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“What can I get you, Jason?”
Washington looked at the others’ drinks, then announced, “I need something strong, Craig. How about a Jameson twelve-year-old martini, please.”
“You got it,” the bartender said, then reached down, produced a battered stainless steel shaker, and walked down the bar.
Washington turned to the others and said, “Well, the good news is you won’t have to worry about Carlucci looking over your shoulder. He and Denny are busy dealing with Commissioner Gallagher. The bad news is the same as the good news.”
In the background came the sound of ice cubes rattling as the bartender vigorously worked the cocktail shaker.
“What happened with the interview?” Payne said.
“It was not good, Matthew.”
The bartender returned and placed a martini glass on the napkin, then with a grand flourish poured the golden Irish whisky.
“Thank you,” Washington said to him, then picked up the glass and held it up as he intoned, “Fiat justitia ruat caelum.”
As Payne raised his glass, he thought, “Let justice be done though the heavens fall”?
What triggered that?
They all touched glasses.
Payne, after taking a sip of his single malt, said, “I assume that is in reference to Garvey?”
“At the moment especially him,” Washington said. He then looked at O’Hara and added, “Off the record for now, Mickey?”
“Of course,” O’Hara said. “Who is Garvey?”
Washington glanced around the immediate area. No other customer was in earshot. Craig the bartender had gone down to the opposite end of the bar and, using a white dish towel, was pulling glasses from the washer, methodically polishing them, then putting them on the bar shelves behind him.
“Garvey is married to Commissioner Gallagher’s granddaugher,” Washington said.
“Okay. And?” O’Hara said, as Washington took another sip of martini.
“And,” Payne put in, “he just got busted this afternoon smuggling two keys of coke at PHL.”
O’Hara’s bushy red eyebrows went up.
Washington, nodding, picked it back up. “They were doing a routine sweep of bags coming off the plane from Saint Thomas, where Garvey had been on business.” He glanced at Byrth and added, “Because the Texas Rangers are doing such an effective job at our border with Mexico, there is a surge of drugs coming up via the Caribbean.”
“Newsflash,” O’Hara said. “There’s a history of that with Phillyricans.”
Byrth looked at him. “Is that like a Texican?”
“Yeah, Philadelphia has a Hispanic population of about a quarter-millio
n,” O’Hara explained, “seventy percent of which are Puerto Rican—Phillyricans. It’s second only to New York City’s number of Nuyoricans. That generates a lot of traffic between here and San Juan.”
Byrth, nodding, said, “And trafficking.”
“And,” Payne put in, “now apparently it’s the same with the USVI.”
“So that’s what happened with this Garvey?” O’Hara said.
Washington went on: “As the bags were put one by one from the cart onto the conveyor belt, a chocolate Lab alerted on his suitcase. One of our blue shirts stopped him as he started to leave the building with it. Garvey’s wife—Commissioner Gallagher’s daughter’s daughter—had gone to surprise him by picking him up. She witnessed him being escorted to a secure area near baggage claim.”
“Guess who surprised whom,” O’Hara said, shook his head, then added, “Another family ruined by being greedy. That’s a lot of money.”
