House Odds

by Lawson, Mike

  As DeMarco was leaving, he heard Mahoney scream at his middle daughter: “How in the fuck could you do something like this?”

  He almost felt sorry for Molly again.

  31

  The same day DeMarco met with Ted Allen in Atlantic City, subpoenas, as Attorney Daniel Caine had promised, were delivered to five people.

  The subpoenas asked Douglas Campbell, Richard Praeter, and Russell McGrath to provide tax returns and other financial records going back seven years.

  Mrs. Martin of PNC Financial was directed to provide all ­documentation—including tape recordings, should there be any—­associated with Mrs. Campbell’s trust.

  And lastly, Kay Kiser of the Securities and Exchange Commission was ordered to produce all records generated in the last twenty years related to SEC investigations associated in any way with Reston Technologies. In addition, she was ordered to provide any files she had concerning Misters Campbell, Praeter, and McGrath.

  All the people subpoenaed acted differently.

  Pretty Mrs. Martin smiled, tossed the subpoena in her out box with a brief note attached, and then went back to the account she was working on.

  Kay Kiser went to her gym and kickboxed a punching bag for an hour.

  Richard Praeter threw a coffee mug at a wall in his office, putting a small dent in the plasterboard.

  Douglas Campbell screamed at his wife and got very drunk—but then he did that almost every night.

  Rusty McGrath sat on the bow of his yacht, enjoying the sunset, humming a Kenny Rogers song.

  32

  U.S. Supreme Court Justice Stanley Brandon was eighty-four years old and dying of cancer. He’d been dying for two years. The last time Mahoney had seen the man, Brandon had looked like an anatomy-class skeleton covered with a thin layer of brittle parchment. He had to be wheeled into his office each day, couldn’t stand without someone helping him, and couldn’t sit at the bench for more than a couple of hours before he had to be taken back to his chambers for medications and a nap. And for two years, half of Brandon’s time had been spent getting chemo or radiation or just sitting in a hospital bed stubbornly battling death. But would he resign so a sprightly youngster of sixty-five could take his place? No way. He had a lifetime appointment and, by God, and he was going to stay for life.

  Today, however, word had come that Brandon was finally on his way to meet that Big Judge in the sky. The head doc at Walter Reed had personally assured the president that the old bastard wouldn’t make it through the night. Thank God, the president had most likely said, and since he’d had plenty of time to prepare for this moment, he was ready to begin the painful process of selecting Brandon’s replacement.

  The president invited a dozen members of the House and Senate to the White House to talk about a number of things. Mahoney and Big Bob Fairchild were among those present. The president was in one of his optimistic, I-know-we-can-all-work-together moods, so he served a mixed group of Republicans and Democrats lukewarm coffee—a group that couldn’t agree on what day of the week it was—and chatted about a number of things: a tax reform proposal that Mahoney knew didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of passing in the House; a half-baked idea for slowing down the exodus of American jobs to places where people still used oxen to pull their plows; and lastly, that a certain distinguished jurist wasn’t going to be alive tomorrow morning and he wanted to acquaint the politicians with his short list.

  The president realized that his nominee could have the wisdom of Solomon and it wouldn’t make any difference. No matter who he nominated, half the people on the Senate Judiciary Committee would find reasons why his candidate was unacceptable. The folks on his short list turned out to be three middle-of-the-road federal judges who’d never been accused of judicial activism; in fact, none of them had ever been accused of having had an original thought. The president extolled each person’s virtues basically by saying: How could you possibly have any objection to these guys? Three of the senators present said they thought the president’s potential nominees sounded like fine choices; three others murmured that they’d give whomever the president selected their serious consideration—which was code for: You’ve got to be kidding. The president could see that he was in for the usual dogfight, and on that happy note, the meeting ended.

