The Traffickers

by Griffin, W. E. B.

  “Okay,” Coughlin said, stone-faced. “Thank you, Jason. Henry? Your piece of mind, please.”

  “Well,” Quaire began, “it’s no secret that I was not overly thrilled about Matt using The List and the mayor’s top-five-scores-get-their-pick to come to Homicide.”

  About a month earlier, the department had released what was universally known as “The List.”

  Some twenty-five hundred police officers—corporals, detectives, and patrolmen with at least two years’ service―had taken the examination for promotion. Those who passed and were promoted received a pay raise, a bump of four percent for the first two ranks, and fourteen percent for the patrolmen.

  The List showed who had passed and how their scores had ranked them.

  The exam was given in two parts, the first being written. Of the twenty-five hundred candidates, one in five had failed the written component. That washed them out, making them ineligible to move on to the exam’s oral component.

  Not everyone rushed to take the exam. Detectives could bring home more money in overtime than could sergeants, who clocked fewer hours. But because retirement pay was based on rank, they eventually would take it in hopes of being promoted and, then, retired as a lieutenant or captain.

  The first hurdle, however, was passing. And not everyone did. And of those who did, not all were necessarily promoted right away.

  After the names of those who passed the written exam were posted, the oral exams were given over the next four months.

  In the Sergeant’s Exam, nearly seven hundred detectives, corporals, and patrolmen had passed the oral component. That made them eligible for promotion, of course, but contingent on a number of factors. One was funding. There was money available for only ten percent of The List to be moved up immediately, in the next days or weeks.

  The rest had to wait for attrition, a vacancy made by a sergeant who retired or was promoted.

  Realistically, that meant if the score of one who passed the exam had them ranked no higher than the top one hundred or so, they would not get promoted. The List would expire after about two years, and the examination process would begin anew.

  For those who did score very well, however, the mayor—in a moment of inspiration, thinking it would make for good public relations—had proclaimed that the five who scored the highest on The List would be given their choice of where in the department they wanted to serve.

  And when The List had been recently posted, Number One on it was: PAYNE, MATTHEW M., PAYROLL NO. 231047, SPECIAL OPERATIONS.

  And newly promoted Sergeant Payne had picked as his choice the Homicide Unit.

  Captain Henry Quaire, commanding officer of the Homicide Unit, had not been thrilled with the news of the hotshot young sergeant’s arrival. But putting two and two together, Quaire understood that there was more to it, more to Matt. He quickly had learned that Matt Payne, like his rabbi, Inspector Peter Wohl, was of the very smart sort. The bright ones destined for greater responsibilities and higher ranks.

  Once, over drinks one night, Quaire even had heard Denny Coughlin offhandedly say that judging by the speed with which Payne was progressing in the department, Coughlin was worried that it wouldn’t be long till Payne took his job.

  Coughlin really hadn’t been worried or serious, of course. No one would be prouder of his godson getting the job than the godfather himself. And, besides, realistically that just was not going to happen anytime soon. It was simply Coughlin’s way of saying Payne was a rapidly rising star in the police department.

  “And, Denny,” Henry Quaire now went on, “I don’t think it’s any secret—I sure as hell hope it’s not—that I now am in the camp of those who know Matt to be one helluva cop. I vote with Jason.”

  Coughlin looked at Lowenstein.

  “I don’t think you have to ask, Denny,” Chief Inspector Matthew Lowenstein said simply. “But, officially, I concur.”

  “Ditto, Denny,” Francis Hollaran said.

  All eyes were now on Coughlin.

  After a long moment that in the absolute quiet seemed much longer, he grunted and then said, “All right. I thank you for your thoughtful opinions. This, as I’m sure you know, is not an easy decision for me, and I appreciate your input. But, making such decisions is the reason that I’m paid the big bucks.” He paused and grinned to show he was being facetious, then added, “Both of those big bucks.”

  There were the expected chuckles.

  Coughlin glanced at each of them, then said, “Until I order otherwise, I do not—repeat, do not—want Matty anywhere near the street.”

  The shocked silence in the room bordered on the awkward.

  Coughlin went on, “I have my reasons. For one, he’s had more than enough to deal with lately. Yes?”

  There were a couple of agreeable nods.

  Coughlin gestured toward the television with his right hand. “And he damn sure doesn’t need to be in the news again anytime soon. What’s it been? Not quite thirty days. The ink’s still wet on the newspaper articles about his shooting at that Italian restaurant—”

  “La Famiglia Ristorante,” Hollaran furnished.

  “That’s it.”

  Hollaran said, “Matt’s a good investigator, right, Jason?”

  “A most excellent one,” Washington said. “And supervisor.”

  “And I have absolutely no argument with that,” Coughlin said reasonably. “So have him do it from the telephone. If I find out he’s on the street, I’ll put him on the goddamn midnight shift of the School Crossing Guard Unit.”

  Hollaran said, “There’s no—”

  “Of course there’s not,” Coughlin interrupted. “But I’ll damn sure establish one, and man it with the rest of you. Do I make my point?”

  There was a chorus of yessirs.

  “All right, then. When he gets here, Henry, send him in. It’s my order, so I’ll break the news to him.”

