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HARRINGTON DELIVERS THE NEWS as casually as if he’s giving us the latest baseball scores.

“If they did it, why’d they do it?” I ask.

“Oh, they did it,” Harrington says. “Your client hated his father as much as his own kid hates him now.”

“What about McKenzie?” Jimmy asks.

Harrington points at his now empty glass. Jimmy ignores him. Harrington then tries to get the attention of Kenny the bartender, but Kenny turns and walks to the other end of the bar.

Paul Harrington shrugs.

“Both of them have had screws loose for a long time, what can I tell you?” Harrington says. “And McKenzie knew his old man would make it all go away the way he always had before.”

“Because his old man had you,” Jimmy says. He looks curious now. “Jesus, how many pockets are you in, Harrington?”

“It’s a big club, what can I tell you?” he says.

“So you arranged to send your boys over to stage the scene and make it look like a murder-suicide,” I say.

“May those boys rest in peace,” he says, putting his hands together in prayer.

We were talking about Joe Champi and Anthony Licata, former cops and former NYPD partners until they ended up in Paul Harrington’s pocket.

“You just let those two kids get away with murder,” I say.

“I looked at it as a practical matter, one that opened up a world of possibilities for me and the boys on my team,” Harrington says. “Your client is rich as shit. McKenzie’s old man, that old pervert, is even richer. I had other side hustles going before that day. But not like that one.”

He touches his glass again. “I’d really like one more drink.”

I get up and walk over to Kenny and order another glass of Jack Daniel’s and bring it back, just as a way of keeping him talking.

From the start, both Jimmy and I thought the murder of Rob Jacobson’s father and his young mistress was the beginning of the story, one that included old money and young girls and dirty cops and the mob, a story that kept shape-shifting, almost on a daily basis.

“So what,” I say, sliding Harrington’s drink across the table, “Eric and McKenzie work for you the way you work for Sonny Blum?”

“Who’s Sonny Blum?” Harrington says.

“You ought to know,” Jimmy says. “You’re his bitch, bitch .”

Harrington shakes his head.

“If you couldn’t make an arrest stick,” Harrington says, “you think you can insult me?”

“I’m confused about something,” I say now. “If you’ve been in business with Rob Jacobson as long as you say you have, why would you send somebody to kill us? Me especially. I’m the one who’s trying to help him beat another murder rap.”

“It wasn’t me who sent Licata,” Harrington says.

Now Jimmy is the one who looks tired. “We heard you on the phone, remember?”

“I was just the messenger on that,” Harrington says.

“Taking orders from Sonny?”

“Who?” Harrington asks again.

“So now you’re the messenger again,” I say. “Telling us to lay off Eric Jacobson and Eddie McKenzie.”

“They still have value to us,” he says. “Your client does not.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” I ask.

Harrington stands. “We’re done here,” he says. “But we have a deal, correct?”

“No,” I say. “As a matter of fact, we don’t.”

“What?” he says.

“No deal.”

Then I put up a hand.

“What I meant to say is no deal, you sonofabitch.”

“That’s not what you said a few minutes ago,” Harrington says.

“Well, what can I tell you, Lieutenant? I lied.”

I smile at him one last time.

“So shoot me,” I say.