Robert B. Parker's Spenser Confidential E-Book

Ace Atkins

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Spenser Novel
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 328

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

NOW A NETFLIX FILM - SPENSER CONFIDENTIAL - STARRING MARK WAHLBERG Henry Cimoli and Spenser have been friends for years, yet the old boxing trainer has never asked the private eye for a favor. Until now. A heavy-handed developer is trying to buy up Henry's condo on Revere Beach and sends thugs to move the process along. Soon Spenser and his apprentice, Zebulon Sixkill, find a trail leading to a mysterious and beautiful woman, a megalomaniacal Las Vegas kingpin, and plans to turn a chunk of land north of Boston into a sprawling casino. Bitter rivals emerge, alliances turn, and the uglier pieces of the Boston political machine look to put an end to Spenser's investigation. Aspiration, greed, and twisted dreams all focus on the old Wonderland dog track where the famous amusement park once fronted the ocean. For Spenser and Z, this simple favor to Henry will become the fight of their lives.

Leseprobe

Contents

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Dedication

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Copyright

Landmarks

Cover

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR ROBERT B. PARKER

‘Parker writes old-time, stripped-to-the-bone, hard-boiled school of Chandler… His novels are funny, smart and highly entertaining… There’s no writer I’d rather take on an aeroplane’– Sunday Telegraph

‘Parker packs more meaning into a whispered “yeah” than most writers can pack into a page’– Sunday Times

‘Why Robert Parker’s not better known in Britain is a mystery. His best series featuring Boston-based PI Spenser is a triumph of style and substance’– Daily Mirror

‘Robert B. Parker is one of the greats of the American hard-boiled genre’– Guardian

‘Nobody does it better than Parker…’– Sunday Times

‘Parker’s sentences flow with as much wit, grace and assurance as ever, and Stone is a complex and consistently interesting new protagonist’– Newsday

‘If Robert B. Parker doesn’t blow it, in the new series he set up inNight Passageand continues withTrouble in Paradise, he could go places and take the kind of risks that wouldn’t be seemly in his popular Spenser stories’– Marilyn Stasio, New York Times

For Joan.

Nobody tougher.

1

Henry Cimolididn’tmincewords.

‘Have I ever asked you for a favor?’

‘Nope.’

‘In all the years I’ve been knowin’ you and Hawk,’ Henry said, ‘I haven’t asked for jack squat.’

‘Jack or squat has never been stated.’

We sat at an outdoor table at Kelly’s Roast Beef, facing the ocean at Revere Beach. It was early spring, and people had rediscovered shorts and T-shirts. I was particularly interested in the return of the skirt, bare legs, and high heels with thin straps. Not that Revere was a fashion mecca. Revere was a working-class town and Revere Beach was a working-class beach. But you could live well on the beach, and the seafood and Italian restaurants along the boulevard were very good. I had ordered a bucket of clams from the take-out window.

‘I take calls for you guys, keep Pearl when you and Susan want to leave town and moon over each other.’

‘Pearl loves you, Henry.’

‘Do I complain?’

‘She says you withhold affection.’

The wind was sharp and cold, but the sunshine warmed you during the lulls.

I sampled a few fried clams from the bucket. Sadly, I learned Kelly’s did not serve Blue Moon ale, or any beer, for that matter. One cannot enjoy fried clams with a Coke Zero. I dipped a few more in tartar sauce, and studied a leggy brunette in a flowy skirt standing outside the beach pavilion. She kept the skirt from blowing away with the flat of her hand while she walked. Maybe Revere was on the verge of becoming fashionable.

A couple paunchy guysin coveralls stained with grease got up from a table and patted their stomachs. One belched. Perhaps not.

‘Do I detect a request for a favor?’ I said.

‘Why?’ Henry said. ‘Because I’m saying I never asked for one?’

‘Did I tell anyone about the time you wore lifts to that Hall of Fame banquet?’ I said.

Henry stood about five-four and weighed about 134 pounds. But 133 of it was muscle, and in his youth, he’d gone toe to toe with Willie Pep. Some of that still showed in his face. He had a lot of scar tissue around the eyes; his knuckles looked like thick pebbles. He was a hard and tough man despite my claim that he had once been a member of the Lollipop Guild.

‘So you owe me?’ he said.

‘I’d do it anyway.’

‘What?’

‘Whatever you’re going to ask.’