  IV

  [ONE]

  826 Sears Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 7:55 A.M.

  Paco Esteban, a bloodstained gauze bandage on his forehead, walked swiftly toward his South Philly row house. The two-story flat-roofed structure—like the row houses on either side and many others up and down the street—had a façade of old red brick with dirty brown corrugated aluminum awnings above the door and windows.

  In his left hand, Esteban carried two packed grocery bags, the sheer plastic stretching with the weight of their contents. He grabbed the black iron railing of the brick stoop and pulled himself along, quickly taking the three shallow steps up to the front door.

  At the door, he nervously looked over his shoulder as he juggled the grocery bags and reached for his keys to open each of the door’s three locks. About the time he got the second one unlocked, he heard the familiar metallic clunk that told him someone on the other side of the door was unlocking the third, a deadbolt.

  As he pulled out the key from the second lock, the door swung open.

  Standing there in a dingy beige sleeveless cotton dress was his wife. As much as El Nariz’s head hurt, he still managed to think: My beautiful Salma. My Madonna. It is not fair that she should suffer such pain and worry. . . .

  Señora Salma Esteban was a swarthy black-haired twenty-nine-year-old who stood five-foot-four and weighed 160 pounds. Her face was puffy, the eyes somewhat swollen from crying. She clenched a wadded used tissue in her right hand.

  On her left shoulder she held a toddler, the Estebans’ three-year-old nephew, who had a thick mop of unruly black hair and wore only a diaper. He was sound asleep and snoring.

  Señora Esteban, sniffling, motioned for El Nariz to quickly come inside. When he had, she pushed the door shut and rushed to relock the doors.

  “How is she doing now?” El Nariz asked his wife in rapid-fire Spanish.

  “Better,” Salma Esteban said softly.

  “Bueno,” El Nariz said, nodding thoughtfully.

  He carried the bags into the cluttered kitchen. His wife followed.


  She watched her husband, his coarse face still showing a mix of anger and fear, wordlessly unpack the bags with a heavy hand onto the counter. One bag held packs of flour tortillas, cans of frijoles negros and corn, and other staples of a heavy-starch diet. From the other he pulled out a pack of disposable diapers and handed them to his wife, then a box of gauze bandages, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide antiseptic, and a bottle of aspirin.

  “While you were at the store,” Salma Esteban said softly, “Rosario did say she wanted to tell us more.”

  Paco Esteban looked up from the bags. “More?” he said. “We know what she said about her being forced . . .”

  He could not bring himself to repeat the sexual slavery part of her peonage.

  He then shook his head and added, his tone incredulous, “There is more? Madre de Dios.”

  “I will go and put the baby down,” Salma Esteban said.

  On the loading dock of the laundromat nearly two hours earlier, El Nariz had had to slap a wildly hysterical Rosario Flores twice across the face. Not that he necessarily felt that she was overreacting to the severed head and the shooting. He himself was in shock from that—and from his bloody forehead, which throbbed beyond belief. But he had made the immediate decision that anywhere else would be better for them to be than at the laundromat.

  And her banshee screams were about to attract some unwanted attention, if the sound of the gunfire hadn’t already accomplished that.

  At least I hear no sirens, he’d thought.

  At least not yet.

  All of the other workers in his crew already had fled. He was not really worried about them. They knew how to take care of themselves, and for now that meant lying low, out of sight. He knew he would see some of them back in South Philly—particularly the ones who lived near his house, and especially the sister-in-law of his wife, who lived in his house with her husband and three-year-old son.

  The others would at different times come out of the woodwork as they felt safer, as they collected information through their underground grapevine about what the hell had happened. And why. And how it did—or did not—directly threaten them.

  The two slaps were enough to get Rosario’s attention—and more important, to get her to shut up and listen to reason. He had then been able to convince her to get in the Ford minivan, and that it was safer for her in the backseat, lying on the floor under a pile of bedsheets.

  El Nariz then had gone back inside the laundromat.

  Considering what had just happened, he thought that the scene did not look that bad. Or certainly not as bad as it could have.

  El Nariz looked at the arch of bullet holes in the brick wall.

  That crazy bastard!

  What if he’d shot me—shot us all—instead of just leaving?

  The wire baskets between the walls of washer and dryer machines were scattered wildly, a few toppled on their side. The severed head lay where it had slid to a stop, down by the table along the wall used for folding. He walked to it, afraid he might throw up, and quickly covered it with a white bath towel. The bloody slime trail it had left was becoming more and more dry, and he grabbed a damp towel from a wire basket and quickly wiped up what he could.

  Then he found a box of plastic garbage bags, pulled two from the roll, and went back to the towel-covered head.

  I still do not know who this is, may God rest her tortured soul.

  Or how she is connected to Rosario.

  But I do not question that she is.

  He crossed himself, then carefully gathered the white towel around the head, lifting it all at once. He placed the severed head and its towel in one of the plastic garbage bags, then placed that bag inside the other. He added the bloody towel that he had used to wipe the floor, then knotted the bags closed.

  He scanned the room and shook his head in resignation.

  Nothing more to do right now.

