And it’s good to be among people who actually know all the words to our national anthem.
And are respectful of it.
Hand over heart. No talking during its singing. No yelling “play ball!” at its end.
A real class act.
Hollaran now said, “If you’ll please join me in welcoming First Deputy Police Commissioner Denny Coughlin…”
The room filled with polite applause as Hollaran handed the microphone to Coughlin.
“Hear, hear, Denny!” a dashing gentleman seated at a table closer to the lectern called out as he pounded the tablecloth with an open hand.
Byrth saw Payne make eye contact with the gentleman. He looked to be about fifty. He wore a crisp seersucker suit and red bow tie. He was enjoying a cigar the size of a small baseball bat. He nodded politely at Payne.
Payne saw that Byrth was watching and leaned over.
“D. H. Rendolok,” Payne whispered as he nodded in Rendolok’s direction. “Can usually be found at the bar lost in his thoughts and an enormous cloud of Honduran cigar smoke. His father-in-law was one of our finest police commissioners, under a previous mayor. His wife gave up a lucrative law practice to become one of the most respected judges in Eastern Pennsylvania, if not the entire Eastern Seaboard. D.H. won’t tell you himself, but he volunteers time as a consultant in building structure analysis in a highly classified homeland security project. Good people.”
Byrth nodded. He then looked at Coughlin.
The big Irishman smiled warmly. He held up his hand to get them to stop. “Thank you. That’s quite kind of you.”
The crowd became quiet.
Coughlin said: “As usual, I must begin by saying that this session is off the record. What’s said here in the Grant Room stays in the Grant Room.” He grinned. “My old pal Ulysses would want it that way.”
He got the expected chuckles.
“That said, I want to repeat Frank’s sincere thanks for all of you taking time to be here. It tells me that not only do we have fine citizens who care about our great city, we also have people who care about what their police department is doing.”
Byrth saw more than a few heads nodding. But he also heard behind him what sounded like a derisive grunt. And some mumbling.
He turned and saw two men right behind him, at the next table.
Byrth did not hear exactly what had been said. But the tone and body language-and knowing smirks-clearly suggested that it had been derogatory.
The two men were murmuring between themselves. They looked to be between thirty-five and forty-and terribly smug. One had what could be described as a three-day growth of beard. It was what in some circles passed for a fashion statement and in certain other circles qualified for insubordination. The other was skinny and frail, appearing almost sickly.
“Inbred” comes to mind, Byrth thought.
Or “professorial.”
Well, at least the bearded one looks like he could be a college teacher.
One tenured or someone still living on Daddy’s Money-same difference.
When the bearded one noticed Byrth looking at him, he made a face that was at once condescending and disdainful. Then the bearded one looked at Payne in his undersized loaner blazer and at Harris in his wrinkled well-worn blazer. He made a similar look of condescending disdain.
He’s clearly decided that we’re all interlopers.
I’m surprised he hasn’t called for security to have us booted out.
Byrth turned his attention back to Coughlin. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Pay
ne had not missed any of that exchange.
Byrth looked at Payne, who shook his head just perceptibly in a gesture of mild disgust.