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“They asked all about Kenny and Camilla Rose,” Austin said, paused, and then added, “Payne did want to know who had been in the bar, which doesn’t make sense now that you’re saying he was there.”
“As I understand it, Johnny, apparently Payne wasn’t there. In the bar, I mean. He was in the hotel. Maybe finished dinner there, or just work, I don’t know.” He sighed, and went on. “But Aimee said Camilla Rose left the bar when she saw him and didn’t return for maybe an hour.”
“What the hell?” Austin said, then, with a look of anger, stared into the distance. “I’ll have to talk with Aimee about that.”
He turned back to Lane.
“Look, Willie. There’s something bigger, something serious . . .”
Lane thought Austin sounded odd.
A bit crazy? Paranoid?
But he did get shot at. And Benson got killed.
“Yeah? What?”
“You almost didn’t get that envelope. And with what’s happened with Camilla Rose, that’s probably the last one . . .”
Lane involuntarily jerked his head toward Austin.
“Unless you pull some strings. Fast.”
Lane, anxious, shifted in his seat.
“Like what?”
VII
[ ONE ]
Tavern 1776
Logan Square
Philadelphia
Friday, January 6, 6:32 P.M.
William G. Lane, Jr., squeezed past a small circle of extremely attractive women as he entered the restaurant’s almost full lounge, glancing around the elegant room as he went. The well-dressed crowd of Center City business professionals was unwinding from their workweek, their animated conversations giving the place an upbeat energy.
There were more than a few familiar faces, which did not give Lane comfort. He was not there to work the crowd—as he otherwise would be doing, especially the extremely attractive women—and he really did not want to talk with anyone he didn’t have to.
A minute later, he saw a large mitt of a hand rise and wave above a group of three husky men standing at the end of the long black-marble bar. Lane then saw, peering around the group, the familiar white-haired, bug-eyed man he was here to meet. The beefy fifty-year-old wore his trademark gray-pin-striped three-piece suit and a maroon dress shirt with a white-specked blue silk necktie and matching pocket square.
—
Among the many legally recognized associations that represented Philly workers—for example, just as the Fraternal Order of Police looked after the best interests of its members, there also was an organized union for the city’s electricians, one for its plumbers, another for ironworkers, yet another for teachers, and so on—there was one union that was, more or less, “first among equals.” This was due to the fact that the head of United Laborers Local 554, while he had never held an elected public office, was as savvy a politician as anyone serving in City Hall.
Joseph Fitzpatrick, business manager of Local 554, had been raised Irish Catholic in South Philly. The son of an electrician, he had followed his father and older brother into the business, but only after “Fearless Joey Fitz” have given up on his dream of being a heavyweight boxer.
Joey Fitz still had his scrappiness—and a crooked, fat nose from having it broken twice—as well as a rough-edged charm that he used to rise in the ranks of the union. He knew everyone, and brought in business like no one else, while making the best deals for his workers. To show their grateful appreciation, the Local 554 union members—who earned thirty bucks an hour, or about seventy grand a year—saw to it that Joey Fitz took home a paycheck in the neighborhood of a quarter-million dollars a year.
Joey Fitz had learned early on the importance of cultivating politicians—from neighborhood-level ward leaders on up to state house and U.S. representatives—and knowing that they would return his telephone calls. That took investment on the part of the union, from endorsing candidates to contributing cash to their campaigns.
It also meant keeping an eye out for prospective candidates who would have the union’s special interests at heart.
One in particular had been the son of a politician whom the union had first supported for ward leader, then for a city council seat, and finally for mayor. Joey Fitz knew the name recognition among voters alone gave the son a solid chance of getting elected, and being an African-American democrat in a city with a population that was mostly black certainly didn’t hurt.
