Wonderland Read online

  “I’m sorry, I need to check with someone,” she said. “We don’t have many visitors. Can you come back in an hour?”

  “Let me consult with my personal assistant,” I said. “See what I can do. Sure hate to disappoint old Harv.”

  She studied my face and my shoes some more. Women often study the shoes. I offered a smile fit for People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. She smiled, unconcerned by my steel-toed boots, as I stepped away and checked my voice mail. Besides Wayne Cosgrove calling thirteen times, a former client called and wanted to dispute expenses. Apparently, some of my lunches had been excessive. I spoke to the machine for a few seconds, nodding back to Mrs. Rose until well satisfied.

  “We’re in luck,” I said. “I can stay. Would you recommend a good local lunch spot while I wait?”

  “I’m sorry, this is just very unusual,” she said. “Given current events, I’m a little jumpy.”

  “I don’t blame you for being cautious.”

  “It’s just awful,” she said. “God-awful. May I ask why a private investigator wants to talk to my husband?”

  “I work for the Weinberg family.”

  She nodded. “There is that place on Massachusetts Avenue,” she said. “Right across from the park and down from the movie theater. It’s a decent enough deli.”

  I drove back downtown and found the deli, and ordered the Paul Revere, roast beef with barbecue sauce, cheddar, lettuce, and tomato on an onion roll, with a scoop of potato salad. While I ate, I read a discarded copy of the Lexington Minuteman. Apparently, blueberry bushes were being replanted in historic Oak Knoll Farm, there had been a rash of streetlamp outages in the last week, and several accounts of BB guns shooting at windows and empty cars had been reported. The police lieutenant stated that most of the time these things turn out to be youths involved in random foolishness. I wondered if I could add that line to my business cards.

  I read the Minuteman cover to cover and ordered a thin slice of cheesecake. I tried to think about anything but what I had seen in that trunk. If anything would qualify as pure horror, Weinberg’s head was it.

  Nearly two hours later, I drove back to Harvey Rose’s newish Colonial and wound into the curve of the brick driveway. A large silver Mercedes SUV had been parked by the path to the front door. Two very unfriendly-looking men in sharply tailored suits stood on the steps. If they had been dogs, they would have most certainly been Dobermans. One had shaved his head nearly bald so that the stubble on his face was the same length. He was in his late twenties, medium-sized and hard-looking. The other was beefy, with thick brown hair and smallish eyes. His nose looked like it had been broken several times. I bet my life somewhere he had a tattoo that read MOM.

  I got out of my car and met them halfway up the path.

  “You Spenser?” said the bald guy.

  “Yep.”

  “You come here to see Mr. Rose?”

  “Yep.”

  The beefy guy eyed me. He stuck his hands in his pockets and turned to his partner. His mouth twitched a bit. The bald guy just stared straight at me, not appraising as much as telegraphing unpleasantness. “Mr. Rose doesn’t know who the fuck you are,” Beefy said.

  “I take it you are paraphrasing.”

  “What?”

  “Well, surely a former Harvard professor would never say ‘fuck.’”

  “What the fuck do you want?” said the bald guy. His hands hung loose by the edge of his suit jacket. I detected the bulge of a gun on his right hip.

  “I have a few questions about Rick Weinberg,” I said.

  “You a cop?” Beefy said.

  “I work for the Weinbergs.”

  “If you don’t get the fuck out of here,” the bald guy said, “we’ll call the cops.”

  “The family would appreciate some cooperation from Mr. Rose,” I said. “Given the circumstances.”

  They stared at me for a long time. No one made a move. I finally shrugged and said, “Look, guys, I know I’m pretty handsome. But give it a rest.”

  Baldy shifted his weight to his right leg, peeling back the edge of his jacket, showing off the butt of an automatic. It looked very expensive and shiny.

  I complimented him on his gun. He closed his jacket.

  I shrugged. I mimed a phone with my thumb and pinkie. “Call me,” I mouthed, and walked back to my car.

