Both Payne and one of the waitstaff, a male, noticed him. Payne then saw the male walk over and slip what looked like a business card on the table before Harris.
Byrth looked over at it and read:
LEAGUE POLICY:
No Cellular Telephone Conversations Permitted Kindly Turn Off All Such Devices.
Thank You.
Payne rolled his eyes.
He whispered, “I’ve collected enough of those to start a fair-size bonfire.”
Harris showed Payne the screen.
“Shit!” he whispered after he’d read: 1 OF 2 CARS BURNED IN W KENSINGTON WAS CHEVY CARJACKED BY MATT’S SHOOTER.
“Forget getting any fingerprints or blood from that burned hulk,” Payne whispered.
Harris nodded as he put the phone back on his belt clip.
Payne looked back at Byrth.
He was pacing again as he spoke: “And, of course, often they don’t even bother to launder it. They just smuggle bricks of cash across the border. They do it exactly as they brought in the drugs, but, of course, in the opposite direction. Once it’s out of the country, it’s easier to clean. Want to guess how many of those multimillion- dollar high-rise condos on the water from South Beach Miami to West Palm got bought with squeaky-clean pesos?”
And all those Porsches, Payne thought, recalling his car search on the Internet.
Byrth made a face. “I know you’ve heard of the annual list of the world’s richest people published by Forbes magazine.”
The crowd responded quickly with “Of course” and “Yes” and “Uh-huh.”
Byrth went on: “In 1989, that list ranked Pablo Escobar, the cocaine drug lord based in Medell?n, Colombia, as the seventh-richest man in the world. Net worth of twenty-five billion. And that was in 1989-valued dollars. Here was a man responsible for murdering countless of his enemies, including hundreds of police, thirty judges, and an unknown number of politicians.”
“Mind-boggling,” the young man in the tan blazer said. “But, hey, he’s dead.”
Byrth nodded. “Yep. Score one for The Good Guys-our U.S. Army Special Forces by name. But there’s been plenty of boys ready and willing to take his place. The head of the Sinaloa cartel, for example, one Joaquin ‘El Chapo’ Guzman-who happens to be a fugitive, having ‘escaped’ from a Mexican prison-recently earned a place on that Billionaire Boys’ Club list.”
The room was quiet.
Then the distinguished-looking silver-haired lady in the navy blue linen outfit raised her hand again. She looked clearly concerned.
“I’m sorry, everyone,” she said softly. “I seem to be taking over this meeting. But I have to ask: What would you say is the solution, Sergeant? Is there one?”
“Ma’am, I don’t begin to suggest I’m smart enough to have the answers. But there are highly intelligent people who have spent a lot of time studying exactly that. And, as part of that, they have stated the obvious: We could follow the model of Thailand.”
“I am not familiar with that,” the distinguished lady said.
“In 2003, Thailand began embracing Mao Zedong’s example. The Royal Thai Police reported that in a three- month crackdown, some twenty-two hundred drug runners were summarily shot and by year’s end another seventy thousand arrested. Those seventy thousand were lucky. Chairman Mao’s com munists, calling illegal drug users and suppliers social parasites, just outright killed them all.”
Professor Hargrove’s inbred buddy called out somewhat indignantly, “That’s never going to happen here.”
Byrth nodded. “I agree. Nor is the other option, what the economist Milton Friedman, among others, calls for-legalize drugs and end the war. Get rid of today’s Prohibition, which is what some of those on that side call it.”
“That won’t happen either,” the inbred buddy called out, this time somewhat disappointedly.
“And I agree again.”
“So, what do we do?” the silver-haired lady said softly.
Byrth was quiet a moment, before he answered with: “Dante said, ‘The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who in times of great moral crisis maintained their neutrality.’ “And I agree with that,” Byrth said after another moment. “As well as with those who’ve said that the illegal drug problem is (a) not going away and (b) is going to get worse if we do nothing-that is, ‘maintain neutrality.’ And these brighter minds have said that the solution is very simple. The laws are already in place. Start with real border security. Start applying RICO-that’s the federal Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, which has been successful at so many levels. Use all the other laws on the books. And use those twenty-five billion dollars a year as funds to enforce the laws. Nothing more, nothing less.” He paused, and sighed audibly. “I believe I’ve overstayed my welcome up here. I’ll say one final thing: Continue your fine support of those in law enforcement. Thank you very much for your kind hospitality.”
He turned to Commissioner Coughlin. “And for your hospitality, Commissioner.”
He handed back the microphone to him.
The room, with the notable exception of Professor Hargove and his pal, erupted in applause. D. H. Rendolok was pounding his table and calling out, “Hear, hear!”
Coughlin said into the microphone, “If there are no other questions…” He waited a long moment, and when no one raised a hand or called out, he added, “Then we’re adjourned till next time. I hope to see everyone again then.”
As Payne was standing and taking a sip from his fresh drink, Professor Hargrove said in another stage whisper, “Better start next time without me. What unmitigated bullshit propaganda…”
Payne walked around to that part of his table, then suddenly found that his left shoe had become snagged on the thick woolen carpeting. Luckily, he caught himself and his very full cocktail glass from falling.
But it had been an absolute shame that his trip caused him to dump a perfectly good Famous Grouse onto the head of Professor Stanton Hargrove, the distinguished chair of Marsupialia Studies in the Biology Department of Bryn Mawr College. Some even managed to strike his inbred buddy.
X
[ONE] 4606 Hatcher Street, Dallas Wednesday, September 9, 9:06 P.M. Texas Standard Time There were only the women and children and teenagers now with Jorge Ernesto Aguilar and his TEC-9 in the kitchen of the old wooden house.
Almost all were either whimpering or outright sobbing. Each toddler, in nately understanding that something was terribly wrong with Momma, cried uncontrollably. The mothers made what limited efforts they could to try to soothe them. They could see that El Cheque was becoming more and more agitated by all the commotion.
Minutes earlier, Miguel Guilar, after grabbing the older male by the back of the shirt collar, had taken him and a length of medium-size chain and a lock back to the smallest of the house’s five bedrooms. Juan Paulo Delgado had done the same with the teenage boy, but had gone to the master bedroom, which he considered to be his room when in town. Both handcuffed men had protested loudly and made some effort to resist being moved. And both men had been quieted when struck on the side of the head with the black Beretta semiautomatic pistol.
And so began the women’s whimpering and sobbing and uncontrollable crying.
While it was the least of their immediate problems, the women could see that the house was squalid. It clearly had been a long time, easily years, since there had been any kind of upkeep-never mind preventative maintenance-performed on the sixty-year-old house. The same could be said for any house-cleaning. The dirty appliances in the kitchen had last been replaced when the fashionable color had been a dark avocado green. The single kitchen sink, chipped and rusty, was filled with filthy dishes and glasses. The countertop suffered the same misfortune as the floor-both had linoleum that had separated at the glued seams and both had places where the
