Текст книги "Greed"
Автор книги: Dan O'Shea
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
CHAPTER 29
Lynch was at the UC with Reagan, watched the last couple players skate off the ice before the anthem. Lynch’d always been a baseball guy, a Wrigley guy. Besides, the Wirtz family had acted like such dicks for so long, who wanted to put any coin in their pockets?
Lynch hadn’t been to a Hawks game in years. Back when they sucked, you could get in at the old stadium cheap. But old man Wirtz finally died, the Hawks got their organizational heads out of their asses and won the Stanley Cup. Now they were a tough ticket.
Seats were halfway up the mezzanine. Reagan had some fancy-ass camera, some kind of digital SLR rig with a big zoom on it. He was pretty good with it. With newspapers cutting back everywhere, being good with a camera was one more way to keep yourself employed.
Lynch noticed a bit of a commotion up in one of the luxury boxes on the other side of the stadium. Thought somebody looked familiar.
“Hey, can I borrow the camera a second?” he asked.
Reagan handed it to him. He looked up at the booth, cranked the zoom.
Shamus Fenn. Couple other people Lynch knew, too. Davis, one of the old-line aldermen, guy that was always on the edge of every new corruption probe and somehow always ended up not being in the indictment. Couple of union big shots. Some young looker was chatting up Fenn, running her hand up his arm. Another guy was standing next to her, looking pissed – guy she’d come with, probably. Then somebody grabbed Fenn by the arm, pulled him aside. Lynch couldn’t see who it was – the looker and her date were in the way, having words. Whoever had grabbed Fenn had his back to Lynch. Shorter guy, in a suit. Whatever this was about, Fenn didn’t look happy. Finally, the suit guy turned to leave and Lynch caught his profile.
Lynch clicked the shutter, hoping it worked. Damn camera had more buttons and knobs on it than the space shuttle.
“How can I tell if I got anything?” Lynch asked.
Reagan took the camera, brought the shot up on the screen. Fenn and the suit, clear enough.
“Shamus Fenn and Gerry Ringwald,” Reagan said. He lifted the camera, squeezed off some more shots. “Jesus, Davis, some of Corsco’s union buddies. It’s like an asshole convention up there.”
“Yeah,” Lynch said.
“You get an asshole convention, somebody ends up with shit on them.”
Lynch didn’t say anything, but he was thinking about Fenn turning up in that video with this Hardin fuck, about him turning up here now with some mob lawyer, about the dead mob guys down at South Shore.
“You got an interest here?” Reagan asked.
Lynch didn’t have any kind of off-the-record deal with Reagan. “Watch the damn game,” he said.
“I bet if I looked like Johnson, you’d have an interest.”
Lynch just smiled.
CHAPTER 30
Bahram Lafitpour twirled the wine in the glass, took a deep sniff, and then shook his head at the sommelier.
“I’m afraid we’ll need another bottle,” he said. “This is a little corky.”
The sommelier kept a straight face, which impressed Munroe. He wasn’t sure which bottle Lafitpour had ordered exactly, some kind of Bordeaux, but in the quick look he’d had at the wine list, he hadn’t seen anything much under $300 a bottle, and had seen more than a few that went for four figures. Lafitpour was a four-figure kind of guy.
“It is an earthy vintage, sir. Perhaps you’d care to taste it first?”
Lafitpour looked up at the man with a thin smile that shriveled Munroe’s sack just a little. Lafitpour was still a scary bastard.
“The scent was proof enough. I don’t need to taint my palate. But if you doubt my judgment, you are free to taste it.”
The sommelier raised the glass, sniffed, took a small sip, set the glass back on the table and made a disapproving face. “You are correct, sir. Of course. A new bottle, immediately.”
Lafitpour nodded at the glass. “And a new glass.”
The sommelier took the glass and scurried off.
“Never actually seen that done before,” said Munroe. “Anybody sending the wine back.”
“The wine wasn’t spoiled, but it wasn’t the 1982 I ordered, either. Eighty-two was a banner year, which is why they can charge that ridiculous price for it. They saved a label from one of the few bottles of the ’82 they’ve actually sold and swapped it out for a bottle from an inferior year. Your average tech geek looking to impress some girl he could never hope to bed without his money will order it to show off for the lass and never know the difference. He’ll like the poorer year better anyway. Not as aggressive, a little less tannic, more suited to his pedestrian tastes. I suppose I could have just accused them of fraud, but that would have caused a scene and we would likely have been asked to leave. He now knows I know, I’ve saved him the embarrassment of calling him on his little charade, and he will bring the proper bottle.”
Munroe shook his head a little. “You haven’t changed much, Bahram.”
Lafitpour shrugged. “A little older, a little wiser.”
“And considerably richer.”