  Following the meeting, Fairchild and Mahoney stood silently outside the White House, waiting for their cars to return them to the Capitol. God forbid they should have come together in the same car. Fairchild’s car arrived first, which annoyed Mahoney. Fairchild’s driver opened the rear door for him, but Fairchild didn’t move toward the car. Instead he turned to Mahoney and said, “John, I was thinking about stopping by your office later today to explain a few things to you, but I might as well talk to you here.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Mahoney said. He and Big Bob Fairchild rarely spoke face-to-face; they preferred to snipe at each other via the media.

  “Yes,” Fairchild said. “I’d like the president to tell Terrance Wheeler that his so-called investigation has gone on long enough. I also want you to tell your people to quit opposing my water bill.”

  Terrance Wheeler was the independent prosecutor appointed to investigate congressmen who may have been bribed by the lobbyist Lucas Mayfield, the Jack Abramoff clone. The “water bill” was a bill that Fairchild had introduced to help the state of Arizona with one of its biggest resource issues: Arizona was a state that didn’t have a whole lot of water. The bill not only threw some federal money to Fairchild’s home state, it also helped out some of his cronies there. Mahoney was against the bill only because Big Bob was for it, and consequently every other Democrat in the House was against it, too.

  Mahoney smiled in response to Fairchild’s comment. He was having a rotten week, all the shit going on with his daughter, and tormenting Big Bob would be a small ray of sunshine beaming down onto an otherwise dismal day.

  “You’d like all that, would you?” Mahoney said. “Well, Bob, I’d like to screw all the Redskin cheerleaders, the point being that we don’t always get what we’d like.” Before Fairchild could say anything else, Mahoney said, “At any rate, Wheeler doesn’t work for me. I can’t call him off. And as for the water bill . . .”

  “The hell you can’t get Wheeler to stop,” Fairchild said. “You’re the one who got him appointed in the first place. And the only reason you did is you were hoping he’d get something on my nephew.”

  “Not true, Bob,” Mahoney lied. “I had no idea that Little Bob—”

  “His name’s not Little Bob, goddamnit!”

  “—that Little Bob was involved with that lobbyist.”

  “Bullshit!” Fairchild said. “Wheeler hasn’t investigated anybody but Republicans and he’s spent more time looking at my nephew than anyone else.”

  “Not true again, Bob,” Mahoney said. “I heard that Wheeler’s also investigating Randy Collier.”

  Collier was a Democratic congressman from Illinois—and a complete idiot.

  Fairchild laughed. “He’s only investigating Collier because the Washington Post mailed him pictures of Collier sitting with Mayfield and two bimbos on Mayfield’s boat.”

  One of the bimbos had actually been sitting on Randy Collier’s lap, and in the photo it looked like she was trying to clean out one of Collier’s ears with her tongue.

  “So there you go,” Mahoney said. “That proves that Terry Wheeler is truly independent and not just hunting Republicans.”

  Mahoney’s car pulled up at that moment. “I gotta get back to work, Bob.”

  “John, if you don’t put an end to Wheeler’s witch hunt and quit opposing my bill, I’m going to tell the media that the Atlantic Palace casino just canceled the hundred-thousand-dollar gambling debt your daughter owes them.”

  That stopped Mahoney. “What? How do you know . . .”

  “I’m going to s
uggest that the president’s special prosecutor needs to take a hard look at you because you’re obviously getting some sort of kickback from this casino. I’ve also heard that you’re trying to attach a rider to a bill to give the state of New Jersey a hundred million for some convention center that will benefit this same casino.”

  Goddamnit, how did Fairchild know all this stuff?

  “I’m not doing any such thing,” Mahoney said, not quite lying.

  What Mahoney had done was ask Perry Wallace, just in case, to look into how to get New Jersey the money, but how did Fairchild know?

  “I’ll tell you what, John,” Fairchild said. “In return for doing what I want, I won’t stop you from sending money to your pals in New Jersey.”

  What Fairchild meant was that the Republicans wouldn’t put up a fight if Mahoney wanted to tack the money onto a bill. But that would also mean that Fairchild would have something else to use against Mahoney at some time in the future.

