House Revenge Read Free Page B

ceiling is a chandelier that might have come from the set of The Phantom of the Opera . Mahoney thought it was the most impressive-looking hotel lobby in the city.
    The OAK Long Bar, just off the lobby, has brown leather high-back stools in front of a bar that wraps around a kitchen so you can watch the chefs prepare your meal if you’re so inclined. There are also comfortable cloth chairs—some red, some white—in front of small marble-topped tables, which was where Mahoney was seated: in a red chair, drinking Wild Turkey, and growing increasingly annoyed at Sean Callahan, who was now twenty-five minutes late for their meeting.
    At six thirty Callahan arrived, pretending to be breathless from sprinting to their appointment. “I’m so sorry I’m late, John,” he said. “Damn traffic in this town gets worse every year.”
    Bullshit . Mahoney knew that Callahan’s office was a ten-minute walk away on Exeter Street. But instead of saying how he didn’t appreciate Callahan deliberately keeping him waiting, he said, “That’s okay. I just got here myself, two minutes ago.” And fuck you .
    Sean Callahan was forty-seven and looked as if he might have descended from a Beacon Hill, Boston Brahmin clan. He was six foot two, had a longish nose, thinning dark hair with just a sprinkling of gray, and thin lips best suited for expressing disapproval. His face was unlined due to the skills of a top-notch cosmetic surgeon, and he appeared to be in terrific shape thanks to tennis, a personal trainer—and a very young new wife. He was dressed casually: dark blue sport jacket, tan slacks, a blue cotton shirt with his initials monogrammed over the pocket but no tie—sort of a preppy, rich kid look, similar to what the Harvard interns in Mahoney’s Boston office wore. But Mahoney knew that Callahan wasn’t a Brahmin and hadn’t attended Harvard; he’d been raised in Charlestown, had gone to a community college, and it had probably taken him half his life to eradicate his boyhood accent.
    Callahan ordered a tonic water and lime; apparently alcohol wasn’t part of his current fitness routine. “So how are Mary Pat and the girls all doing?” he asked.
    They spent ten minutes chatting about nothing before Mahoney got to the point. “A little old lady named Elinore Dobbs came to see me today.”
    Callahan shook his head and smiled without humor, as if chagrined. “She’s a nut, John.”
    â€œMaybe, but she tells me you’ve been putting the screws to her to get her out of her apartment.”
    â€œDid Elinore tell you that I offered her two hundred grand to move? Did she tell you I found her an apartment six blocks from where she is now that’s twice as nice as the one she’s in?”
    â€œNo, she didn’t tell me that.” Mahoney was actually shocked that Callahan had offered Elinore so much; she must be costing him a boatload. “What she told me is that you’ve been cutting off her heat and hot water and power, vandalizing her apartment, and stealing her mail. She told me you got two creeps named McNulty terrorizing the old folks like her who still live in the building.”
    â€œI offered her two hundred grand, John! Two hundred!”
    â€œWell . . .”
    â€œDo you have any idea what it takes to put a project like Delaney Square together? To get the investment money, buy the properties, get all the permits, make all the deals with the city? I’ve been working on this for over seven years, and that woman is interfering with a development that’s bringing new businesses to Boston, providing construction jobs for a lot of people, and, after that, jobs in all the offices and retail stores that will be there. She’s also standing in the way of the city collecting millions in taxes because the people who will move into that area actually pay taxes.”
    Mahoney noticed that Callahan was