“Bet your ass,” Henry said. “You should’ve taught him more.”

“I did,” I said. “But I think he froze in the moment.”

“Ain’t no rules out there,” Henry said. “Kick ’em in the nuts if nothing else works.”

“I am a fan of that technique.”

I took on the speed bag for another round and finished it off with a round of shadow-boxing and heavy back work. I wiped the sweat from a fresh towel that smelled of bleach and approached Henry. Half out of breath, I said, “Rick Weinberg wants to deal.”

Henry smiled. The heavy bag still rocked on the chains, swinging to and fro, the spindle squeaking. The rain continued to tap harder on the lone window. Henry and I walked back toward his office.

“Can you set up something with the condo board?” I said.

“Yeah,” Henry said. “But how will we know we can trust him?”

“I’ll get Rita Fiore to keep him honest.”

“You know the terms?”

“I know he’ll sweeten the deal to each unit owner with a bonus if he gets the casino license.”

“So we get zip if he doesn’t get the license?”

I nodded.

“What did he say about sending out his gorillas?”

“He apologized,” I said. “He said it wasn’t his style and would investigate why it happened.”

“Come on.”

“It’s what he said.”

“How much you think he’ll raise his price?”

“Don’t know.”

“What the hell do you know?”

“Susan met him. She thinks he’ll shoot straight, too. But now it’s up to you and the Ocean View people to decide.”

“You done good.”

“Shucks.”

Henry unlocked his office door. Henry always locked his door when he roamed the premises. Someone might take his framed picture of Gina Lollobrigida. Z sauntered by the picture glass facing the gym, dressed in black jeans and a black silk shirt opened wide at the neck. His hair was combed straight back.

“You gonna tell Z that we’ll deal?”

I nodded.

“He’ll still want to find those men who cleaned his clock.”

“The agreement is for the condo,” I said. “Not for closing the books.”

Henry smiled at that, the phone on his desk ringing. He let it ring. “What do you think would’ve happened to you if you and Hawk had kept boxing?”

“Fame and fortune?”

“And back rooms of spaghetti joints fighting over a C-note.”

“Free spaghetti is nothing to sneeze at.”

“Who told you to get in with the cops, get a trade?”

I looked to Henry. He nodded, took a seat at his desk, and propped up his tiny white running shoes. As he placed his hands behind his head and flexed his biceps, he muttered, “Damn straight.”

25

I WAS ON MY first cup of coffee and taking Pearl for her morning constitutional when my cell rang. The rain had stopped, leaving a fine, lovely mist in the Public Garden. Pearl sniffed the moisture-dappled tulips as I answered.

“Spenser’s pet-sitting service,” I said.

“You wear many hats,” said Jemma Fraser.

“I only have one client,” I said. “She demands much of my attention.”

“I see.”

There was a long pause and a long sigh. “There is an offer on the table,” she said. “Mr. Weinberg wanted me to present this to you. And to arrange a meeting with the board at Ocean View.”

“And here I was hoping you missed my rakish wit.”

“Shall we say an hour?”

“We shall.”

We agreed to meet at the Starbucks across the street, and she hung up. Or I suppose she might have said “rang off.” I turned back to watch Pearl snuffle among the daffodils. Mission accomplished.

We returned to my office with twenty minutes to spare before the meeting. I spent the time cleaning my gun and reading the latest on the Sox’s three-game series with Oakland. I was only halfway through when I reached for my jacket and walked across the street. Jemma was there, standing at a side table facing Boylston and adding sugar to a very frothy coffee. I smiled at her and nodded. I ordered a plain coffee and joined her at the bar.

“There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts on Exeter,” I said. “I guess it’s too late for corn muffins.”

“Yes,” Jemma said. She passed over a sealed legal-sized envelope. I felt like we were in a John le Carré novel. “It is.”

She again wore the snug, stylish raincoat knotted at the waist. Brown leather riding boots artfully lifted her a few inches. She held sunglasses in her open hand. She tucked them into her purse before reaching for her coffee.

“Those heels put us on equal footing,” I said.

“You don’t like me very much.”

“You hired some thugs to harass a good friend, and in turn, beat up my colleague.”

“Oh,” she said. “Yes. Sorry about that.”

“Somehow I doubt your sincerity.”

I reached for the envelope. It was a bit like an impromptu birthday gift. Do I open it here or in privacy? I didn’t want her to see my face if I was disappointed. “Weinberg says you acted on your own.”

She sipped her coffee.

“Any response?” I said.

“Are we finished here?”

“I suppose I need to see what Mr. Weinberg has offered.”

“He has attached contact information.”

“Wouldn’t that be you?”

She pursed her lips and studied my face. Her eyes met mine and then turned toward the open space along Berkeley. “Not anymore.”

“A real shame,” I said.

“I have been terminated.”

“How long have you been in the States?” I said. “Shouldn’t you say ‘sacked’?”

“When Mr. Weinberg fires you, you have been terminated,” she said. “My last bit of business was to deliver this to you. After that, I am done.”

I nodded. “Truly sorry.”

“Even though you got me fired?” she said. “Mr. Weinberg thought I might have crossed a few lines.”

“Henry Cimoli would agree.”

She studied my face some more.

I grinned at her and toasted her with my coffee cup.

“Best of luck with your clients.” She turned on a heel and disappeared out into the soft rain. I took the fresh cup of coffee and the envelope containing the new offer and walked back across the street to my office. I almost felt bad for her. But not quite.

26

RICK WEINBERG put on a great show. As he spoke, I waited for fireworks to shoot from his backside and an American flag to unfurl above his head. The condo board was all smiles. They didn’t just accept him, they loved him. The deal was very sweet. I would need a CPA to help me configure all the zeroes. And there were free buffet vouchers for when Wonderland opened. No self-respecting AARP member would turn down vouchers.

Z and I sat in the back row of folding chairs. No thugs showed up. No threats were made. Rita Fiore sat in front of us, occasionally turning around to roll her eyes. She was no fan of the free buffet or a literary discussion of Charles Dodgson. “What a crock of shit,” Rita whispered.

“But how’s the contract?” I said.

Rita shrugged. “Our attorney says it’s good,” she said. “But I could do without the PowerPoint and Mickey Mouse nonsense. All we need to know is how much and when.”

Weinberg wore khaki slacks and a light navy sweater over a white dress shirt with a rather long collar. His teeth were still nearly blinding at twenty feet. His voice was soft and gravelly, not pleading as much as trusting. If he talked any longer, I might have to hand over my wallet.

“We can all be winners here,” Weinberg said. “You can be a part of the resurgence of this entire beach. It starts with a grain of sand. A dream.”