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?”
“You need to tell me why Corsco’s got his mouthpiece bracing you at the Hawk’s game, yeah,” Lynch said.
Fenn nodded. “We set up here for this shoot, and I start getting the calls from Tony. And I’m not returning them. I mean, I’m trying not to be who I was; I don’t need Tony Corsco in my life. Guess I should have at least called him back, though. This guy last night, what did you say his name was? He didn’t introduce himself.”
“Ringwald,” Lynch said.
“OK,” said Fenn. “He’s at that box – local guys with money in the picture – he pulls me aside, asks me who the fuck do I think I am not returning Tony Corsco’s calls. I should have manned up, talked to the guy, I guess. Anyway, this Ringwald, I told him, I was out of that shit. I told him to tell Tony.”
Fenn looking up now, the tears again, holding Lynch’s eyes. Lynch thinking that you could put this guy on a box and he’d flatline the sucker. That right at this moment, Fenn probably actually believed this shit.
“See, what I was thinking?” Lynch said. “This Darfur thing? You took quite a beating over that. Got to thinking maybe you blame Hardin. Maybe you see Hardin here in town. Maybe you think a guy like Corsco, he could even up the score for you.”
Fenn sighed. “One thing I’ve learned through all this, I can’t help what people think. And some of the shit I’ve done? People are going to think some bad stuff. I’m a changed man, Detective. You believe, you don’t, nothing I can do about that.”
“You don’t really know much about Hardin, do you?” said Bernstein.
“Just that he was Jerry Mooney’s fixer over in Darfur,” said Fenn.
“Before that, he was in the Marines for two tours, including Gulf War I, scout sniper. Know about scout snipers?” Bernstein asked.
“What we hear, the French Foreign Legion after that,” added Lynch. “Those are some bad-ass boys, too. And we know this. Guy named Stein got shot at Chicago Stadium the other night. Hardin’s the last guy we know who saw Stein alive. We also know two of Corsco’s soldiers picked up Hardin. They were armed, he wasn’t. He killed one of them with a ballpoint pen. He disarmed the other guy and bounced rocks off him for a while before that guy got shot. Gotta figure he knew who they were working for before he was done. So this Hardin? He gets the same ideas about you that I got, it may not matter much if he’s right.”
Fenn’s head down again. “You reap what you sow. Still learning that, Detective.” He looked up again. “Is there anything else?”
“Not for now,” Lynch said. “Just hope if I come back here it isn’t to look at your corpse.”
After the cops left the trailer, Fenn got up, walked to the fridge, and pulled out another water bottle, the one he kept full of Ketel One. Hands shaking a little as he sat back down on his couch, he took off the top. Jesus. That fucker Hardin.
CHAPTER 35
Alex Hickman dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin that felt like it had twice the thread count of his shirts – and he spent a lot on his shirts. He always felt a little like a hick with Lafitpour. Couldn’t figure why, except that Lafitpour had more money than God.
“Wonderful meal, Bahram. Unusual. Never had anything like that before,” said Hickman. Some kind of chicken thing, cherries in it, some kind of spice that Hickman couldn’t place. Good, but a little odd. Hickman was more a T-bone and martini guy.
“Albaloo polow,” said Lafitpour. “My granddaughter is learning some of the recipes of my youth. A touch heavy on the saffron, but she is learning.”
The other guy, Munroe, tossed his napkin on the table, leaned back in his chair. “Well, she’s getting it down, Bahram. Pretty sure the Shah served this once at a little shindig I was at in ’78, and it was just as good this time.”
“She did well,” said Hickman. “How is Hilary?” He’d heard rumors, maybe a suicide attempt, some kind of health crisis. She had been in and out of the dining room of Lafitpour’s condo, serving the meal, clearing the plates. Hickman found that a little odd, given the size of the staff Lafitpour had. She used to be a fixture on the Chicago party scene, little Paris Hilton streak in her. Then this incident, whatever it was, maybe a year back. And now here she was, serving dinner.
“Thank you for asking, Alex,” answered Lafitpour without answering. Hickman knew better than to press. You could talk to Lafitpour all day, leave not knowing what month it was.
Lafitpour raised his voice slightly, said something in Persian. Hilary brought in a new bottle of wine, poured a sample for her grandfather, waited for his nod, then poured a glass for Hickman and Lafitpour before retreating to the kitchen.
“Shiraz,” said Lafitpour. “I am partial to this vintner.”
“It’s very good,” said Hickman.
“Shiraz is named for the Persian city, did you know?”
“No.”
“We have been making wine in Persia for more than seven thousand years,” said Lafitpour.
“Probably not so much anymore,” said Hickman. “I mean with the Ayatollahs and all.”
Lafitpour’s eyes flashed a little, just a hint. “One of the benefits of a culture seventy centuries old is the ability to take the long view. You Americans, always so impatient. These Arabs and their religion, probably visions Mohammad had in a fever after catching a disease from sleeping with his camels. Look at them. More than a century of oil wealth now for these ridiculous herdsman, and they have done nothing. Their countries make no products, develop no technologies, contribute no knowledge. They can’t even run their own oil fields. They have to pay foreigners to do it for them. All they have done is build palaces to hold their egos and use their religion to make slaves of their women. Take their oil away, they will be back living in tents and fighting over their patches of sand in a decade.”
Hickman let that ride, took in the view of the lakefront, sweeping south toward the Loop. Lafitpour had the top two floors in one of the best addresses on Lake Shore Drive. Hickman knew he was here for a reason, and that Lafitpour would get to it when he got to it.