‘I don’t like asking for stuff,’ Henry said. ‘I wasn’t brought up that way. Say no if you want. Don’t worry about what I said. I’m just ticked off about all this crap.’

‘Fried clam?’

‘You could lose a little weight, Spenser,’ Henry said. ‘Z told me you’ve been into the donuts again. You know how many calories are in one donut?’

‘Next you’ll want me to give up sex.’

‘Women make you stupid.’

‘Not all,’ I said,eating more clams. A blonde had taken the brunette’s place, wearing wedge heels, tastefully frayed chino shorts, and a light blue button-down shirt with several buttons open. She wore designer sunglasses on top of her head and shifted her hips as she strolled.

‘She could.’ Henry motioned.

‘Talk slower,’ I said. ‘I can’t understand you.’

‘So you want to hear it or did you drive up to Revere on a Sunday to eat a bucket of clams?’

‘I’m motivated equally.’

Henry craned his wrinkled neck over his shoulder, watching for anyone within earshot. Satisfied that a young couple with a toddler posed zero threat, he turned back. ‘We got some problems at my condo,’ Henry said. ‘I tried to handle it myself, but the cowards sent three guys the other night. They told me if I didn’t shut up, that they were gonna toss me out my window.’

‘What floor is your unit?’

‘Fourth floor.’

‘You’re so light, you could blow away.’

‘This ain’t funny.’

‘Okay. Tell me about these guys.’

Henry shrugged. Several seagulls landed on a table next to us, and started to scrap over half an onion roll.

‘The guy talkin’ was a thick-necked steroid freak. He had a tattoo on his neck and crazy eyes.’

‘Lovely.’

‘Other guy was black, not as juiced-up, but just as thick. Third guy was older, with long hair and a goatee. Didn’t look that tough. Maybe he’s the shooter. He had that look, trying to show he was a hard guy.’

‘Names?’

Henry shrugged.

‘I didn’t ask forreferences.’

The gulls yammered a bit until the victor took his spoils and flew across Beach Boulevard.

‘What’s it about?’

‘Some asshole wants to buy up the condo and buy us all out,’ Henry said. ‘It’s a decent price. But I like the place and don’t want to move. I mean, look at the fuckin’ view.’

‘It’s fucking grand.’

‘And there are memories and all.’

Ten years ago, Henry had met a woman. She was ten years younger and she had given him eight good years. Lots of dinners and trips to the Cape. Two years ago she’d died of cancer. He never spoke of it, but in his office I’d seen a prayer candle next to an old photograph. They’d bought the place together, Henry moving out of the gym and fifteen minutes away to the condo.

‘SoIwon’tsignthepaper,’Henrysaid.‘Afewmoreofusfeelthesameway.There’saniceJewishcoupleuponeightwhodon’twanttoleave,either.Oneofthesedumbshitsmadeananti-Semiticremarktothewomanwhenshewasbringinginhergroceries.Usedsomebadlanguageaboutherinfrontofherfuckinghusband.’

‘Who’s the guy wants to buy the building?’ I asked. ‘I could pay him a visit and reason with his more enlightened side.’

‘If I just needed head busting, I would have called Hawk.’

‘Where is Hawk?’

‘Miami,’ Henry said. ‘Guarding some rich broad in South Beach.’

‘You know the company who wants to buy your building?’

‘Nope,’ Henry said. ‘Theysent some lawyer to come speak to the board.’

‘When was this?’

‘Last week.’

‘And you publicly objected?’

‘I ain’t alone,’ Henry said. ‘Half of us want to stay, others just want a fast buck. They’re old and tired and looking for the easy way out.’

‘Why not just take their money,’ I said, ‘if it’s a fair deal? Move back into your apartment at the gym. Maybe it’s time for Z to find his own place.’

‘The money is okay but not great,’ Henry said. ‘I was considering it until they started to press. I don’t like people pressing. Pisses me off. Being told what to do.’

‘I can relate.’

‘Figured you would.’

‘When’s the next board meeting?’

‘Tuesday night at seven,’ Henry said.

‘Do they serve refreshments?’

‘All the bullshit you can eat.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘I sure like to know what kind of piece of crap sends some hoods around to harass a bunch of old people.’

‘I can most certainly find that out.’

2

‘You told Henrythat I was putting on weight?’

‘I told him that you ate too many donuts,’ Zebulon Sixkill said. ‘He decided you had put on weight.’

‘Is there no loyalty from my Native American apprentice?’

