“To whom?” I said.

Susan laughed again. Actually more of a snort. Only Susan could snort with such elegance. She was having a ball with the guests.

“What do you do for work,” he said, raising his voice. “You know, for a living? What’s your profession?” The conversation around us hushed a bit.

“I sell women’s shoes at the mall at Quincy.”

He shook his head, annoyed with the response, and swilled more scotch, never taking his bloodshot eyes off me. He pulled a paw around his well-endowed wife and gave a self-satisfied grin. It was not until dessert, when one trophy wife staggered to the john and the Super Bowl CEO abruptly left, that conversation resumed with the Weinbergs. The Actor had amassed a nice following at the other side of the table. The waiter had returned with a small brush and pail to remove crumbs.

“Would you like some brandy with your coffee?” Weinberg said.

I did. Susan was fine with a splash of Riesling.

Rachel Weinberg scooted up her chair and took a bite of cheesecake. “Rick, where do you find these fucking people?” she said. “Madame Tussauds?”

“Business,” Weinberg said. I noted he was on only his second glass of wine. He sipped slower than Susan.

“Okay,” Rachel said. She motioned to me with her wineglass. “Now, you want to explain why you’ve been busting my husband’s balls?”

I waited for the brandy before I explained.

23

I DRANK BRANDY while Susan and Weinberg debated the ethics of gambling. The brandy was very good. The debate was a little heated. Rachel Weinberg and I followed, heads on swivel, and would occasionally interject some pithy comment. Some of mine were clever. But for the most part this was the Susan-and-Rick show. The Harvard shrink versus the Las Vegas billionaire. Weinberg did not stand a chance.

“What I offer is entertainment,” Weinberg said. His voice low and gravelly, his hands clasped in front of him. Earnest. “It’s about the experience. The fun. I don’t just do slot machines and craps.”

“But isn’t that how you make most of your money?”

“Not true,” Weinberg said. He picked up a wineglass and twirled it. “Most of our profits come from the hotels. The shows. It’s pizzazz and glitter.”

“But gambling is central,” Susan said.

“It’s part of the experience.”

“I’ve had several patients who say it is the only experience,” Susan said. “Not many leave your hotels winners.”

“Don’t you win if you have a good time?”

“Some might call that hyperbole,” Susan said. She smiled the smile that could disarm North Korea.

“And you?”

“I’m mainly curious about your take on what you do.”

“We try and discourage those kinds of people,” Weinberg said. “That’s not the clientele we want.”

“Ah.” Susan leaned in and opened her brown eyes wide. “And you are not concerned about those who say crime and vice will feed off the neighborhood? When it’s public what you want, you’ll be faced with countless studies of increased prostitution and drug use.”

“I’ve been running casinos my whole adult life,” Weinberg said. “A little wind doesn’t scare me.”

“Boston is not Las Vegas,” she said.

Weinberg smiled and contemplated what Susan said while she sipped some wine. Rachel Weinberg cleared her throat and asked me why I thought the Sox were so goddamn lousy this year. She wore a pair of diamond earrings as big as fists.

I shrugged. “It keeps a long and storied tradition going.”

“Revere is a working-class town,” Susan said.

“So is Vegas.”

I smiled at Rachel. She rolled her eyes at me.

“I don’t mean to be judgmental,” Susan said. “Just a pragmatist, based on experience with addicts.”

Weinberg nodded. He grinned and spoke low enough to give careful emphasis to his words. “But you know how many jobs I’d bring to that town? Doesn’t that offset the losers? You know what this project will do to revitalize the beach? The customer we target isn’t from Boston. We don’t want local. We want the high roller. We want jobs and infrastructure. We want to bring back the original Wonderland.”

“I hate to break it to you, but it was never much of a pleasure palace,” I said. “Although I do have a soft spot for a hound named Momma’s Boy. Came in six-to-one on a twenty-buck bet. Kept me bucks up that week.”

“I can’t stop you from leaking my plans,” Weinberg said. He turned to me and finished his long-suffering glass of wine. “I don’t blame you for being upset about some extremely unprofessional behavior by my employees.”

“I’d use a much stronger term,” I said.

“I can promise you I will deal with it,” Weinberg said. “I can also promise you I will make a more-than-fair deal with your people. You open up Pandora’s box with other developers and this thing will go tits up. I have to own that parcel to present a complete plan to the state board. You fuck me, and you will fuck your clients.”

“Now, that’s a motto,” Susan said.

“He’s not kidding,” Rachel Weinberg said. “Can you get us a private meeting with the condo board? Let Rick do his shtick and see what they decide. You still want to go to the Globe and lay it out, go for it. But that’s bad business.”

“Bad business is sending leg breakers to harass residents and the people who protect them.”

“Agreed,” he said. “That’s not my style. Mr. Blanchard is conducting an internal investigation of how that happened.”

“I’d be glad to explain it to him.”

“What can I offer you?” Weinberg said.

“I want what’s best for my client,” I said.

Susan smiled at me. I think she was having a great time.

“Okay, then,” Weinberg said. There was much laughter at the end of the table. The Actor separated his hands by a foot and announced, “Like a fucking horse.” Laughter echoed throughout the dining room. Weinberg rolled his eyes and turned back. He looked appraisingly at me and Susan. He jabbed a thumb at me and said, “What’s a nice Jewish shrink doing with a goy with a twenty-inch neck?”

“Actually, it’s only nineteen and a half,” I said.

“Would you believe he recites poetry?” Susan said. “He even appreciates art without prodding.”

“No kidding,” Weinberg said. “Seriously. What about real art? You like Picasso?”

“I prefer my guitars without noses.”

“I just bought this fucking portrait Picasso did of his lover during the war,” Weinberg said. He stated it as if he’d just returned from a Labor Day sale at Sears. “It’s big and nuts. I’m going to design an entire casino around its colors. The shapes and energy of it reach out at you. I saved it, really. The asshole who owned it before put his fucking elbow through it. Can you believe that?”

“He likes to put art in the casinos,” Rachel said. “We both think art is meant to be seen by the masses. Why put art in a stuffy museum? Let everyone experience it in an amazing setting.”

“What was that broad’s name?” Weinberg said.

“Who?” Rachel said.

“Picasso’s mistress. The woman in the painting.”

“Dora Maar.”

“Yeah, Dora Maar. He ended up leaving her because she reminded him of World War Two. Crazy. It’s just called Woman Seated in a Chair,” Weinberg said. He smiled very big. “But it’s a knockout. I collect all that shit. Miró, Basquiat, Soutine. But Picasso. Picasso is my man. I could have bought a jumbo jet for what I paid for it. But you know what? There are a lot of jumbo jets. Only one Woman Seated in a Chair.”

I smiled at Susan.

“Plans call for an art wing at Wonderland,” Rachel said.

“So there’s already a blueprint?” Susan said. “That’s confidence.”

“I’ve seen this place in my head before the gambling law was passed,” he said. “What you remember as a dog track, I think of as the original Wonderland. The place that inspired Walt Disney. One of the first amusement parks in this country.”