House Odds (17 page)

“Janet!” Praeter screamed.

“Your secretary’s not out there,” DeMarco said. Before Praeter could say anything else, he said, “Mr. Praeter, I’m an investigator from Congress and I . . .”

“Did you hear what I said on the phone?”

“No. Now, as I was saying . . .”

“Are you recording this conversation?”

“What? No. Look, I just want to know if . . .”

“I’m not talking to you.”

Then Praeter sat down in his big, black chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his mouth in a tight line—a virtual parody of a kid zipping his lips shut.

“Mr. Praeter, I’d just like to know about your relationship to Douglas Campbell.”

Praeter just shook his head. Stubborn little kid refusing to talk.

“You can be subpoenaed, Mr. Praeter.”

Praeter shook his head again, then pointed at the door, directing DeMarco to leave.

This was hopeless. The guy was a nut.

DeMarco left.

* * *

“Crazy Dickie,” Sal Anselmo said, shaking his head. “What a piece of work.”

DeMarco was in Lilly O’Brien’s on Murray Street drinking Grey Goose martinis with Sal. He and Salvatore Anselmo met freshman year in college, and while DeMarco was obtaining mediocre marks in pre-law, Sal was getting equally lackluster grades in business. As undergraduates, studying had not been a priority for either of them.

Sal now worked at the New York Stock Exchange, thriving in the screaming frenzy of the trading floor. And, judging by his suit, he was doing okay. Maybe not as well as Richard Praeter, but okay. Sal had already called his wife and told her that he wouldn’t be home until the wee hours because he’d been invited to play poker with some guys from work—and the fact that he had used a poker game as his alibi was an indicator of Sal’s wife’s feelings toward DeMarco. Mrs. Anselmo had met her future husband in college and she had always thought that DeMarco had some sort of Rasputin-like hold over her boyfriend, as if DeMarco periodically hypnotized poor, gullible Sal and forced him to drink until he puked.

“But the sucker’s a genius,” Sal said regarding Praeter. “A damn legend on the Street.”

“What do you know about his background?”

“Not much. He came here twenty-some years ago and hired on with Morgan Stanley, where he lasted about six months. He was a whiz kid and he was making money for the firm, but he was such a prick, both to the clients and the people he worked with, that they fired him. And when you think about that—about Morgan Stanley firing a guy who was making them money because of his personality—that means Praeter had to be a complete and total asshole. After that, or so the story goes, Praeter ran around town trying to get people to loan him money so he could invest on his own, but naturally nobody would because he had no track record, no assets to put up for collateral, and was an asshole who couldn’t hold down a job.”

Sal took a big sip from his martini—and expensive vodka dribbled down his chin and onto his tie. “Then something happened, nobody knows what, and suddenly Dickie’s rich. He got some seed money from somewhere, invested it, and made a bundle. And then he just took off from there. Now, of course, Morgan Stanley wants him back no matter how big a jerk he is, to which Crazy Dickie naturally says ‘Go fuck yourself.’”

“But you don’t know where he got the start-up money?”

“Nope. All I know is he made a killing on some company but I have no idea where he got the money he invested. And, of course, Dickie won’t say.” Sal laughed. “I talked to a guy who went to a meeting with him one time. Praeter gets a cab, goes uptown. Stops the cab, gets another cab, goes downtown. Stops again, gets a
third
cab, and goes back uptown. The guy said Praeter was convinced someone was trying to follow them to the meeting. Another thing I heard is that he can’t keep a secretary because he’s always firing them because he thinks they’re spying on him. He’s a fuckin’ Grade A, certified nut.”

DeMarco ordered another martini, his third—or maybe his fourth. He should have kept the swizzle sticks to keep track of the number since his brain was no longer capable of simple addition. He did notice that his tooth wasn’t bothering him as much; martinis were apparently a better anesthetic than oil of cloves and, come to think of it, they tasted about the same. After his drink arrived, he spent a few more minutes asking questions about Richard Praeter for which Sal had no answers. DeMarco finally gave up. “So,” he said, “all you really know is that twenty years ago this guy comes into some cash, invests it, and now he’s richer than shit because he’s so good at what he does.”

