“But is that enough?” I said.
“You mean that they get what they want?” Henry shrugged. “I’ve been thinking of expanding the gym. With that much cash, I could afford to build a second apartment. Maybe it’s time for a change anyway. When I’m up there sometimes I kind of think on things.”
I nodded. I knew who he was talking about.
“How good is the source on this casino business?”
“Solid,” I said. “But not definite.”
“The board would need more for leverage.”
“Still working on it,” I said. “But you need to know, the more I push, the more they might push back.”
“Good thing I got some first-class sluggers who owe me,” he said.
“’Tis.”
“So until we settle, it’s gonna get a little dicey?”
“Yep.”
“Where’s Sitting Bull?”
“Sleeping.”
“What the hell?”
“He watched your place all night last night,” I said. “This morning we traded.”
“You fucking guys.”
“Don’t cry, Henry,” I said. “You might break something.”
“You fucking guys.”
11
TIRED YET DOGGED, I returned to my office to learn all I could about Rick Weinberg and his gambling empire. I found many interviews with The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, and Forbes. But what held my attention most was a profile on a site called vegasinc.com on a new hire for Weinberg. A woman named Jemma Fraser.
“Aha,” I said.
She was indeed a British citizen, a heavyweight in the gaming industry, and the VP of Weinberg Entertainment. According to the interview, Jemma Fraser looked forward to opening up new markets in states where gaming has been illegal. She also talked a bit about her own experience in Hong Kong related to casinos in Macao. I added an “oh-hoh” to the “aha.” They worked well together.
I printed off a few of the stories and a corporate bio and added them to the Ocean View file. By noon, I had pushed my body and mind to their limits and decided to make a pilgrimage to Eastern Lamejun Bakers for some flatbread and hummus. I also threw in some Armenian pickles, Kalamata olives, and fresh feta, to keep up my strength.
I stopped off a second time at a grocery in Harvard Square for a six-pack before heading to Susan’s place. There was much to be done.
All seemed well at Susan’s. I emptied her mailbox, checked all the locks, and ate standing up at her kitchen counter. I enjoyed a beer and caught a bit of Susan’s perfume lingering. I closed my eyes and smiled and entertained the idea of a ticket to Raleigh-Durham for the night.
But Pearl needed to be fed and walked. Sixkill needed to be instructed in the ways of the gumshoe. And Henry’s interests needed to be protected. Perhaps more protected than ever, once it was known by the players that he wanted more money.
I cut off a wedge of feta and slid it onto a piece of flatbread I’d heated in the toaster oven. The morning classes at Harvard had let out and the streets were filling with cars and students. You could hear them as they passed Linnaean Street, debating the academic issues of the day. I ate a couple olives and opened up the hummus. The Avery White Rascal ale tied it all together nicely.
I dialed up Rita Fiore. A secretary said she wasn’t available, but Rita called back twenty seconds later.
“I hear Susan is out of town.” There was a huskiness in her voice.
“But her kitchen holds such sweet memories.”
“You’re sniffing around her kitchen?” Rita said. “That’s pretty whipped, Spenser.”
“I’m standing up eating a Mediterranean feast with some cold brew from Boulder, Colorado.”
“Shall I chill the martinis?”
“Would you do me a favor?”
“Why, of course.”
“Speak lawyer to me.”
“Are you in jail again?”
“Nope,” I said. “I have a client. Actually, it’s Henry Cimoli. You remember Henry?”
“The old boxer.”
“Yep.”
“And?”
“And a casino developer from Vegas is trying to push Henry from his home.”
“Do tell.”
“I believe a billionaire casino developer is rubbing his greedy hands together for Henry’s condo,” I said.
“What do you mean, you believe.”
“The buyer has remained hidden,” I said. “And I need some hard proof.”
“And you’re calling for one of my young and energetic paralegals to go and pull some property records for you?”
“Ownership will be buried pretty deep.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“If this is what I think it is,” I said, “your firm could be negotiating for a substantial amount of money.”
“Not my area of expertise,” Rita said. “I’m strictly criminal. But Cone, Oakes, and Baldwin does employ several lawyers that would salivate at the proposal.”
“Of course they do.”
“And lawyers do love money,” Rita said. “How come you’re not going to lecture me on principles or your moral code?”
“Henry will need more backup than I can provide.”
“I’m sure the firm can file a nasty civil lawsuit that could tie up their people for some time.”
“Until they make an offer.”
“That’s generally the way it works.”
“The company belongs to Rick Weinberg.”
“Wow,” she said. “I heard Donald Trump spit-shines his shoes.”
“The company he’s using in Boston is called Envolve Development.”
I gave her addresses and needed information both on the Ocean View and Wonderland. She was quiet for a moment, and I heard the scratching of pen on paper. “I’ll send one of the kids to wade through the property records,” she said. “If the ownership is intentionally hidden, this could take some time.”
“And how can I reimburse the firm for their precious time?” I said.
“I think you know.”
“That property belongs to Susan.”
“I prefer to think of it as a rental.”
“How about a two-martini lunch instead?”
“Sold,” Rita said.
I hung up, placed what remained of my feast into the grocery bag, and drove to my apartment. Pearl was very happy to see me. The early-afternoon sunlight was golden and filled the Public Garden. Willow branches fingered and trailed the edge of the lagoon, leaving soft dimples. A mallard hen and drake paddled around the pond, winding their way to the bridge. The hen was molting, getting ready to make her nest and lay her eggs.
I had always respected ducks. They understood monogamy.
12
RITA CALLED the next day. Three of her best paralegals could not tie Rick Weinberg to Envolve, the company that owned Wonderland, the offer on the Ocean View, or the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. I offered to pay for her time anyway. We settled on the martini lunch at Locke-Ober before it closed for good, and more scintillating conversation.
After I hung up the phone, I nodded at Z, who sat in my client chair.
“Anything?” Z said.
“Nada.”
“So we know, but we don’t know.”
“When the legal trail fails, follow the illegal,” I said. “Write that down somewhere. It’s a good tip.”
Z nodded. He went back to reading the Phoenix.
“Get some rest,” I said. “You’ll watch Henry when he locks up. We’ll switch in the morning.”
“Where are you headed?”
“A den of iniquity,” I said.
“Send me a postcard,” Z said. He never looked up from the newspaper.
Twenty minutes later, I sat in a red vinyl booth in the back corner of the Tennessee Tavern, which was perched at the precipice of the Mass Pike at the corner of Newbury and Mass Ave. The place was appropriately smoky and dark. As usual, the bartender brought me a draft beer and a shot of Wild Turkey that I never ordered.