Philly. But McGruder obviously still believed—data be damned, listening only to his oversize gut—that Ted was hiding something.
On one hand, Greg getting killed—or killing himself—was a blessing. If Delray had just stared at Greg for a couple of minutes, Greg would have told McGruder everything. But Greg’s death was also a potential disaster. McGruder hadn’t been able to figure out how Greg had doctored the books to hide a half-million-dollar loss—a loss that should never have happened—but he’d only spent two hours trying. If McGruder was there every day, and started playing with the spreadsheets. . . . Well, Greg had built a mathematical house of cards and it just might collapse if McGruder pulled at it hard enough.
He was running out of time. He had to get the money back, but more importantly, he needed to get federal funding for the project. If he got the project moving again, Al wouldn’t give a damn about how he’d lost the half a million—that is, he wouldn’t give a damn provided Ted got the money back. But to do either of those things—to get the money back or get the project restarted—he had to get the politician on board.
He’d go see the lobbyist tomorrow. He’d called the damn guy two days ago but he’d been out of town, plus, after thinking about it, Ted had decided this wasn’t the sort of thing he wanted to talk about on the phone. So tomorrow he’d go see him in person, and if the guy didn’t come through for him, maybe he’d have Gus give him a beat down. Not that beating the lobbyist would solve his problems; it would just feel good to make someone else feel some pain.
10
“Come on, Emma. Help me out here.”
Emma was pulling weeds, her butt pointed rudely at DeMarco, as she uprooted offending flora. She was wearing shorts, an old T-shirt from the New York marathon, and a long-billed baseball cap that had a piece of cloth attached to the back to protect her neck from the sun. On her knees were padded knee protectors, the type carpet-layers wear. She pulled the weeds rapidly, and DeMarco would swear that each time she yanked one she muttered a little curse as if she was condemning the unwanted plant to a hot green hell.
Emma had a large yard surrounding her spacious home in McLean and by early summer her place would look like the grounds at Versailles. But to reach this state of horticultural perfection, each spring Emma went berserk, planting and reseeding and pruning—and doing whatever else it was that fanatic gardeners did. And during this period she reminded DeMarco of the Star Trek episode about Spock’s sex life.
Vulcans, according to Gene Roddenberry, had sex about every seven years and just before they mated, they went mad—not an unexpected outcome considering the period of abstinence. At the peak of their mating cycle your typical pointy-eared, unemotional Vulcan became this crazed loony who would decapitate his friends if they frustrated his need to procreate. And this was Emma in the spring—except it wasn’t celibacy that made her insane; it was the need to revitalize her yard, and she wouldn’t return to normal until the job was complete.
“I just told you,” Emma said, still not looking at him. “Neil’s on vacation and I don’t know where he is.”
“Yeah, but there must be some way to track him down.”
Emma didn’t answer. She was frowning at something she’d just pulled from the earth, as if the plant in her hand was some particularly malevolent species, maybe the Ebola virus of weeds.
“Emma!” DeMarco said. “How do I find him?”
Neil called himself an “information broker.” The truth behind this ambiguous job description was that Neil, for a substantial fee, could find out anything you wanted to know about your fellow citizens. Most often Neil performed his magic by bribing folks who work in places that stockpile privileged data: the IRS, Google, Social Security, banks, credit card and cell phone companies. But if Neil
On one hand, Greg getting killed—or killing himself—was a blessing. If Delray had just stared at Greg for a couple of minutes, Greg would have told McGruder everything. But Greg’s death was also a potential disaster. McGruder hadn’t been able to figure out how Greg had doctored the books to hide a half-million-dollar loss—a loss that should never have happened—but he’d only spent two hours trying. If McGruder was there every day, and started playing with the spreadsheets. . . . Well, Greg had built a mathematical house of cards and it just might collapse if McGruder pulled at it hard enough.
He was running out of time. He had to get the money back, but more importantly, he needed to get federal funding for the project. If he got the project moving again, Al wouldn’t give a damn about how he’d lost the half a million—that is, he wouldn’t give a damn provided Ted got the money back. But to do either of those things—to get the money back or get the project restarted—he had to get the politician on board.
He’d go see the lobbyist tomorrow. He’d called the damn guy two days ago but he’d been out of town, plus, after thinking about it, Ted had decided this wasn’t the sort of thing he wanted to talk about on the phone. So tomorrow he’d go see him in person, and if the guy didn’t come through for him, maybe he’d have Gus give him a beat down. Not that beating the lobbyist would solve his problems; it would just feel good to make someone else feel some pain.
10
“Come on, Emma. Help me out here.”
Emma was pulling weeds, her butt pointed rudely at DeMarco, as she uprooted offending flora. She was wearing shorts, an old T-shirt from the New York marathon, and a long-billed baseball cap that had a piece of cloth attached to the back to protect her neck from the sun. On her knees were padded knee protectors, the type carpet-layers wear. She pulled the weeds rapidly, and DeMarco would swear that each time she yanked one she muttered a little curse as if she was condemning the unwanted plant to a hot green hell.
Emma had a large yard surrounding her spacious home in McLean and by early summer her place would look like the grounds at Versailles. But to reach this state of horticultural perfection, each spring Emma went berserk, planting and reseeding and pruning—and doing whatever else it was that fanatic gardeners did. And during this period she reminded DeMarco of the Star Trek episode about Spock’s sex life.
Vulcans, according to Gene Roddenberry, had sex about every seven years and just before they mated, they went mad—not an unexpected outcome considering the period of abstinence. At the peak of their mating cycle your typical pointy-eared, unemotional Vulcan became this crazed loony who would decapitate his friends if they frustrated his need to procreate. And this was Emma in the spring—except it wasn’t celibacy that made her insane; it was the need to revitalize her yard, and she wouldn’t return to normal until the job was complete.
“I just told you,” Emma said, still not looking at him. “Neil’s on vacation and I don’t know where he is.”
“Yeah, but there must be some way to track him down.”
Emma didn’t answer. She was frowning at something she’d just pulled from the earth, as if the plant in her hand was some particularly malevolent species, maybe the Ebola virus of weeds.
“Emma!” DeMarco said. “How do I find him?”
Neil called himself an “information broker.” The truth behind this ambiguous job description was that Neil, for a substantial fee, could find out anything you wanted to know about your fellow citizens. Most often Neil performed his magic by bribing folks who work in places that stockpile privileged data: the IRS, Google, Social Security, banks, credit card and cell phone companies. But if Neil
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