‘Pale Face shouldn’t take more than his fair share.’

We were running along the Charles River that Tuesday morning. The promise of an early spring had turned to gray skies and spitting rain. But it was warm enough to wear athletic shorts and a blue sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. Z was pushing me a bit, keeping a faster pace than I preferred. My pace was slow and even, knowing I could outlast him on the five-mile route along both sides of the river. Maybe if I’d been a D-1 running back like Z, I’d have been swifter of foot.

‘How long have you known Henry?’ Z asked.

‘Since I was eighteen.’

‘You and Hawk?’

‘Hawk and I.’

‘So there isn’t much you wouldn’t do for the man?’ he asked.

‘Nope.’

‘Me either,’ Z said. ‘He didn’t have to give me a place to stay when you started to train me. I was a mess. All that booze and sloppiness. On the juice. I still don’t know why he did it.’

‘Because he saw some promise,’ I said. ‘Henry has always had an eye for talent.’

‘He’s a good man.’

‘Yep,’ I said. ‘How are you with everything?’

‘I drink sometimes,’ he said. ‘I don’t drink because I’m an alcoholic. I drink because I like the taste.’

‘You can stop?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Just like you.’

‘In the past, I struggled with the stopping.’

‘I can stop.’

We jogged for a bit, working to control our breathing, rounding the bend of the river by Harvard Stadium. I had just invested in a new pair of New Balance 1260s, feeling patriotic hitting the ground in American-made running shoes.

‘Must have been something to trust me,’ he said. ‘When we met.’

‘I needed someone to pass along my knowledge to,’ I said. ‘And also could use a little help from time to time.’

‘And you will put in a good word with the state,’ Z said. ‘As a reputable citizen of the Commonwealth, noting my fine and upstanding character.’

‘Three years,’ I said. ‘The law says you’re under my watch for three years.’

‘And then?’

‘You have a private investigator license and trade.’

‘Not much of a future as a head breaker.’

‘Unless you’re Hawk,’ I said. ‘But Hawk is equal parts ass-kicker and philosopher.’

‘The Thoreau of Thuggery?’

‘Susan is right.’

‘About what?’

‘You’ve been hanging around with me too long.’

‘So where do we start with Henry?’

‘I’ll make some calls,’ I said. ‘And we observe.’

‘Wait for those guys to show up?’

‘Yep.’

‘And Henry will push the point?’

‘Henry is not a subtle man.’

We turned north onto the Harvard Bridge, making our way toward MIT, where we’d follow the bike path below Mass Ave, past the Longfellow Bridge and over to the dam, where we’d cross back over into the city. Z had yet to let up on the faster pace, seemingly still annoyed I’d taken an extra donut last week.

‘Would be good to know who hired them,’ Z said.

‘We can ask nicely,’ I said.

‘Does that ever work?’

‘Almost never.’

3

The Harbor Health Clubhad been upscale longer than it had been low-rent. I knew it when it had been low-rent, before the waterfront was rebuilt with luxury hotels, slick office buildings, and million-dollar condos. Henry had changed with the times, adding the latest Cybex machines, treadmills, and stationary bikes. There were a lot of mirrors, a juice bar, and cubicles to meet with personal trainers. Henry had even recently added a glass-walled workout room, where women participated in something called Zumba. Z and I had little interest in Zumba but ­appreciated the taut young women in sweat-stained spandex who filed out of the room. Some of them even smiled at us as we took turns on the bench press. We decided to add more weight in ­appreciation.

‘Maybe we should take a Zumba class,’ I said.

‘Might hurt our reputation.’

‘Or maybe we could recruit some of the young ladies to the boxing room?’

‘Susan might not like that.’

‘Who would know?’ I said. ‘She’s lecturing at the University of North Carolina this month on the psychology of adolescents.’

‘Years of research?’ Z said, sliding onto the bench and slowly repping out 275 as if the bar were empty. He took his time, pausing the bar on his chest as I’d taught him, not pushing the weight but working on breathing and controlling the weight.

Henry walked up to study us, watching as Z clanged the weights down on the rack and stood up. He wore a white satin tracksuit, right hand in his pocket and a grin on his face. ‘You turkeys gonna pump some iron or just ogle my clientele?’

‘I’m teaching Z the proper way to accomplish both.’

‘You ever think about investing in some workout clothes?’ Henry said. ‘They’ve improved in the last century.’

