The Traffickers (Badge of Honor 9)

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:

MEN’S DRESS CODE POLICY

(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.”