Delgado knew that all kinds of gringos gravitated to this part of town for those events. And then, when the events ended, promptly got the hell out of the rough neighborhood.
A half-mile later, he turned off Hatcher Street into the driveway of an older one-story house.
Across the street from the house was Juanita Craft Park. It was what Delgado thought of as a more representative park for those who lived in these parts. The football games played there used a soccer ball, not the pigskin kicked around in the Cotton Bowl. Spanish-language billboards advertised fast-food restaurants, Latino radio stations, various brands of booze. And Juanita Craft Park abutted a stream, one that was more of a rancid drainage ditch and flowed under the train track trestle two blocks south.
The one-story older house sat by itself well back from Hatcher Street. Its wooden siding had white paint that was chipped and peeling. It was surrounded by chain-link fencing that blocked any view of the backyard.
In the backyard were usually a half-dozen utility trailers loaded with lawn care equipment, as well as a detached wooden garage. Beyond the back fence, a thick tree line separated the house and its property from a children’s play-ground, on the far side of which was another line of trees and thick shrubbery, which grew along the train track.
All of which served to further isolate the house, though there were some houses far across the four lanes of Hatcher.
The headlights of the Dodge Ram van lit up the chain-link gate.
Out of the shadows there suddenly appeared a man.
Good man, Miguel. You’re here.
Now get the damned gate open.
Miguel Guilar physically looked a lot like Delgado. He wore black jeans, a dark T-shirt, and black athletic shoes. They had grown up together and graduated from North Dallas High School, which was across the freeway and a couple miles away. At almost ninety years old, the school had outgrown its name. Realistically, present-day North Dallas was the sprawl of suburbia much farther north.
Guilar pushed on the chain-link gate and it swung inward. Delgado eased the van through the gap and into the dark, unlit backyard. When he looked toward Guilar, he saw that Miguel held a black pump shotgun, its butt on his hip. Then Guilar stepped back into the shadows. El Cheque rolled the Expedition in behind the van, and Guilar closed the gate.
Except for one of the toddlers repeatedly saying, “Mama, Mama, Mama,” it was deafeningly quiet in the van. Delgado thought he could feel the tension, if not some terror.
“Welcome!” he said cheerfully in Spanish as he pulled the van to a stop and shut off the engine. “You have made it! Your journey is over! My associates will help you bring your things into the house. And then we can get you on your way.”
He opened the driver’s door and hopped to the ground.
Miguel Guilar was walking up to him with the gun. Delgado saw that it was his black Remington Model 1300 pump-action twelve-gauge. He knew that Guilar kept his “Defender” loaded with six rounds of double-ought buckshot.
Delgado said, “You have the zip ties?”
Guilar reached into the back pocket of his black jeans and pulled out the two-foot-long plastic strips that were generally used to quickly and securely bind damn near anything they would fit around. There were at least twenty in the bundle, held together with a rubber band. Delgado stripped two from the bundle and slipped them into his pants pocket.
“We separate the women from the men first, okay?” Delgado said in English as he pulled the Beretta from the waistband of his pants. “Just follow my lead.”
“Okay,” Guilar said, then walked with Delgado to the large sliding door on the other side of the van.
Guilar and Delgado were standing in front of the sliding door when Aguilar walked up to them, holding the TEC-9 that had been in the Expedition’s console with his Beretta.
No surprise that he would like that gun.
He likes looks.
Delgado said to him, “El Cheque, you take the females into the house.”
“Sí,” he replied. “One minute.”
He trotted to the back door of the house and opened it. The lights from inside backlit him. Then he trotted back to the van.
“Okay,” El Cheque said.
Delgado, keeping his Beretta along his right thigh, opened the sliding door with his left hand.
“Women and children first!” Delgado said in Spanish, his tone upbeat. “Come, come! Follow El Cheque. He will show you to the house.”
Delgado looked at the woman sitting at the end of the second-row bench seat nearest the door. She was at least forty, overweight, and wholly unattractive. Slowly, hesitantly, she slid to the edge of the seat and stepped to the ground. She pulled a dirt-smudged silver backpack out from under the seat.
That is all of her possessions, Delgado thought.
Amazing.
Then El Cheque gestured toward the open back door of the house.
The woman did not move. She looked in the van to the dark-haired girl of about eight who’d been sitting beside her. The woman waited until the girl exited the van and collected her small vinyl overnight bag. The girl walked to the woman and took her hand. And they stood there.
The angry man Delgado had seen in the rearview mirror was the last one on that bench seat. He started sliding across the seat toward the door.
“Alto! ” Delgado said forcefully, holding up his left hand palm outward.
The man stopped. He made an angry face.
