“We had a casino in Box Elder,” Z said. “Only reason folks stopped on Highway 337. Or to hunt elk in the Bear Paw.”

I nodded.

Z looked around the decrepit grandstand. “Why would they call this Wonderland?”

“For all the grandeur and majesty.”

“Where?” Z said.

“Used to be an amusement park,” I said. “A long time ago.”

“When you were young?”

“Way before that,” I said. “I remember an old roller coaster and a Ferris wheel on the beach. They kept the name for the track, but the Wonderland park was long gone.”

The space was big and open and oddly silent except for the sound of an air drill coming from a nearby warehouse. The wind made hollow sounds blowing through the broken windows, wavering the weeds and grass on the infield.

“Tough night?” I said.

“Nope.”

“When Susan left a long time ago, I lost some of myself,” I said. “I started drinking.”

“I haven’t lost anything.”

“You got jumped,” I said. “One held a gun. There will be other times. A lot more if you stay in this business.”

“I’m fine,” Z said.

There was a final edge in his voice. I nodded and listened to the wind for a while. I saw a tangled heap of metal dog cages and contemplated the fate of the old racers. I hoped they’d found a better line of work. Z touched his face and hobbled to the car.

We drove back to the nearby dirt lot in time to see the black Lincoln pull away. Blanchard drove inland, and we followed them around to three more sites. Susan would be flying home in a few hours, and I tried to contain my excitement, with little luck. In place of food, I tried to imagine our options for dinner.

“I’d rather be watching Ms. Fraser,” Z said. “Nice legs.”

“The same woman who sent thugs to Ocean View and in turn busted your teeth and knee.”

“Yep,” he said. “I like to look at her like I’d look at a prairie rattler.”

“I take it a prairie rattler is deadly.”

“Could be,” Z said. “Depends on where you are bitten.”

“And you had casinos as well as snakes on the rez?” I said.

“The casino came after I got my scholarship,” he said. “When I went home, many people liked it. But what’s not to like about a check in your mailbox?”

“I don’t think anyone in Revere will get that same deal.”

“Maybe Henry will,” Z said.

“One can hope.”

“How long till you approach Weinberg?” he said.

I took a breath, watching the black Town Car a few lengths ahead. “No time like the present.”

19

BLANCHARD PULLED OUT onto Veterans Highway. Z and I followed through Revere Beach and Chelsea and back through the tunnel to downtown. The Lincoln drove south on Tremont and down past the Performing Arts Center and under the Mass Pike into Bay Village and further into the South End. We were silent. Z kept several cars back and did not change lanes unnecessarily.

“You do much parallel parking in Montana?” I said.

“Just between two buffalo.”

“That come in handy?” I said.

Z said, “Frequently.”

We crossed over Mass Ave and past the Northeastern campus. The South End soon became Roxbury and the brownstones and quaint boutiques soon became twenty-four-hour bars and convenience stores and soul-food restaurants. The Town Car took a hard left turn onto Malcolm X Boulevard and then slowed at an entrance to the community college parking lot. Z kept driving down the block, studying the Town Car in his rearview mirror. At the next light, I told him to double back and follow more closely.

“They see us,” Z said.

“Yep.”

“Next?”

“They saw us a while back,” I said. “They’re leading us.”

“Where?”

“A rabbit hole.”

The Town Car turned into the parking lot and stopped hard down a long row of cars. Z braked. Another car came up hard behind us and braked within an inch of the bumper. The Town Car threw it into reverse and Z maneuvered out. I placed my hand on the wheel and shook my head. The door of the Town Car opened and Blanchard got out. He studied the parking lot, straightened his jacket, and walked to the driver’s window. He knocked on the glass and waited. Z looked to me. I shrugged. Z let down the window.

“You are starting to piss me off,” Blanchard said.

“Give it time,” I said. “It only gets worse.”

Blanchard studied my face. I smiled. He glanced at Z’s face and narrowed his eyes, seeing the bruises. Z did not smile.

“When I pull out,” Blanchard said, “I don’t want to see you in my rearview. I don’t want to see this car in Revere. I don’t want to see it parked across from the Four Seasons.”

“Hold on, can you speak a little slower? I’ll take notes.”

Blanchard shook his head and the doors to the sedan behind us jacked open. Two toughs in slick suits and slick shirts piled out. We did the same. Z stood tall and cool, busted hands loose by his sides. I did not recognize the other men. Z studied them with no emotion.

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Weinberg,” I said.

“I bet.”

“About Wonderland.”

“What about it?”

“Ask him,” I said.

“My ass is starting to hurt, Spenser.”

“My apologies.”

I reached into my leather jacket. The hard guys behind me were itching to pull pieces they probably had never fired. I winked at them. Blanchard didn’t flinch when I reached. He stood with arms across his chest and only made a motion to check his watch. Nice watch. Rolex Submariner. I handed him two faxed sheets. On both pages, a corporate name had been circled. One from Nevada. One from Massachusetts. And in a miraculous way, the two names and addresses matched and there was little room for discussion on what this all meant. He looked at the pages and lifted his eyes at me. He had wrinkles in his forehead and a five-o’clock shadow had started to show at nine a.m. “So fucking what?”

“Give it to Weinberg,” I said.

“So he owns the dog track.”

“Give it to Weinberg.”

He crumpled up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder.

“I have more paper,” I said.

“I bet you do.”

“And a friend at the Globe who’d love to print that story.”

“We all got friends.”

“Should run 1A and all over the Web,” I said. “You don’t think that will make property values shoot up? He’s gone to too much trouble to keep this quiet to blow the roof off now.”

Blanchard walked away. He turned back around. He looked again at his Rolex.

I said, “Tell Weinberg I look forward to hearing from him.”

Blanchard shook his head but grinned. He turned back to the Town Car, climbed inside, and peeled off. The men in suits did the same.

“And now?” Z said.

“We wait.”

“How do you know they will reach out?” he said.

“Because we’ve given them no choice.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“We’re talking Weinberg’s language.”

“What’s that?”

“Money.”

20

I PICKED SUSAN UP at Logan at 6:30, and by ten we were redressed and sitting at her table at Rialto. There was a friendly interlude on Linnaean Street in an attempt to make up for lost time. And, of course, Susan needed at least an hour to shower and dress. It took me ten minutes. But after the interlude and the dressing, we finally sat down for dinner. “Stunning,” I said.

“What did you expect?”

“Nothing less.”

“You don’t look half bad yourself.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s the other half that’s a real mess.”