‘Not everyone benefited asmuch from Jack LaLanne’s death,’ I said.

Henry snorted. Z smiled as I slid onto the bench and started into a slow rep.

‘I’ll have you know this workout suit is custom-fitted,’ Henry said. ‘Probably cost more than your whole freakin’ wardrobe.’

I paused the weight on my chest, pushing out a couple more reps. I wanted to say something about shopping in the kids’ section but kept it to myself, concentrating on the weight, the pause of the bar on my chest, exhaling as I pushed the weight upward. I finished the twelfth rep and re-racked the weight.

‘Any more trouble?’ I said.

‘Nope.’

‘Thought we might follow you home tonight.’

‘I don’t need babysitters,’ Henry said. ‘I need you to do that detective thing. Find out who these crapheads are.’

‘Crapheads have muddied the water,’ I said. ‘The prospective buyer is a corporation with an address listed as a P.O. box. The corporate contact registered with the state seems to be a phony.’

‘What about their lawyer?’

‘I called him,’ I said. ‘He was less than forthcoming.’

‘Hung up on you?’

‘Twice.’

‘I told you he was a prick.’

‘He’s a lawyer,’ Isaid, shrugging.

Z had moved on to triceps presses with a fifty-pound dumbbell. He made it look easy. And for me, it wasn’t as easy as it used to be. Of course, I wasn’t in my twenties and just a few years away from college football. I had lasted only two years at Holy Cross before joining the Army, never being a fan of the rah-rah coaches or taking orders.

I switched places with Z. He’d pulled his long black hair into a ponytail, his wide face covered in sweat. The front of his gray ­T-shirt readRocky Boy Rez, Box Elder, Montana.

‘Is there a lot to do in Box Elder?’ I asked.

‘Why do you think I stayed in Boston?’

‘Numerous liberal coeds wanting to right their ancestors’ wrongs?’

‘Nope.’

‘Or because you worked for a bloated, self-absorbed, immoral creep and sought spiritual guidance from a Zen master?’

‘There was that,’ Z said.

We met Henry in the parking garage thirty minutes later. I was driving a dark blue Ford Explorer that year, decent legroom for men of a certain size. Henry pulled out in a white Camry, and we followed him up Atlantic and down into the Callahan Tunnel and intermittent flashes of fluorescent light, taking 1A up past Logan, through Chelsea, and on into Revere Beach. I had the radio tuned low to a jazz program on WICE, Art Pepper on horn. The tired triple-deckers and sagging brick storefronts whizzed past.

‘A good friend of mine used to vacation in Chelsea,’ I said.

‘You’re kidding,’ Z said.

‘Have to know the guy,’ I said. ‘Grew up in Lowell.’

Henry lived in a 1960s condo with the architectural inspiration of a Ritz cracker tin. The condo building was ten storys, with small jutting balconies hanging from each unit and a wide portico facing the water. A sign over the entrance readOcean Viewin a fine, detailed script. I parked just across the street in an empty slot by the beach. I had cracked the windows and the wind had kicked up a bit, slicing in the sound of the ocean and smell of salt.

‘And what’s the plan if they approach Henry?’ Z said.

‘Persuade them to stop.’

‘How far do we go with the persuasion?’

‘Fists,’ I said. ‘No guns. Unless they want to up the ante. But we carry to make sure. This is not one of those situations where you make that play first. Other times call for it.’

Z pulled a .44 revolver from a shoulder rig. He popped out the cylinder, checked the load, and clicked it back into place. It was a big gun. But Z was a big man.

I watched for Henry locking his car and carrying his gym bag up a concrete walkway to the condo’s front entrance. I offered Z a piece of bubble gum, but he declined. I chewed and admired my reflection in the rearview mirror, looking rakish in my Brooklyn Dodgers cap and leather bomber jacket. I fiddled with the radio a bit. I smelled the salted breeze coming from the sound.

I glanced up to spot three men surrounding Henry’s slight figure under the portico. One of them knocked the gym bag from his hand. Henry responded with a left hook to the guy’s nose. The guy went down. His buddies rushed Henry and started pushing him. Henry set into a fighter’s stance.

‘Saddle up,’ Z said. ‘Here we go.’

4

One of the menpressed his hand to his nose, lots of blood oozing through his fingers. Henry had done well. ‘You come at me again and you’ll get it in the bazoo, too,’ Henry said.

