Dead on Arrival

DeMarco’s ex-wife, Mahoney was vain and self-centered and selfish; he was conniving and manipulative. But, unlike her, he was very, very bright.

As DeMarco sat there, his mind kept drifting back to the call from Marie. He had no idea what he should do. No, that wasn’t right; that wasn’t right at all. He knew exactly what he should do: absolutely nothing.

While DeMarco stewed about his ex, Mahoney sat in the big chair behind his big desk and made phone calls. He was currently talking to someone named Bob. At least that’s what he had called the man at the beginning of the conversation, but in the last five minutes, as the phone call had progressed, Bob became Congressman and finally you greedy little asshole, as in: ‘Listen to me, you greedy little asshole! You’ve got four projects in that bill worth more than sixty million, including a fuckin’ bridge to nowhere that’s gonna have your name on it. Now that’s enough!’

DeMarco realized that Mahoney was talking about a so-called transportation bill, a bill intended to resurface potholed highways and prop up crumbling bridges that was, in reality, a five-thousand-page pork package. Every member of the House was squeezing into the bill as many pet projects as he or she could, and any link to transportation, no matter how remote, was considered a fair addition. The most outrageous example that DeMarco had heard of was the proposed construction of a velodrome, a stadium for racing bicycles. This was included in the bill under the guise that erecting such a structure would give birth to legions of bicycle-peddling commuters and thus save the country’s highways from future wear and tear. At least that was the most outrageous thing he’d heard until Mahoney began his dialogue with Congressman Bob.

‘I’ve been trying for six weeks,’ Mahoney was saying, ‘to get this thing finished. It’s already twenty billion bigger than what we agreed on, and every fuckin’ time — my language? I don’t give a shit about my language, you sanctimonious twit! Now I’m tired of this. It’s bad enough I can’t get the other side to line up, but when the people in my own party start pullin’ this crap. … Yes, Bob, crap! Why should the taxpayers have to pay for a freeway exit that goes right to your brother-in-law’s goddamn furniture store? Tell me that.’

The speaker sat silent for a moment, his large face the color of a boiled beet, as he listened to Bob explain how easy access to a retail store in his home state would improve the flow of goods and services throughout America.

‘Okay, Bob,’ Mahoney said, ‘I give up. I’ll leave the exit thing in the bill, but then I’m gonna call up every newspaper in your state and tell ’em it’s in there. I’m gonna tell ’em, because no one with a human-sized brain’ll be able to spot that little gem in five thousand pages of text. So fine, Bob, you win. Now you better get ready to explain your victory to everybody who’s not related to you.’ With that, Mahoney slammed down the phone.

‘Of all the jackasses on Jenkins Hill,’ he muttered.

‘Jenkins Hill?’ DeMarco said.

‘That’s what Capitol Hill used to be called,’ Mahoney said, ‘back before they built this building and started stuffing it with idiots.’

Mahoney sat there fuming a moment longer and then looked at his watch. ‘Go see if he’s being held up at security,’ he said. ‘I’ll bet that’s what happened. If I hadn’t been preoccupied with Bob-goddam-Meechum I woulda thought of that sooner.’

As directed, DeMarco left the speaker’s office and traveled to the door that approved visitors, those with appointments, used to enter the Capitol. Normally it took only a couple of minutes to get past security if your name was on the list, but DeMarco suspected, times being what they were, that the U.S. Capitol Police were exercising more diligence than normal — especially with this particular visitor.

The man who was keeping Mahoney waiting was named Hassan Zarif. DeMarco didn’t know Hassan, but he figured it was a pretty safe bet that the Arabic-looking guy standing with his arms outstretched as a security guard patted him down was him. On the table next to Zarif was everything that had been in his pockets: wallet, keys, spare change, and a pen. Another guard was now taking the pen apart, a simple ballpoint, to see if there was a surface-to-air missile packed inside it. A briefcase was lying open on the table, emptied of its contents, and next to the briefcase were Hassan’s belt and tie and shoes.

