“A pleasure,” I said. Blanchard did not answer as I turned and walked to the hotel entrance. As I opened the door, he was still standing and staring. I caught my reflection in the hotel glass. Who could blame him for not forgetting this mug?

17

“HOW YA BEEN, SPENSER,” Bernard J. Fortunato said. “Last time I seen you was in that shithole in Arizona.”

“Potshot.”

“Should have called it Shithole.”

“That would do wonders for tourism.”

I cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder and leaned back in my office chair. I stared out the window at the intersection of Berkeley and Boylston. A crew of workers were setting up some scaffolding around the old Society of Natural History building. A street musician played a guitar outside Starbucks. Will work for caffeine.

“You were very helpful,” I said. “Considering your height impairment.”

“Don’t have to be that tall to point a gun.”

“True. Don’t need the gun, but could use your snooping abilities.”

“Okay.”

“Still charging the same rate?”

“From what,” Fortunato said, “five years ago? What, are you nuts?”

“What is it now?”

He told me. I made a low whistle.

“Business really that good in Vegas?”

“I can’t complain,” he said. “I just bought a new hat.”

“What could be better?”

“So what’s the job?”

“I’m going to fax you a list of Massachusetts corporate names and ID numbers,” I said. “I need you to cross-reference them with the secretary of state’s office in Nevada to see if anything matches up.”

“Sure,” he said. “That’s it?”

“One more thing.” I leaned back in my chair. “You know Rick Weinberg, right?”

“You mean like personally?”

“Or professionally.”

“You know the Pope?”

“No,” I said. “But I hear he is a fan of my work.”

“Well,” Fortunato said, “you just don’t pal around Vegas with Rick Weinberg unless you’re loaded or famous. And I don’t know about you, but I’m not either.”

“I bet you have a following,” I said.

“Sure, sure,” he said. “I’m on the A-list with bookies, bartenders, and showgirls.”

“Some of my favorite people.”

“So what’s the deal with Weinberg?”

“I want you to find out all you can about him,” I said. “The list of companies I gave you should connect to his businesses in Nevada. He’s setting up shop in Boston, and I want to know who I’m dealing with.”

“Why?”

“He may be doing business with someone I know.”

“We talking security codes or the time of his morning constitutional?”

“I’d like to know how he’s connected and to whom.”

“Guys like Weinberg turned Vegas into Disney World,” Fortunato said. “He brought all the glitz and crapola and pushed out all the hoods. He’s more interested in picking carpet samples than bumping people off.”

“Come on,” I said.

“I’m serious,” he said. “I’ve heard rumors an old Vegas family got him started with his first casino. But that was decades ago.”

“You ever heard of a guy named Lewis Blanchard?”

“Nope.”

“Can you check him out?”

“Sure thing. I quoted my rate.”

“How fast?”

“Check out some companies, make some calls?” Fortunato said. “Nothing to it. But spell that guy’s name again. Blanch-dick or whatever.”

“Blanchard.” I spelled it for him.

“And he watches out for Weinberg?”

“Yep.”

“Then you know he’s a pro,” Fortunato said. “Don’t be your usual self and piss him off.”

“Too late,” I said.

18

I SAT IN Z’S Mustang early the next morning, again parked across from the Four Seasons at a nifty space along the Public Garden. The dark green exterior gleamed with fresh wax and the tan interior was pin neat. I tried not to drop donut crumbs on his freshly vacuumed floor mats but doubted my abilities.

“And what do we now know?” Z said.

Fortunato had faxed me overnight. I flipped through the pages sandwiched into a legal folder. “Cutting out ten pages of legalese and connect-the-dots, it says Weinberg owns Wonderland.”

“Is this when an investigator is supposed to say ‘Bingo’?” Z said.

“Precisely,” I said.

“And without Henry’s condo,” Z said, “he’s screwed for waterfront.”

“Life’s a beach.”

Z just nodded. His breath smelled of Listerine and mints. But his bloodshot eyes couldn’t hide that he’d been boozing. I did not mention it.

“And so, now properly armed with said information,” I said, “we can approach Mr. Weinberg and company and bring them to the table for discussion.”

“Is that our job?” Z said.

“Mainly I’ll enjoy the satisfaction of telling Weinberg we have it on record. The negotiation is the lawyer’s job.”

“Your man in Vegas is good?”

“If he were taller, he would be quite formidable.”

I handed Z the faxed papers, and he read them while I watched the steady motion of valet parking at the Four Seasons. The knuckles on Z’s right hand were still swollen and black.

Twenty minutes later, we followed Weinberg’s Town Car, Blanchard at the wheel, into downtown and dipped into the tunnel toward East Boston and Revere. By noon, we had tailed the two men back to a half-dozen empty lots. We watched them kick around one lot within walking distance of the defunct greyhound track. Weinberg was dressed down for the occasion, in work boots, jeans, and a navy coat made of canvas. A real blue-collar guy. Blanchard was dressed in a similar manner, only with a green coat that strained at his back and arms. He wore sunglasses and took glances in and around the property as Weinberg spoke to a guy with surveying equipment.

“Exciting,” Z said.

We were parked within a mass of cars in the track lot. We made Claude Rains look conspicuous.

“Did I ever promise thrills from this job?”

“Yes,” he said. “You did.”

The marks on his face had turned from red welts to purple-and-yellow bruises. He studied his face in the rearview mirror.

“I’d like to kick that man in the balls,” Z said.

“His right-hand man says they have no knowledge of the goons.”

“Bullshit,” Z said.

“Probably.”

After a while, we left the men kicking around in the mud and drove back to Wonderland. Z and I got out of his car and wandered the wide expanse of the broken and weedy parking lot. In an adjoining lot sat a massive pile of rusted junk from beach amusements of days gone by. Parts of an old Ferris wheel, a heap of old bumper cars.

Even with a strong limp, Z kept up with me. The old grandstand stretched far and wide, looming over us as we approached several padlocked glass doors. A note on one door read THANKS FOR 75 GREAT YEARS. I stepped back and kicked in the door. The door was rusted and old, and came off the hinges. “Guess we found it this way,” I said.

“Of course,” Z said. He hobbled in after me.

The bottom level of the grandstand smelled of mildew and urine. Most of the fixtures had been stripped away, but you could see where dozens of televisions had once been bolted to the walls for off-track racing. There was still a sign over the bar and grill, and underfoot a chessboard of red and white tiles stretched in a slant up and out to the grandstand. At that exit, the doors had already been broken out. It looked as if some homeless had been camping there recently. There was evidence of a small fire and several boxes and filthy rags were piled against the wall. We walked outside, where we found a muddy track, which now sported waist-high weeds. Vines crawled over the lower seats, and birds had nested up in the rafters. I took a seat and stared out onto the old track.