House Secrets by Mike Lawson Page B

Eddie,” he said as soon as Stacy was gone, “long time no see. What can I do for you?”
    Please, please God, let him say he wants a hooker.
    “You see that guy over there?” Eddie said. “At the twenty-five-dollar table, the guy in the green jacket?”
    The pit boss turned his head slowly, like he was just casually taking in the room while they talked. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s the doc. He’s in here all the time. Loser.”
    “Not tonight,” Eddie said. “I want him to win big.”
    Aw, fuck.
    “How much?”
    “Ten, fifteen grand. That’ll be enough.”
    “Okay.”
Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full
.
    The pit boss went back to his station in the middle of the blackjack tables, picked up his phone, and made a call. Five minutes later Ray was there, a man in his fifties, white shirt, little black bow tie like all the dealers wore—and fingers like a concert pianist. Ray was the best mechanic they had. Maybe the best mechanic on the boardwalk.
    “Take over Dave’s table,” the pit boss said. “I want the guy in the green jacket to win ten grand.”
    “You got it,” Ray said, eyes lighting up like a slot machine that had just paid off. Ray lived for this.
    The pit boss spent the next two hours wishing he was someplace else. Anyplace else. He was pretty sure that he had just become an accessory to something, he didn’t know what, but whatever it was, he was sure it wasn’t good.
    The doc let out another victory yell. The fuckin’ guy, he thought he was magic tonight. If he only knew.
    The pit boss looked over at Eddie. He was still sitting alone at Stacy’s table, still betting just five bucks a hand. His eyes were focused on the doc, watching as the doc’s stack of chips grew taller.

Chapter 16
    DeMarco had just returned from his trip to New York and was sitting in his den, a vein throbbing in his temple, reading an op-ed piece in the
Washington Post.
The evil bastard who’d written the editorial was urging Congress to raise the minimum retirement age for federal employees to sixty-five, spouting baseless nonsense as to how this would save the taxpayers big bucks. DeMarco concluded that if
he
were running things, the first thing to go would be the First Amendment. Before he could work himself into a state of quivering anxiety thinking about the possibility of working for Mahoney until he was sixty-five, the doorbell rang.
    Opening the door, he discovered one of his neighbors. She had lived in the house on the right side of his for about six months but he couldn’t remember her name. Ellen, Helen, something like that. He said hello to her and her husband when he saw them outside but that was as far as he chose to carry the relationship. She was a plump woman in her early thirties, normally pleasant and cheerful, but today looking as if she had been given a preview of Armageddon. She had a baby in one arm screaming its head off, the baby’s face the color of a tomato. Her other hand had a firm grip on the upper arm of a truculent brat who appeared to be about ten.
    “Thank
God
, you’re home,” she said to DeMarco. “I didn’t know what I was going to do if you weren’t.”
    “What’s the problem?” he asked, knowing he didn’t want to hear the answer.
    “Wesley’s really sick. He’s got a temperature of a hundred and four and I’ve got to get him to the emergency room. I called my normal sitter to take care of Stanford but she’s out of town and my sister can’t get here for an hour. So could you please,
please
watch Stanford until my sister gets here? I just have to get this baby to the hospital.”
    DeMarco’s mind raced as he tried to think of an excuse even remotely sufficient for turning away a woman with a feverish infant. He considered telling her he was a paroled pedophile.
    She saw his hesitation and said, “Just for an hour. Please. Until my sister gets here. I’d take Stanford with me but he catches colds really easily, and I’m afraid he’ll get the flu sitting