LITMIR.BIZ

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pay no alimony and get to keep his pension and a heavily mortgaged house. In return, his wife would get all the furniture and furnishings – and all the money in their joint savings account, the cash value of his insurance policies, and DeMarco’s best car.

      DeMarco’s dinner was two slices of cold pizza eaten while standing in front of the refrigerator. Dinner the night before had been the same pizza, except hot from the box. DeMarco was a good cook and he enjoyed cooking, but he didn’t enjoy cooking for one.

      He felt restless after his supper and the pizza sat like a cheese boulder in his gut. He changed into a pair of shorts, a sleeveless Redskins T-shirt, and a pair of scuffed tennis shoes and trudged slowly up the stairs to the second floor of his home. For a brief period, DeMarco’s ex had used one of the two upstairs bedrooms as a studio, ruining yards of perfectly good canvas while whining that the windows didn’t let in the northern light. This hobby, like others that followed, lasted only a short time before she returned to those activities at which she excelled: shopping and adultery.

      Now the bedrooms were empty and the only thing in the upper story of DeMarco’s home was a punching bag, a fifty pounder that swung black and lumpy from a ceiling rafter like a short, fat man who had hanged himself. When asked why he had installed the heavy bag he would shrug and say it was for aerobic exercise, but the truth was that he loved to beat the shit out of an inanimate object when the mood struck him.

      He put on his gloves, warmed up with a little shadowboxing, and attacked the bag. The bag took the first round but by the second he was drenched with sweat, pounding leather with a vengeance, imagining his wife’s lover’s ribs cracking like kindling with each blow. His wife’s lover had been his cousin. He was so into violent fantasy that he almost didn’t hear the doorbell ring.

      Standing on his porch was a compact man in his thirties wearing a gray suit. When DeMarco noticed the pistol in the shoulder holster beneath the man’s suit jacket, he gave the stranger his full attention. Behind the man was a black limousine with government plates parked at the curb.

      ‘Are you Joseph DeMarco?’ the man asked.

      ‘Yeah,’ DeMarco said, still trying to catch his breath. ‘How can I help you?’ DeMarco thought it prudent to be polite to armed men.

      ‘Patrick Donnelly, director of the Secret Service, would like a word with you, sir. Would you mind joining the director in his car?’

      Ah, shit, DeMarco thought. Shit, shit, shit. On the case less than two days and the Secret Service already knew he was involved. He thought of slamming the door in the agent’s face and running to hide under his bed.

      ‘Please, sir, would you mind coming with me,’ the man prodded.

      Dignity prevailed over the ostrich defense. ‘You bet,’ DeMarco said, his voice sounding more confident than he felt.

      Donnelly’s driver opened the rear door of the limo for him. Feeling foolish in his shorts and Redskins T-shirt, DeMarco stepped into the car and took his place on the jump seat so he could face Patrick Donnelly. The armed driver closed the door behind DeMarco then remained standing outside the limo, several feet away; apparently Mr Donnelly didn’t want his man to hear their conversation.

      Lil’ Pat Donnelly stared at DeMarco, his eyes projecting his hostility. He was a slender man in his late sixties, no more than five feet six inches tall. His hair was dyed glossy black and parted so precisely on the left side that DeMarco could imagine him using a straightedge to guide his comb. He had small features, close-set ears, and narrow black eyes with drooping lids. His mouth was a cruel slash and his face was covered with a smear of five o’clock shadow. DeMarco thought he looked like a fencer, slim and wiry and nasty – the type who would use real swords if allowed the opportunity.

      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

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