by Lawson, Mike
“Why didn’t he pull his gun as soon as the guy threatened him with the knife?”
“He was holding a box, remember? And he kept his gun on his belt at the back of his pants, so you wouldn’t see it if his coat was open. He couldn’t pull the gun until he put the box down, and before he could do that the guy had the knife to his throat.”
“What happened next, after he shot this guy?”
Melinda took a long swallow of her beer. “He called a detective he knew—he didn’t call 911—and the detective was the first guy on the scene. Him and Bob talked things over a bit, then a bunch of other cops showed up and an ambulance and whoever else is supposed to show up when somebody gets shot.
“The thing is, nobody asked me what happened. Not the detective or any of the other cops. Not then and not later. Everybody just milled around for a while, and finally Bob shakes hands with the detective and offers to drive me home. And while we’re driving to my place, Bob asks me about a dozen times if I’m okay, and I say yeah, it wasn’t me who got shot, and then Bob says we’ll talk about what happened tomorrow.
“The next day, I read in the paper that Bob was forced to shoot that junkie in self-defense. According to the paper, the junkie put a knife to Bob’s neck, and because he was holding this box, he put the box down and gave the junkie his wallet. And then when the guy was moving toward me to get my purse, Bob pulled his gun. And that part was all true. But the next thing the paper said was that Bob told the junkie to drop the knife and he went all crazy and lunged at Bob, and Bob was forced to shoot him.
“The next day, Bob calls me into his office and hems and haws for a while and says that it would be best if I didn’t talk to the press and just left things standing the way they were.”
“And that’s when you decided to blackmail him,” DeMarco said.
“No, it wasn’t like that. I might have decided to just go along with everything—I mean, I thought what Bob did was kind of chicken shit—but I hadn’t really made up my mind. You gotta remember, I was only twenty-two years old. And if Bob had just explained to me that he panicked and how it wouldn’t be good for his career if people knew what really happened, I probably would have just gone along. But that’s not what he did. He threatened me. He said if I contradicted his story, everybody would think I was just this little confused secretary, so scared I couldn’t remember accurately, and that nobody would take my word over his. And then, I’d most likely be fired.
“Well, I don’t like bullies and it pissed me off, him threatening me like that. So I told Bob that he could just kiss my big butt. I told him I didn’t want to work for him no more and that I was quitting. And then I guess I sort of blackmailed him. I told him if the prosecutor’s office didn’t keep paying me until I found another job, then I was going to tell the papers what really happened. Bob, of course, he backed right down—just like bullies always do when you punch ’em in the nose.”
“And that’s when you became president of the Saguaro Cactus Preservation Society.”
“Yeah. Bob said the prosecutor’s office couldn’t pay me if I quit and he didn’t have a bunch of cash to pay me, either. And I figured he was probably telling me the truth since I knew Bob’s wife was the one who had all the money. But Bob said what he could do was arrange to have the Evans Foundation pay me if I was some sort of charity. I guess he could do that without his wife finding out, particularly as my salary was so small, and the next month I got a check in the mail for the exact amount of my salary.”
“And they just kept coming for the next eighteen years?” DeMarco said.
Melinda finished her beer and crushed the can with her fat hands. “Yep, and I didn’t expect that. I figured at some point Bob or somebody would call and tell me that I’d had enough time to find a job, but nobody ever did. I think Bob was afraid to stop paying me. And the Sinclair Evans Foundation gives away millions every year. Who was going to notice the tiny amount Bob was giving me?”
DeMarco almost said: Well, a guy named Neil noticed.
“And that’s what happened, Joe. That’s the whole story. So what’s going to happen to me now?”
50
Mary Pat Mahoney dipped her fingers into the holy water font and crossed herself. According to Mahoney, his wife had been attending early morning mass ever since their daughter was arrested, and DeMarco was waiting for her at the back of the church. She saw him and gave him a small smile. She looked tired.
“Joe, what are you doing here?” she said. “And so early too.” She knew DeMarco was neither a churchgoer nor an early riser.
“Your husband wanted me to tell you what I learned about Congressman Fairchild, Mary Pat.”
“Let’s walk,” she said, and took DeMarco’s arm and they left the church together.
DeMarco quickly told her what he’d uncovered in Tucson.
“Good, Joe,” she said. “So I imagine John will be talking to Fairchild soon.”
“No, but I will, Mary Pat.”
Mary Pat shook her head. “You must get tired of doing John’s dirty work.”
“It’s my job, Mary Pat.”
“I’m not so sure about that, but right now Molly’s the only thing I care about. Have you found anything else that will help her when she goes to trial?”
“No,” DeMarco said. “But you heard what Caine said the last time we met with him. He still thinks he can get her acquitted.”
DeMarco said this only to make Mary Pat feel better; he couldn’t tell her that if Mahoney’s plan succeeded there wouldn’t be a trial. He also noticed that Mary Pat had said: Have you found anything that can help Molly? She didn’t say: Have you found the people who framed my daughter? He wondered if Mary Pat now knew—or at least strongly suspected—that her daughter had committed a crime to pay off her gambling debts.