The thin smile again. “Oh, considerably.”
Munroe had first seen Lafitpour in Tehran in 1978. Lafitpour was a rising star in SAVAK, the Shah’s notorious secret police, and Munroe was an unofficial liaison trying to help the Shah stuff the Islamic revolution toothpaste back in the tube. The demonstrations and strikes had already hit critical mass, though. It was clear the Peacock Throne was circling the drain.
But Lafitpour had built an impressive string of assets throughout the country, so Munroe greased the skids on getting him out. The mullahs would end up running the joint, but Uncle Sam would still want some ears on the ground. Lafitpour had settled in Chicago and made a huge fortune in the hedge fund business, huge even by hedge fund standards. There’d been some noise about his methods, but Lafitpour was careful, and he had friends in the right places. Munroe was one of them. Given the Iranian involvement in Munroe’s current situation, Lafitpour had been one of his first calls when he hit town. Munroe asked him to keep his ears up. Not that Lafitpour had called back.
The sommelier returned with the new bottle. Lafitpour went through the necessary ritual, nodded his approval, the sommelier poured the wine and left. Munroe took a sip. He could see Lafitpour’s point on the aggressive business. Munroe was sure it was great wine, but he expected that he and the tech geek would both have been happier with a cheap Merlot.
“Your friend with the diamonds,” Lafitpour said, “this Hardin? The Russians have been in touch. He’s looking to sell and they’d like me to front the deal. They are offering $20 million, of which I will keep five. So fifteen on your friend’s end.”
“Probably better than Stein offered,” Munroe said.
“Probably.”
“When?”
“I met Hardin this afternoon to check his sample and offer terms. I assumed you would still need some time to make your arrangements, so I scheduled the exchange for the day after tomorrow at my office.”
Munroe nodded. “So we can grab Hardin then. Want to add a little wrinkle, though. Suppose you actually made the deal, this Russian money, where’s it going to look like it came from?”
Lafitpour smiled his thin smile again. “The money will have bounced through several wire transfers at dependable banks in various countries where secrecy is still taken seriously, despite the Justice Department’s recent best efforts. It will appear to have come from thin air.”
“What if I want it to look like it came from somewhere else?’
“Such as?”
“What if I wanted to make it look like it came from Jamie Hernandez?”
“The cartels?”
Munroe nodded.
Lafitpour shrugged. “They are cursed with cash. Of the curses one can have, that’s among the best, of course, but it does complicate their lives. They run so much currency through so many laundries that those of us in the financial game have a pretty good idea of who has been washing what, and where. Yes, I can make the money appear to have come from Hernandez.”
Munroe thought it through. They had the video on al Din; they’d have the diamonds; they’d have Hardin, who could either recite the right lines or his corpse could offer the mute testimony of Munroe’s choosing. It was moving faster than he would have liked. It would be nice to have al Din in the pot too, but Munroe had long since learned about birds in the hand. You have one, you give it a good squeeze, crush the son of a bitch. Hold a live bird in your hand too long, the thing will shit in your palm and fly away. This was probably as good as it was going to get.
“OK,” Munroe said. “I’ll start clipping loose ends. This will have to get official quick though. I need a public face, a behind-the-podium guy. Somebody who can wrap this whole thing up tight in a flag and make the press salute it. This is your town. Suggestions?”
“Alex Hickman. New US attorney in town.”
“He our kind of boy?”
“I have regular dealings with Mr Hickman and have contributed substantially to the political coffers he won’t admit to having as of yet. He’s proven most useful running interference when the SEC gets a little nosy. He is our kind of boy.”
“Can you set up a meet?”
“Lunch at my home tomorrow, shall we say one?”
“You don’t have to check with him?”
Lafitpour smiled. “Once a dog is sufficiently well trained, you no longer have to check when you say come.” Lafitpour took another sip of the wine. “One question. If this is all going to be pitched as some drugs-funding-terrorism deal, could you arrange the snatch at a location other than my office? It would reflect poorly on my business.”
Munroe’s turn to smile. “But why, my friend? You have been working undercover in association with elements of US intelligence for months helping to set up this breakthrough in the War on Terror and the War on Drugs. You will provide the inside knowledge concerning how Al Qaeda, Iran and the cartels are cooperating in their money movement and money laundering. You are an American hero, an Iranian immigrant showing your gratitude to this great nation that is the font of your fortune. Just the sort of guy, when the shit hits the fan and we destabilize the Khamenei regime, state might look at to head over to Tehran and run the place, after the free and fair elections, of course.”
“Of course,” Lafitpour said. “I’d forgotten. But I still take my five million.”
“Fine,” said Munroe. “But you pay for dinner, I can’t afford the wine.”
