House Rivals Read Free Page A

the DNC.” She took a breath and said, “I don’t know why in the hell he wants to walk. That’s going to put him even farther behind.”
    The Democratic National Committee’s office was on South Capitol Street SE, about half a mile from the Capitol. If Mahoney had a car take him, he would get there in two minutes; if he walked it would take him at least twenty minutes because Mahoney walked slowly and stopped and bullshitted with everyone he met on the way. DeMarco felt sorry for Mavis. It was impossible to keep Mahoney on schedule and the main reason why was because Mahoney didn’t care about his schedule. At his rank, people would usually wait for him if he was late—and he didn’t care how long they had to wait.
    Mahoney lumbered out of his office a couple of minutes later. He was dressed in a gray suit, a blue shirt, and a red-and-blue striped tie. On his feet were white Nike running shoes. He did this periodically: Made a half-assed effort to lose weight and get some exercise, the effort usually not lasting more than a week.
    Mahoney was a handsome man with bright blue eyes and snow white hair. He was five foot eleven, the same height as DeMarco, but twice as broad across the back and butt. He drank too much, he ate too much, and he smoked cigars. A half-mile walk wasn’t going to come anywhere close to offsetting all his vices.
    He didn’t say hello when he saw DeMarco; he just walked toward the door and DeMarco trailed along behind him. Nor did DeMarco try to speak to him as they were leaving the Capitol because about every two feet somebody would say: “Good morning, Mr. Speaker.” If Mahoney didn’t know the person, he’d say, “Hey, howze it going? How you doin’ today?” If he knew the person, he’d stop, shake his or her hand, then chat about whatever popped into his head.
    Mahoney was no longer the Speaker of the House; he’d lost the job when the Republicans took control a few years ago, but he’d held the job for so long that people still used the title. It was driving him crazy that the Democrats couldn’t take back the House and he spent half his working hours scheming to make that happen—which was probably what he was going to do at the DNC this morning: more scheming.
    When they finally got outside, DeMarco caught up to Mahoney and walked next to him. “There’s a guy out in Montana named Doug Thorpe,” Mahoney said. “If it wasn’t for him, my name would be on that black wall down there on the Mall. He saved my life twice. He also saved the lives of a dozen other people, too. They gave him a Silver Star. He should have gotten the Medal of Honor.”
    Mahoney never talked about Vietnam. DeMarco had no idea what he did over there or how bad it had been. All DeMarco knew was that Mahoney had just been a kid, barely out of high school when he enlisted in the Marines. He ended up with shrapnel from a grenade in his right knee and he limped when it was cold. But that’s about all DeMarco knew.
    Mahoney was as corrupt as any congressman on Capitol Hill. He took money under the table; he did quasi-legal favors for people who helped him stay in office; he used campaign contributions to maintain his lifestyle. He would stab his enemies in the back—and sometimes he’d stab his friends in the back if it were politically expedient to do so. He loved politics more than he loved breathing. He loved the power, the intrigue, and being in the thick of things. But there was one area where Mahoney was above reproach: the proper treatment of veterans. It was the only area where he was above reproach.
    â€œAnyway, I want you to go see him,” Mahoney said.
    â€œIn Montana?” DeMarco said.
    Mahoney ignored the whine in DeMarco’s voice. “It’s about his granddaughter. According to Doug, she’s uncovered some conspiracy out there and somebody’s threatening to kill