House Odds (37 page)

The night he shot the junkie, Orville Rate was the detective he’d called—and Rate was the one who made sure the junkie’s death was never really investigated. In return for his help, Fairchild got him the job of chief of detectives and Rate retired from that position.

The other thing about Orville Rate was that he was the only killer that Big Bob Fairchild knew—the only killer who wasn’t a convicted criminal, that is. Rate had killed four men while working as a policeman—a higher number than any other cop on the force—and two of those shootings had been questionable.

“How much?” Rate said, after Fairchild explained what needed to be done. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“Fifty thousand,” Fairchild said. “Half now—I’ve got the money with me—and the other half when it’s done.”

Barbara Jane hadn’t even asked why he wanted the money. In fact, when he tried to tell her what he was planning, to see if she had a better idea, she just walked away.

Rate smiled after he named the amount he was willing to pay—and that’s when he noticed it: the left side of Rate’s mouth didn’t move right, it sagged kind of funny. And then he noticed Rate’s left arm. All the while he’d been talking to Rate the man hadn’t moved his left arm, not once; his left hand just sat there on the arm of the chair like something dead.

“Is there something wrong with you?” Fairchild asked.

Rate smiled—or half-smiled—again. “Nah, not really. I had a little stroke a while back, but I get around okay.”

Oh, shit.
But since he’d already told Rate what he wanted him to do, he couldn’t just walk away.

“Show me,” Fairchild said.

Rate reached down with his right hand and picked up a cane lying on the floor next to his chair. Fairchild hadn’t seen the cane either.

Rate rose from the chair without any apparent difficulty, and using the cane, walked over to a nearby china cabinet. When he walked, his left arm hung limply at his side, but then he used his left hand to open a drawer in the cabinet and took a short-barreled .38 revolver from the drawer. He turned slowly and pointed the gun at Fairchild’s head.

“I can pull a trigger just fine, Bob.”

56

Preston Whitman lived in a redbrick town house on Capitol Hill. As Delray and Billy approached the door, Delray said, “Stand where he can’t see you through the peephole.”

Delray figured that as long as he kept his sunglasses on, he could probably pass for a cop. But Billy, with his greasy blond hair falling to his collar . . . Well, he just looked like the dangerous hood that he was.

Delray rang the bell. He waited a moment, then just leaned on it. “Police,” he said. “Open the door.” He knew the guy was inside; they’d seen him come home just five minutes ago.

He saw the peephole darken.

“Police,” he said again. “Open up.”

The door opened and Preston Whitman said, “What’s this about?”

Delray hit the door hard with the palm of his right hand and it slammed into Whitman, knocking him backward, and he and Billy walked into the house.

Whitman, clearly frightened, but still thinking he was dealing with cops, said, “What in the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t . . .”

Delray took out his .45 and placed the muzzle against the end of Whitman’s big nose. “Shut up.”

Billy ignored Whitman and walked around the house a little. He noticed the big television set that was tuned to a political talk show. “Hey, is that one of them new 3D TVs?”

“What?” Whitman said.

“I asked if your TV . . .”

“Billy,” Delray said. Then looking at Whitman, the gun still pointed at Whitman’s face, he said, “We’re going to leave here together like we’re all friends. If you yell to anybody, or try to take off, or give me any kind of problem, I’m gonna shoot you in the spine. You understand?”

“Who are you men? Why are . . .”

Delray had really fast hands. He hit Whitman just above his left ear with the barrel of the .45.

“Do you understand?” Delray asked again.

* * *

“Where to?” Billy asked.

Billy was driving. Delray was sitting in the rear seat with Preston Whitman. Whitman was weeping and a rivulet of blood was trickling down the side of his head from where Delray had hit him with the gun. Delray took out a handkerchief and gave it to Whitman. “Press that against your head.” Delray didn’t want Whitman’s blood ending up in the car.

To Billy, Delray said, “Get on 395, then work your way over to 50 going west. If I remember right, it’s kinda farmy out there. We’ll find a place.”

“Please. If you’d just tell me . . . ,” Whitman said.

“Shut up,” Delray said.

“Have we got time to drive by the White House, Del?” Billy said. “I’ve never seen the White House before.”

“No,” Delray said.

“Whitman,” Billy said, “have you ever been inside the White House?”

“What?”

“I asked if you’ve ever been to the White House?”

“For God’s sake! Just tell me what you want,” Whitman said.

Forty-five minutes later, Delray said, “Billy, see those trees over there? Go that way.”

Billy stopped the car at edge of what appeared to be a small patch of forest, large deciduous trees, not too close together and not that much brush on the ground. It would be easy walking. Delray couldn’t tell how deep the woods were, but they went back far enough. Nobody would be able to see them from the road.

“This’ll do,” Delray said.

“Please. I’m begging you,” Whitman said. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to get out of the car,” Delray said.

The three men exited the car. “Get the shovel, Billy,” Delray said.

“Oh, God,” Whitman moaned.

They walked fifty yards into the woods before Delray said, “This is good.”

“Look, I have money,” Whitman said. “I’ll . . .”

“Take off your clothes,” Delray said. “You can leave your underpants on.”

“Please. I know there must be some way to work this out.”

Billy, who was carrying the shovel, swung it and the handle cracked into the back of Whitman’s knees. “I’m getting hungry,” he said. “So hurry up and do what you’re told.”

Whitman started to take off his clothes. As he was doing this, Billy handed the shovel to Delray and gathered up a few small stones, each stone nice and round, just about the size of a golf ball.

“Toss your shirt over here,” Billy said to Whitman.

Whitman did and Billy spread it on the ground, underneath a nearby tree, and sat down on it. “Thanks,” he said. “Don’t want to get the seat of m’pants all dirty. You gotta dry-clean these pants.”