They walked a few more paces, her so small next to DeMarco’s broad-shouldered bulk. “I just can’t believe it, Joe. My daughter’s a gambling addict. And she’s probably an alcoholic, like her father. I’ve been praying all week, trying to figure out what to do.”
“What can you do, Mary Pat? She’s an adult.”
“No!” Mary Pat said, her eyes blazing. “She’s my child! And I will do something. I will see her through this. And I’ve decided to sell the house back in Boston to take care of all the money she owes.”
“I don’t think you should do that, Mary Pat,” DeMarco said. He was trying to come up with a plausible lie to explain why she shouldn’t sell the house, but before he could say anything, she said, “It’s just a house. We needed that big place when we had three girls and my mother living with us. But now, all that space is more trouble than it’s worth. So I’m going to sell it and get us something smaller and I’ll make enough off the sale to pay Molly’s debts and her lawyers too.”
DeMarco didn’t know how much she could get for the house; it was a big house with a great view. Maybe it would sell for enough to pay off everything Molly owed, including the five hundred grand that belonged to Castiglia and that had been frozen by the Justice Department. But since Mary Pat didn’t know that Molly had lost half a million dollars of the Mob’s money, that wasn’t included in her calculations.
“Mary Pat, does your husband know you’re planning to sell the house?”
“No. I just decided this morning.”
And DeMarco could tell from her tone of voice that it was pretty clear that whatever Mahoney wanted at this point didn’t matter.
“Mary Pat, please listen to me. Don’t put the house on the market yet. Just wait awhile.”
Mary Pat looked at him sharply, catching something in his tone.
“Joe, are you and John keeping something from me?”
DeMarco, for some absurd reason, placed his hand over his heart when he lied. “I swear, Mary Pat, I’m not keeping anything from you.” Your husband is. �
�I’m just saying wait a few days before you do anything. There’s just a lot of stuff going on right now, and it would be better if you waited a bit.”
“Okay, but after this is all over,” Mary Pat said, “I’m taking Molly someplace to heal. My daughter will survive this.”
Neither Molly nor Mahoney deserved this woman.
* * *
DeMarco sat in the Sheraton’s bar drinking orange juice until people started coming out of the dining room. Above the double doors to the dining room was a twenty-foot banner, and printed on the banner in letters two feet high were the words: legislation for life. Congressman Robert Fairchild was the breakfast speaker for the first day of the conference.
About fifty people walked out of the room before DeMarco saw Fairchild. He was talking to an evangelical minister with a growing reputation. DeMarco—not a big fan of television preachers—hated to admit it, but he liked the minister. He saw him on a talk show one day, promoting a book he’d just written, and the guy came across as intelligent, good-humored, and genuinely filled with compassion for his fellow man. DeMarco waited until the minister and Fairchild separated before he approached Fairchild.
“Congressman,” he said, “I need to speak with you.”
Fairchild gave DeMarco the insincere smile he used for nobodies who were potential voters. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but I need to get back to the Capitol.”
“John Mahoney sent me. To talk to you about Melinda Stowe.”
“Who?” Fairchild said. He might have pulled off the lie if his head had not been spinning about to see if anyone was near him.
“Melinda Stowe, Congressman, a woman with a story to tell.”
“I’m sorry, but . . .”
“This conference, Legislation for Life? Is there going to be a panel discussion on the need for a law against shooting people in the back? Oh, wait a minute. There’s already legislation covering that.”
“Keep your voice down!” Fairchild said.
Actually DeMarco had barely spoken loud enough for Fairchild to hear him. “Yes, sir,” he said, “but we need to find a place to talk. The bar’s practically empty. How about over there?”
“I’m not going to have anyone see me sitting in a bar at nine in the morning,” Fairchild said.
Geez. “What about my car then?” DeMarco said. “It’s in the garage, in the basement.”
“No,” Fairchild said. “I have no idea who you are and I’m not going to . . .”
“Then what about the lobby of the Washington Post? Just pick a damn spot.”
Fairchild made an irritated motion for DeMarco to follow him and walked back inside the conference room where the attendees had just eaten breakfast. Waiters were clearing tables and there was one small group of women sitting at one table chatting, but the room was otherwise empty. Fairchild led DeMarco to a table as far away from the women as they could get and sat down.
“What do you want?” Fairchild said. “If Mahoney thinks he can blackmail me . . .”
The irony that Fairchild was blackmailing Mahoney apparently escaped him.
“Listen to this, Congressman,” DeMarco said.
DeMarco took out a small tape recorder and hit the play button.
“This is Melinda Stowe speaking, Bob. I’m sorry, but this fella’s got me over a barrel. So if you don’t do what he wants, I’m gonna have to tell what really happened in that alley all those years ago.”
“I know who that woman is now,” Fairchild said. “And she’s lying. She . . .”
“Congressman, I don’t care. But you are going to quit twisting Mahoney’s nuts over his daughter’s gambling problem. You will also have a talk with Preston Whitman explaining to him how his discretion in this matter will be greatly appreciated. You need to be very convincing when you talk to Whitman.”