  Nothing but get the hell out of here.

  Then, carrying the bag, he quickly moved to the steel double doors of the loading dock. He pulled them closed from the outside, locked them, then went to the minivan.

  As the rear door of the minivan swung upward, he could hear the muffled sobbing coming from under the small pile of bedsheets.

  “It is okay, Rosario,” he said softly. “It is only me.”

  El Nariz carefully placed the garbage bag inside the rear storage area of the minivan—If she knows this is here, it will not be good for either of us; but it is not right to just leave it—and pulled the door down and closed it as gently as he could.

  Rosario had sobbed uncontrollably on the drive to the South Philly row house.

  And she was still inconsolable after Señora Esteban sat with both arms around her on the well-worn couch in the back-room parlor.

  El Nariz had gone to clean up his head wound. He then took the double-bagged head down to the basement and, not sure what the hell else could immediately be done with it, he put it in the Deepfreeze, buried under plastic zipper-top bags of frozen vegetables.

  Back upstairs, he’d stood watching from the doorway to the kitchen, taking an occasional pull from a liter bottle of agave liquor he held by his hip.

  As Rosario continued sobbing, he’d finally gone back into the kitchen and poured two fingers of the tequila into a plastic cup. He’d then added twice as much orange juice to that and taken the drink into the parlor. With some effort, they got the girl to drink it.

  After a short while, the alcohol had the desired effect. Rosario became somewhat calmer. She still trembled at times, but at least she no longer wailed.

  Rosario now sat on the back-room parlor couch as Paco and Salma Esteban came back into the room. She had her knees pressed to her breasts and both arms wrapped tightly around the outside of her knees. She slowly rocked to and fro as she tried to hold back the sobs that seemed to rise from deep down inside.

  “Rosario,” Salma Esteban began softly, “you do not have to do this thing now. You have been through very much.”

  She shook her head vigorously.

  “No,” she said. “It must be done.”

  She sobbed.

  “And I must go to church,” she added, “to confession.”

  Paco and Salma Esteban exchanged glances.

  Paco Esteban said, “Who’s the girl?”

  His wife glared at him for asking such a question at such a delicate time.

  He shrugged, in effect saying, What did I say?

  Rosario buried her face in her knees and breasts. Then she looked up and between them.

  She wailed, “I killed my cousin!”

  Paco and Salma Esteban again exchanged glances, this time ones of deep shock.

  [TWO]

  The Roundhouse Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 8:15 A.M.

  Lieutenant Jason Washington was in his glass-walled office in the Homicide Unit. Minutes earlier, he had decided to deal with the matter of Detective Bari at a later time, if not date, and felt a twinge of guilt for having more or less brushed off Denny Coughlin’s question by saying the “administrative problem” had been taken care of.

  Now he turned to reviewing the notes Tony Harris had taken so far in the Philly Inn job. He noticed the sound of voices growing louder in the outer office.

  Washington looked up and saw Sergeant Matthew M. Payne being welcomed by a small crowd of detectives. They shook Payne’s hand and patted him on the back as he slowly but certainly moved through them and toward Washington’s office.

  Washington heard Payne say, “I’d better check in with the boss.” A moment later, Payne rapped a knuckle on the edge of the doorway.

  “Matthew,” Jason Washington said warmly. “I had heard a rumor that you were on your way back to the Roundhouse.”

  “How are you, Jason?”

  They shook hands.

  “Very well, Matthew. Thank you for asking.”

  “Mind if I ask where you came across this rumor? I was really afraid that the rumor circulating w
as the one that painted me as having turned in my gun and badge and gone off to take art classes in the south of France.”

  Washington chuckled. He motioned with his hand, waving Payne into one of the two metal-framed chairs across from his desk.

  “Oh, no,” Washington said, smiling. “That rumor—and it had you in Gay Paree, emphasis on the Gay—died a slow death weeks ago. This new one I got from far up the chain of command.”

  Payne figured that one out—From my call to Hollaran—right when Washington confirmed it.

  “I just enjoyed a visit to Commissioner Coughlin’s office,” Washington said.

  Payne nodded but didn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.

  “The commissioner had brought me and my boss and his boss in,” Washington went on, “to discuss the situation of the Philly Inn.”

  Payne nodded. “I was just out there at the scene.”

  “So I understand.” He pointed at the notes on his desk. “I’ve been speaking with Tony.”

  Payne nodded again. “Does that mean Tony’s got the job? And not Bari?”

  Washington considered his reply for a long moment, then said, “It’s now Tony’s. The answer to the other part of your query is—how do I put this?—that it’s on the back burner for now.”

  “As long as Tony’s got it, I don’t care about the how or why. I want in on this, too, Jason. It’s important to me.”

  Washington’s eyebrows went up.

  “Matthew, it would never cross my mind that you had anything other than a strictly professional interest in this case.” He paused. “Would it?”

  “My interest is to find out—professionally—what the hell happened out there. And why.”

  Washington did not immediately reply. He looked at the notes on his desk. “Tony tells me you have a history with”—he glanced at the notes to refresh his memory—“with this Warren Olde and Rebecca Benjamin.”