Free House Odds by Mike Lawson Page A

cement to build the convention center. The Jersey politicians, of course, had backed him on this. The icing on the cake was the project included a moving walkway to get the suckers from the new bus and train terminal to the boardwalk, and the first place it would stop would be the Atlantic Palace.
    Yes, it was a terrific plan, and it was Ted’s plan, and they wre going to make millions off the deal—and then six months ago, it had all fallen apart.
    The governor of New Jersey, a guy they’d been paying off for years, went and had himself a stroke. The bastard now had as much brain activity as a radish, and the lieutenant governor, who’d be in the job the next two years, was a rich, righteous son of a bitch and Ted didn’t have anything he could use to force the man to play ball.
    The lieutenant governor wasn’t opposed to the project—he could see how it would benefit Atlantic City and the good people of New Jersey—but he got it into his thick head that the federal government should kick in a little money. His logic was that the convention center should be part of all those other federal stimulus programs designed to get the economy moving, and he decided—arbitrarily—that the Fed’s portion should be a hundred million. Why a hundred million, nobody knew, but the guy was adamant the Feds had to share in the cost.
    The problem, of course, was that other than the New Jersey delegation, very few people in Washington were inclined to give the state a hundred million bucks, so now the project wasn’t moving forward. And that had been Preston Whitman’s job: to get a rider attached to some bill—any fuckin’ bill—that would send a measly hundred million to Jersey, but Whitman hadn’t been able to make it happen.
    Which was why Ted had decided to pay Whitman a visit. He needed to get the damn guy moving, and he needed to get things back under control before McGruder sniffed something out.
    * * *
    To make sure Whitman understood the possible consequences of failure, he brought Gus Amato with him. Ted had told Gus to wear a suit—and to leave the suit jacket unbuttoned so Whitman could see the gun in the shoulder holster. He’d also told Gus to take the damn earring out of his ear, but the idiot was still wearing his alligator skin cowboy boots. In spite of the boots, Gus had the intended impact: The entire time Ted was talking to Whitman, Gus stood behind Ted, staring dead-eyed at Whitman, and Whitman’s eyes kept straying over to look at the gun.
    As Gus stared and Whitman fidgeted, Ted explained the situation with Molly Mahoney. Molly was his ace in the hole; she was the pry bar he needed to get things unstuck. He didn’t tell Whitman everything, but he told him enough.
    “Wow,” Whitman said when Ted was finished.
    Wow? And this guy depended on his tongue to make a living. No wonder he hadn’t made any progress.
    “So do you think this will work?” Ted said.
    “Maybe,” Whitman said. “If we could get Mahoney behind the project, he’d be a huge help. But I have to warn you, Ted, John Mahoney can be very unpredictable.”
    “Just set up the meeting,” Ted said. “And do it quick. You gotta be good for something.”
    * * *
    Preston Whitman sat at his desk for several minutes after Ted Allen left his office, thinking about Ted—and what Ted had told him.
    Taking on Ted as a client had been a mistake—a huge mistake. The man just didn’t understand how things worked in D.C. He particularly didn’t understand the pace at which things worked. Ted dressed well, he spoke like an educated man, but underneath all that Whitman sensed that Ted had been raised rough and poor. He was a thug with a diploma. And that ape that he’d brought with him to the meeting . . . What the hell was that all about? What was Ted going to do? Break his legs if he didn’t do what Ted wanted?
    Unfortunately, the answer to that question was: Maybe.
    But all Ted wanted him to do was set up a meeting. He could do that, or at