W.E.B Griffin - The Traffickers

Byrth watched Payne as he walked up to a marble-topped oak desk, behind which sat a somewhat distinguished old man with a full head of silver hair.

Byrth saw that the geezer wore a dark pin-striped suit with a silver silk tie-and an incredible air of snootiness.

The geezer looked up from the appointment book he had been reviewing.

“Ah, good evening, Young Mr. Payne,” the geezer said with a nasal tone. “So good to see you again.”

The geezer’s eyes studied their small party.

Payne said, “Good evening, Baxter. We’re here for Commissioner Coughlin’s regular group.”

“That would be in the Grant Room. All the way down, on the right.”

“Thank you, Baxter. I do believe I remember where it is. And I have two guests tonight, one of whom is in town on business.” He gestured toward Byrth. “Mr. Byrth will require a room.”

The geezer said nothing. He stood.

“Mr. Payne, I’ll call down to the Inn and alert the deskman.”

The geezer surveyed Harris. Then he surveyed Byrth, his dull gaze lingering on The Hat in the crook of his arm.

Then he looked back at Payne.

Payne said, “Is there some problem?”

Oh, boy, Jim Byrth thought.

This is where I get us all thrown out to the curb of this snooty joint.

“If you will excuse me a moment,” the geezer said nasally.

He wordlessly disappeared into the cloakroom.

Payne looked between Harris and Byrth, his eyebrows raised to say, Wonder what the hell this is all about?

Moments later, the geezer reappeared with an old navy blazer. It had two gold buttons on the front and three on the right sleeve. But there were only two on the left sleeve.

“So sorry, Mr. Payne,” he said, but he didn’t sound at all sincere. “This is the only jacket we have available at this time.”

Then the man held it out to Payne as he repositioned a small framed sign that was on the desk.

Payne glanced down at it and shook his head.

“Sorry, Baxter,” he said as he took the jacket. “I’m really tired. I forgot.”

Byrth read the sign:

(Strictly Enforced) The League requires a jacket be worn by men. Jeans, denim wear, athletic attire, T-shirts, shorts, baseball caps, sneakers, or tattered clothes are never permitted on the first or second floor of the League house.

“Again,” the geezer said with some emphasis. “Which of course is why we keep jackets for you, Mr. Payne.”

Payne slipped it on.

This damn thing feels two sizes too small.

I could walk the five blocks to my apartment, but then we’d really be late.

Tony Harris chuckled.

“House rules, sir,” the geezer said snootily.

Payne’s stomach growled again as he glanced down the hall. He could see the entrance to the Grant Room, and saw people still milling in the corridor.

He looked at his watch: one minute to nine.

“Oh, to hell with it. These things never start on time.” He looked between Byrth and Harris. “After what we just went through, we deserve some more liquid courage undisturbed. Maybe a bite to eat, too. Let’s go in the bar, then we can go down to the Grant. With luck we can sneak in and no one will even notice.”

“I’m with you, Marshal,” Byrth said. “But I’m afraid I have to tell you: No amount of booze will flush the mental image of that girl, or the anger at her murder.”

Payne nodded. “Doesn’t mean I can’t give it the old college try.”

Byrth and Harris followed Payne the twenty or so feet down the hall. They entered the bar through a doorway on the right.

The first person Sergeant Matthew M. Payne saw at the bar as he entered was First Deputy Police Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin.

Coughlin had his head back so that he could drain the last drop of his double Bushmills Malt 21. He caught Payne-and The Hat-out of the corner of his eye.

After lowering his head and putting the glass on the bar, Coughlin turned toward them. He looked a little guilty, as if he’d be caught. But only a little guilty.

“Waste not, want not,” he then said with a twinkle in his Irish eyes. “Glad you gentlemen made it.”

“Commissioner Coughlin,” Payne said formally, “I’d like to introduce Sergeant Jim Byrth of the Texas Rangers. Jim, Commissioner Coughlin.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Byrth said, offering his hand.

“My pleasure, Jim,” Coughlin replied, meeting his firm grip. “Liz Justice speaks highly of you. That goes a long way in my book.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Payne waved for the bartender to come over.

“Uncle Denny,” Payne said, “do you want another double Bushmills 21?”

Byrth caught the “uncle” and looked to see how the commissioner of police was going to respond.

“No, thank you, Matty. I don’t need to start slurring in there.”

Byrth then decided that Payne and Coughlin had to be uncle and nephew.

“Jim,” Coughlin said, “I’m going to put you on the spot here.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m speaking tonight about what’s been going on recently, particularly today. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but today’s murders weren’t our fair city’s first. But it might be a first for them to happen at almost the same time. I plan to go over that and the illegal drugs behind it. I’m hoping you might speak to the crowd about your perspective of it.”

Byrth nodded once. “Absolutely. It would be my honor.”

Payne passed out the bourbons to Byrth and Harris, then held up his glass. “To our health-and to our catching that bastard who killed that poor girl. And all the other bastards.”

The four of them touched glasses and drank to that. Denny Coughlin wound up chewing on an ice cube.

“What happened at the morgue?” Coughlin then said. “What’d you find out?”

Payne told him.

Coughlin shook his head slowly in disgust. Then he checked his watch and said, “These things never start on time. But we need to get the show going. Bring those drinks with you.”

Then First Deputy Police Commissioner Dennis V. Coughin marched out of the bar and through the doorway.

When Matt Payne, Jim Byrth, and Tony Harris entered the Grant Room, Commissioner Coughlin was already standing beside the dark wood lectern at the front of the room. He was talking to Captain Frank Hollaran, who stood in front of a flag of the United States of America. The flag was on a wooden staff that was held upright on the floor by a round golden stand.

All the tables were full except the one at the back of the room. Payne, Byrth, and Harris got to three of its five empty seats just as Hollaran stepped up to the lectern.

Exactly at the time that they sat down, Hollaran used his left hand to pull the microphone from the lectern.

He said, “Good evening, all. As most of you know, I’m Captain Frank Hollaran of the Philadelphia Police Department. Thank you for being here tonight. Now, if you’ll please stand and join me, we’ll get the formalities of tonight’s meeting out of the way.”

The room rose to its feet en masse. Everyone faced the American flag and placed their right hands over their hearts.

Hollaran, microphone to his lips, then surprised the hell out of Byrth by belting out in a rich baritone voice “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Everyone near Byrth, including Matt Payne and Tony Harris, sang along with gusto. But none in harmony. Nor in tune. And all seemed oblivious to that fact.

As they all sang, “… the land of the free and the home of the brave!” Byrth couldn’t help but glance and grin at Payne.

Matt must be tone-fucking-deaf.

Everyone took their seats.

Still, I liked that.

Byrth looked around at the people. They were as Payne had described in the car, upper-middle-class types who were clearly of comfortable means.