Hassan Zarif was a short, slender, handsome man. His hair was black, his nose aquiline, his eyes an odd but attractive caramel color. Clearly embarrassed at the treatment he was receiving, he was restraining himself, saying nothing, but he looked as if he was about to explode.

‘Hey, guys, what’s going on here?’ DeMarco said to the security guards.

The man frisking Hassan looked over at DeMarco, then glanced down at the security badge pinned to the breast pocket of his suit, the badge confirming that DeMarco was permitted to be inside the building. DeMarco had worked in the Capitol for many years, but this particular guard didn’t recognize him and DeMarco didn’t recognize the guard.

‘What do you want, sir?’ the guard said.

DeMarco looked at the guard’s name tag. McGuire.

‘Mr McGuire, would you come here a minute so I can talk to you without everybody hearing?’

‘I’m in the middle of-’

‘McGuire, a lot of powerful people work in this building. You are not one of them. I’m just trying to save you some pain, m’man. C’mere.’

McGuire turned to the guard dissembling the pen and said, ‘Watch this guy,’ gesturing with his head toward Hassan, then he stepped over to DeMarco. ‘Yeah, so what is it?’ he said.

‘That guy you’re screwin’ with, McGuire, was invited here by John Mahoney. The speaker. In fact, he was supposed to be in Mahoney’s office fifteen minutes ago.’

‘I’m just following procee-’

‘McGuire, it feels like it’s about twenty degrees outside. Right now you’re working indoors, probably a pretty good place to be this time of year. How hard do you think it would be for Mahoney to have you assigned to a less comfortable post? Now, the speaker’s waiting to see that man and you’ve had plenty of time to confirm that he’s safe, so quit dickin’ with him, put his stuff back in his briefcase, and apologize for hassling him.’

McGuire’s face flushed red — not as red as Mahoney’s had been a few minutes ago but red enough. But he didn’t say all the profane things flashing through his Irish brain. He turned and said to Hassan, ‘Sir, you’re free to enter the building. And I — uh, I apologize for the inconvenience of our — ah, current security procedures.’

Hassan didn’t say anything. He put his belt back through the loops in his pants and shoved his belongings into his pockets. He put on his shoes and started to tie his tie, then just shook his head and stuffed the tie into a pocket in his suit jacket.

‘Mr Zarif,’ DeMarco said, ‘I’ll escort you to Mr Mahoney’s office.’

‘Thank you,’ Hassan said, but he didn’t look at DeMarco. He just stared straight ahead as they walked toward the staircase, bristling from the embarrassment of what had just happened but too dignified to complain.

As they stepped into the speaker’s office, Mahoney got up from his chair and came out from behind his desk. DeMarco thought he would shake Hassan’s hand but instead Mahoney pulled the smaller man close, crushing him in a hug.

While Mahoney was greeting Hassan, DeMarco explained what had happened at the security checkpoint.

‘Goddamn, Hassie, I’m sorry,’ Mahoney said. ‘I should have had someone down there to meet you.’ Then he glowered at DeMarco as if DeMarco should have thought of that.

Hassan smiled, but it was a bitter twist of his lips. ‘It wasn’t as bad as at the airport. I was expecting that they’d give me a hard time, so I left Boston early yesterday morning. I missed my first flight because they spent so long inspecting my luggage and searching me. I was actually strip-searched. That’s never happened before.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mahoney said again. ‘Would you like a drink?’

Hassan looked away and his chin began to tremble, and for a moment DeMarco thought the man was going to cry, but then Hassan took in a breath and said, ‘Yes, Mr Mahoney, a drink would be good. Bourbon if you have it.’

Hassan Zarif, DeMarco concluded, was not a strict Muslim. Any more than Mahoney and DeMarco were strict Catholics, for that matter.

Mahoney poured drinks for himself and Hassan, Then, realizing that he hadn’t bothered to ask if DeMarco