House Rivals (2 page)

2

DeMarco was standing in the basement of his Georgetown home next to a professional killer. The killer's name was Ralph. It said so right on his shirt, the name in red thread over the pocket.

Yesterday, DeMarco had been doing about the most useless thing a man can do on a Sunday afternoon. He should have been outside mowing his lawn, but instead he was watching a professional golf tournament on television, wondering if Tiger was ever going to get his game back. He had a bowl of popcorn in his lap, a Budweiser clenched in his right hand, when he caught a motion out of the corner of his eye: something small and gray—and
very
fast. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, and the popcorn went flying as he leapt up and he sloshed beer down the front of his pants.

He'd seen a mouse. A fucking mouse!

He tried to find the critter, but couldn't. It had vanished. He wandered through his house for the next two hours armed with a broom, looking for places where rodents might dwell. He searched in closets and under sinks; he pulled out cardboard boxes filled with crap he should have thrown away years ago. He removed boxes of cereal and pasta from his kitchen cabinets to see if they'd been nibbled on. He found some rice spilled on one of the shelves but didn't know if that was evidence of mice dining or his own sloppiness. By the time he finished, he'd found nothing and his home looked like a team of DEA agents had executed a search warrant.

Realizing he needed professional help, he called an exterminator with a twenty-four-hour answering service. He told them to send over a cold-blooded killer, but was told that one wouldn't be available until tomorrow morning. That night he couldn't sleep. He kept hearing things—or he imagined he was hearing things—scurrying about behind the walls in his bedroom. He could see, in his mind's eye, one of the little bastards gnawing on an electrical wire.

Ralph showed up at eight a.m. the next day. He was a swarthy, overweight, balding guy. DeMarco suspected that Ralph's forefathers had disembarked on Ellis Island from a ship originating from Sicily. DeMarco's ancestors could have been on the same ship.

“I've never had a rodent problem before,” DeMarco said.

“Well, it happens,” Ralph said. “And it's not about cleanliness, per se.”

“Per se? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means there's rats in every city in America and just because you live in Georgetown and don't have garbage strewn all over your house, doesn't mean you won't get rats.”

“It wasn't a rat. It was a mouse.”

DeMarco didn't want to hear the word
rat
. Mice were cute little things. Some people even had 'em for pets. Rats were vicious-looking varmints with red eyes, bigger than squirrels, and they would bite your nose off while you slept.

“All they need,” Ralph said, “is a hole big enough to get their head through. If they can get their head through, then they can squeeze their whole body through. I'm talking a hole not even as big as a nickel.”

Ralph begin his search down in the basement because, in his professional opinion, and considering the construction of ­DeMarco's ­seventy-year-old home, that was the most likely point of entry. ­DeMarco's basement was unfinished, with concrete floors and walls, and contained his washer, dryer, and furnace. Five minutes after walking down the steps, Ralph pointed at a couple of small black particles that looked like peppercorns. “There you go,” he said. “Rat turds.”

“It was a mouse,” DeMarco said.

Ralph focused next on the insulation. The floor joists for the first floor of DeMarco's house sat on the foundation and batts of fiberglass insulation were crammed between the joists to minimize heat loss. About a minute after Ralph found the mouse turds, he said, “Yep,” and tugged on an insulation batt and
hundreds
of mouse turds came tumbling out.

“Aw, Jesus,” DeMarco said.

“There's your nest,” Ralph said, “or at least one of them.”

“Aw, Jesus,” DeMarco repeated.

“I'm going to have to rip out most of this insulation.”

“But how did they get into the house?” DeMarco asked.

Ralph ran his flashlight along the top of the basement walls and near the electrical panel he stopped and said, “See that?”

“What?”

“That hole where that one cable is coming through. Looks like it might be an Internet cable. You see how much space there is around the cable? Whoever ran it should have filled the hole with caulk. I'm not saying that's the only entry point, but that's one of them.”

DeMarco's cell phone rang. He was going to ignore it but then looked at the caller ID. It was Mahoney.

“Yeah, hello,” he said.

“I need to see you,” Mahoney said.

