Free Robert B. Parker's Wonderland by Ace Atkins

adjoining lot sat a massive pile of rusted junk from beach amusements of days gone by. Parts of an old Ferris wheel, a heap of old bumper cars.
    Even with a strong limp, Z kept up with me. The old grandstand stretched far and wide, looming over us as we approached several padlocked glass doors. A note on one door read THANKS FOR 75 GREAT YEARS . I stepped back and kicked in the door. The door was rusted and old, and came off the hinges. “Guess we found it this way,” I said.
    “Of course,” Z said. He hobbled in after me.
    The bottom level of the grandstand smelled of mildew and urine. Most of the fixtures had been stripped away, but you could see where dozens of televisions had once been bolted to the walls for off-track racing. There was still a sign over the bar and grill, and underfoot a chessboard of red and white tiles stretched in a slant up and out to the grandstand. At that exit, the doors had already been broken out. It looked as if some homeless had been camping there recently. There was evidence of a small fire and several boxes and filthy rags were piled against the wall. We walked outside, where we found a muddy track, which now sported waist-high weeds. Vines crawled over the lower seats, and birds had nested up in the rafters. I took a seat and stared out onto the old track.
    “We had a casino in Box Elder,” Z said. “Only reason folks stopped on Highway 337. Or to hunt elk in the Bear Paw.”
    I nodded.
    Z looked around the decrepit grandstand. “Why would they call this Wonderland?”
    “For all the grandeur and majesty.”
    “Where?” Z said.
    “Used to be an amusement park,” I said. “A long time ago.”
    “When you were young?”
    “Way before that,” I said. “I remember an old roller coaster and a Ferris wheel on the beach. They kept the name for the track, but the Wonderland park was long gone.”
    The space was big and open and oddly silent except for the sound of an air drill coming from a nearby warehouse. The wind made hollow sounds blowing through the broken windows, wavering the weeds and grass on the infield.
    “Tough night?” I said.
    “Nope.”
    “When Susan left a long time ago, I lost some of myself,” I said. “I started drinking.”
    “I haven’t lost anything.”
    “You got jumped,” I said. “One held a gun. There will be other times. A lot more if you stay in this business.”
    “I’m fine,” Z said.
    There was a final edge in his voice. I nodded and listened to the wind for a while. I saw a tangled heap of metal dog cages and contemplated the fate of the old racers. I hoped they’d found a better line of work. Z touched his face and hobbled to the car.
    We drove back to the nearby dirt lot in time to see the black Lincoln pull away. Blanchard drove inland, and we followed them around to three more sites. Susan would be flying home in a few hours, and I tried to contain my excitement, with little luck. In place of food, I tried to imagine our options for dinner.
    “I’d rather be watching Ms. Fraser,” Z said. “Nice legs.”
    “The same woman who sent thugs to Ocean View and in turn busted your teeth and knee.”
    “Yep,” he said. “I like to look at her like I’d look at a prairie rattler.”
    “I take it a prairie rattler is deadly.”
    “Could be,” Z said. “Depends on where you are bitten.”
    “And you had casinos as well as snakes on the rez?” I said.
    “The casino came after I got my scholarship,” he said. “When I went home, many people liked it. But what’s not to like about a check in your mailbox?”
    “I don’t think anyone in Revere will get that same deal.”
    “Maybe Henry will,” Z said.
    “One can hope.”
    “How long till you approach Weinberg?” he said.
    I took a breath, watching the black Town Car a few lengths ahead. “No time like the present.”

19
    BLANCHARD PULLED OUT onto Veterans Highway. Z and I followed through Revere Beach and Chelsea and back through the tunnel to downtown. The Lincoln