The men weren’t listening. They had switched their attention to Z and me after we drove up and slammed the Explorer’s doors. We all stood in a happy grouping under the portico. No one moved or spoke. Henry stepped back and lowered his dukes a bit. ‘Nice night,’ I said.

One of the men was olive-skinned, with the build of a fire hydrant, and a tattooed neck bigger than his head. He was walleyed, with a skinny mustache and goatee and black hair cut short and combed forward to disguise a receding hairline. His pal was black, with a long face, patchy beard, and that thousand-yard jailhouse stare. He’d gotten pretty good at it, flicking his eyes from me to Z, watching our hands and waiting for one of us to make the play. The bleeder was taller than the other two, and older, maybe my age, with a thick head of brown hair and a lean, weaselly face. He also had a goatee with some gray in it.

He leered at me. It was hard to be scary while stemming a bloody nose with one hand.

‘Henry, you want to introduce us?’ I said.

‘Yeah, this is Moe, Larry, and Fuckface.’

‘Nice to meet you guys,’ I said. ‘Especially you, Fuckface. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘Go fuck yourself,’ Walleye said. His thick neck melted into his leather jacket.

‘How much are you guys getting paid for the shakeup?’ I asked. ‘Because it’s really not worth it.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Bad language is scary,’ Z said. ‘You scared?’

There were guns there. There were always guns. But no one made a play for the guns, because once they made that move, there was no going back. So we stood around at awkward angles under the portico, three against three, no one wanting to move. A lot of noise of crashing surf and buffeting ocean wind. I shifted my weight from one leg to another. I’d recently purchased a pair of steel-toed Red Wings for such an occasion and my feet felt solid and confident in them. Beside me, Z loosened his shoulders and rolled his neck from side to side. Henry stood beside him and spit on the ground between us and the jolly trio.

‘Walk away,’ I said. ‘And don’t come back.’

The black man was nearly as tall as me and had spent a lot of time in the weight room. His biceps tightened and flexed in a black denim jacket. His mouth curled into a smile, showing off a couple gold teeth as he rubbed his patchy beard. ‘How about we just fuck all y’all up? Don’t make no difference to me.’

‘Doesn’t makeany,’ I said. ‘You should be more careful about letting double negatives slip into everyday conversation.’

‘Fuck your momma,’ he said.

‘Much better,’ I said.

‘Oh, yeah?’ Henry said, sliding into a fighter’s stance. ‘How’d you like me to turn your ass into a hat?’

Z looked to me from the corner of his eye. He was relaxed and ready.

Walleye made the first move, tackling me around the chest and driving me back into a thick column, knocking the wind from me. He pounded sloppy, short punches into my ribs until I finally head-butted him and drove him backward. Z was into a scuffle with the black gentleman, landing a solid, bone-shaking right into the man’s temple. Walleye took another run at me as my hands instinctively lifted up to protect my face and I jabbed him twice, landing the second one. A third jab set up a perfect right, and the right rolled into a hook, with all that space under the portico giving me a nice pivot on the back foot to knock Walleye sideways. I turned to Z, who was holding the man’s collar with his right hand as he punched him with his left. Walleye gathered his feet and made another attempt. My feet ached to try out the boots, and within a few feet, I kicked his legs out from him, an audible crack coming from his shin as he lost his balance and fell to the concrete. There was a lot of blood. My right hand was swelling but my breathing was cool and controlled as I pulled a .45 auto from Walleye’s belt. Z’s black hair had loosened and fallen in his face as he turned to me and grinned, the black man at his feet, Z’s foot on his neck, and the man’s face scraped and bloody from the rough concrete.

Z searched the man and pulled a Glock from his jacket pocket.

Somewhere in the fight, the man Henry had hit had run away.

There was blood all over Henry’s white satin workout jacket. But he was smiling until he noticed the blood and said, ‘Holy Christ. Someone is paying for my damn dry cleaning.’

‘I have a terrific deal for you guys,’ I said.

‘Fuck you,’ Walleye said.

Z looked at me with disgust.

‘He can’t fight,’ Z said. ‘Lacks verbal skills.’

‘Here it is,’ I said. ‘Tell me who hired you and I won’t call the police.’

‘You fucking assaulted us,’ Walleye said, curled in a ball and holding his busted shin. The black man looked up from the ground and closed his eyes. He wasn’t buying it, either.

‘Okay,’ I said, reaching for my cell phone, dialing 911. I rattled off the address to the condo.

