Corsco sat.

“What’s your business with Nick Hardin?”

Corsco forced a smile. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Munroe just nodded and took out his cell phone, hit send, put the phone on speaker and set it on the desk. A voice answered.

“It’s for you,” Munroe said to Corsco.

A voice on the phone, sounding a little panicked. “Tony? Do what he wants. Whatever he wants. Do that, you’re OK. Don’t, then we’re all against you, all the families. I shit you not, Tony. You want no part of this guy. We’ve dealt with him before.”

“Carmelo?” Corsco said, puzzled.

“Just do what he wants.”

Munroe reached out and killed the connection and put the phone back in his pocket.

“What’s your business with Nick Hardin?” Munroe repeated.

Corsco looked at Ringwald. “I’m supposed to stick my head in a noose for this guy, Gerry? That’s what you’re telling me?”

“I have, eh, assurances that Mr Munroe’s involvement is of an, eh, entirely extrajudicial nature. There are no legal ramifications attached to this conversation.”

“Extrajudicial,” Munroe said. “I like that. So, Hardin?”

Corsco opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. “A favor for a friend,” he said, finally.

In one smooth motion, Munroe reached inside his coat, pulled out his small, flat Walther, the suppressor already attached, leveled it across the desk and fired, the pistol making a soft bark, the round smacking into the leather of the high-backed chair just to the right of Corsco’s neck, so close that it left a crease in the padded shoulder of his suit.

“Jesus!” Corsco gasped.

“I got no time for twenty questions,” Munroe said. “So I’ll ask one. Guess how many times I can shoot you from here without hitting anything vital?”

Corsco’s eyes went wide. “Fenn! Shamus Fenn! Fenn wanted Hardin whacked over that Africa business!”

Munroe’s turn to be surprised. “The actor?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s Fenn got to do with the diamonds?”

“What diamonds?”

“You said the Africa business.”

“That Darfur thing. Hardin punched Fenn out, it got on all the news shows, comedians ragging on him, nearly crashed his career.”

Corsco and Munroe looked at each other across the desk for a moment. Munroe remembered the Darfur thing. Just never imagined it had anything to do with this.

“What diamonds?” Corsco asked.

“Diamonds?” said Munroe. “Who said anything about diamonds?” Munroe slipped the pistol back inside his jacket. “OK, here’s the deal. You guys work for me now – and by guys, I mean your whole organization. First thing, get Fenn under control. There are major issues at play here, gentlemen. Great men in important places are thinking big thoughts. In the end, there will be one story. I’ll get you your lines if you’re cast for a part. But I don’t need some punch-drunk actor pissing on my narrative. Fenn’s your problem, you solve him. But if Fenn fucks up my play, I’m charging it to your account.”

Munroe took a cell phone out of his pocket, put it on Corsco’s desk.

“That rings,” Munroe said, “it’s me. And you answer it. I don’t care if you’re throwing a hump into the missus, you climb off and say hello. And there’s one number on speed dial – mine. I want a line on this Hardin. This is not optional. There is no Plan B. You found him once, find him again. I don’t get some kind of useful intel out of you, then maybe you’re dead, or maybe I just send a tape of you confessing to putting a hit on Hardin to the DA.”

Munroe got up, headed for the door.

“Tape?” Ringwald said. “DA? You said this was off the record.”

Munroe pulled a small digital recorder from his pocket and wiggled it at the two men. “I lied,” he said. “I do that sometimes.”

CHAPTER 34

The crew for Fenn’s picture had staked out the vacant lot on Wells between Randolph and Washington – a mess of trailers parked there with semis loading and off-loading all day, fucking up traffic, a chain-link fence up around the lot to keep the rubberneckers out. Lynch badged the guy at the gate, him and Bernstein getting shunted to some gofer. Kid made half a dozen calls on his hand-held, finally took them over to a trailer to see Fenn.

“Shamus Fenn,” said Fenn, getting up off the couch along the far wall, his hand out, wearing a pair of chinos and a dago-T, guy obviously spending some time on the weights. Half smile, just a regular guy. “What can I do for you fellas?”

Lynch caught the look from Bernstein. Fenn was playing it all wrong, playing it cool. Cops come to see you and you don’t know what it’s about, you should be nervous.

“I’m Detective Lynch. This is Detective Bernstein. We’re working a homicide. A few of them, actually.” Leave it there for a second, see where Fenn went.

Fenn turned his palms up. “I’m not following you here, guys. Somebody I know?”

Bernstein took a picture of Hardin from his pocket, screen grab off the Oprah video, handed it to Fenn. “Know this guy?”

Fenn took the picture in both hands, flopped down on the couch, head falling forward, elbows on his knees, picture dangling from his hand.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know him. Nick Hardin. He’s dead?”

“We don’t know. He’s missing.”

Fenn blew out a breath. “Look, you guys obviously know what went down with him and me or you wouldn’t be here. But I really don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t seen Hardin since, well -” Fenn held up the picture “- since this.”

“Yeah,” Lynch said, “we saw the clip on Oprah, you and Hardin. And now both of you are in town. Curious, you know?”

Fenn nodded for a long time, not like he’s agreeing with Lynch but like he’s agreeing with some conversation in his head.

“I can see you guys coming to talk to me,” Fenn said. “But I really got nothing for you. Honest to God, last time I saw Fenn, he was busting my nose. And I had it coming.” A sigh, a pause. “Look, you guys, you got real jobs, so I don’t expect you’re keeping up with People magazine, don’t know what you’ve heard about me lately. I’ve been a dick most of my life. I’m trying to get in front of that now. The shit I pulled on Hardin, back in Darfur? What can I say? I took the spotlight off the benefit there. God knows what that cost the poor SOBs in support. And this Hardin guy? He lost his gig over my shit. Seemed like a stand-up guy. If he ended up in something desperate, I mean on account of me, then I gotta carry that too, you know?”

Fenn looked up, eyes filling.

Lynch nodded. “How about Tony Corsco? You talk to him?”

“What makes you think I’d be talking to him?”

“Because he sent his lawyer to brace you at the Hawks game last night. Gerry Ringwald. I saw you two chatting. You didn’t look real happy.”

Another nod from Fenn, a weak smile. “Your town, right? Gotta figure you’d have it wired. And I gotta learn that my shit is all gonna come back on me. Gotta stop trying to step out of the way.”

Fenn got up, went to a fridge at the back of the trailer, pulled out a bottled water. “You guys want anything? All I got is water and juice, trying to stay away from the booze for a bit.”

Lynch shook his head.

“OK,” Fenn said. “Tony Corsco. I made another picture here a while back, Cal Sag Channel? You guys see that?”

Lynch shook his head again.

“Anyway, it was a mob pic, and we had Tony in as, I dunno, kind of a consultant, I guess. What I heard, also he maybe had some money in the picture. Anyway, me and Tony, we hit it off pretty good. This was back in my asshole days, OK? Seemed like a safe source of coke, knew places in town where you could… well, let’s just say misbehave. He likes the ladies. I’m ashamed to say, a couple of the girls working the picture – not the A-list talent, you know, but the kids with two lines, trying to break in, the ones who got hired on their looks, think they’re gonna grow up to be Meryl Streep? They see me hanging with Tony, and Tony’s making his play on them, and I’m going along with it – not exactly saying it’s gonna help them out, you know? But not saying it isn’t, either. Anyway, I know he did at least a few of them. And he came out to LA a couple of times, looked me up, we’d party, girls would see us…” Fenn looked up. “I really need to go on?”