lawyer hears about that. And I know my rights. It doesn’t matter if you’re from Congress, you can’t interrogate me without a lawyer present.”
“Sure, I can. I’m not a cop. I’m just the guy who’s going to get Molly Mahoney off the hook—and if that means packing you off to prison for a dozen years, that’s fine by me.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” Campbell shrieked. “I haven’t done a damn . . .”
“Your hot dogs are burning, sir. And remember what I said: only the guy that rolls first gets a pass. Now, here’s my card,” DeMarco said and placed his business card—the one that had nothing on it but his name and phone number—facedown on the patio table.
And bon appétit, motherfucker.
15
Mahoney ordered a Wild Turkey on the rocks and then looked around the bar of the Hay Adams Hotel. Oh, great. In one corner, a Republican senator was sitting with Ray Suarez, the PBS NewsHour guy. Three tables away was an assistant to the president’s chief of staff talking to one of the White House lawyers—Mahoney wondered if someone at the White House was about to be indicted—and at the bar was a lady who was an undersecretary over at State. The State gal was patting the hand of a guy who wasn’t her husband, and who looked about ten years younger than her. Ordinarily this would have piqued Mahoney’s interest, but not tonight.
He hated meeting Preston Whitman in a place where Washington’s political elite tended to eat and drink, but Whitman knew it would be a feather in his hat to be seen in a social setting meeting one-on-one with Mahoney, and he was taking full advantage of the situation .
Mahoney felt like he’d been kidnapped.
Whitman finally walked into the bar, his tardiness adding to Mahoney’s mounting irritation. He gave Mahoney his Liam Neeson smile, waved cheerfully to another man in the room, and then strode over to Mahoney’s table. One of his big feet bumped a table leg when he sat down, almost spilling Mahoney’s drink. Out of the corner of his eye, Mahoney could see the assistant to the president’s chief of staff and Suarez both staring at him. Goddamnit.
After Whitman had ordered his drink, he said, “Thank you for meeting with me, sir, and I promise I won’t waste your time. I asked to see you because a client I represent wants to help your daughter.”
“You mean help with these false charges against her.”
“Well, not exactly.”
“Then why the hell are we here?” Mahoney said. If this meeting wasn’t about his daughter’s legal problems, Mahoney was going to string Preston Whitman up by his balls.
“Sir,” Whitman said, “I represent a number of people in the gaming industry and . . .”
“The gaming industry? You mean gambling .”
“It’s not just gambling, sir. Gambling’s a small part of it. The gaming industry is about entertainment, lodging, restaurants, retail stores. They provide jobs—union jobs—for thousands of people.”
“Goddamnit. What the hell does this have to do with my daughter?”
Whitman grimaced and shook his head, as if something pained him deeply. “Congressman, your daughter owes one of my clients, the Atlantic Palace Casino in Atlantic City, over one hundred thousand dollars.”
Mahoney had played political poker all his life and his face remained expressionless—but he felt like throwing up.
“In addition to the hundred thousand Molly owes my client, she also has an additional one hundred thousand dollars in credit card debt. I would assume the SEC knows about her credit card situation, but her obligation to the casino is not known to anyone but my client and myself.”
“Let’s just cut to the chase here,” Mahoney said. “What the hell do you want?”
“My client wants to find some way to work this out, sir.”
“What’s to work out? If my daughter owes someone money, she’ll pay it back.”
“Well, in case she can’t do that, my client feels he may be able to help
“Sure, I can. I’m not a cop. I’m just the guy who’s going to get Molly Mahoney off the hook—and if that means packing you off to prison for a dozen years, that’s fine by me.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” Campbell shrieked. “I haven’t done a damn . . .”
“Your hot dogs are burning, sir. And remember what I said: only the guy that rolls first gets a pass. Now, here’s my card,” DeMarco said and placed his business card—the one that had nothing on it but his name and phone number—facedown on the patio table.
And bon appétit, motherfucker.
15
Mahoney ordered a Wild Turkey on the rocks and then looked around the bar of the Hay Adams Hotel. Oh, great. In one corner, a Republican senator was sitting with Ray Suarez, the PBS NewsHour guy. Three tables away was an assistant to the president’s chief of staff talking to one of the White House lawyers—Mahoney wondered if someone at the White House was about to be indicted—and at the bar was a lady who was an undersecretary over at State. The State gal was patting the hand of a guy who wasn’t her husband, and who looked about ten years younger than her. Ordinarily this would have piqued Mahoney’s interest, but not tonight.
He hated meeting Preston Whitman in a place where Washington’s political elite tended to eat and drink, but Whitman knew it would be a feather in his hat to be seen in a social setting meeting one-on-one with Mahoney, and he was taking full advantage of the situation .
Mahoney felt like he’d been kidnapped.
Whitman finally walked into the bar, his tardiness adding to Mahoney’s mounting irritation. He gave Mahoney his Liam Neeson smile, waved cheerfully to another man in the room, and then strode over to Mahoney’s table. One of his big feet bumped a table leg when he sat down, almost spilling Mahoney’s drink. Out of the corner of his eye, Mahoney could see the assistant to the president’s chief of staff and Suarez both staring at him. Goddamnit.
After Whitman had ordered his drink, he said, “Thank you for meeting with me, sir, and I promise I won’t waste your time. I asked to see you because a client I represent wants to help your daughter.”
“You mean help with these false charges against her.”
“Well, not exactly.”
“Then why the hell are we here?” Mahoney said. If this meeting wasn’t about his daughter’s legal problems, Mahoney was going to string Preston Whitman up by his balls.
“Sir,” Whitman said, “I represent a number of people in the gaming industry and . . .”
“The gaming industry? You mean gambling .”
“It’s not just gambling, sir. Gambling’s a small part of it. The gaming industry is about entertainment, lodging, restaurants, retail stores. They provide jobs—union jobs—for thousands of people.”
“Goddamnit. What the hell does this have to do with my daughter?”
Whitman grimaced and shook his head, as if something pained him deeply. “Congressman, your daughter owes one of my clients, the Atlantic Palace Casino in Atlantic City, over one hundred thousand dollars.”
Mahoney had played political poker all his life and his face remained expressionless—but he felt like throwing up.
“In addition to the hundred thousand Molly owes my client, she also has an additional one hundred thousand dollars in credit card debt. I would assume the SEC knows about her credit card situation, but her obligation to the casino is not known to anyone but my client and myself.”
“Let’s just cut to the chase here,” Mahoney said. “What the hell do you want?”
“My client wants to find some way to work this out, sir.”
“What’s to work out? If my daughter owes someone money, she’ll pay it back.”
“Well, in case she can’t do that, my client feels he may be able to help
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