‘Okay,’ Walleye said. ‘Screw it. Okay.’

‘Does this mean you wish to cooperate?’

‘Don’t call the cops,’ he said. ‘I’m on parole.’

‘Maybe you should seek other job opportunities,’ Z said.

‘And not fight like such a goddamn pussy,’ Henry said.

‘That, too.’

‘Go to hell,’ Walleye said.

‘Careful, you’re bleeding on my new boots,’ I said.

Walleye got to his feet slowly. His eyes flicked from Z to me. Z would not relinquish his foot from his pal’s neck.

‘Let him go,’ Walleye said. ‘And give our fucking guns back.’

‘Name?’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘I doubt it,’ I said.

‘I want my fucking guns back.’

‘Nope,’ I said. ‘You got two seconds to give me a name or I’ll see you at your arraignment.’

‘I don’t know her name.’

‘Her?’ I said.

‘Yeah, a woman. Nice body. Big tits.’

‘Oh, her,’ Z said.

‘She should’ve come herself,’ Henry said. ‘She could’ve done better.’

‘I just got word about a job,’ Walleye said. ‘My cousin told me to meet this broad at the HoJo at Fenway. At that Chinese res­taurant. You know the Hong Kong Café?’

‘Name?’

‘I don’t remember,’ Walleye said. ‘I was too busy staring at her bazooms and counting the money.’

‘How’d you keep in touch?’

‘She wrote her cell number on a napkin. Told me not to use it unless it was an emergency.’

Z smiled and shook his head. He helped the bleeding man to his feet, smoothing down the man’s denim jacket and brushing his shoulders as if he were a tailor. I reached into Walleye’s back pocket and lifted his wallet. I handed it to him, and after a few seconds, he extracted a folded napkin and handed it to me. I read it and neatly placed it into my jacket.

‘A pleasure doing business with you guys,’ I said.

They limped unhappily back to a beaten Chevy sedan, Rust-Oleum polka-dotting the doors and hood. The windshield was cracked and the muffler sagged from the rear end, catching the condo’s drive and sparking for a moment before the car turned south on Beach Boulevard and into the night.

‘Now you pissed ’em off,’ Henry said. ‘Whoever this is won’t waste the effort on amateur hour next time.’

I shrugged. Z grinned in expectation.

5

‘So you justcalled her?’ Z said.

‘Yep.’

‘And she’s coming?’

‘Yep.’

We shut the doors to my Explorer and walked toward the Hong Kong Café attached to the HoJo. The cracked asphalt glowed dully under the streetlamps. ‘I guess this couldn’t have waited or she’d be onto us?’

‘The contact point was a Chinese restaurant,’ I said. ‘I happened to be hungry and like Chinese food.’

‘And it didn’t hurt that the woman was described as having a nice body and large breasts.’

‘I only have eyes for a cold Tsingtao.’

‘I’ll sit at the bar,’ Z said, and made his way through the ­restaurant.

I decided on the moo shu pork along with an order of spareribs and an egg roll. No need to be gluttonous. The waiter quickly brought me a cold Tsingtao. Z lifted his identical bottle from the bar and gave a slight nod.

As I drank, I was ever vigilant for a gorgeous woman blessed with ample bosom. Although no woman compared to Susan ­Silverman, it was important to remain vigilant. I had years of ­experience at detail work. A keen, appraising eye. Of course, I wasn’t sure if the woman would come or not. For all I knew, ­Walleye might have dialed her up right after our chat and told her what happened. But guys like Walleye are seldom proficient at ­explaining why their asses were just handed to them, and, more often than not, pretend it never happened. It wasn’t great for business.

I watched the door from the lobby and dug into the spareribs. From where I sat, I could see through a large bank of windows over a pool still covered, waiting for summer. Behind the pool and a large concrete wall, the lights of Fenway blazed, ­although the Sox were on the road. Rain had started to fall in the bright electric lights, giving a halo effect around the ­stadium.

A cold beer inone hand and a warm pancake in the other; life was good. Z looked bored.

An hour and a half after I called, a striking woman walked into the Hong Kong Café.

I summoned my detective abilities to study her body to see if the description matched. Z watched her subtly from the bar. He raised his eyebrows. She was the kind of woman who expected men to stare.

The woman was tall, maybe five-ten in heels, with stylish, layered brown hair. Her eyes were large and dark. She had a pert nose, prominent cheekbones, and very large, sensuous lips painted bright red. She had the figure of someone who worked out and used weights. Perhaps she had even attempted Zumba.

