by Mike Lawson
DeMarco ignored Donnelly’s glare and looked casually around the limo, at the leather upholstery, the small TV, the bar inset into the back of the front seat. The jump seat of the limo was more comfortable than his recliner, and he bet Donnelly’s TV got better reception than his did.
“Afraid I’m gettin’ sweat on your upholstery,” he said to Donnelly. “I was working out.” Ya little shit, he added silently.
“Shut up,” Donnelly said. “You were in Middleburg today where you interrogated a retired Secret Service agent. What in the hell makes you think you have the authority to do such a thing?”
DeMarco gave Donnelly the same line he’d fed John Engles. “Congress is concerned about the President’s security, Mr. Donnelly, and—”
“Congress my ass,” Donnelly said. “You talked to Frank Engles because Banks told you that jackass idea of his about Billy Mattis.”
DeMarco’s face gave away nothing but inside his gut was a small mad animal, gnawing at the lining of his stomach. He knew how Donnelly had found out about him: Engles, still loyal to his old outfit, had called some pal and told him about DeMarco and his questions. The word immediately went up the chain of command to Donnelly. Donnelly knew, even if no one else did, about Banks’s concern with Mattis. And maybe Donnelly had someone check Banks’s appointment calendar and found out that DeMarco had met with him. DeMarco should have used a phony name with Engles.
“What happened at Chattooga River is a matter for the FBI and the Secret Service, mister, and you are going to stay out of it. Do you understand? Not only have they found the guy who did it, there are still three hundred goddamn FBI agents investigating the assassination attempt! Even if you had the authority, what in the fuck do you think you could possibly do that the FBI and my people aren’t already doing?”
Before DeMarco could respond, Donnelly said, “I run the Secret Service, you idiot, which means I can find out anything about anybody. I know, for example, that you’re John Mahoney’s heavy. If it’s something easy, getting a few guys to compromise on some chickenshit bill, Mahoney sends his chief of staff, that fat guy who wears suspenders. But when he doesn’t want to compromise, when he wants to shove his dick up somebody’s ass, he sends you.”
“I don’t work for the Speaker,” DeMarco said, “I’m an independent coun—”
“Bullshit. You don’t show up on any org chart linking you to Mahoney, but Mahoney set up your position. Counsel Pro Tem. What a crock. You work for Mahoney and I know it.”
But can you prove it? DeMarco wondered.
“I also know why Mahoney doesn’t want any official connection to you. Your father was Gino DeMarco, a low-life cocksucker who worked for Carmine Taliaferro. Fifteen years ago your daddy wasted three of Taliaferro’s rivals before the fourth one got lucky and plugged him. Isn’t that right?”
DeMarco said nothing but he felt like ripping Donnelly’s tiny ears off for calling his dad a cocksucker.
“The amazing thing,” Donnelly said, “is that Mahoney hired you when you got out of law school. I don’t know why he hired you—that’s the one mystery I haven’t unraveled—but I know he did. And I do know that your father is the reason Mahoney keeps you down in his cellar. He doesn’t want to have to explain your dago ass to anybody.”
Donnelly leaned forward so his face was closer to DeMarco’s and said, “So let me ask you something, sonny boy. Knowing John Mahoney to be the self-serving son of a bitch that he is, how long do you think you’ll keep your job when the press finds out about you and your father and your job with the Speaker?”
“Did you personally assign Billy Mattis to the President’s security detail, Mr. Donnelly?” DeMarco said.
“Why you . . .” Donnelly took a breath. “Now you listen to me and you listen good: my agents are clean. They all have outstanding records, particularly Mattis, and they all passed lie detector tests. Banks is a fool to think the Secret Service had any part in this.”
“Then why didn’t you have the warning note analyzed?”
“You impertinent son of a bitch!” Donnelly said, his face turning scarlet.
That’s it, DeMarco thought. Have a stroke, you little fuck.
Donnelly opened his mouth to scream something else but managed to get his emotions under control. He jerked his thumb in the direction of DeMarco’s house. “I’d suggest you put that place on the market,” he said. “You’re not going to be living in this town much longer.”
