15

DeMarco flew back to D.C. to talk to Mahoney.

He hadn’t liked talking to Al Castiglia on the phone about his plans for the McNultys. The FBI could have a warrant to eavesdrop on Castiglia’s phones—Castiglia being who he was—or the NSA could be eavesdropping without a warrant. DeMarco didn’t think that he and Castiglia had said anything on the phone that could cause either of them a legal problem, but he wasn’t going to take that chance with Mahoney.

DeMarco met Mahoney at his condo in the Watergate complex. Instead of sitting inside his air-conditioned apartment, Mahoney was out on the balcony even though it was ninety degrees outside. The gin and tonic in his hand was his only protection against the temperature. He was wearing green-and-white-checkered Bermuda shorts and a crimson Harvard T-shirt. (Mahoney had not gone to Harvard.) He was barefoot, and his legs and big flat feet were the color of skim milk.

“How’s Elinore?” were the first words out of Mahoney’s mouth.

“Not good. She doesn’t seem to be improving.”

“Goddamnit,” Mahoney muttered.

Before Mahoney could blame him again for Elinore’s condition, ­DeMarco said, “But I’m working on something that’ll put the McNultys in prison for a long time, boss. And it’ll be hard time. Federal time. And not in a minimum security prison.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“You don’t want to know. But it involves your old pal Al Castiglia and a guy just like him in Providence.”

“Huh,” Mahoney said. “How much time are we talking about for the McNultys?”

“Based on a recent case in Boston I’d say a minimum of six years, but more likely ten with their records.”

“Good,” Mahoney said. He was probably thinking the same thing DeMarco had thought when he developed his plan: if the McNultys were convicted for the attempted murder of Elinore Dobbs, ten years was probably about how much time they would spend in prison. However, no amount of time in prison would make up for what they had done to Elinore mentally.

“But there’s a problem,” DeMarco said. “I need thirty-five grand to pull this off.”

“Thirty-five grand?”

“Yeah.”

Mahoney wasn’t a rich man—at least he wasn’t rich to the point where he had thirty-five thousand dollars he could easily afford to lose. He made over two hundred thousand a year as a congressman, then made twice that amount in various and sundry ways, some of those ways being arguably illegal. The problem with Mahoney, however, was that he spent money as fast as he made it. He had a large home in Boston, the condo in the Watergate, and his wife had a sailboat that he never boarded. He dressed well, he ate well, and the never-ending campaigning was expensive. Money slipped through Mahoney’s fingers like water.

DeMarco expected that Mahoney would now start screaming, asking why in the hell DeMarco was bringing him problems instead of solving them, but he didn’t. Instead he said, “I think I know where we can get the money.”

“Really?” DeMarco said. “Where’s that?”

“Sean Callahan.”

“Callahan?”

“That’s right. He called today and left a message that it’s time to clear the air between us. He wants to kiss and make up. I think some of the stuff you’re doing up there in Boston to derail his project is one reason, and I think some of the stuff I’m doing, like siccing the IRS on him, is another. He figures, even being the rich son of a bitch he is, that having me for a friend is better than having me for an enemy. So I want you to go see him and tell him it’ll cost him fifty grand to be my friend again. That’s what he contributed to my last campaign, and I think it’s only appropriate that he make another contribution.”

DeMarco smiled. He loved it: using Callahan’s money to put the McNultys behind bars.

DeMarco flew back to Boston the following day and right after he checked back in to the Park Plaza, he called Callahan’s office. He told Callahan’s secretary he worked for Congressman John Mahoney and would like to meet with Mr. Callahan. “Tell Mr. Callahan that Congressman Mahoney got the message he left yesterday.”

An hour later, Callahan’s secretary called back and said that Mr. Callahan could meet with him at six p.m.

“Great,” DeMarco said. “Where at?”

“Mr. Callahan would like you to come to his home for cocktails. He said to dress casually.”

“What’s the address?” DeMarco said.

“Seventy-four Beacon Street,” the secretary said. Then she added, “The Benjamin Mansion.”

