneath stumbled into the bar. She gave Lennie a sloppy wink. Lennie acted as if he didn’t know her. “You been busy, Spenser,” Lennie said. “Jesus H. You blew away Jumpin’ Jack Flynn.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“Hawk?”
“Flynn broke the rules.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t mess with kids.”
“Hoods got rules?” Lennie settled back, amused.
“You have rules.”
“Yeah,” he said. “The fucking golden rule. Whoever has the most gold makes the fucking rule.”
“Speaking of.”
“Hold on, hold on,” Lennie said. He shook his head and scooted out from the booth to find a stool at the end of the bar. I stayed in the booth and finished my beer. The working girl nuzzled Lennie’s ear as he dialed his telephone. He lit another cigarette and pushed the girl away, the bartender bringing him another beer. Ten minutes and three cigarettes later, Lennie returned to the booth.
“And?”
Lennie spread his hands wide, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“What’s in this for me?”
“A favor to be named later?”
“Good enough,” Lennie said. “Yep, Weinberg has the Wonderland track sewn up. He bought it right after it closed. He may have even funded the crazies wanting to protect the puppies to make sure it went tits up.”
“May I ask where this information was obtained?”
Lennie tucked another cigarette into the corner of his mouth and stared at me with great pity.
“Solid?” I said.
“Ain’t it always?”
It was dark when I started back to my apartment. A mile down Commonwealth, I spotted a tail. To make sure, I jockeyed down into the South End for a few blocks. As I lifted my phone to call Z, the car took a sharp turn and disappeared.
That night in the Public Garden, I held Pearl’s leash with my left hand. My right rested on the butt of my .38.
13
THE NEXT MORNING in Revere, I spotted Z’s car. But no Z.
He had parked at a meter across from the Ocean View, a couple spaces from a beach pavilion. I tried calling him, but there was no answer. I left my Explorer on Beach Boulevard and walked up to the front entrance of Henry’s building. I called Henry. There was a lot of wind off the water and it made the cell signal reverberate like a seashell. He buzzed me in and met me in the lobby. Henry looked like he hadn’t slept. His white hair was disheveled. I had never seen Henry disheveled.
“They came back,” Henry said. “Those rotten bastards.”
I nodded.
“They hurt Z,” he said. “Rotten bastards.”
“How bad?”
“Bad.”
I followed Henry to a small sitting area off the lobby. Z sat nearby on a metal folding chair, his head tilted back, a bag of ice on his nose. He had scratches and welts across his forearms and biceps. His blue jeans were torn, boots scuffed. In his other hand, he gripped a bloody towel.
“What happened?” I said.
Z removed the ice and looked at me. He had a busted blood vessel in one eye, and his nose looked broken. One of his legs was stretched out, knee locked. The other leg rested comfortably on a boot heel.
“Two of them,” Z said. As he spoke, I noted a cracked tooth. “I got one of them down and the other pulled a gun. They got my gun and both took turns.”
“How’s the leg?”
“I think my knee is screwed,” he said. “Again.”
“On the plus side, your nose will look more like mine.”
Z did not answer. He leaned over and spit blood into his cup. He looked up at me. A bloody towel hung loose in Henry’s hand.
“We’ll find them.”
“Shouldn’t have waited for the gun.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe you’d be explaining two stiffs to Quirk right now. He may be less lenient on you.”
“I stopped fighting back.”
“Didn’t sound like much of a fight.”
“I quit,” he said. “I didn’t fight back after a while. I think they thought they’d killed me.”
“Takes more than two men.”
“You never get beat like that.” He leaned forward, head in his hands, not looking me in the eye.
“I have.”
“When?”
“So many times I try and forget.”
“Being shot isn’t the same as two men coming down on you,” he said. “I want to kill them.”
“You follow that path, and you’ll work sloppy. Just like in a fight.”
“How much more sloppy can you get?”
“Two against one,” I said. “They took turns holding a gun.”
“Never happened to me,” Z said. “Last man to beat me was you. But you didn’t try to kill me.”
I shook my head.
“You need a doc to check you out,” Henry said, pressing the bloody towel to Z’s face. “Then me and Spenser will come back here and talk to the folks who seen it.”