House Secrets by Mike Lawson

have been just like it was with Schwarzenegger, all that crap about him groping women. So we paid her off. But Paul sure as shit didn’t rape her. And now you’re telling me the gal—it’s gotta be her goddamn mother—is telling people this.
    “Well, I’m gonna call that bitch as soon as you leave and I’ll tell her exactly what’s gonna happen to her. That woman, the mother, she loves this place she has—got a view of the Hudson to die for—and I’m gonna tell her that she’s gonna be livin’ out the back of her fuckin’ car if she reneges on the agreement she signed.” Harry shook his head. “The thing is, even though Paul didn’t do a damn thing to the girl, other than maybe try to smooch her, this is the last damn thing he needs right now.”
    “Has Morelli ever done anything else like this?” DeMarco said.
    “Hell, no! It happened one damn time.” Harry fumed, still agitated. “So who told you about this?”
    DeMarco hated to lie to Harry, but he had to. “I can’t say, Harry. You know, it’s a lawyer thing. But what I can tell you is that the woman’s name was just on this list and somebody I talked to, somebody who knew Terry Finley, said that he’d heard some kind of rumor about a sexual assault, but nothing specific, nothing that could be confirmed.”
    DeMarco knew that if Harry talked to Paul Morelli, Morelli would know that Susan Medford wasn’t on the list. The twisted tales we weave.
    “And so now what, Joe? Where are you going with this?
    “I’m not going anywhere with it. I don’t have any desire to cause Morelli a problem. You told me what happened, and that’s the end of it.”
    Harry studied DeMarco’s face for a bit before saying, “What time’s your plane leave, son?”
    “Four,” DeMarco said.
    “Come on. Let’s go get some lunch, then I’ll give you a lift to the airport.”

    Harry called for his car and they drove to a restaurant in lower Manhattan. The name of the restaurant was written over the door in letters so faded they were almost illegible, and inside the restaurant, the hardwood floors were scuffed and worn, the tables small and wobbly. Theblue checkered tablecloths had been laundered, but the stains of a thousand meals were evident.
    A man in his seventies who spoke English with a heavy Italian accent came over and embraced Harry as soon as they stepped through the door. DeMarco noticed the waiters were all men in their late fifties or sixties with Mediterranean complexions. The restaurant wasn’t crowded, only three other tables were occupied, and everyone—the owner, the waiters, the customers—were of a type: working-class Italians in late middle age or older. It was a place that catered to a thin slice of a particular generation, and when that generation passed, it too would pass.
    The owner directed them to a table apart from the other diners, and they sat only a minute before they were served a carafe of strong red wine. They never saw a menu. Food just began to arrive, a different course every twenty minutes or so. DeMarco couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten so well.
    During lunch, Harry told stories about Paul Morelli.
    “He gets things done, Joe, like you wouldn’t believe. Most politicians, they don’t know how to solve problems—they make speeches. But Paul, he’s a genius. You need money to fix something, he finds sources. You need two parties to agree, he brings ’em together. I’m not bullshittin’ you. I’ve never seen a guy that can make things happen like him.”
    This conversation was repeated throughout the two-hour lunch. Harry told stories of day care centers built, of old people taken care of, of businesses rejuvenated. He told of blacks and whites working together, of stingy old men donating their fortunes to charity.
    As they were leaving the restaurant, the owner came up to Harry, embraced him again, and kissed him on the cheek.
    “I just wanna thank you again, Harry, for what you did for my