The dress hit just above the knee, a black wraparound number with a deep neckline. Studying her legs, I guessed the boots cost about as much as my rent.

I stood and walked over to her.

‘Do I know you?’ she said, with the slightest trace of a British accent. I hadn’t noticed it on the phone.

I gave Walleye’s name and said he couldn’t make it.

‘Why?’

‘Tonight’s his night for the Big Brothers program.’

She gave me an appraising glance. ‘You look tougher,’ she said.

‘What you see isnothing,’ I said. ‘I got a Balinese dancing girl tattooed across my chest.’

Even though she failed to smile, I motioned her to my table. The waiter had already cleared the plates and left me the check and two fortune cookies. He soon reappeared and asked if the lady would like to see a menu. She did not. Nor did she wish to have a cocktail.

Up close,she appeared older than I had first guessed. Which wasn’t a bad thing. A very fit woman in her forties with crinkles at the corners of her eyes and subtle laugh lines around her mouth. She wore large diamond earrings. Her makeup was impeccable,and she smelled of expensive perfume.

She smiled at me. I smiled back.

‘And?’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘What’s the emergency?’

‘Those people at the condo are giving us trouble.’

‘That’s not our problem,’ she said. ‘That’s your problem.’

‘They ain’t backin’ down.’

I said it just like that, with the ‘ain’t’ and the droppedg. I figured I’d go for the thick-necked Southie type. It went well with my broken nose and Irish heritage.

‘You take care of it,’ she said, studying the inside of her wrist, where she wore a gold watch twisted backward.

‘You guys sure want this property,’ I said. ‘Why not just go for somewhere easier?’

‘I don’t pay you and your friends to think,’ she said, chin dropping, eyes intent.

‘These people got friends,’ I said. ‘It could get messy.’

‘How messy?’

I shrugged. ‘Some people might get hurt. You know?’

She stared at me and crossed her legs. I followed the legs. Her eyes caught me staring. She widened them and bit her lip. ‘You have until the end of the week,’ she said.

‘The boss is some fuckin’ ball buster, huh?’

The rain fell in a neat slant in the stadium lights behind her.

‘I am the fucking boss,’ she said, standing. ‘If you attempt to follow me or make any trouble …’

‘So we’re not friends?’

‘Not likely,’ she said.

I smiled and shrugged.

She shook her head and walked away, sliding into a stylish little raincoat she’d kept slung over her arm. It matched her boots. She lifted the hair off her neck as she settled into the coat and knotted it tightly at her waist, heels clicking hard on the tile floor. Without a word, Z laid some cash down on the bar and followed her out to the parking lot.

I paid, pocketed both fortune cookies, and walked out into the rain. I turned up the collar on my jacket and headed up Boylston, cutting over to Commonwealth, where pink and purple magnolia blooms fell in the bright glow of streetlamps.

Let the kid do the work, I thought.

6

Even though I wasmy own boss, I liked to arrive at the office early. I enjoyed the banter with the women at the designer showroom across the hall. I appreciated the routine of making fresh coffee, listening to it brew atop my file cabinet as I sorted through bills and searched for the occasional check that slipped through my door. Pearl had come to work with me that morning, and she curled herself up on the couch, sighing deeply, and returned to sleep as I turned to study more spring rain. Rivulets zigzagged across the windows facing Berkeley Street. Ella sang softly on my computer while I made a list of phone calls on a yellow legal pad.

I had just pickedup the phone when Z opened my door and sank into my client chair with a thud. Pearl lifted her head with great attention but, recognizing Z, took another long sigh and returned to her morning snooze.

I put down the phone. I crossed off the first name on my list.

‘You worried?’ Z said.

‘I got your message,’ I said. ‘I had started to think that woman had taken you prisoner.’

‘I wouldn’t fight it,’ Z said, standing up from the chair and removing his black leather jacket. He hung it on my hat tree by mine and reached for a coffee mug. He poured us both a cup and slid one in front of me.

‘Hawk usually brings donuts.’

‘I promised Henry you’d cut down.’

‘Have we not covered confidentiality in the snoop business?’

Z shrugged. With some more practice, he might shrug as artfully as I.

‘So,’ I said.

‘Four Seasons.’

‘You worked a tail job to the Four Seasons?’ I said. ‘My God, how did you survive?’