“Really,” DeMarco said.
Donnelly smiled. His teeth were small and sharp. “Your job requires a security clearance, smart ass. Guess what agency does the background checks to provide that clearance? Now beat it.”
DeMarco stepped from the limo and closed the door quietly. As he watched the taillights of the limo disappear up the block, he stood quietly in the center of the street, feeling the sweat go cold on his arms and legs.
So Donnelly knew about his father.
12
A woman answered Emma’s phone; she sounded like Emma, the same low voice, the same inflections, but the speaker wasn’t Emma. The woman, whoever she was, passed the phone to Emma who said, “If you’re a telemarketer, I’m going to hunt you down, burn your house, and kill your dog.” She sounded serious.
“It’s Joe, Emma. And wouldn’t it be easier to get on one of those do-not-call lists?”
“Those lists are unconstitutional.”
“And house burning and dog killing aren’t?”
“Why are you calling at such an ungodly hour?”
“Emma, it’s only nine.”
“Oh. So what do you want?”
“Patrick Donnelly just came to my house and threatened me. The other day, when we listened to your friend, the cello player, you seemed to know something about him. I’d like to know what you know.”
“He came to your house?”
“Yeah.”
Emma hesitated then said, “All right. Come on over.”
Her voice sounded strange. She sounded . . . worried. DeMarco had rarely known Emma to be worried about anything.
Emma answered her door wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a blue smock smeared with paint. DeMarco didn’t know she painted; just one more thing about her he’d discovered accidentally. She took DeMarco into a living room that could have made the cover of House Beautiful and poured them whiskeys. She slugged hers down and immediately poured herself another.
Before DeMarco could say anything a young woman entered the living room. He was immediately struck by her resemblance to Emma. She was tall like Emma and had Emma’s nose and Emma’s chin, but her hair was dark and her eyes were brown. The young woman looked over at DeMarco, her expression wary.
“Julie, this is Joe DeMarco. A friend of mine.”
No smart-ass cracks tonight, like DeMarco being a bagman. Emma was definitely not herself.
The young woman nodded at Joe then turned back toward Emma.
“I’m tired. Jet lag, I guess. I’m going to hit the sack,” Julie said.
I’m tired, Mom. That’s what it sounded like to DeMarco. He was sure the young woman was Emma’s daughter.
“That’s a good idea, hon,” Emma said. “We’ll sort this out in the morning.”
And Emma, DeMarco thought, sounded absolutely, unbelievably maternal. A maternal Emma seemed stranger to DeMarco than snakes cuddling.
After Julie left the room, DeMarco said, “Is everything okay, Emma?”
Emma shook her head, dismissing DeMarco’s question.
“Tell me what Donnelly said to you,” she said.
DeMarco relayed the gist of his one-sided conversation with Donnelly.
“I knew about your father,” Emma said.
DeMarco nodded, not the least surprised. “I know this is going to sound strange,” he said, “but he wasn’t a bad guy.”
Emma didn’t say anything but her eyes widened momentarily in amazement.
“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: he was a killer. How could he not have
been a bad guy. But from my perspective, as his son, he was okay. He was a quiet man, not some Mafia big mouth always trying to prove how tough he was. And when my dad wasn’t, uh, working, we had dinner together like other families and most of the conversation centered around me, his only child. What I was doing in school, how I was doing at sports, why my grades weren’t better. That sorta thing. He was good to my mom and he was good to me. He and I used to go see the Yankees play almost every Saturday they were in town, and Sundays he always made breakfast—pancakes and sausage.”
DeMarco was a silent a moment, remembering his father, how he sat in the bleachers with him at Yankee Stadium, an old flat cap on his head, an unlit cigar in his mouth, not cheering much, mostly just watching DeMarco enjoy himself. And he remembered his mother when they got home from the games and how she’d rail at his dad for feeding him so much junk, and his dad standing there, this big guy with arms that could bend rebar, his head hanging contritely while his cap hid the pleasure in his eyes. DeMarco knew one thing for sure: his mother had never feared his father.
