Читать книгу The Inside Ring - Mike Lawson - Страница 7

The receptionist – Boston-bred, fiftysomething, hard and bright as stainless steel – arched a disapproving eyebrow at DeMarco as he entered Mahoney’s offices.

‘You’re late,’ she said. ‘And he’s in a mood today.’

‘So since I’m late I guess that means I can go right in,’ DeMarco said.

The receptionist was married to a successful accountant, a very nice man, very slim and neat and considerate. On those rare occasions they made love she fantasized about burly Italian construction workers. She used to fantasize about black men with washboard abs and shaved heads but the last few months it had been men who looked like DeMarco: dark hair, blue eyes, a Travolta dimple in his chin – and arms and shoulders made for wife-beater undershirts. However, fantasy man or not, she didn’t approve of tardiness – or flippancy.

‘No, you can take a seat,’ the receptionist said, flashing a brittle smile, ‘and in a few minutes, after I finish my tea, I’ll tell him you’re here. Then he’ll make you wait twenty more minutes while he talks to important people on the phone.’

DeMarco knew better than to protest. He took a seat as directed and pulled a copy of People magazine from the stack on the coffee table in front of him. He was addicted to Hollywood gossip but would have died under torture before admitting it.

Thirty minutes later he entered Mahoney’s office. Mahoney was on the phone wrapping up a one-sided conversation. ‘Don’t fuck with me, son,’ Mahoney was saying. ‘You get contrary on this thing, this time next year, the only way you’ll see the Capitol will be from one of them double-decker buses. Now vote like I told ya and quit telling me about promises you never shoulda made in the first place.’

Mahoney slammed down the phone, muttered ‘Dipshit,’ then aimed his watery blue eyes at DeMarco.

‘You see Flattery?’ Mahoney asked.

DeMarco took an unmarked envelope from the inside breast pocket of his suit and handed it to Mahoney. DeMarco didn’t know what was in the envelope; he made a point of not knowing what was in the envelopes he brought Mahoney. Mahoney sliced open the envelope and took out a piece of paper the size and shape of a check. He glanced at the paper, grunted in either annoyance or satisfaction, and shoved the paper into the middle drawer of his desk.

‘And the Whittacker broad?’ Mahoney asked.

‘She’ll testify at the hearing.’

‘What did you have to give her?’

‘My word that I wouldn’t tell her husband who she’s been sleeping with.’

‘That’s all it took?’

‘She signed a prenup.’

‘Ah,’ Mahoney said. Greed never surprised him – nor did any other human frailty. ‘So those bastards at Stock Options R Us will spend eighteen months in a country club prison, the guys who lost their pensions will eat Hamburger Helper for the rest of their lives, and her, she’ll get her fuckin’ picture on Time as whistle-blower of the year. Jesus.’

DeMarco shrugged. There was only so much you could do.

‘You need anything else?’ he asked Mahoney.

‘Yeah, I want you to …’ Mahoney stopped speaking, derailed by his addictions. He reignited a half-smoked cigar then reached for a large Stanley thermos on the credenza behind his desk. The thermos was battered and scarred and covered with stick-on labels from labor unions. Mahoney poured from the thermos and the smell of fresh coffee and old bourbon filled the room.

As Mahoney sipped his morning toddy DeMarco studied the bundle of contradictions that sat large before him. Mahoney was an alcoholic but a highly functional one; few people accomplished sober what he had managed in his cups. He was a serial adulterer yet deeply in love with his wife of forty years. He stretched soft-money laws like rubber bands and took tribute from lobbyists as his royal due, and yet he was the best friend the common man had on Capitol Hill. John Fitzpatrick Mahoney was Speaker of the House of Representatives and only the vice president stood between him and the Oval Office should the President fall. DeMarco doubted the authors had Mahoney in mind when they penned the Twenty-fifth Amendment.

The Speaker was DeMarco’s height, almost six feet, but DeMarco always felt small standing next to him. Mahoney had a heavy chest and a heavier gut, and created the impression of a man perfectly balanced, impossible to rush, fluster, or inflame. His hair was white and very full, his complexion ruddy red, and his eyes sky blue, the whites perpetually veined with red. His features were all large and well formed: strong nose, jutting jaw, full lips, broad forehead. It was a face that projected strength, dignity, and intelligence – it was a face that got a man elected to a national office every two years.

Mahoney swallowed his laced coffee and said, ‘I want you to go see Andy Banks.’

‘The Homeland Security guy?’

‘Yeah. He needs help with something.’

‘What?’

‘I dunno. We were at this thing last night and he said he had a problem. Something personal. He says somebody told him I had a guy who could look into things.’

DeMarco nodded. That was him: a guy who looked into things.

‘Go see him this morning. He’s expecting you.’

‘What about that problem in Trenton?’

‘It’ll wait. Go see Banks.’