“Well, yeah,” Sal said, “but that’s more than you knew before you talked to me—and which is why this Bud’s on you.” Then he held up his empty martini glass for the bartender to see so he could order another fourteen-dollar drink.
Bud
,
my ass
.

“Let me ask you this,” DeMarco said. “Could this guy buy stock in a company and somehow disguise the purchase so the SEC or the IRS or whoever couldn’t figure out that he’d bought the stock?”

Sal’s attention was momentarily captured by a woman built like a Victoria’s Secret model, wearing the archetypal little black cocktail dress that reached midthigh. DeMarco knew Sal was faithful to his thick-ankled, nagging wife, and devoted to his three kids, but like most men he couldn’t help but dream.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Sal said, finally taking his eyes off the woman. “Dickie’s smart as a whip, but why would he do something stupid like that? He’s already rich; why would he break the law?”

Shit. None of this was helping—and DeMarco was beginning to suspect that drinking martinis with Salvatore Anselmo wasn’t the way to make progress. He began to reach for his wallet to pay a bar tab that had to be over a hundred bucks, when Sal said, “Hey, there’s a fight at the Garden tonight. A couple of heavyweights and some Puerto Rican kid who’s supposed to be the next Sugar Ray. I know a guy who can get us tickets. You wanna go?”

“Boxing is a barbaric sport,” DeMarco said. “And the people who watch it are depraved, sitting there cheering while two men try to beat each other to death.”

“That’s right,” Sal said. “So you wanna go?”

“Sure.”

24

An unmarked white envelope was sitting in the middle of Robert Fairchild’s desk when Preston Whitman walked into the congressman’s office. Fairchild pushed the envelope toward the lobbyist using the eraser-end of a pencil.

“There’s a cashier’s check for a hundred and twenty five thousand dollars in that envelope, son,” Fairchild said. “The amount that Molly Mahoney owes the Atlantic Palace casino plus a little more, kind of like a tip. You see, I want Ted Allen to tear up her marker. In other words, I want their records to show that the casino has absolved her debt. Do you understand?”

“No,” Whitman said. “Why are you paying off Molly’s gambling debt?”

“I’m not paying it off. Didn’t you hear what I just said? The casino is going to
cancel
her debt.”

“But why do you want that to happen?” Whitman asked, and Big Bob explained.

Whitman was impressed. He’d never thought that Fairchild was bright enough to think of a plan like this, but apparently he was. But Whitman still had a problem—a major problem.

“Congressman,” he said, “I can’t just give Ted Allen that money. He’ll want to know where it came from. More important, he’s going to want to know whom I’ve talked to about his connection to Molly Mahoney. I’m concerned, sir, that Mr. Allen’s reaction to any perceived indiscretion on my part might be rather, uh, violent.”

“So figure something out,” Fairchild said. “You’re a smart guy.”

25

The morning after drinking martinis with Sal Anselmo at Lilly O’Brien’s, then attending a boxing match at the Garden where he drank beer with Sal, DeMarco woke up at seven a.m. with a hangover so bad he thought he should be in an intensive care unit connected to life support. But, stalwart soldier that he was, he made a reservation for a flight leaving at ten for Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

* * *

DeMarco sat at the bar sipping iced tea through a straw, the straw being the best way to keep cold liquid from cascading over his fractured tooth. As he sipped, he looked out at the marina, then beyond the marina, at the sailboats maneuvering on the water. There were eight boats all clustered together, having some sort of mini-regatta, and all the boats were flying brightly colored spinnakers. What a picture.

He could get used to this: an ocean view and sailboats and cute barmaids in short shorts. And he’d picked up a little brochure at the airport while waiting for his rental car and it said that there were about eight zillion golf courses in the area, and except for the occasional hurricane, the weather was usually perfect.