“Can it wait? I've got a big problem here at the house.”

But Mahoney had already hung up.

“Look, that was my boss and I have to go,” he said to Ralph, “but do whatever you gotta do. Wipe 'em out. Give me whatever I have to sign and I'll call you later and you can tell me what the plan is—but wipe 'em out.”

DeMarco passed through security, entered the Capitol, fought his way through a cluster of camera-wielding tourists to reach the stairs, and walked up to the office of the House Minority Leader: John Fitzpatrick Mahoney.

Mavis, Mahoney's secretary, was on the phone, chewing somebody out. From what DeMarco could hear it sounded like some kind of conflict in Mahoney's schedule and Mavis was blaming the conflict on whomever she was talking to. She finally slammed down the phone and said, “Idiot.”

Looking up at DeMarco, she said, “What are you doing here? He's already an hour behind schedule and it's not even ten, and right now he's supposed to be in two places at once.”

DeMarco shrugged. “He told me to come see him. I don't know why.”

“Well, he shouldn't have done that,” Mavis snapped.

“What can I tell you? He called. Hey, have you ever had mice in your house?”

“What? Of course not. Now you just wait right here,” she said and marched over to Mahoney's office, rapped on the door, and let herself in. She came out two minutes later and said, “You can walk with him over to the DNC.” She took a breath and said, “I don't know why in the hell he wants to walk. That's going to put him even farther behind.”

The Democratic National Committee's office was on South Capitol Street SE, about half a mile from the Capitol. If Mahoney had a car take him, he would get there in two minutes; if he walked it would take him at least twenty minutes because Mahoney walked slowly and stopped and bullshitted with everyone he met on the way. DeMarco felt sorry for Mavis. It was impossible to keep Mahoney on schedule and the main reason why was because Mahoney didn't care about his schedule. At his rank, people would usually wait for him if he was late—and he didn't care how long they had to wait.

Mahoney lumbered out of his office a couple of minutes later. He was dressed in a gray suit, a blue shirt, and a red-and-blue striped tie. On his feet were white Nike running shoes. He did this periodically: Made a half-assed effort to lose weight and get some exercise, the effort usually not lasting more than a week.

Mahoney was a handsome man with bright blue eyes and snow white hair. He was five foot eleven, the same height as DeMarco, but twice as broad across the back and butt. He drank too much, he ate too much, and he smoked cigars. A half-mile walk wasn't going to come anywhere close to offsetting all his vices.

He didn't say hello when he saw DeMarco; he just walked toward the door and DeMarco trailed along behind him. Nor did DeMarco try to speak to him as they were leaving the Capitol because about every two feet somebody would say: “Good morning, Mr. Speaker.” If Mahoney didn't know the person, he'd say, “Hey, howze it going? How you doin' today?” If he knew the person, he'd stop, shake his or her hand, then chat about whatever popped into his head.

Mahoney was no longer the Speaker of the House; he'd lost the job when the Republicans took control a few years ago, but he'd held the job for so long that people still used the title. It was driving him crazy that the Democrats couldn't take back the House and he spent half his working hours scheming to make that happen—which was probably what he was going to do at the DNC this morning: more scheming.

When they finally got outside, DeMarco caught up to Mahoney and walked next to him. “There's a guy out in Montana named Doug Thorpe,” Mahoney said. “If it wasn't for him, my name would be on that black wall down there on the Mall. He saved my life twice. He also saved the lives of a dozen other people, too. They gave him a Silver Star. He should have gotten the Medal of Honor.”

Mahoney never talked about Vietnam. DeMarco had no idea what he did over there or how bad it had been. All DeMarco knew was that Mahoney had just been a kid, barely out of high school when he enlisted in the Marines. He ended up with shrapnel from a grenade in his right knee and he limped when it was cold. But that's about all DeMarco knew.

Mahoney was as corrupt as any congressman on Capitol Hill. He took money under the table; he did quasi-legal favors for people who helped him stay in office; he used campaign contributions to maintain his lifestyle. He would stab his enemies in the back—and sometimes he'd stab his friends in the back if it were politically expedient to do so. He loved politics more than he loved breathing. He loved the power, the intrigue, and being in the thick of things. But there was one area where Mahoney was above reproach: the proper treatment of veterans. It was the only area where he was above reproach.