She said “the Benjamin Mansion” like it was a name DeMarco should recognize. As he didn’t, he resorted to Google, where he learned that Sean Callahan had paid fifteen million for his home, which was 8,450 square feet of historically significant elegance and luxury. It had six bedrooms, six bathrooms, and eight working fireplaces. There were two large decks, a media room, a library, a gym, and a rooftop infinity-edge heated lap pool that overlooked the Public Garden. The home was constructed in 1828 and its architect was a famous fellow named Asher Benjamin, although DeMarco had never heard of him. He was, however, suitably impressed.

A maid wearing a pristine white apron over a black dress answered when DeMarco rang the doorbell of Seventy-four Beacon Street. She led him to a beautifully appointed library where Sean Callahan and his wife were sitting. The library had comfortable brown leather chairs, a blue-and-white Oriental rug, and a fireplace large enough to roast a hog. DeMarco wondered briefly if Callahan and his wife actually read the books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves.

DeMarco hadn’t met Callahan before. He was over six feet tall, slim, had thinning dark hair combed straight back from a high forehead, a longish nose, and thin lips. DeMarco’s immediate impression, possibly prejudiced by what he knew of Callahan, was that he looked like an arrogant prick.

Callahan’s secretary had said to dress casually for cocktails but DeMarco, not being sure what casually meant when visiting a Beacon Hill address, had opted to wear a navy-blue sport coat over a white polo shirt, lightweight gray slacks, and black loafers. The sport jacket was the last thing he needed considering the temperature. The Callahans, however, were indeed dressed casually, Callahan wearing topsiders without socks, white linen trousers, and a green golf shirt that said THE COUNTRY CLUB BROOKLINE, which DeMarco knew was one of the most expensive and exclusive golf clubs on the East Coast.

Mrs. Callahan, introduced as Rachel, was a willowy blonde who was two decades younger than her husband. She was wearing a yellow tank top, very short white shorts, and sandals. DeMarco had awarded the title of Best Thighs in Boston to Dooley’s wife, but now concluded that Rachel Callahan might deserve to wear the crown. However, as lovely as she was to look at, DeMarco really needed to speak to Callahan alone. He didn’t need a witness.

“Rachel and I are having mint juleps,” Callahan said. “She was raised in Savannah and says it’s the only thing to drink on a hot evening like this. Would you care for one, Mr. DeMarco?”

“Call me Joe, and sure, I’d love a julep,” DeMarco said, although he couldn’t remember ever having had a mint julep before and would have preferred a beer. Not knowing what to say next with Rachel present, he said, “You have a lovely home,” to which Rachel basically said: Oh, this old thing? She then prattled on about the bother of living in such an old building and having to constantly call someone to fix this or that. DeMarco almost said: You ought to try living like Elinore Dobbs for a while, having to haul a generator out on your balcony and firing it off every time your fuckin’ husband shuts off the power. However, since DeMarco’s mission was to pretend that he was there to smooth things over between Callahan and Mahoney, he instead sympathized with Rachel, saying that older homes were indeed a pain. He should know, he said, as he lived in an eighty-year-old townhouse in Georgetown, although his home didn’t have a swimming pool or a gym, and his media room was also his living room.

Fortunately, a few moments later, Rachel said, “I have to excuse myself, gentlemen. Sean and I are going to a fund-raiser later this evening for the Boston Symphony, and I need to make myself look presentable.”

Rachel Callahan would have looked presentable wearing a black plastic garbage bag—and she knew it. Both Callahan and DeMarco enjoyed the sight of her perfect derrière as she sashayed from the room.

“So, what can I do for you, Joe?” Callahan said.

“Mahoney got your message, Sean, how you wanted to patch things up between you and him. I’m here to facilitate that.”

“Facilitate? Exactly what do you do for Mahoney, Joe?”

“I’m a lawyer, but I’m really the guy Mahoney tends to use when he has problems that need to be solved, like the Elinore Dobbs problem.” DeMarco figured that Sean Callahan already knew that he’d been sent to help Elinore; the McNultys would have told him.