“Hurry up,” Delray said to Whitman.

“Are you working for . . .”

Billy flung one of the stones at Whitman, hitting him in the back. Billy had pitched in high school.

“Shit!” Whitman said, the blow stinging.

“Speed it up, Slick,” Billy said. “I told you I’m hungry, and I get cranky when I’m hungry.”

When Whitman was standing there in his underpants and socks, Delray said, “The socks, too.”

Whitman stripped off his socks, and Billy laughed and said, “Man, you gotta have the biggest feet I’ve ever seen. Jesus, Del, look at those fuckin’ things. What size shoe do you wear?”

Whitman was crying again and he didn’t answer, so Billy flung another rock at him, hitting him in the thigh this time.

“I asked you . . .”

“Size fifteen,” Whitman said.

“Fifteen! You gotta special order your shoes?”

“No, I . . .”

Delray tossed the shovel at Whitman. Whitman wasn’t expecting it, and the shovel bounced off his chest, the handle hitting him in the nose.

“Start digging,” Delray said.

“Please. Don’t do this,” Whitman said.

Billy threw another rock as hard as he could from his sitting position, again hitting Whitman in the back.

Whitman started digging. While he dug, Billy closed his eyes, like he was napping, although Delray knew he wasn’t sleeping, and except for Whitman’s sniffling, it was actually quite peaceful there in the woods. He was reminded of a forest in North Carolina where he and his older brother used to play when they were kids. His brother had died in prison; Delray hadn’t thought of him in years.

When the grave was two feet deep and Whitman’s feet and bare calves were covered with black soil, and his face was shiny with sweat and stained by tears, Delray said, “Now you see how easy this was? We stop by your house, pick you up, and make you dig your own grave. Then we shoot you a couple times in the head. It’s not any work for us at all. We’re leaving now, but hopefully you got the message.”

“What mes—”

“You’re never to talk to anybody, ever, as long as you live, about Ted Allen and his connection to Molly Mahoney. If you do, we’ll be back and we’ll do this again, except next time we’ll finish the job. And if my boss ever thinks he needs a lobbyist, you’re the guy. You understand?”

That was the only reason they weren’t killing him: Al Castiglia liked the idea of having his own lobbyist. He’d never had one before.

“Yes,” Whitman said. “I swear to God, I understand.”

“Good. Let’s go, Billy.”

Whitman’s legs gave way and he collapsed into the bottom of the grave, in a sitting position, and began to sob.

57

Delray had told DeMarco to meet him for breakfast at the Howard Johnson’s in Crystal City on Highway 1. Sitting with Delray was a cheerful-looking, overweight man with long blond hair who was mopping up a plate of French toast and sausage. Delray was just drinking coffee.

“Who’s this?” DeMarco said, chin-pointing at the blond guy. Delray didn’t answer and the blond guy just smiled at him.

The waitress came to the table and asked what DeMarco wanted. “Just water,” he said. “And don’t put ice in it and make sure it’s not too cold.” Seeing the look everyone gave him, he added, “Cracked tooth. I can’t get an appointment to get it fixed to save my life.”

“He oughta go see your nephew,” Billy said to Delray, his mouth full of French toast.

“Aw, that’s okay,” DeMarco said, imagining Delray’s nephew: a trembling junkie with scabby needle tracks running up and down his arms.

As if he knew what DeMarco was thinking, Delray said, “Most my family, they turned out like me. But not my sister, and definitely not her kid. He’s smarter than anybody you know and he’s good and he’s just getting his practice started.” Then Delray said, “Look”—and he smiled. DeMarco had never seen the guy smile before; he should have been doing Colgate commercials instead of breaking heads for Al Castiglia. “The kid takes care of me, and I drive down from Philly to see him.”

What the hell, DeMarco figured, and he wrote down the dentist’s name. Then they talked about the plan, making sure they were all clear on what they were going to do.

“The guy’s out of town for the next couple days,” DeMarco said. “But his secretary told me he’s getting back Friday night. So we’ll do it Saturday, around noon.”

“Okay,” Delray said.

DeMarco didn’t like any of this but he was just going to have to trust that these guys wouldn’t let things get out of hand. He wasn’t too worried about Delray. Delray was a pro, but this other guy . . . He had loose-cannon written all over him.

But those were the risks you took when you became business partners with mobsters.

* * *

DeMarco spent Saturday morning puttering around his house, just killing time until his appointment with Delray, although the word
appointment
didn’t seem quite right. Assignation? Rendezvous? Whatever.

He had one pair of underwear left so he decided that maybe he should wash some clothes while he waited. He was just cramming all the dirty clothes he had into the washing machine, wondering if maybe he should wash two loads instead of one, when his cell phone rang. It was Alice.

“Tina says you haven’t called her since you had dinner at her place.”

“Well, uh . . .”

“It’s the girls, right? They scared you.”

“They didn’t . . .”

“I want you to imagine your future, DeMarco. You’re in your seventies. Your prostate’s the size of a basketball. You need a hip replacement, and the way you drink, maybe a new liver, too. But you’re all alone. There’s no one to drive you to your doctor appointments, no one to push your wrinkled old ass around in a wheelchair.”

“Jesus,” DeMarco muttered.

“No, Jesus won’t be there either. So you think about that, Joe. There are a lot things in this world that are worse than being hooked up with a nice woman with two smart young daughters.”

On that cheery note, Alice hung up and DeMarco went back to stuffing clothes in the washer, and the phone rang again. He checked the caller ID, making sure it wasn’t Alice calling back to depress him some more, and saw it was Neil.

“You know that woman Melinda Stowe?” Neil said.