“Anyway, I want you to go see him,” Mahoney said.

“In Montana?” DeMarco said.

Mahoney ignored the whine in DeMarco's voice. “It's about his granddaughter. According to Doug, she's uncovered some conspiracy out there and somebody's threatening to kill her.”

“What kind of conspiracy?”

“Hell, I don't know. Something political. I'd had a couple of drinks before he called last night.”

Had a
couple
? Knowing Mahoney, he'd probably had a lot more than two drinks. Mahoney was an alcoholic.

“All I know is that Doug's never asked for a damn thing from me in all the years I've known him. He's a fly-fishing guide and when I was younger I'd go see him and we'd go fishing and drink and tell lies about the war, but I haven't seen him in years. Anyway, he said he needed help and he didn't know who else to go to and his granddaughter won't listen to reason. So I told him you were going to help him.”

Before DeMarco could say anything, Mahoney said, “Hang on a minute.” He walked over to a street vendor and bought a Danish in a cellophane wrapper; the Danish was loaded with preservatives and had probably been baked a month ago. There was no point in DeMarco asking why he was walking if he was going to eat pastry as he walked.

“You don't need to go with me the rest of the way,” Mahoney said as he ripped the wrapper off the Danish. “Get Doug's address from Mavis, and head on out there today. I told him you'd see him tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow! But I got . . .”

“When you find out what's going on, let me know.”

DeMarco walked back to the Capitol, cursing John Mahoney every step of the way. He didn't want to leave today, not with his house infested with rodents. He could just see coming home from Montana and finding fifty mice in his kitchen, having a feast, dancing like cartoon characters in a Disney movie. He called Ralph. “Where are you?” he asked.

“I'm still here at your house, ripping out the insulation. I found another nest.”

“Aw, Jesus. Don't leave. I'll be back in less than an hour and you can tell me what the game plan is.”

DeMarco had worked for Mahoney for years. He had an office in the bowels of the Capitol, down in the subbasement. On the frosted glass door of his office, in flaking gold paint, were the words
Counsel Pro Tem For Liaison Affairs
.
The words were absolutely meaningless; Mahoney had invented them. But DeMarco had an office, he had a title, and the U.S. government paid his salary. He was a GS-13, and had been a GS-13 for almost as long as he'd worked for Mahoney. His chances of getting a raise were between slim and none.

DeMarco was Mahoney's fixer—and sometimes his bagman, meaning Mahoney occasionally sent him to collect cash from people who wanted to contribute to Mahoney but didn't want to be known as contributors. More often, if Mahoney had some sticky issue with a constituent or another lawmaker or an old girlfriend—Mahoney had many of those: old girlfriends—DeMarco would be sent to deal with the issue. And usually, if DeMarco was sent to resolve a problem, it meant the problem couldn't be handled by Mahoney's legitimate staff in some legitimate fashion. The other thing Mahoney had done many times in the past was loan DeMarco to his friends when his friends had problems—as he was now doing with his buddy Doug Thorpe.

DeMarco got Thorpe's address and phone number from Mavis. When he asked if she'd mind booking him a flight and renting him a car, she basically told him to go fuck himself. She did this by simply sniffing. She worked for Mahoney and only Mahoney.

DeMarco descended to his hole-in-the wall office and used Google to learn that Doug Thorpe lived on the Yellowstone River about halfway between the towns of Forsyth and Miles City, Montana. He'd never heard of either town, and would have to fly into Billings. The best flight he could get left National at five thirty p.m. and arrived in Billings seven hours later, stopping along the way in Salt Lake City. Then it would be a two-hour drive to Thorpe's place. If DeMarco had had a little voodoo doll of John Mahoney it would have looked like a pincushion.

DeMarco made reservations—flight, hotel, and car—then went home to pack and talk to Ralph. He wanted to know Ralph's agenda for genocide.