In the cab back to the hotel, Munroe’s phone pinged – dossier on Tony Corsco. Thought on that a minute. If everything went according to plan, they should have Hardin in the bag within forty-eight hours. But sometimes things didn’t go according to plan. Besides, this business with Hardin and Corsco, it had to be about the diamonds, and Munroe needed to know what kind of word was floating around out there, make sure there were no stray narratives in the mix on game day. Anyway, there was no such thing as too much information or too many assets. So he’d set up a meet with this Corsco fuck. Dossier had a lawyer’s name – Ringwald. Work it through him, make it easier. Munroe figured if he gave the lawyer a sniff of his bona fides, it would grease the skids. And he’d had to lean on the mob before– that Carmelo dick out in New York – so he could play that card if he needed it.
CHAPTER 31
Wilson and Hardin barely made it in the door of her condo. She turned to Hardin, clasped her hands behind his neck, her mouth covering his like it was the only way she could breathe. And then she was opening his shirt, and he was reaching for her belt. When he undid it, the weight of the S&W in the hip holster pulled her pants to the floor, the gun hitting the tile with a thunk, and Hardin said, “Jesus, I hope the safety is on.”
Wilson pulled back for a moment – her eyes on his, sad all of a sudden and a little afraid – and he could see that this was no time for jokes, that she couldn’t take it, not if this didn’t mean to him what it meant to her.
Then his own pants were dropping, and they were both just flesh. She was unfolding herself like a Cubist sculpture, all of her surfaces – thighs, crotch, stomach, chest, mouth – pressing against him desperately, like she wanted somehow for every square inch of her flesh to press against every square inch of his. He felt the naked admission of her hunger, and he remembered all the other women – a girl in high school, the Marine groupies outside Camp Lejeune, a couple of African girls, the Peace Corps volunteer in Lagos, the economics student from the Sorbonne who he imagined for a time he might have loved – and realized that he had been nude with women before but that he had never been naked. He had never surrendered his distance. He had made love from behind his mental battlements, like a sniper, and this time it would be hand-to-hand, mouth-to-mouth. This time it would cost him a piece of himself.
Then they fell onto her bed, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her feet pressing down onto his buttocks like hands, and she was already wet and hot and open and he was stripped of every pretense, any idea beyond this moment. He felt himself being drawn into her as if he could somehow spill not just his seed but his entire person into her, and he knew this was the beginning of a private religion. It was the moment in which they became each other’s gods.
When they were finished, they both lay on their backs, separate, no longer touching. And then she rolled over, and she took his face in her hands, and she kissed him gently, but for a long time.
“Last time you kissed me like that you were saying goodbye,” said Hardin.
“I’m not going anywhere this time,” she said, rolling off the bed and standing up. “Just to the john.”
Hardin watched her cross the room, the dim light leaking through the Venetian blinds, falling in stripes across her back like the contour lines on a map. Hardin held it in his mind, knowing what a perfect ass would look like if you ever mapped one. He felt the sheen of sweat drying on his skin. All of it turning in his mind, the perfect satisfaction of this moment, the lost years, her brother’s ghost.
Then she came back to him, lying on the bed, no effort to cover her nakedness, her head on his shoulder like a part of him that had been missing his entire life.
He’d told her all of it – Fenn, the blackballing, the diamonds, and everything else from all the lost years. And she told him. Hernandez never came for her. She was just another puta. Her parents had both died within a year, after Esteban. They never came back from that. She couldn’t stand to look at the town anymore. She got in her car one day, started west on 88, turned south on 35 at Des Moines. The car broke down in Wichita. She got a job waitressing, started taking classes at Wichita State, married a guy with a heating and air conditioning business. People couldn’t live without their AC in Wichita. She graduated with a Criminal Justice degree at WSU, hired on with the Wichita PD. Her husband felt emasculated having a cop for a wife, and the marriage came apart pretty quick, mostly because she really didn’t care. She was Jeanette Wilson by then, though. Five years later, she joined the DEA in Texas, three years there, lots of violence, too much violence, had been shipped up to Chicago two years ago.
“You were probably supposed to tell them, huh?” said Hardin. “About Hernandez?”
“Yeah.”
“Any reason you didn’t?”
A pause. “Options, I guess. I always figured there might come a day where things could go one way or the other. And if they went a certain way, maybe it would be better for me if a review board wasn’t pawing through my baggage.”
“Pretty sure you’re supposed to tell them about me, too.”
“Pretty sure.”
He ran his hand across her face, brushing her hair aside. She kissed his palm.
“So where do we go from here?” she asked.
“South Pacific, Tahiti, in around there. Lots of places down there where my French papers will fit in good. Especially when I’ve got $15 million to go with them.”
She ran her hand over his chest, it resting right over his heart, her fingers curling an uncurling through the hairs on his chest. “Beach bums, huh? Not going to get boring? After the Legion and everything?”
