by Mike Lawson
DeMarco considered what would happen if he lost his job. He may have had a law degree but he’d never practiced law. He could just see himself, at his age, applying for a position at some law firm and the firm asking what he’d been doing since college. Uh, well, he’d say, I bring envelopes stuffed with cash to a politician that I can’t name. Thank you very much, the law firm would say. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.
He did a quick calculation. If he got a good price for his Georgetown house, and paid off what he owed on the mortgage, and considering what he had in savings, how long could he survive before he’d have to accept a job at McDonald’s burning French fries? The answer to that question, as near as he could tell, was about two weeks.
So he would do nothing. He wouldn’t investigate Paul Morelli any further and he’d just have to wait and see what Morelli was going to do to him.
DeMarco got back to his house about five-thirty, went into the kitchen, and scrambled a couple of eggs. His lucky streak continued: most of the eggs stuck to the bottom of the frying pan. He took the eggs and toast he’d made—he could make flawless toast—and carried the plate into his den and turned on the television set. The evening news was just starting.
The lead story, naturally, was the assassination attempt. They showed the film clip of the shoot-out on Capitol Hill, the anchorman describing Marcus Perry’s and Abe Burrows’s deaths like an NFL play-by-play announcer. When the tape ended, the anchorman informed his viewers that they were now going live to a reporter who had the latest developments on the attempted assassination of the senator.
Monica Bradshaw, the attractive, leggy reporter who had been at the Russell Building that morning, came on the screen. “We are here in the home of Eloise May Perry,” she said, “the mother of Isaiah and Marcus Perry. Mrs. Perry and her minister, the Reverend Jackson Knoll, met with Senator Morelli earlier in the day, and the senator has agreed to let us record an historic announcement this evening.”
The reporter’s face glowed with the adoration of a disciple; the only thing objective about her broadcast would be the pictures captured by the camera’s inhuman eye.
Paul Morelli, Eloise Perry, and a man DeMarco assumed was the Reverend Knoll came into focus. Seated in Mrs. Perry’s lap was Marcus Perry’s son, sucking his pacifier. Mrs. Perry looked even more world-weary than the last time DeMarco had seen her, but he thought he saw something in her eyes, something he hadn’t seen before: hope.
Morelli glanced affectionately at the baby, then faced the camera. “As you all know, my wife was killed by a young man named Isaiah Perry, and I killed Isaiah in self-defense. Then Isaiah’s older brother, Marcus, died while trying to avenge his brother’s death. As you can imagine, Mrs. Perry and I are both numb with grief and bewildered as to why our lives were destined to intersect in such a horrible way. I decided, however, that there had to be a way to make something good come out of so much tragedy.
“This afternoon I met with Mrs. Perry and the pastor of her church, Reverend Knoll. We joined our hands and hearts in prayer, searching for answers, searching for something that could be done.”
The reverend nodded solemnly at the camera in agreement. Knoll was a slim man in his late sixties, with a high forehead, his head covered with tight white curls. His eyes shone as if he had just shaken hands with God.
“With Mrs. Perry tonight is this beautiful child.” Morelli looked sadly over at the baby squirming in Mrs. Perry’s lap and gave one of his tiny feet an affectionate squeeze.
“This is James, Marcus’s son. James is an orphan. His mother died of lymphoma. I don’t believe that Marcus and Isaiah Perry ever had much of a chance in life in spite of everything their good mother tried to do for them. They were raised without a father and Mrs. Perry had to work two jobs to support them. She admits that it was difficult for her to keep her sons, particularly Marcus, away from the bad influences that prey upon the underprivileged children of this country. And now Mrs. Perry is the sole source of support for her grandson.
“But it will be different for James—and for Mrs. Perry. I am establishing a trust fund in the name of my late wife, Lydia Grace Morelli, to provide for all James’s educational needs, including college at the university of his choice. To allow his grandmother the time and resources to care for him, the trust will augment her income and Reverend Knoll has found her employment with an institution that will allow her to adjust her work hours to suit her grandson’s schedule. This baby will have the opportunity that his father and uncle never had.”