  “But,” Fairchild continued, “if I don’t get what I want, I’m going to tell the press everything. I also have a feeling that if the SEC knew about your daughter’s gambling problem, that would strengthen the case against her in so far as motives go.”

  Mahoney stepped close enough to Fairchild to exhale the odor of the president’s bad coffee into Fairchild’s face. “You leave my daughter out of this.”

  “Oh, I see,” Fairchild said. “Your daughter’s off-limits but my nephew’s fair game. I don’t think so,” he added, then stepped into his car and closed the door before Mahoney could respond.

  It took Mahoney about thirty seconds to figure out what was going on. Preston Whitman was working for both Ted Allen and Big Bob Fairchild, and Whitman was Fairchild’s source. He also knew why Ted had canceled Molly’s marker: because Fairchild had paid him to cancel it and the money had probably come from Fairchild’s extraordinarily rich wife. So much for Ted’s goodwill gesture. And Molly’s marker being canceled was bad news for all the reasons Fairchild had said. Now not only was his daughter in trouble, but Fairchild had information that could possibly destroy his career.

  Mahoney stood there on the curb of the White House driveway, his big hands clenched into fists. There had been a time, really not that long ago, when congressmen challenged each other to duels. Mahoney yearned for those times. If he couldn’t shoot Fairchild with a dueling pistol, just slapping him with a glove—just slapping the shit out of him with a glove—would have been very satisfying.

  * * *

  Mahoney called DeMarco and told him to meet him at Reagan National.

  Mahoney was flying to Boston to give the commencement address at Boston College. If DeMarco remembered correctly, BC had given Mahoney an honorary doctorate once upon a time, so he’d wear a robe with a fancy sash and a mortarboard on his big head, and he’d give his standard speech about how the graduates were the bright, shining hope of America. He’d quote JFK half a dozen times—ask not what your country can do for you—and urge them to eschew private-sector greed and consider public service. After the ceremony, public servant Mahoney would go to his office in Boston, and like a scene from The Godfather, constituents would line up, kiss his ring, and ask for his help on a variety of things.

  DeMarco met his boss at a coffee shop in the airport. Mahoney was already seated, a scowl on his face, drinking coffee from a paper cup that had been laced with bourbon from the flask in his pocket. As soon as DeMarco sat down, Mahoney launched into a recap of his White House discussion with Fairchild, concluding with: “So now I know why Allen canceled Molly’s marker, and if the press finds out, they’ll hang me out to dry just like Fairchild said.”

  An announcement about a flight to Boston came over the loudspeaker and Mahoney stood up.

  “You find a way to get Fairchild off my back. You find some way to neutralize the bastard. You understand?”

  “Yeah,” DeMarco said. He understood, but what the hell was he supposed to do?

  33

  Richard Praeter couldn’t get the key into the keyhole.

  “Man, am I drunk,” he said. He placed his forehead against the door to help maintain his balance and continued to jab his key at the keyhole, missing repeatedly, scratching the lock. “This reminds me of the first time I got laid,” he said.

  “You want me to try?” the big man said.

  “Hell, no. You’re drunker than I am.”

  The big man was standing behind Praeter, watching as he poked at the lock. The big man didn’t seem drunk at all.

  Praeter finally opened the door and stumbled into his office. “I don’t know why you wanted to look at this stuff tonight. You’ll never remember it tomorrow.”

  The big man looked down the hallway to make sure it was still empty then followed Praeter into the office.

  Praeter shrugged off his coat and threw it at the top of a file cabinet. He missed, and his handmade cashmere topcoat dropped to the floor. He fell into the chair behind his desk and hit the power button on his computer. “This’ll take a minute,” he said. “Fuckin’ security systems slow these machines way down. They oughta chop the fingers off those little hacker bastards when they catch ’em.”

  The other man stood for a moment then walked over to the window behind Praeter’s desk. “I forgot what a view you’ve got from up here, Dickie,” he said.