  So much for honor among thieves.

  31

  I NEVER FIGURED the Fenway HoJo for the kind of place Jemma Fraser would have chosen to meet the sluggers. I figured the sluggers had probably chosen a place they felt comfortable. So Z and I drove back to the Hong Kong Café that afternoon, Z finding the same spot where he’d sat the other night. I shook the water from my coat and ball cap and took a seat on the stool next to him.

  There was a different bartender pouring drinks, a young Asian woman with her hair styled like a forties pinup. Her eyebrows were artfully drawn and dramatically arched. She wore a white tank top, a red hibiscus inked on her upper arm. The flower twisted and grew as she poured out a beer for Z and another for me.

  I smiled pleasantly at the bartender.

  “Nice tattoo,” I said.

  She smiled at me.

  “Met a guy in here the other night had one I really admired,” I said. “Had it drawn on his neck. Very classy.”

  She smiled some more.

  “Really short hair. Balding, but with a mustache and goatee.”

  “You a cop?”

  I shook my head.

  “Just tattoo enthusiasts,” Z said.

  “Yeah, right,” the bartender said.

  “I was talking business with this guy,” I said. “He seemed like a real straight shooter. I misplaced his phone number. We were going to take in a movie sometime.”

  “You guys suck for cops,” the girl said.

  “Do I look like a cop?” Z said.

  “No,” the bartender said. “But he looks cop enough for both of you.”

  I gave a modest shrug.

  “We just need to speak to him,” Z said.

  “No drugs here,” she said. “No way.”

  “He told me his life was the seminary,” I said.

  The bartender scrunched her mouth into a knot and shook her head. “You two are the worst cops I ever seen. You look like you should be pro wrestlers. Grow a mustache and you could be Pancho Villa.”

  “Not Mexican,” Z said. “Cree Indian.”

  “Prove it,” the bartender said. She crossed her arms across her smallish chest and raised her artful eyebrows. Her face had been dusted with a lot of makeup. She looked sort of like a Kewpie doll.

  “You want to test my DNA?” Z said.

  “Say something in your language,” she said.

  He shrugged and said something in what I assumed was perfect Cree.

  “What the hell does that mean?” she said.

  “I asked, ‘What is your name?’”

  “Kym with a y.”

  “Kym with a y,” Z said. He smiled. She smiled back. I let my apprentice take the lead. No reason to double-team her with charisma and charm. “We just need to talk to this man.”

  “About drugs.”

  “No,” I said. “A woman he knows is missing. We need to find her.”

  “So you are cops.”

  “We are private investigators,” Z said. He smiled. I could tell he liked saying it.

  “C’mon.” The bartender laughed and walked away. “That is so corny. C’mon.”

  “It’s the best we got,” Z said.

  I drank some more Tsingtao. Rain hammered on the big bank of windows facing Fenway. Insignificant trees bent and shook in the wind. The day had grown dark, and no light shone from the stadium. I ordered a couple of spring rolls and glanced up at the television. More news about Weinberg’s death on Fox
25. The room smelled of Asian spices and cigarettes.

  “You want another beer?” Z said.

  “I’m good.”

  “What if I ordered another?”

  “You’re a grown man,” I said.

  Z took a long breath. He stared straight ahead and glanced at his bruised reflection in the mirror. He shook his head. “I’m good, too.”

  I nodded.

  “How long do we wait?” Z said.

  “Long as it takes.”

  “You know I lied before?”

  “About what?”

  “What I said to that woman in Cree.”

  I waited.

  “I told her she had the ass of a young elk.”

  “Is that complimentary?” I said.

  “To a Cree woman. Very.”

  We both finished the last of our single beers. We waited. We watched more of the news crawl about Weinberg’s death. He had been in town to meet with casino investors. Police have not given official cause of death but were treating it as a homicide.