The camera swung to Mrs. Perry. The reporter, Monica Bradshaw, asked her, “Mrs. Perry, do you have anything to say?”
Tears shining in her eyes and streaming down her broad face, Eloise Perry said, “I’m just so sorry . . . so sorry, for what my sons did to the senator. I just thank Jesus that he has the goodness in his heart to forgive.”
DeMarco swore. Had he been rich enough to have afforded it, he would have thrown something through the screen of his television set. Since he wasn’t, he simply turned off the television, stretched out on the couch in his den, closed his eyes—and tried not to think about anything at all. He must have fallen asleep because when the phone rang and he looked at his watch, he saw it was ten p.m. He croaked a hello into the phone.
“The Mayflower. Room 1016,” the caller said and hung up.
Aw, shit.
The caller had been Mahoney.
Room 1016 was a two-room suite.
DeMarco was seated in an uncomfortable, straight-backed antique chair. The Speaker’s broad ass was flying solo in a love seat, and his large lumpy feet and thick hairless legs protruded from the bottom of a white bathrobe. The robe had the hotel’s name embroidered on the chest.
Mahoney’s mane of white hair was tousled and his cheeks were flushed. In his right hand he held a glass of bourbon, and on the table next to him was a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey. That could explain the flush. A subtle scent hung in the air—the scent of perfume, the scent of a woman. That could also explain the flush. The door leading to the bedroom was closed.
“Did you see him on television,” Mahoney said, “that grandstand fuckin’ play he made with the Perry kid?”
DeMarco nodded.
“He doesn’t miss a trick. How’d the son of a bitch set that up so fast?”
DeMarco shrugged. He didn’t care that Paul Morelli could devise self-serving schemes at the speed of light.
The Speaker sat sipping his bourbon, a frown wrinkling his forehead. He looked angry—and his anger appeared to be directed at DeMarco.
“So what are you going to do next?” Mahoney asked.
“Do next?” DeMarco said, shocked that Mahoney would interrupt his carnal pleasures to ask this question.
“Well?” Mahoney persisted.
“I hadn’t planned on doing anything next. The only chance I had was to get the police to reopen the case, which they’re not going to do. And now even if they did, with Marcus Perry and Burrows both dead, they won’t be able to pin anything on Morelli. I’m sorry, but I’ve reached a dead end.”
The Speaker swallowed the remaining bourbon in his glass and put the glass down hard on the end table next to his chair.
“Sorry! Sorry don’t cut it, goddamnit! You have to do something.”
“Like what?” DeMarco said, not even trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.
“I don’t know ‘like what,’ but something. I have an obligation here, Joe. A moral obligation to the American people.”
This was pure bullshit. Mahoney wouldn’t know a moral obligation if one bit him on the ass. But now DeMarco knew why he had been summoned to the hotel room: his boss had been fretting all day that Morelli would eventually figure out that DeMarco worked for him, and Mahoney knew that even he might not survive if Morelli decided to go after him. So DeMarco could imagine Mahoney—anxiety having interfered with the temperamental erectile function—leaving his bed, angry and unfulfilled, to summon his henchman. DeMarco was appare
ntly the only pawn he had left on the board.
DeMarco opened his mouth to protest but when he saw the look on Mahoney’s face, he stopped. Instead, he said, “Could I have a drink?”
Mahoney hesitated. DeMarco knew that Mahoney didn’t want to share his booze; he probably had just enough left to last until it was time to go home to his wife. But Mahoney finally, reluctantly, nodded his head. DeMarco poured an especially large shot just to annoy him.
“Sir,” DeMarco said, after the bourbon had warmed his gullet, “exactly what is it that you want me to do? I mean—”
At that moment the door to the bedroom opened. Oh, boy! DeMarco thought. At least he’d get to see who Mahoney was screwing. He expected Mahoney to call out, to tell the woman to stay where she was, but he didn’t. DeMarco turned his head and looked over his shoulder. The woman who stepped from the room was wearing a white hotel bathrobe just like Mahoney.