DeMarco wished that Mahoney had some sort of field office in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

He had decided he needed to see Rusty McGrath. Well, he didn’t exactly have a need
to see him; he just couldn’t think of anything better to do. But when he discovered that McGrath wasn’t home—or, to be precise, when he discovered that McGrath was out motoring about
on
his home—he was forced to sit in a bar and enjoy the scenery while waiting for sailor McGrath to return to port.

As DeMarco waited, he thought about calling Alice’s good-looking friend, the mother of two, and asking her out for dinner. He’d just placed his hand on his cell phone, when the bartender said, “Hey, McGrath’s coming in.”

“Where?” DeMarco said, standing up and searching the sea like he was looking for Ahab’s whale.

“Right there,” the bartender said, pointing his index finger. “That boat that’s about the size of an Aegis cruiser, just off the breakwater.”

DeMarco finished his iced tea and walked slowly over to the marina. He could understand a potential relationship between Campbell and Praeter: Campbell was the insider at Reston Tech and Praeter was the sharp investor who bought the stock. But he couldn’t figure out where Rusty McGrath fit in—and yet it was McGrath, and not Praeter, whom Campbell had called the night DeMarco threatened Campbell. So DeMarco just wanted to put his eyeballs on the guy.

He waited at McGrath’s slip and watched as McGrath maneuvered his sixty-foot boat into its space as easily as if he were parallel parking a car. DeMarco didn’t know if the boat had those side-thruster things like they have on cruise ships or if he was just very good at the helm.

The boat’s hull was sleek and gleaming white, and although DeMarco’s knowledge of expensive hardwoods was limited, he was pretty sure the deck was teak. On the bow of the boat, lying on a striped cushion, was a young woman in her twenties. The woman wore a white bikini and had a body that would not have been out of place on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
’s annual swimsuit issue.

“Mr. McGrath?” DeMarco said to the man who had just climbed down a ladder from the bridge.

“Yeah. Here, be a pal and tie me off up forward,” McGrath said and tossed DeMarco a white nylon rope. DeMarco took the rope and looped it uncertainly around a cleat on the dock. While DeMarco was tying up the forward line, McGrath jumped gracefully from the boat to the dock and secured the aft mooring line.

McGrath was a big man, six three, two hundred and twenty pounds. His hair was short and curly—a reddish-brown color, perfect for a guy called “Rusty”—and his face and arms were tanned like those of a man who spent most of his days outdoors. Unlike Douglas Campbell, he was in good shape and had the biceps of a weight lifter.

McGrath walked over to DeMarco and looked down at the line he’d secured. “I can see you’re no sailor, partner,” he said, and retied the line.

“Mr. McGrath,” DeMarco said, “my name’s . . .”

“Hang on a second,” McGrath said to DeMarco. “Hey, Tammy baby.”

“Yeah, sugar,” the young woman said without raising her head from the cushion. She spoke slowly, as if she were half asleep, and she had a deep, sexy Southern accent. Rocks would melt in her mouth.

“The ice maker’s on the fritz again,” McGrath said. “How ’bout goin’ on up to the office and gettin’ us a bag of ice. A five pounder’ll do.”

“Oh, do I have to?” Tammy said.

“Yeah,” McGrath said. “I wanna cold drink but I gotta talk to this gentleman for a minute.” Before Tammy could argue that her primary purpose in life was to be decorative, not to fetch and carry, McGrath added, “And when I’m done we’ll go get us some dinner at that steak place you like.”

Tammy rose languidly from the cushion where she’d been reclining, stretched, and slipped on a pair of flip-flops. The stretch was a show worth watching. McGrath helped her descend from the boat, and then he and DeMarco both stood silently for a moment admiring her ass as she walked slowly up the dock toward the marina office.

“I gotta tell you, sir,” McGrath said to DeMarco, his eyes still fixed on Tammy’s backside, “the good Lord is one helluva engineer.”

“Mr. McGrath my name is Joe DeMarco. I’m from . . .”

“Yeah, I know who you are. Dog told me all about you.”

“Dog?”