“Who the hell are you?” Fairchild said.
“Now if by some chance a reporter was to ask Mahoney about his daughter’s gambling or finds out that her marker has been canceled by the casino, regardless of who leaked the information to the press, I’m afraid I’ll be forced to introduce Melinda Stowe to the media.”
“I think I’ve seen you around the Capitol,” Fairchild said, his small eyes narrowing.
“Yes, sir,” DeMarco said, “you may have. I have an office in the subbasement next to the janitors, and I do pretty much the same thing they do: I take out the garbage.”
51
Setting up a meeting between a gangster and the highest-ranking Democrat in the House of Representatives was a pain in the ass.
The two men couldn’t be seen together and the meeting had to be conducted in such a manner that both men would be satisfied that their discussion wasn’t being filmed or recorded. Castiglia had assigned his man, Delray, to assist DeMarco in this task and it was Delray who came up with the meeting place. Other protocols for the meeting, such as the time and the right to come armed and methods to be used to ensure privacy, were then discussed and settled upon. By the end of it all, DeMarco felt like the guy in charge of setting up the conference room for the Paris peace talks during the Vietnam War.
DeMarco picked up Mahoney at his condo at the Watergate at nine p.m., and the first thing Mahoney did was light a cigar, ensuring that the odor inside DeMarco’s Toyota would never be the same no matter how many of those little cardboard pine trees he hung from the mirror. Next he bitched that the seats didn’t go back far enough and then started punching buttons on the radio, screwing up all of DeMarco’s preset stations.
An hour later they arrived at a small fitness center in Havre de Grace, Maryland. One car was already there, and five minutes later two other cars drove into the lot. DeMarco exited his car and Delray stepped out of the car that carried Castiglia. From the third car stepped a middle-aged guy wearing glasses and a little flat cap. From the fourth vehicle emerged a slender, narrow-shouldered black man with rust-colored dreadlocks. The black man was Bobby Prentiss, Neil’s assistant.
Bobby and the guy in the flat cap were each holding small suitcases and they proceeded into the building together. DeMarco and Delray stood side by side, saying nothing. DeMarco noted that Delray was wearing his sunglasses in spite of the hour; he wondered if the glasses were really night-vision goggles. Fifteen minutes later, Bobby and flat cap exited the building. Bobby nodded to DeMarco and flat cap nodded to Delray, then both men got into their cars and drove away.
The meeting place had just been declared bug-free.
Mahoney exited DeMarco’s car. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, sweatpants, and moccasins without socks. Castiglia was attired in a similar manner, in a jogging suit and flip-flops. Mahoney and Castiglia went into the building and proceeded to the locker room with Delray and DeMarco following, then Mahoney and Castiglia stripped off their clothes and walked into the steam room.
The sight of the two men—both overweight and elderly—waddling naked to the steam room was almost comical.
* * *
“Is it too hot in here for you?” Castiglia said.
“Nah, feels good,” Mahoney responded.
“So. You think you got an idea where we both get what we want.”
“Yeah. And what I want is that my daughter doesn’t go to jail and that Ted Allen never gets his hooks into her or me again.”
“Then give me the money,” Castiglia said, “and that guy Denny Reed takes the fall for your daughter.”
“No. I don’t want this thing going to trial and I don’t trust Reed not giving everything up at some point. Denny didn’t strike me as a guy you can rely upon.”
Castiglia laughed. “So what’s your idea?” he said.
Mahoney told him, and when he finished, Al Castiglia saw John Mahoney in a totally different light.
“How much money are we talking about?” Castiglia said.
“I don’t know for sure, at least a couple million, but probably a whole lot more. Like maybe ten or twenty million more.”
“What about the convention center?”
“You give that up. I mean, I don’t care if you get the thing built, but you do it without my help. And one thing you have to realize, is it could take years to make that happen. We don’t work all that fast in Washington and there are a lot of variables that nobody can control, not even me. But if you want to pursue it with the Jersey delegation, I don’t give a shit. I just won’t help.”
Castiglia sat there a moment, looking at Mahoney, then he got up and poured water over the heated rocks in the corner of the steam room. The water hissed and steam bellowed out and both men winced as hot, wet air seared their lungs.
Castiglia sat back down on the bench and said, “You know, when I was young, moving up in the outfit, I didn’t mind all the shit that went with the job. But now, at my age, I just wanna take it easy. I don’t really need to get any richer, and I sure as hell don’t need to get cross-wired with you and the Feds.”
Mahoney nodded; he knew what the mobster meant. At a certain stage of life, enough was enough, and peace of mind was more important than wealth or power. Mahoney had almost reached that point himself. Almost.
“So, we got a deal?” Mahoney said.
“Yeah, we got a deal.”
Mahoney sat back and closed his eyes. He didn’t feel good about what he’d just done, but he was relieved.
“I think I’m just gonna sit here for a while,” Castiglia said. “This steam feels good.”
“Yeah, me too,” Mahoney said. “Sweat out some of the booze.”
Castiglia laughed. “How many kids you got?” he asked after a moment.