  Praeter glanced behind him. One in the morning and lights blazing everywhere. New York, New York. What a town. “Yeah,” he said. “Hey, you want another drink? I gotta bottle of Glen . . . Glen-something.”

  The big man tapped the window with one finger. “Nah,” he said, “but you go ahead and have one.”

  “Damn right,” Praeter said and opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a bottle. He twisted the cap off and said, “Sure you don’t want a hit?” The big man shook his head. “Okee-dokie,” Praeter said, and took a drink directly from the bottle.

  In front of Praeter’s desk was a visitor’s chair. It was made of wood and leather. The big man picked up the chair; it was heavier than he’d expected. Good. “I want you to duck, Dickie,” he said softly.

  “What?” Praeter said.

  “Duck,” the big man said and swung the chair behind him.

  “Jesus Christ!” Praeter said, and dived out of his chair.

  The big man threw the chair as hard as he could at the window behind Praeter’s desk. The chair bounced off the window, almost landing on Praeter who was lying on the floor.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Praeter screamed.

  “Shit,” the big man muttered, ignoring Praeter. “Safety glass.” The window was still intact but there were a dozen cracks radiating out from the point of impact.

  The big man stepped over Praeter and picked up the chair again.

  “What are you doing?” Praeter screamed again.

  The big man, his legs straddling Praeter’s prone form, swung the chair again. More cracks appeared in the glass. He swung a third time, and the glass shattered. Wind roared into the room and the papers on Praeter’s desk swirled into the air.

  “Goddamnit, are you fucking nuts?” Praeter said. He was lying on his back so he rolled over onto his stomach, then got on his hands and knees. Before he could stand up, however, the big man reached down and grabbed Praeter by his belt and the collar of his monogrammed shirt and dropped him out the window. He didn’t throw him out; he’d made that mistake once before.

  34

  The sound of a ringing telephone pulled DeMarco from a deep sleep, and his first thought was: What inconsiderate jackass could be calling so early? His second thought was: Why doesn’t she answer the damn phone?

  An elbow poked him in the ribs and a sleepy voice murmured, “That’s your phone.”

  “Oh, sorry,” he said. He got out of bed, then down on his hands and knees and groped through a pile of clothes until
he finally retrieved his cell phone from a pocket.

  The jackass calling turned out to be his old college buddy from New York, Sal Anselmo, who sounded bright-eyed and cheerful, as if he’d been up since dawn. “I just thought you’d like to know, since you were asking about him the other night, that Dickie Praeter committed suicide last night.”

  “What?” DeMarco said, still half asleep, and Sal repeated what he’d just said: Richard Praeter was dead.

  DeMarco mumbled a thank-you and looked at his watch. It was only seven a.m.—way too early to do anything. He crawled back into bed, snuggled up against the warm body lying next to him, and cupped her right breast. She pushed his hand away and said, “Too early.” He smiled, closed his eyes, and went back to sleep.

  * * *

  Two hours later, DeMarco headed for McLean with a smile on his face. If he’d been walking instead of driving, one might have said that he had a spring in his step.

  He’d called Alice’s friend the night before and asked if she might like to have dinner sometime in the near future. She surprised him by saying, “Actually, tonight would be perfect. My daughters are out of town.”

  Tina Burke (née Marino) turned out to be even better looking than the picture Alice had shown him. Short dark hair, dark eyes, slim yet busty—and DeMarco had always been partial to Italian types. Like his ex-wife. She seemed bright and had a sense of humor, but was extremely picky about what she ate. He decided he could overlook that one small flaw. She’d been divorced for four years from a jerk who worked for a think tank, and was seventeen when she had her twin daughters. She made a point of telling DeMarco—twice—that her girls were out of town, checking out William and Mary where they’d be going to school next year, and it had been a long time since she’d had a night to herself.

  DeMarco didn’t need as much direction as Alice and her friend seemed to think—or maybe he just took direction well.