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Friday, January 6, 3:21 P.M.
“Turn here, and it’s the next left,” Matt Payne instructed the taxi driver, who drove down Juniper, and a half block later made a left onto Drury, a narrow street that looked more like an alleyway than an active thoroughfare.
Payne, knowing that street parking was nonexistent here and not wanting to leave the 911 to the mercy of the public garages nearby, had left the car with the Rittenhouse valet, deciding that he could either walk or cab back after seeing Peter Wohl and company.
McGillin’s, a freestanding, two-story Colonial surrounded by tall modern buildings, was midway down the block. Hanging from its red-bricked façade, the city’s oldest, continuously operating tavern had American flags and matching bunting and, in neon lights, signage stating its name and EST. 1860.
Payne handed the driver a ten, then stepped onto the sidewalk. Across the lane were a dozen foul dumpsters filled almost to the point of overflowing.
Nice. Bet the truck shows up just in time for happy hour.
All the flags and bunting in the world can’t get you to overlook that stench.
He moved toward McGillin’s at a quick pace and went through the doorway.
Payne stood next to the end of the wooden bar that ran the length of the right side of the establishment. It was half full. But no Wohl in sight.
He scanned the large main room. On his second pass, he caught a glimpse of Wohl at one of the wooden tables at the far side of the room. Blocking Payne’s clear view of Wohl was a beefy older male with wide shoulders and a thick neck. Hanging on the wall behind them were signs from out-of-business Philly landmarks—John Wanamaker’s, Gimbel Brothers, among many others—all of which McGillin’s had long outlasted.
The brown-haired and pleasant-looking Wohl—who was lithe and muscular and stood just shy of six feet tall—had on his usual well-tailored suit. The male sitting opposite him had close-cropped white hair and wore a tartan-plaid woolen shirt and dark slacks and brown leather shoes. Payne guessed he was in h
is mid-sixties.
Payne noticed that they both were drinking martinis.
He caught Wohl’s eye, waved once, then crossed the red tile floor toward them.
—
“Hey, Matt,” Peter Wohl said, motioning for him to take the seat beside him. “This is Tank. Tank, Sergeant Matt Payne.”
“Stan Tankersley,” the big man said, offering his huge hand across the table. “But call me Tank. Howya doin’, Sergeant? You look like you’ve pulled an all-nighter.”
“Almost. A late night, then up at oh-four-thirty for another job,” Payne said, shaking Tankersley’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. Why is your name familiar to me?”
“Back in the Dark Ages,” Wohl said, “when I was a rookie detective, I worked for a short time—too short, because he retired on me—under Tank in Homicide. Actually, I was under Jason Washington, who Tank charged with bringing me up to speed in the ways of the unit.”
“That’s it,” Payne said. “You left one helluva legacy.”
“Don’t try to bullshit an old bullshitter, Payne,” Tankersley said, and grinned.
A waitress, a young, attractive brunette, approached, and Payne quietly ordered his drink by gesturing at the martinis. She nodded and turned before even reaching the table.
“Tank taught me a lot,” Wohl went on, “and quickly, which, because I’m a slow learner, was an accomplishment in and of itself.”
“What’d I just say about bullshitting, Peter?” Tank said, and turned to Payne. “He was one of the sharpest guys in the unit back then. Picked up on things quick . . . Like I hear you do, Sergeant.”
“Don’t feed his ego,” Wohl said, patting Payne on the shoulder. “As Commissioner Coughlin says—and not as a compliment—Matt’s not exactly burdened with any semblance of modesty.”
When Wohl patted him, he noticed Payne involuntarily winced.
“And,” Wohl added, “he’s got a fresh bullet wound to prove it. Sorry about that, Matt. Didn’t realize it was still that tender.”
Payne motioned that it was okay.
Tankersley’s expression changed.
“How are you doing with that, son?” he asked.