“I really didn’t know what he did until I was about fifteen,” DeMarco said, “and even then I had a hard time believing it. I just couldn’t imagine him taking some guy out to a marsh in Jersey and putting one into the back of his head.”
“Did you ever talk to him about his job?” Emma asked, her voice soft.
“I tried once, when I was sixteen. I asked some inane question like, ‘Is it true, Dad, that you work for Mr. Taliaferro?’ He knew what I meant. But my dad wasn’t much of a talker when it came to personal things.”
“Reminds me of someone else I know,” Emma said, obviously meaning DeMarco.
“Anyway, all he said was something like ‘A man can’t always choose his life,’ then he switched the subject. We never discussed it again.”
“Families,” Emma said, maybe referring to her own.
DeMarco took a sip of his drink, his mind in the past.
“He was the one who talked me into going to law school.” DeMarco smiled. “I think he figured I could make a good living defending his co-workers.”
“So why did Mahoney hire you after you got out of law school?” Emma asked.
DeMarco laughed.
“I have a godmother, a friend of my mom’s I call Aunt Connie. She lives in Albany now and works for a labor union, but when she was young she worked in D.C. Today Aunt Connie’s a bit broad in the beam, has a mustache, and a face like a sad horse. But when she was young she looked like Sophia Loren. She was an absolute knockout.”
“Ah, I think I can see where this is going,” Emma said.
“I’ll bet you can,” DeMarco said. “Anyway, Aunt Connie—who never married—has a son, a successful fellow who works for a very big bank. And Aunt Connie’s Italian, as I believe I’ve indicated, but her son bears an amazing resemblance to a large Irish fellow I know.”
“Indeed,” Emma said.
“I got my law degree about the time my father was killed. Thanks to my mom, and my father for that matter, I never had a damn thing to do with the Mob. I’ve never been arrested much less convicted of a crime, but because of my dad I couldn’t get a job as a process server. There wasn’t a law firm in the Western Hemisphere who wanted Gino DeMarco’s kid on its payroll. My mother complained to my godmother and I think she talked to you-know-who. Maybe she threatened him with doing paternity tests on a certain fella who works for a bank. And I believe you-know-who—the happily married father of three legitimate children—succumbed to Aunt Connie’s wishes and gave her poor, unemployable godson a job.”
“So she blackmailed him.”
“Maybe, but maybe not. Mahoney might have felt he owed her because of the kid or maybe he still cared for her enough to help me out. I don’t know. Whatever the case, neither she nor Mahoney has ever confirmed a word of what I just told you. All I know is I got a call from the Speaker one day, completely out of the blue, and I was offered a job.”
“A job you should quit.”
“And do what, Emma?” They’d had this discussion before.
“Oh, never mind. What will Mahoney do when you tell him Donnelly is thinking of talking to the press about your father?” Emma said.
“I don’t know. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Now tell me about Donnelly.”
“Little Pat,” Emma said, “is a piece of work.”
According to Emma, Donnelly had been with the Secret Service for forty-one years and director for the last fifteen. His reputation was similar to J. Edgar Hoover’s: he ran the Service with an iron hand, establishing rules for agent behavior with the whimsy of a king. Also, similar to Hoover, it was rumored that he used the power of his office to pry into the lives of private citizens.
“After the assassination attempt on Reagan back in ’81,” Emma said, “they tried to give him the boot. He was deputy director then and already showing his true colors, but Donnelly burrowed in and let it be known that if he was fired he’d tell the paparazzi where the bones were buried. He survived Reagan’s term but with Chattooga River people are clamoring for his head again.”
“Who’s doing the clamoring and why?” DeMarco asked.
“Anyone who’s been here very long. He’s a conniving, manipulative little shit who blackmails politicians to get what he wants.”
“What does he want? Money?” DeMarco asked.
“No. I understand he’s fairly wealthy. He wants power. Power over politicians, power to expand the scope of his agency, power to stay in his job until he dies.”
