Guilar came in with the chains and locks that normally were used to secure the lawn mowers and other tools to the trailers.
“Okay,” Delgado said in English, looking between Guilar and El Cheque, “you know what to do next.” He nodded at the teenage boy and the girl in the pink lace shirt. “I’ll handle these two.”
THREE
140 South Broad Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 8:58 P.M.
It was only a little more than a mile from the Medical Examiner’s Office on University Avenue to South Broad Street. Payne got on Chestnut Street, and planned on taking it the whole way, passing within a couple blocks of his place on Rittenhouse Square.
After Payne had explained what Hollaran had said, Byrth had said, “What’s a Union League? Texas is a right-to-work state; not many unions.”
Payne had then clarified. He gave him the organization’s background, ending with, “It’s still a strong supporter of our military services, and it’s played host forever to world leaders, business chieftains, celebrities. Nothing like a union hall at all. It drips with Old World Philadelphia of 1862.”
“Another thirty years, it’d be as old as the Rangers,” Byrth said.
That caused Payne to look at him curiously. But he saw that Byrth wasn’t bragging. He was, instead, making a statement that showed his appreciation of the long history of both institutions.
Payne said, “It also solves the problem of your lodging. My family’s been members for generations. I’ll sponsor you so you can stay in The Inn at the League. The room will not only cost less than any lousy Marriott or Hilton you’ll find, it’ll be a helluva lot better.”
Byrth shrugged. “When in Rome…”
Payne then explained the background of the function they were about to attend. And the reasoning behind why the second-highest-ranking officer in the Philadelphia Police Department held it.
Payne pulled to the curb on Broad Street in front of the Union League property.
Byrth observed that the building, with its brick and brownstone fa?ade, was very well-preserved for being some 150 years old. Its design certainly stood out from the modern surroundings, all the tall shiny office buildings around it. At the front, two dramatic circular staircases led up to the main entrance on the second level. Bronze statues stood dramatically beside each of the staircases. And Old Glory, spectacularly lit by a bright floodlight, slowly flapped atop a twenty-foot-tall flagpole mounted to the fore of the flat roof.
Inside, Byrth found that Payne was right. The Union League did indeed drip with Old World Philadelphia.
The ambience oozed old school luxury-polished marble floors with exotic rugs, rich wood paneling, magnificent leather-upholstered furniture that you could actually smell. On the walls hung handsome works of art, from old warships sailing far out at sea to portraits of presidents of the United States of America. Along the walls were distinguished displays featuring bronze and marble busts and sculptures.
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.