‘I left the car with the valet,’ Z said. ‘Just like you said. Twenty bucks, by the way.’

‘Expense it.’

‘I found a place to sit in the lobby,’ Z said. He folded his arms across his chest and sat up straight in the chair. ‘I watched her talk to the man at the desk and then take the elevator. I followed her and walked the opposite way on the same floor.’

‘Did she come backdown?’ I said.

‘Nope.’

‘You get a room number?’

‘Hmm,’ Z said. ‘Would that help?’

‘Maybe you could have relied on your heritage and tracked her boot prints in the carpet.’

Z just stared at me over the rim of his mug. He took a sip and sat it back down on the desk.

‘Do we have a name?’ I said.

‘I had a beer at the bar.’

‘Bristol Lounge.’

‘Yeah, at the Bristol Lounge.’

‘Good place to have a beer.’

Pearl jumped from the couch and trotted over to me, setting her head in my lap and looking up at me with baleful yellow eyes. I did not need to be Cesar Millan to know she wanted to take a stroll in the Public Garden. There were fresh flowers to sniff and squirrels to chase. I patted her head and waited for Z to finish.

‘I pretended like Iwas going to charge it to my room,’ Z said. ‘I gave the woman’s room number. I dropped a twenty-dollar tip on him before I signed.’

I nodded. ‘Boston ain’t cheap for a gumshoe.’

‘Just as he snatched it up, I asked if the room was under my name or my boss’s.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He told me the name of the hotel guest.’

‘Smart.’

‘How do you think the Cree won the Battle of Cut Knife?’

‘That exact thought had just crossed my mind.’

‘J. Fraser.’

‘J. Fraser.’ I placed my Red Wings up on the edge of my desk and noted a few new scuff marks on the edge. My A-2 bomber jacket and Dodgers cap hung neatly on a hook beside Z’s jacket. I scratched Pearl’s ears. She shook herself, and her collar jingled on her neck. I looked down at my yellow legal pad and tapped my pen in contemplation.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So we’re one step up the food chain.’

‘Nice to know who J. Fraser is.’

‘You write down herlicense plate?’ I said.

‘Looked like a rental,’ Z said. ‘Didn’t figure it would matter.’

I reached an open palm across the desk as he handed over a scrawled paper from his pocket.

‘Detective work,’ I said. ‘Watch and learn.’

I picked up the phone.

7

I don’t care forcomputers besides using them to type reports, calculate a sometimes depressing income, or as a makeshift jukebox. I do not e-mail, surf the Web, or use Facebook. An electronic message was an instant record, and in my business, it was best to discuss private matters in person or on the telephone. There were also times when a phone call was faster and more thorough than a computer. So by the time I finished my first cup of coffee, I had connected J. Fraser’s BMW to a Massachusetts corporation called Envolve Development. It took two calls.

‘Aha,’ I said.

‘A clue?’ Z said, sitting with Pearl on my office couch.

‘Better than a clue,’ I said. ‘A lead.’

‘We know who is trying to force out Henry?’

‘Sort of.’

‘And what do we do now?’ Z said.

‘This requires additional contemplation.’

I stood up, reached for my jacket and baseball cap. I tossed Z his leather coat and grabbed Pearl’s leash. ‘When stalled, walk a dog.’

‘What number crimestopper tip is this?’ he asked.

‘Let’s call it thirty-seven.’

We took Boylston up to Arlington and followed the sidewalk to the wrought-iron gates of the Public Garden. A lazy drizzle watered the bright orange and bloodred tulips. The wind swayed the loose branches on the willows while ducks floated aimlessly across the lagoon and under the bridge. I placed one hand in my jacket and pulled down the bill of my ball cap. Pearl strained at the leash, pawing hard toward a squirrel. The squirrel worked on a stray bit of popcorn, unconcerned.

‘You ever let her off the leash?’ Z said.

‘Chaos might ensue.’

We walked the pathways, heading east, the Financial District looming far over the Common and Tremont Street. We passed over Charles and into the Common, the State House’s gold dome gleaming from atop Beacon Hill. City lights shone wetly across Boylston.

‘Okay, J. Fraser works for a company called Envolve,’ I said. ‘Now we need to learn more about Envolve and why they want that condo.’

‘I am willing to conduct as much research as needed on Ms. Fraser.’

‘Have we forgotten she sent three thugs to put a beat-down on sweet Henry Cimoli?’