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By Root 736 0

‘rabbi’—the man who brought him in—was a legendary detective named Nathaniel Parish. The two had grown up together in a rough neighborhood on the fringes of North Philadelphia. Each had taken his separate career path until they met up one night nine years ago when Hardie came back to the old neighborhood and found himself at war with a drug gang on a witness-intimidation kick. By the time Parish arrived at the scene, Hardie was in a rowhome, surrounded by bodies, drenched in blood that was not his own, having tea with the owner of that rowhome—an eighty-four-year-old witness to an arson/torture/murder. They were talking about the old days, Hardie even chuckling, despite the carnage around him. Parish arrested him, but all records of the arrest were destroyed. In exchange, Hardie agreed to work with Parish. And in Philadelphia, there was much work to be done.

“I’ve got most of their secret case files,” Factboy said. “You could write a series of novels based on these damned things.”

This highly illegal strange partnership, born of a massacre in the heart of the city, came to an end in another massacre—almost three years ago to the day. “I told you all about that thing,” Factboy said. “His origin story, if you will.”

“Uh-huh.”

“In the aftermath, it was left to a fed named Deacon Clark to pick up the pieces. He helped Hardie’s family go ghost and acted as a conduit between husband and wife. Whatever money Hardie made as a house sitter, he sent the bulk of it to his family.”

“We can get to the family,” Mann said. “We have their address.”

“Uh,” Factboy said, “that address turned out to be Clark’s home. I haven’t been able to dig up the real address yet.”

“You will. And if not you, somebody else.”

Factboy didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit. He deided to change the subject slightly.

“There’s something else.”

“Right,” Mann said. “The thing I won’t believe.”

“Well, before he hooked up with Parish and became this unofficial gunslinger guy for the cops? Charles Hardie didn’t exist. Not for, oh, ten years. We have birth records, vaccinations, grade school, high school… and then nothing. No military, no taxes, nothing. They’ve made it look like these records were destroyed in a flood, but it’s impossible to have nothing for a ten-year period.”

“You’re right. It is impossible.”

“Not for lack of trying, I’m telling you.”

“Forget that for now. I don’t care about what he did ten years ago. I want to know what he’s going to do now. Who he’ll call when he’s in trouble. This Deacon Clark sounds like the man.”

“Agreed,” said Factboy. “Which is why I’m already tapping his phones, e-mail, both at home and at the office.”

Outside, one of his kids—Factboy really couldn’t tell which one when they were being this loud—shrieked and slammed something heavy into the side of the house.

23

The tougher they are, the more fun they are, tra la.

—Rudy Bond, Nightfall

THEY SAT there for a few more minutes, Hardie staring down into his drink, Lane chewing on a roll, unable to bring herself to swallow it. The bread tasted synthetic. She spit the small chunk out into a napkin and sipped some water instead.

More people were staring now. Cell phones coming out, total strangers snapping more pics. Coming here to Musso & Frank was simultaneously going to save her life and ruin her career. But there was such a thing as going too far.

“You’re right,” Lane said. “We should go.”

Hardie nodded.

Lane reached out, touched his hand.

“Please say something.”

“Are you up for a little acting?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you pretend you’re trying to score?”

“What—why?”

“Just follow my lead when we reach the parking lot.”

Hardie stood up. Lane stood up, shaky, ankle really hurting now that she’d had a little while to rest it. Hardie moved toward the front entrance, but Lane quickly hooked his arm and pulled him in the other direction. “It’s back that way.” She allowed Hardie to take the lead, and he wound his way through the dining area and past another bar until he reached the back of the restaurant, which opened up into a valet-parking