“I’m willing to give it a try,” he said. “We can always look up the local DGSE guys; go sink a Greenpeace boat or something. If we get bored.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment.
“But after we kill Hernandez,” she said.
“Right,” said Hardin. “After that.”
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 32
In Starshak’s office the next morning, Lynch filled them in on Fenn, Ringwald, the scene at the hockey game.
“Puts Fenn back on the front burner,” said Starshak.
“Yeah,” said Lynch. “There’s more. Remember that gangster thing they filmed down on the south side maybe seven, eight years back? Cal Sag Channel?”
Bernstein nodded. “One of Fenn’s first big pictures.”
“Guess who’s listed as a script consultant,” Lynch said.
Starshak snorted. “You’re gonna tell me Corsco, right?”
Lynch nodded. “Word is Fenn and Corsco, they got pretty tight. With all the chicks hanging around Fenn, he’d get Corsco pussy, and Corsco would keep Fenn in coke.”
“Nice symbiotic relationship,” said Bernstein
“So maybe this Corsco thing with Hardin? Payback from Fenn out of that Africa bullshit?”
Starshak shook his head. “Big shot celebrity like Fenn taking out a mob hit over some bad PR? Guy’s got to have serious snakes in his head to take that kind of risk.”
Lynch shrugged. “Weird-ass shit for sure. You got something else that ties Corsco to Hardin, I’m all ears. But Hardin and Fenn, so far as we can tell, they’ve intersected exactly once and some famous crap happened. Now we got them in the same town at the same time again, and we’ve got crap happening again.”
“Occam’s razor,” Bernstein said.
Starshak gave him a blank look.
“Occam was a medieval philosopher. He posited that the simplest explanation for any given set of facts is usually the best explanation, even if it seems unlikely. Hardin and Fenn have a history. Fenn’s got a reputation as a hot head. Fenn knows Corsco. Corsco made a play for Hardin.”
“Just seems so fucking stupid,” Starshak said.
“Imagine that,” Lynch said. “Hollywood types acting stupid.”
Starshak grunted. “So check it out. Something else to rattle Corsco’s cage with anyway. Speaking of which, you talk to him on this South Shore business yet?”
Lynch shook his head. “He’s ducking us. Lawyer says he’s out of town.”
“OK, you brace Fenn,” said Starshak. “I’ll call Ringwald, put a boot up his ass, tell him he doesn’t get Corsco to show up soon, we’ll go for a subpoena.”
“Another thing we haven’t thought enough about,” said Bernstein. “This second guy, Mr .22.”
Starshak nodded again. “Ideas?”
“Refugee makes it Africa,” said Lynch, “and that makes it Hardin. Except this guy is shooting everybody but Hardin.”
“Which, if Hardin really has some diamonds, maybe makes it about the diamonds,” said Bernstein.
“What do we know about those?” Starshak asked.
“Checked on it a little,” said Bernstein. “The conflict diamond issue was way bigger ten, fifteen years back when the civil war in Liberia was still going good – how a lot of those guys got money for their weapons. Your mainstream diamond guys – De Beers, the Russians and whatnot – they put this certification system in place. Kimberley Certificates, to cut down on the black-market business. So if Hardin has uncertified diamonds, he’d have to work through an insider to get them into the system.”
“Was Stein an insider?” Starshak asked.
“His family started out in diamonds, back in New York. A lot of Jews in that business,” Bernstein said. “He’d know people.”
“But how did Hardin know Stein?” asked Lynch.
Bernstein shrugged. “Don’t know. Stein, he was real tight with Israel, traveled there a lot. Hardin, we know he was in the Middle East with the Marines. But we don’t know what he was up to for quite a while after that.”
“So one way or another, Hardin got some rocks off of somebody,” said Starshak. “And this .22 guy, maybe he’s trying to get them back?”
“Something’s still off,” said Lynch. “Hardin had just left Stein when Mr.22 showed up and popped him. And Hardin had just been down at South Shore when Mr .22 shows up there, pops another guy. He’s after Hardin, how come he’s following him around, shooting everybody else?”
“Don’t know,” said Bernstein. “One other thing? On the diamonds? You’ve had Lebanese merchants all over Northern Africa for centuries, and they’ve always been active in the diamond business. Hezbollah, guys like that – a lot of them are out of Lebanon.”
Starshak rubbed his face with both hands for a minute, blew out a long breath. “So we got Stein, who’s tight with Israel. We got maybe some terrorist types, who don’t like Israel. And got this Hardin guy with a big hole in his history.”
“Yep,” said Bernstein.
A little pause.
“That philosophy razor of yours, you got anyway to shave this down?”
Bernstein shook his head.
