The receptionist--Boston-bred, fiftysomething, hard and bright as
stainless steel--arched a disapproving eyebrow at DeMarco as he entered
Mahoney's offices.
"You're late," she said. "And he's in a mood today."
"So since I'm late I guess that means I can go right in," DeMarco said.
The receptionist was married to a successful accountant, a very nice
man, very slim and neat and considerate. On those rare occasions they
made love she fantasized about burly Italian construction workers. She
used to fantasize about black men with washboard abs and shaved heads
but the last few months it had been men who looked like DeMarco: dark
hair, blue eyes, a Travolta dimple in his chin--and arms and shoulders
made for wife-beater undershirts. However, fantasy man or not, she
didn't approve of tardiness--or flippancy.
"No, you can take a seat," the receptionist said, flashing a brittle
smile, "and in a few minutes, after I finish my tea, I'll tell him
you're here. Then he'll make you wait twenty more minutes while he talks
to important people on the phone."
DeMarco knew better than to protest. He took a seat as directed and
pulled a copy of People magazine from the stack on the coffee
table in front of him. He was addicted to Hollywood gossip but would
have died under torture before admitting it.
Thirty minutes later he entered Mahoney's office. Mahoney was on the
phone wrapping up a one-sided conversation. "Don't fuck with me, son,"
Mahoney was saying. "You get contrary on this thing, next year this
time, the only way you'll see the Capitol will be from one of them
double-decker buses. Now vote like I told ya and quit telling me about
promises you never shoulda made in the first place."
Mahoney slammed down the phone, muttered "Dipshit," then aimed his
watery blue eyes at DeMarco.
"You see Flattery?" Mahoney asked.
DeMarco took an unmarked envelope from the inside breast pocket of his
suit and handed it to Mahoney. DeMarco didn't know what was in the
envelope; he made a point of not knowing what was in the envelopes he
brought Mahoney. Mahoney sliced open the envelope and took out a piece
of paper the size and shape of a check. He glanced at the paper, grunted
in either annoyance or satisfaction, and shoved the paper into the
middle drawer of his desk.
"And the Whittacker broad?" Mahoney asked.
"She'll testify at the hearing."
"What did you have to give her?"
"My word that I wouldn't tell her husband who she's been sleeping with."
"That's all it took?"
"She signed a prenup."
"Ah," Mahoney said. Greed never surprised him--nor did any other human
frailty. "So those bastards at Stock Options R Us will spend eighteen
months in a country club prison, the guys who lost their pensions will
eat Hamburger Helper for the rest of their lives, and her, she'll get
her fuckin' picture on Time as whistle-blower of the year.
Jesus."
DeMarco shrugged. There was only so much you could do.
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