“Why didn’t John just call me?” Callahan said.

DeMarco shook his head. “You really made the congressman angry, Sean. You offended him deeply, the way you spoke to him. On the other hand, he knows you’ve been a good friend in the past.”

“Well, you can tell John that I apologize for the way I acted the last time we met. I was having a bad day. Regarding Mrs. Dobbs, I don’t believe there is anything else I can do. After she had that unfortunate accident, she vacated her apartment and I compensated her quite generously. In fact, I was incredibly generous. Is there something else John expects me to do for her?”

“No,” DeMarco said. “At least not for Elinore.” He pretended to hesitate, as if he was searching for the right words, then said, “I think at this point the congressman is wondering what you’re going to do for him, Sean. He feels that in order to reestablish the relationship the two of you once had, he’d appreciate some tangible evidence of your support. I mean, this year with all the nonsense the Republicans have been pulling . . . Well, he’s going to have a real fight on his hands and he needs all the help he can get.”

For a moment Callahan looked puzzled and DeMarco felt like saying: For Christ’s sake, Sean, this is a shakedown! How much more specific do I have to be? But then he got it, and DeMarco could see the man struggling to control his temper. He took a breath and said, “Exactly how much does Mahoney feel he needs for me to demonstrate my support?”

“He was thinking it would be appropriate if you matched the contribution you made for his last campaign.”

“That son of a bitch!” Callahan said, slamming his fist into the arm of the chair where he was sitting. “It’s like I told him. He can’t stop me from completing that project. He doesn’t have that kind of power.”

“The congressman knows that, Sean. But as I’m sure you’ve already seen, it’s much better to have him on your side than working against you.”

“You’re not a lawyer. You’re a fucking bagman!”

DeMarco was surprised that Callahan was so angry. He figured that Callahan should have known that Mahoney would want him to make some sort of contribution to make things right. No, it wasn’t the money that was bothering Callahan, even as much as it was. He was angry because he didn’t like the way his arm was being twisted and DeMarco couldn’t really blame him—not that he gave a shit.

DeMarco stood up. “I’ll let myself out, Sean. But I was hoping—as was Congressman Mahoney—that we could reach an accommodation this evening.” DeMarco turned to leave, then turned back to face Callahan. “By the way, someone pointed out to me that you appear to have a number of workers on Delaney Street who might not be American citizens. You might want to—”

“This is extortion!” Callahan said. “Are you telling me if I don’t pay Mahoney’s price he’s going to sic Immigration on me next?”

“Of course not, Sean. And I’m not going to even mention to the congressman that you used a word like extortion. I was trying to do you a favor. I was about to suggest that you might want to have your builder . . . What’s his name? Flannigan? Flannery? You might tell him to make sure he’s using folks that have the right papers. He might have gotten careless about that, the same way he did when it came to removing asbestos. Anyway, thank you for your time, Sean, and I’ll let the congressman know that you’ve decided, as is your right, not to support his campaign.”

DeMarco was halfway to the door when Callahan said, “Goddamnit, hold on.”

DeMarco figured that Callahan had probably calculated how much it was costing him every hour work was delayed on Delaney Square, and simple arithmetic was telling him that fifty grand was a bargain.

“Tell Mahoney,” Callahan said, “we have a deal provided I have no more problems on the project and he gets the IRS to back off on the audit they’re planning.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late to stop the audit, Sean. I mean, it would be inappropriate for Mahoney to even speak to the IRS about it. If he did, it would appear as if he was improperly using the power of his office to help a constituent.”

“Are you shitting me! He’s the one who told them to do the audit.”

“I doubt that, Sean. As I understand it the IRS uses some sort of formula to decide when to audit. Other than that, it’s just sort of random. But—”

“Random, my ass. Mahoney was the one—”

“Aside from the audit, Sean, Mahoney’s on your side from this point forward. You have his word on that. But Sean, I’m going to need the money by tomorrow. In cash. I’m sure you understand.”

“I’ll call you. Now get out of my house.”