It was Mary Pat, Mahoney’s wife.
Mary Pat had short white hair, the shade almost a perfect match to her husband’s. She was five foot five, slim and lovely. And although she was Mahoney’s age, she looked ten years younger because she had none of her spouse’s filthy, life-shortening habits. She didn’t smoke, she rarely drank, she did her yoga and went for walks, and in recent years she’d become a vegetarian. She was going to outlive Mahoney by thirty years. The other thing that would contribute to her longevity was that she was one of the sweetest people DeMarco knew. He firmly believed that nice people lived longer than the not so nice.
“Why, Joey!” Mary Pat said. She always seemed delighted to see him, but she was probably just as delighted to see her mailman. “What are you doing here at this time of night?” Before DeMarco could answer, she turned to Mahoney and said, “It’s no wonder he doesn’t have a girlfriend, John, the hours you have him working.”
Mahoney mumbled something inarticulate, his words muffled by the ice in his glass banging against his big square teeth.
What in the hell was Mahoney doing in a hotel room with his wife? DeMarco wondered. He soon found out.
“Did John tell you, Joe? They’re resurfacing the hardwood floors in the condo, and the smell was just killing us. Really! Whatever they use on those floors, it just smelled toxic. So we decided to stay here in this lovely suite tonight.” She laughed and said, “I feel like we’re having an affair.”
God, DeMarco loved Mary Pat.
She got a glass of water and said, “Well, I’ll leave you two to whatever you’re doing. And John, don’t be too long. You need to get some sleep.”
Mary Pat returned to the bedroom and closed the door and DeMarco turned back to face his boss. Mahoney was still scowling. He may not have been cheating on his wife tonight as DeMarco had thought, but he had brooded himself into a black state over Morelli.
DeMarco resumed his conversation with Mahoney where it had left off. “Look, I know you’re frustrated,” he said, “but at this point, what do you think I can do? I mean, do you expect me to—”
“I expect you to get results!” the Speaker shouted.
DeMarco didn’t have the slightest idea what to do. He was trying to think of something to say when the Speaker nodded his large head a couple of times as if he had just come to a conclusion about his employee.
“What did you do about Hanson’s kid?” he asked.
Mahoney had changed direction so fast, it took DeMarco a few seconds to figure out who he was talking about. Hanson was the father of the preppie doper he’d followed the other day. Glad to change the subject, DeMarco told him he’d discovered the kid was using drugs and that he had reported back to the boy’s father.
“I gave him the name of a good counselor,” he concluded.
Mahoney’s lips twitched in a brief, scornful smile. “Most of your cases are like that, aren’t they?” he said. “A couple hours of easy work with no risk involved.”
DeMarco didn’t say anything. Apparently Mahoney had chosen to forget how DeMarco had almost been killed twice while in Mahoney’s service.
“Yeah,” Mahoney continued, “half the time you don’t even go to your office. You got it made, don’t you?” Mahoney paused then added, “Son, it’s time to earn your keep.”
DeMarco sat there speechless, trying to think of something to say to this hypocrite, something to dissuade him, but he knew it was hopeless.
With some effort, Mahoney pushed his bulk up from the love seat and padded on splayed feet over to where DeMarco sat. He took the glass of bourbon out of DeMarco’s hand; he’d only taken a single sip. The son of a bitch was going to finish what was left in the glass.
Placing his hand on DeMarco’s shoulder, Mahoney said, “You need to go someplace where you can think, son. You gotta lotta thinkin’ to do.”
Chapter 46
The post was about three feet high. Emma placed her left foot on it, then bent from the waist, keeping her leg straight, and touched her head against her knee. She did this ten times.
