House Odds Read Online Free Page A

about was this guy’s size.
    “What do you want?” he said when he saw Gus. He didn’t say this rudely; more like he was just surprised that anyone would be visiting him.
    “You Tom Gleason?” Gus said.
    “Yeah. But if you’re selling something . . .”
    Gus hit him in the gut and felt his fist sink into four inches of fat. Gleason collapsed in the doorway, retching. “Just wanted to be sure,” Gus said.
    Gus dragged Gleason with one hand across the floor and propped him up against a sofa that was a weird green color, like the color of pea soup. As Gleason sat there trying to catch his breath, Gus looked around the house. Jesus, how could anyone live like this? He could practically hear the roaches scuttling over the food-encrusted dishes in the sink.
    “You able to hear me okay?” Gus asked. He said this because he’d just noticed that Gleason was wearing a hearing aid in each ear; maybe he really did deserve that settlement money he got from the government.
    Gleason nodded, still not able to talk.
    “Okay. A couple weeks ago, you were supposed to deliver a truckload of fish to Atlantic City that Marco Donatelli’s guys ripped off from Legal Seafoods.”
    “I did,” Gleason said.
    Gus wagged a finger. “No, no, listen to me. You gotta get your story straight. Like I was saying, you were supposed to deliver this fish but it never made it. You told the casino buyer that the refrigeration system on the truck crapped out and he was dumb enough to believe you. But then, shit, next thing we know, you got a new Ford sittin’ outside your house and new motor for your boat.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gleason said. “I delivered the fish.”
    Gus put a hand gently on Gleason’s shoulder. “Tom, I don’t want to have to hit you again. Now, you got a fat little granddaughter. She takes the bus home from school every day, and it drops her off two blocks from your daughter’s place. So what I’m sayin’ is, that if you don’t get this story straight, a couple of Colombian guys—and these guys are fuckin’ animals, Tom—they’re gonna pick her up and . . . Well, I don’t have to tell you, do I? You’ve heard what those people do, sell little girls to perverts, put ’em in porno flicks. I mean, it just makes me sick. So I’m gonna start over, to make sure you understand.”
    * * *
    DeMarco rapped on the doorframe of an office containing a scarred wooden desk, a high-backed black leather chair behind the desk, four gray metal file cabinets, and two wooden visitors’ chairs. Paper was stacked on every flat surface in the room, including the tops of the file cabinets, the floor, and both visitors’ chairs. Next to the phone was a pile of pink telephone message slips, and there were at least thirty slips in the pile.
    Sitting behind the desk was Perry Wallace—a triple-chinned fat man with small, cunning eyes. His hair was shaved close on the sides but left thick on top, making it appear as if someone had glued a muskrat’s hide to his big, round skull. He was as attractive as roadkill. But he was probably the smartest person DeMarco knew and he was definitely the hardest working.
    Perry Wallace was John Mahoney’s chief of staff.
    Making laws requires work, lots of work, and Mahoney was not a hardworking man. Perry Wallace was the one who did the work. While Mahoney gave speeches and posed with Cub Scouts and veterans, Perry managed Mahoney’s staff and his reelection campaigns. He read every word in the Bible-size bills making their way through the House, did the research to sniff out the bullshit buried in the bills, and did the math to see how much everything would cost. And not only did he toil until the wee hours on Mahoney’s behalf, he knew everything . He knew the law and how the federal budget was tallied; he knew the operating rules for Congress, which are harder to interpret than the Dead Sea Scrolls. Most important, he knew every Democratic politician in America