“That is my family,” he said, gesturing toward the woman and child.
You poor bastard, Delgado thought, glancing at the woman.
Love is blind.
“Women and children first,” Delgado said again. He looked to the next row back, which held four teenage girls. “Come, ladies. You’re next.”
As they stepped off, Delgado caught El Cheque out of the corner of his eye. El Cheque was watching with growing interest as the teenage girls exited.
Taking your pick, are you?
Your pick of one?
Or of which one first?
Three of the four were about fifteen and somewhat attractive. The third was maybe eighteen and, Delgado thought, not exactly unattractive. But she was a bit pudgy, and had badly bleached streaks in her hair. There were tattoos on her arms. They were not gang symbols, as far as he could tell.
Delgado looked back inside the van. He decided he wouldn’t have trouble with the other male. He looked to be about seventeen, and sat on the last bench, up against the window. He naturally would be the last off. Sitting next to him was a very attractive girl wearing a pink lace blouse. She looked a little younger than the boy, maybe sixteen. By their body language, they appeared to be more than just seatmates.
He motioned for Aguilar to come over.
“When you get them in there, collect all their phones and whatever address books or papers they have. Strip them of everything, especially any weapons or anything that could be used as a weapon. If they’re difficult, use that TEC-9 if necessary. Then let me know when it’s done.”
Delgado waited until Aguilar had herded all the women into the house before he let the two males in the van even move.
They had of course protested. But Delgado quelled that by raising his pistol. He said in Spanish, “I can use this now, or you can do as I say—and find out if I let you live later. Right now, I don’t need either of you or this van.”
Then Delgado said, “What you’re going to do to stay alive is step out of the van one at a time.” He pointed the pistol at the teenage boy in back. “You first.”
The boy slowly worked his way from the back of the van to the open sliding door.
“Okay,” Delgado said, “now step out and lean against the van’s hood, hands on your neck.”
Delgado had had some experience with this series of motions. However, he’d been the one taking orders from the police.
Delgado then pulled one of the zip ties from his pocket. He looked at Miguel Guilar and said, “Get my back.”
Guilar nodded, and aimed the shotgun at the van, the muzzle pointing between the boy on the hood and the man inside.
Delgado then decocked his Beretta and put it in his waistband. He stepped over to the teenager and with his right hand grabbed the boy’s right wrist. He brought it down to the small of the boy’s back and held it there. Then he started to do the same with the left. But when he grabbed the teenager’s left wrist, the kid spun on him, striking Delgado in the cheekbone with his elbow.
“Motherfucker!” Delgado yelled in pain, and wrestled the teenager to the ground.
Guilar stepped in closer, swinging the muzzle of the shotgun toward the two, trying to get an aim that didn’t include Delgado.
Then he saw the man in the van start to move. Guilar quickly pointed the shotgun at him, and the man cowered back in his seat.
Guilar looked back down at Delgado.
He saw that Delgado now had the teenager on his belly, a knee on the back of his neck that forced his face into the grass. Delgado’s other knee pinned the teenager’s right arm against his back. With some effort, he got the boy’s wrists crossed. He pulled out the other zip tie from his pocket and looped it around the wrists. He threaded the tag end of the tie into the box end and pulled tight. The kid screamed as the plastic banding cut into his flesh.
Delgado stood—and kicked the kid in the face.
The teenager’s nose began bleeding profusely.
“Pendejo!” Delgado said, gently touching his injured cheek. He spat on the boy’s back. “Try that again and you’re dead!”
Delgado then turned to the man in the van. His eyes were wide, and he had his hands up, palms out, in surrender.
Delgado went to the mirror on the door of the van and tried to inspect his injury. In the dim light, he could not see anything obvious. But it hurt like hell.
He looked at the teenager, who was trying to sit up.
“I’m not through with you,” Delgado said.
The teenager glared back defiantly.
El Cheque then stuck his head out the back door of the house.
“Done!” he called to Delgado.
After the older male had been zip-tied without incident, Delgado looked at Guilar.
“Okay,” he said, “now put the van in the garage, then get some chain and locks off the lawn trailers and bring them inside.”
When Delgado approached the back door of the house, he held the two zip-tied males by the back of their shirt collars. He pushed them through the open doorway and into the kitchen.
The women and children were sitting in mismatched chairs, some old broken ones made of wood, but the majority white molded plastic.
The girl in the pink lace shirt saw the teenage boy’s bloodied face and began screaming. She ran to the boy.
She looked back at El Gato, her eyes wide with fear.
“Why did you do this?” she wailed.
“He is a very lucky boy,” Delgado said in Spanish. “He could be dead right now.”
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 façade, 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.
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 dow
n 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.
The Traffickers Page 31