The jogging trail was on the Virginia side of the Potomac River, and she was on the section near the Memorial Bridge. The Lincoln Memorial gleamed white across the river. The trail went from Washington all the way to Mount Vernon, about twenty miles. Emma ran this route sometimes when she prepared for marathons. She didn’t know how far she was going to run today, but she thought she might go the whole way then call Christine to come pick her up at Mount Vernon. All she knew for sure was that she was about to explode, and running was the best cure she could think of.
She finished with her left leg, and had just placed her right leg up on the post, when a voice behind her said, “Good morning.” She turned her head. It was Charlie Eklund. His bodyguard was leaning against the front fender of Eklund’s car.
“What do you want?” she said, but she continued with her stretching exercises.
“I’ve decided that we can stop threatening each other,” Eklund said. “I have no need to follow you or your friend anymore, nor will I do anything to harm anyone you know. And you, in turn, will have no need to send photographs to my director.”
Emma took her right leg off the post and turned to face Eklund. “Maybe I’ll send them anyway,” she said.
“No you won’t. You know if you do then I’ll do something to reciprocate.”
Emma didn’t say anything for a moment. She just stared at Eklund, so still, neat, and confident. The small breeze that was blowing didn’t even ruffle his white hair.
“You think you’ve won, don’t you? With Abe Burrows and Marcus Perry both dead no one can touch Paul Morelli for his wife’s murder. You’re thinking that even if I get you fired now, when Morelli becomes president, you’ll go see him and be reinstated. You think you’re going to be the next DCI, don’t you, Charlie?”
Eklund smiled slightly, almost humbly, but his eyes were bright blue buttons. “I do love this view,” he said, looking across the river at the Lincoln Memorial. “You know what made Lincoln a great president? He was a very practical man. I’d suggest, my dear, that you become more practical.”
Emma turned away from Eklund and began to jog. Yes, she’d run all the way to Mount Vernon. She’d run until she overcame the urge to break Charlie Eklund’s tiny neck.
DeMarco couldn’t start his lawn mower. He’d been pulling on the cord for about fifteen minutes, long enough that his shoulder was beginning to ache. The damn thing just wouldn’t start.
Since he didn’t know what to do about Morelli he figured he might as well get caught up on things around the house: wash some clothes, pay a few bills, and mow the damn lawn. He hated doing yard work, but unlike Emma, he couldn’t afford to hire someone to do it for him. It’d been a month since he’d mowed the grass and he imagined his neighbors were beginning to turn up their little neatnik noses in disapproval. But now he couldn’t start the mower. He was going to have to take the damn thing to Sears and get somebody to look at it, but he didn’t want to take the time to do that today.
He walked across the street and knocked on G
eorge Carson’s front door. George worked at the IRS, a fact DeMarco took shameless advantage of every April. He asked George if he could borrow his mower, then they spent the next fifteen minutes talking about how the Nationals were going to do better next summer. Hope springs eternal.
He had just begun to use George’s gleaming, state-of-the-art mower—the thing was the Lexus of lawn mowers—when Christine and Emma drove up to his house in Christine’s car. Emma got out of the car wearing a sweat-soaked T-shirt, shorts, and jogging shoes. He heard her tell Christine to come back and get her in fifteen minutes.
Emma took the time to admire George’s mower, and for a moment DeMarco wondered if he should try to convince her how much fun it was to use, to see if he could Tom Sawyer her into mowing his grass, but he knew she’d never fall for it.
“You want some water or something?” he asked her.
He got a glass of ice water for her and a beer for himself and they sat down on the top step of his front porch.
“My boss,” DeMarco said, “wants me to do something the entire Republican Party can’t manage: he wants me to keep Paul Morelli from being elected president. What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know,” Emma said.
It was so strange to hear Emma say that.
“The only thing I can think to do,” DeMarco said, “is follow up on what Lydia told me: try to prove that Morelli assaulted those women or molested his stepdaughter or find whoever this powerful guy is who’s been helping Morelli. But I think it’s futile.”
Emma snorted. “So now you’re going to do what Lydia wanted you to do in the first place—now that’s she’s dead,” she said.
