Free The Inside Ring by Mike Lawson Page B

DeMarco then remained standing outside the limo, several feet away; apparently Mr. Donnelly didn’t want his man to hear their conversation.
    Lil’ Pat Donnelly stared at DeMarco, his eyes projecting his hostility. He was a slender man in his late sixties, no more than five feet six inches tall. His hair was dyed glossy black and parted so precisely on the left side that DeMarco could imagine him using a straightedge to guide his comb. He had small features, close-set ears, and narrow black eyes with drooping lids. His mouth was a cruel slash and his face was covered with a smear of five o’clock shadow. DeMarco thought he looked like a fencer, slim and wiry and nasty—the type who would use real swords if allowed the opportunity.
    DeMarco ignored Donnelly’s glare and looked casually around the limo, at the leather upholstery, the small TV, the bar inset into the back of the front seat. The jump seat of the limo was more comfortable than his recliner, and he bet Donnelly’s TV got better reception than his did.
    “Afraid I’m gettin’ sweat on your upholstery,” he said to Donnelly. “I was working out.” Ya little shit , he added silently.
    “Shut up,” Donnelly said. “You were in Middleburg today where you interrogated a retired Secret Service agent. What in the hell makes you think you have the authority to do such a thing?”
    DeMarco gave Donnelly the same line he’d fed John Engles. “Congress is concerned about the President’s security, Mr. Donnelly, and—”
    “Congress my ass,” Donnelly said. “You talked to Frank Engles because Banks told you that jackass idea of his about Billy Mattis.”
    DeMarco’s face gave away nothing but inside his gut was a small mad animal, gnawing at the lining of his stomach. He knew how Donnelly had found out about him: Engles, still loyal to his old outfit, had called some pal and told him about DeMarco and his questions. The word immediately went up the chain of command to Donnelly. Donnelly knew, even if no one else did, about Banks’s concern with Mattis. And maybe Donnelly had someone check Banks’s appointment calendar and found out that DeMarco had met with him. DeMarco should have used a phony name with Engles.
    “What happened at Chattooga River is a matter for the FBI and the Secret Service, mister, and you are going to stay out of it. Do you understand? Not only have they found the guy who did it, there are still three hundred goddamn FBI agents investigating the assassination attempt! Even if you had the authority, what in the fuck do you think you could possibly do that the FBI and my people aren’t already doing?”
    Before DeMarco could respond, Donnelly said, “I run the Secret Service, you idiot, which means I can find out anything about anybody. I know, for example, that you’re John Mahoney’s heavy. If it’s something easy, getting a few guys to compromise on some chickenshit bill, Mahoney sends his chief of staff, that fat guy who wears suspenders. But when he doesn’t want to compromise, when he wants to shove his dick up somebody’s ass, he sends you.”
    “I don’t work for the Speaker,” DeMarco said, “I’m an independent coun—”
    “Bullshit. You don’t show up on any org chart linking you to Mahoney, but Mahoney set up your position. Counsel Pro Tem. What a crock. You work for Mahoney and I know it.”
    But can you prove it? DeMarco wondered.
    “I also know why Mahoney doesn’t want any official connection to you. Your father was Gino DeMarco, a low-life cocksucker who worked for Carmine Taliaferro. Fifteen years ago your daddy wasted three of Taliaferro’s rivals before the fourth one got lucky and plugged him. Isn’t that right?”
    DeMarco said nothing but he felt like ripping Donnelly’s tiny ears off for calling his dad a cocksucker.
    “The amazing thing,” Donnelly said, “is that Mahoney hired you when you got out of law school. I don’t know why he hired you—that’s the one mystery I haven’t