  When I turned from the bar to the entrance, the black man Z had fought walked into the room. He smiled and pointed at Kym with his index finger. Mr. Popular. She stood motionless, mouth open, slowly shaking her head. Z stiffened and removed a boot from the railing. He set it down on the floor. His eyes met the man’s. Z braced the edge of the bar with the flat of his one hand.

  The man stopped mid-stride, looked at Z, and closed his mouth. Z took a step toward him.

  The man ran. Even on the injured leg, Z was quick. I left some cash with a nice tip and followed. The man had disappeared from the front lot. Z darted for one corner of the motel, and I ran around the other. When I got to the back parking lot, the man was trying unsuccessfully to scale a chain-link fence topped in concertina wire. Even without a hard rain, this would have been a difficult task. But the rain had made the metal slick and unstable, and the slugger had found himself trapped in the razor wire, one foot hanging over the HoJo property and the other on Van Ness Street and the back of Fenway.

  Z yanked him from the fence, flesh and clothes ripping, and knocked him to the wet ground. The man tried to stand, but Z hit him hard in the throat, sending him to his knees. I kept running. Z kicked the man in the face, and as the man tried to regain his footing, Z punched him in the face. There was a flurry of rights and lefts, and then the man toppled to his back. Z was on him, pinning him to the ground, fists pummeling until I pulled him off. The man was bleeding badly.

  “Fuck,” the man said. “Fuck.”

  He had curled into a ball, waiting for more. I reached for his gun, a cheap .45, and his wallet. The man had a New York driver’s license issued in the name of Bryant Crowder. Bryant had given up trying to escape. He had the word MISUNDERSTOOD tattooed across his neck.

  I stared down at him. “Ain’t it the truth,” I said.

  Z had his hands on top of his head and was catching his breath. He looked like he wanted me out of the way. I held up a hand and shook my head.

  “We’re looking for your friend, Jemma Fraser,” I said. “Where is she?”

  Bryant wiped the blood from his lip. “Who the hell’s that?”

  A lot of rain trailed off the brim of my cap. I shook my head. “See, sluggers like Bryant here will always answer with ignorance. Obviously, they come by this trait naturally.”

  “Jesus,” Bryant said. “He broke my fucking ribs.”

  Z looked at him. “Easier to fight with a gun on me.”

  Bryant grinned a little. Z stepped up and kicked him again.

  “Where is Jemma?” I said.

  “Don’t know the bitch.”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Such a mouth.”

  “Woman hired you to shake down those old people in Revere,” Z said.

  “Damn. It wasn’t no woman,” Bryant said. He was breathing heavily. “She just told us where to go and what to do.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Who hired you?”

  Bryant tried to push himself up off the ground. Z moved in closer, his face an inch from Bryant’s. Z did not wear a pleasant expression.

  Bryant shook his head. “Mr. Weatherwax.”

  I nodded. “Come on, Z.”

  “Not finished.”

  “You are for now.”

  Bryant smiled a bit. “Got you once,” Bryant said. “Get you again.”

  Z nodded but punched him hard in the throat before standing. Bryant curled into a ball, choking. I walked back to my car in the rain. Z followed.

  “You know who he’s talking about?”

  “Jacky Wax,” I said.

  “Who is he?”

  “Dope dealer, pornographer, killer, extortionist.”

  “Man of many talents,” Z said.

  We got into the Explorer and headed out. The windshield wipers worked overtime.

  “You good?” I said.

  “Better,” Z said.

  32

  I WONDERED if Jacky Wax still remembered me. I wondered if some people still called him Jacky or if he used John Weatherwax. I hoped he was still Jacky Wax, a name befitting the manager of a Boston landmark such as the Purple Banana. The strip club was in the South End, not far from Tufts medical school. An artfully drawn neon banana shined under dark skies as Z and I trod through a few puddles to the front door.

  “Used to work a club like this in L.A.,” Z said.

  “Lots of job satisfaction?”

