“How is Susan?” he asked.

“Teaching at Chapel Hill for the semester.”

“How’s that going?”

“It makes sex tough.”

“Unless it’s phone sex,” Wayne said. He grinned.

“Yeah, but I always get tangled in the cord.”

I motioned to the waiter for another drink for Wayne.

“So what do you need to know?”

“Besides just unveiling the great mystery of the common man’s everyday world?”

“Yes, besides that.”

“You wrote a story about a real-estate development company called Envolve.”

“Since the paper has shrunk, I cover a little bit of everything.”

“So you know Envolve?”

“Maybe,” Wayne said. “They all have silly names like that.”

“They ran into some trouble with that big hole next to Filene’s Basement.”

“Oh, yes,” Wayne said.

“Any reason they might be particularly hot for a run-down old condo in Revere?”

Wayne shrugged. He leaned forward, thinking more of the question. “It might be unrelated. But . . .”

“Go on.”

“You ever read the paper, Spenser?”

“Mainly just Arlo and Janis. Sometimes Doonesbury.”

“Well, if you cared to read more than the funny papers, you may have heard that Massachusetts just passed a law to bring casinos to our great Commonwealth.”

“Gee, that rings some bells.”

“There are three licenses up for grabs,” Wayne said. He sipped a bit of whiskey. “One in western Mass, one down south that is pretty much a shoo-in for the Wampanoag tribe, and then one close to the city. That’s the big one, and lots of big players are making their bids.”

“You think that’s what’s happening?”

“How hot for the property are they?” Wayne said.

“Enough to send some thugs out to facilitate the purchase.”

“Smells like casino land to me.”

“Who are these guys?”

“Envolve is probably just the purchasing company,” Wayne said. “If it’s one of the biggie gaming companies, they would never use their own names. If they did, the owners’ price would soar.”

“Who are the players?”

“Well, the front-runner is Rick Weinberg’s outfit.”

“Why do I know that name?”

“Ever been to Las Vegas?”

I nodded.

“Well, he owns half of that,” Wayne said. “His old man was a bookie who ran bingo parlors in Philadelphia. He’s been working to bring casinos into Mass for years. That’s what these casino companies do. They try to push the legislation, laying out millions of dollars to lobby, and then hope they get a license if the law passes. And securing land in Revere would be a major step.”

“So how does one secure a license?”

“There is a four-person board, consisting of the governor, the secretary of state, and the speaker of the house. When they convene—”

“Which they have not.”

“Once the board convenes, they will select that fourth member and begin the licensing process.”

I nodded.

“Where is it?” he said.

I told him.

“Sounds like a puzzle piece that fits nicely with the old Wonderland dog track.” He ran a finger around the edge of his bourbon glass. He nodded. “It’s a rumor. But a good one.”

“And who owns the track?”

“I’m not sure,” Wayne said. “I can make some calls.”

“And I can check on Weinberg.”

“Well, he’s not the only one trying for this license,” Wayne said. “He has some real competition with this guy named Harvey Rose, who is the hometown favorite. Rose’s buying into the Suffolk Downs parcel.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Ex–Harvard professor,” Wayne said. “Got a Ph.D. from MIT. Hell, he’s not Joe Broz, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“God rest his soul.”

“But when it comes to money and power, throw out the rules.” Wayne tossed back more of the bourbon. “Weinberg and Rose and a few other long shots are fighting like hell now that the gaming law has passed. I would be very interested if Weinberg was trying to turn the old dog track into part of his casino proposal. We just assumed everything would happen at Suffolk Downs. It’s already got the land and it’s on the county line. Much closer to the airport and downtown. And you throw in horse racing to the layout and it makes sense.”

“What do you think about all this?”

Wayne shrugged. “Some say it could be a massive influx of cash, more jobs, more tourists. A true boost to the sagging economy.”

“Do I detect a note of pessimism for your fellow man?”

“You detect realism,” Wayne said. “I don’t want to know how you got pulled into this, but watch your back.”

“For a Harvard prof named Rose?”

“What about ‘Las Vegas outfit’ did you not understand?” Wayne said. He took a long pull of bourbon. “I don’t write obits. Even for old friends.”

“Mobbed up?”

“Weinberg has a reputation,” he said. “Rose, not so much. He’s a number-cruncher. I mean, if he wasn’t CEO of a gaming corp, he’d be working for Gillette or Capitol One. Or go back to teaching at Harvard Business School.”

“So why work for a casino?”

“Because it’s a machine for printing money,” Wayne said. He smiled and finished the bourbon, then stood up.

“It’s nice knowing an ink-stained wretch like yourself. I couldn’t make those connections with a keyboard.”

“There aren’t many guys like us left,” Wayne said. “You can’t trade technology for shoe leather.”

“Keeps me bucks up and you in high-end hooch.”

The waiter asked if we would like another round. We declined and he laid down the check in a handsome leather cover.

“That’s why I always liked you, Spenser,” Wayne said. “You are the most sophisticated thug I ever met.”

9

BEFORE MEETING WAYNE, I had started braising a nice slab of brisket by placing it in a Dutch oven and adding some chopped carrot, parsnip, and onion. I sprinkled in a bit of kosher salt, pepper, coriander, Worcestershire, and a can of tomato paste and chicken stock and left the whole thing to cook at 350. When I returned, my apartment smelled heavenly. I put on a Duke Ellington album and started work on a tomato jam. I felt a jam would go nicely with some biscuits and a hunk of white cheddar.

A pleasant darkness had settled over Marlborough Street. I popped the top from a Sam Adams Alpine Spring, cracked a window, and watched the streetlamps glow on the wet sidewalks. I made the biscuits, cut them on a butcher block, and placed them on a greased cookie sheet to bake.

I felt so overworked, I opened another Sam Adams and called Susan. After four rings, she picked up.

“I was in the shower,” she said.

“Does your phone have a camera?”

“Can’t you think of anything else?”

“Well,” I said. “Despite your absence, my apartment smells like Shangri-La.”

“I would have thought you would have been at my place, gazing lustily at my photograph.”

“May I serenade you with ‘Moon River’?” I said.

“Let Andy Williams rest in peace,” she said. “I’ve just finished with a very lengthy lecture.”

I hummed the first few bars and drank some more beer and looked out at the streetlamps. A couple walked hand in hand along Marlborough. They were not talking, only smiling. Content. “And what was today’s lecture?”

“‘Functional Subgrouping and Other Innovative Methods for Resolving Conflict.’”

“I can fly down immediately to speak as an expert.”

“Kicking the crap out of someone has not been proven an innovative approach.”

“Someone needs to do more research,” I said. “What about threatening?”

“Is that what you’ve been up to?”

“Henry Cimoli asked for a favor.”

“And Henry Cimoli never asks for anything.”

I took another sip of beer. I checked the timer on my biscuits. Pearl sniffed at the oven. She looked disappointed that I was not paying closer attention to the impending meal.