“If he’s wealthy why doesn’t he just retire?” DeMarco asked. He could not imagine anyone continuing to work for the government once they were eligible for retirement.
“I told you. He loves his job. The Secret Service is his private army and he acts like the dictator of some banana republic. And if the rumors are true about him having the goods on folks here in power town, he may never go.”
“How did he make his money?”
Emma frowned at the question. “I don’t know,” she said and sounded astounded that she didn’t. She sat a moment, thinking, then got up from the couch, walked over to the phone, and dialed a number.
“George, it’s Emma. I’m fine. How are you?”
She and George—whoever the hell George was—chatted for about five minutes before she got down to business. She asked George what he knew about Patrick Donnelly’s finances and then all DeMarco heard on his end was “uh-huh,” “oh?,” “Is that right.” Before she hung up she told George that lunch sometime would be delightful.
“George said—”
“Who’s George?” DeMarco asked.
“George said he doesn’t know where Donnelly got his money, and if he doesn’t know I’m not sure who would. He does know he was raised poor in Pennsylvania so he probably didn’t inherit. He’s never been married, so he didn’t get it that way. And he’s never worked in the private sector. Tomorrow I’ll call a researcher I know.”
DeMarco suspected “researcher” was a euphemism for hacker but didn’t bother to ask.
Emma finished her drink and walked back to the liquor cabinet. DeMarco had never seen her slamming down drinks like this. Emma poured another and returned to her chair.
“Donnelly’s not acting rationally,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Donnelly’s a good bureaucrat and good bureaucrats don’t take chances. It’s just like Banks said: when he got that warning letter, Donnelly should have immediately pulled the inside ring. And Donnelly wouldn’t have given a damn if he’d screwed up the President’s vacation with Montgomery. So why didn’t he do the safe thing?”
“Maybe—” DeMarco said.
“And why would he come to see you personally? People in his position don’t make threats that can be directly attributed to them. He’s not only taking an unusual interest in Billy Mattis, he’s exposing himself by doing so. What in the hell could be making him behave this way, Joe? And what on earth could be the connectio
n between a humble agent and the director of the Secret Service, a man who’s been in his job longer than God? Donnelly is acting like a man who—”
Before Emma could finish her thought, a muted cry came from one of the back rooms of her home. It sounded like Julie crying out in her sleep.
Emma rose, her face pinched with concern. “You have to leave now, Joe. I need to take care of . . . of something.”
“What’s going on with Julie, Emma? You know I’ll help any way I can.”
Emma—always so cool, so aloof from the fray. But not tonight. Tonight she looked like a cornered animal. A very dangerous cornered animal.
“Thanks, Joe, but . . . Good night.”
13
Sir, did you hear what I just said? Donnelly knows I work for you and he knows about my father. He’s threatening to go to the press.”
Mahoney still didn’t respond; all his attention was focused on the impressive chest of a nearby waitress. DeMarco knew Mahoney was almost seventy yet the man was more preoccupied with sex than the average teenager. The inventor of Viagra was probably included in his will.
“He may know who your father is,” Mahoney said after the waitress had disappeared from view, “but he can’t prove you work for me.”
“But if he could, you have links to unions, and the unions have links to the Mob, and the Mob has links to me. A possible spin on all that is that the Mob has you in their pocket and I’m their guy on-site to keep an eye on you.”
The Speaker gave DeMarco a calculating look—calculating, it seemed to DeMarco, the benefits of continuing to employ him. After fifteen years of doing backroom skulduggery for John Mahoney, work that rarely had anything to do with the practice of law, DeMarco knew he was less employable than the busty waitress—who at that moment stopped at their table.
“Would you like some more coffee, Mr. Speaker?” she said.
“Darlin’, you are a ray of sunshine in an old man’s dreary day,” Mahoney said.
“Oh, you’re not that old, Mr. Speaker,” the little darlin’ said, knowing her tips depended more on smiles and cleavage than they did on service.