  “Nice for the first week,” Z said. “Strippers are all crazy. Hooked on drugs. The boyfriends are usually losers who either sit at home all day or deal. A man can only look at naked women for so long.”

  “I am willing to test that theory.”

  “Trust me,” Z said. “Music is bad. Dancing is bad. Places always smell like smoke and puke.”

  “Not the Purple Banana,” I said. “This is a class place. Jacky Wax is a class gent.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “Used to work for a guy named Mr. Milo.”

  “And who is Mr. Milo?”

  “One does not utter the name Mr. Milo in these parts,” I said.

  We paid the twenty-dollar cover and walked inside. A dozen or so oiled, nubile bodies worked gold poles in rainbow light. Men in crumpled suits and loose ties sat alone, fanning out dollar bills. A couple held hands in a back booth by long black curtains leading to somewhere called the VIP room.

  I sat down at a table facing a giant golden birdcage while Z made his way to the bar. Two women ran their hands over each other to some music that sounded like Madonna. Of course, all bad music sounded like Madonna to me. Z placed two Budweisers in front of us, reached into his wallet, and slipped a dollar bill into the cage. One of the women picked it up with her teeth. The other woman helped her turn upside down and slide down the pole, which was not so much sexy as it was awkward.

  We drank warm beer and turned from the cage to watch the main stage. A bony girl with straight blond hair came out in little else but tall fur boots. The boots looked as if they’d come from a skinned yeti. Next, a black girl with a short Afro and enormous breasts did a lot of twirling and tumbling to some pinging electronic music with a thumping electronic drum.

  “You think the DJ could play ‘Night Train’?” I said.

  “What’s ‘Night Train’?”

  “Probably haven’t heard of pasties, either,” I said.

  I hadn’t finished half my beer when a topless waitress appeared and asked if we wanted another round. I shook my head. Z did, too.

  “Is Jacky around?” I said.

  “Mr. Weatherwax?”

  “I knew it,” I said. “Now he sounds like the brand name for a boot cleaner. Yes, Mr. Weatherwax. Tell him Spenser is here.”

  “Spenser?”

  I nodded. “With an s, like the English poet.�
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  Z waited. A young girl dressed as Pocahontas stepped onto the stage and twirled around the golden pole. “Maybe I should let you two talk,” I said.

  Z shrugged. “Different tribe.”

  Halfway through the song, Jacky Wax approached our table. He smiled and revealed his crooked yellow teeth. He was tall and thin-shouldered, and wore a tailored gray suit with a lavender dress shirt and pink tie. The pink tie was held in place by a ruby stickpin. When he sat down, I noted he wore very pointy black short boots that zipped at the ankles.

  “You’re looking good, Jacky,” I said. “Get that suit off the back of a truck?”

  “This is fucking Gucci,” he said. “Cut by a tailor with the hands of a surgeon.”

  “This is Mr. Sixkill,” I said. “My associate.”

  Jacky did not take his eyes off me. “I heard you was dead.”

  “Maybe your watch had stopped.”

  “Funny,” Jacky said. He took his eyes off me for a moment to look in the birdcage. He nodded with approval. “So what brings you to the Banana? Lose another whore?”

  “The Fine Arts Museum was closed,” I said.

  “Ha,” Jacky said. He crossed his legs as a waitress brought him a drink that looked like grenadine and club soda.

  “Looking for Jemma Fraser,” I said.

  “Who?”

  I leaned in. “The woman who needed a few thugs for a shakedown.”

  Jacky scratched his cheek.

  “You need me to call Mr. Milo?” I said.

  “Oh, that Jemma.”

  Z grinned.

  “You know that many?” I said.

  “I was just trying to help the broad.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “Came recommended.”

  “By whom?”

  Jacky shook his head.

  A couple of girls walked over to Z. One massaged his shoulders. Both wore bras and panties and high fishnets. He told them he was broke. They scattered.

  “Associate?” Jacky said.

  “Yep.”

  “You getting old?” he said. “Need someone to pick up the slack?”