Road Work: Among Tyrants, Heroes, Rogues, and Beasts by Mark Bowden
“Fine. Fine.”
“How was your weekend?”
“Okay.”
“Okay? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“When you wanna meet?”
“Four. Three-thirty.”
“I can’t make it today. Can you make it tomorrow, Georgie?”
“Sure. When?”
“Anytime in the afternoon. You know I’m not morning people.”
“Eh, two-thirty?”
“Two-thirty. Where at?”
“At the, ah, restaurant.”
“Okay.”
“See ya.”
“See you, George. Bye.”
June 1, 1981, was the day John DeBenedetto took over command of the central police division.
It covered everything between the Delaware River and the Schuylkill River, from Poplar Street down to South Street, all of William Penn’s original city. The central division is the plum front-line police job in Philadelphia. Cut into two districts right down the middle by Broad Street, Central includes decaying black and Hispanic neighborhoods to the north and the meticulously preserved historic redbrick districts of Society Hill to the south. At its core are the vital avenues of commerce, legitimate and illegitimate, that crowd into a few square miles around City Hall. In the eastern Sixth District are Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, and the revitalized riverfront plazas of Penn’s Landing. In the western Ninth District are many of the city’s most prestigious financial institutions and law offices. Around the tan brick Ninth District building at 20th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, which serves as division headquarters, are the wide, landscaped ovals and parks that sweep west toward Fairmount, the spot from which the Philadelphia Museum of Art surveys Center City. Central division encompasses nearly all of what most people traditionally mean when they say Philadelphia, past and present, rich and poor, beautiful and ugly, good and bad.
There were more than four hundred uniformed officers assigned to police this area. Each district was supervised by a captain, who was assigned four lieutenants and four sergeants. In addition to the regular organization, there were a number of special squads. Enforcement of vice laws got special attention in central division, because it was where prostitution, porn, and gambling were most heavily concentrated. There was a separate lieutenant in charge of vice operations, and a four-officer vice squad (one of them George Woods) whose job it was to root out vice on the streets.
Commanding it all was the inspector. Center City was John DeBenedetto’s fief. The top post at Central was a perfect place for an ambitious cop to prove himself and get ahead. It was also the best place for a crooked cop to get rich.
Inside Central headquarters, in one of his first days on the job, the new division commander assembled all of his nonuniformed men, including George Woods, and explained a few things. If there was any protection money being collected, the new man said, he wanted to know about it. Pronto.
DeBenedetto had a tough reputation, with the manner and frame to match. Woods and the other men knew that he recently served as a staff inspector in the department’s internal affairs division. DeBenedetto didn’t care to be popular. He wasn’t above boasting about the number of badges he had collected in that job, nailing policemen who didn’t play by the rules. So the new boss had everyone’s ear when he explained the way the game was gonna be played. All protection money was to be passed up to him. He would spread it around accordingly. From where Georgie Woods sat, DeBenedetto’s system meant the end of a good thing. What with Central’s eight lieutenants and eight or nine sergeants above him, and the other vice squad guys, whatever payoffs made it down to his pocket would be just a fraction of what he was collecting on his own. Woods kept his mouth shut.
The Georgie Woods empire was not going to volunteer its own throat.
The Chuckwagon Restaurant was on the first floor of the old Broadwood Hotel, three blocks north of City Hall on Broad Street. It was a sixteen-story maroon brick building, its rooms empty, the hotel having shut down years ago. It was set directly across the street from the sad, broken-down shell of the old Philadelphia Record building and the gothic spires of Roman Catholic High School. For some reason having to do with poor street cleaning habits and airflow at street level in that part of town, paper trash, dirt, and debris seemed to accumulate under the brown marquee in front of the hotel. Pedestrians walking in front of it had to dodge small whirlwinds of trash, and squint to keep the blowing dirt out of their eyes. Just down the block was a badly graffitied Broad Street subway entrance. From the shadows below wafted up the potent odor of urine. In the basement of the old brick building were the swimming pool, handball courts, gymnasium, and saunas of the Philadelphia Athletic Club. The club’s name was spelled out in an elaborate mosaic tile on the lobby floor, encircling a portrait of Atlas struggling with the weight of the world. Just off this lobby, to the immediate right of Atlas, was the Chuckwagon. It was a good spot for a quick cafeteria-style lunch, and it had cold beer and wine in its coolers.
Earlier in the afternoon, before keeping his appointment with Woods, Hersing had met Thompson and Lash at the Holiday Inn on Fourth Street. They had wanted to strap a small Nagra tape recorder under his shirt, but Hersing didn’t want to wear it. He was worried that Woods would search him. The agents managed to talk him into putting it on, but when Hersing drove past the hotel on Broad Street he saw that Woods was waiting for him with another man. Woods had never brought along anyone else before.
This spooked Hersing. There were agents positioned at tables inside the Chuckwagon, and Thompson and Lash were staked out nearby. But Hersing didn’t like the way things looked. He drove on up a few blocks and turned the corner. Then he stopped at the first telephone booth and called the FBI office. He spoke to John Anderson, Thompson and Lash’s supervisor, and explained the situation. He asked if he could take the recorder off. Anderson told him to go ahead. So Hersing took off the recorder and left it in his car.
The man with Woods turned out to be Ray Emery, his partner. Emery was younger than Woods. He looked to be in his early thirties. He was about the same height as his partner, but was in better shape. He had a dark complexion and beard. Hersing thought he looked Italian. Emery didn’t say much. They picked up coffee and went to a table.
Woods seemed troubled. The detective complained about his new boss. This inspector was, he told Hersing, “a hungry son of a bitch,” and “all the boys at the top are hungry.”
Woods told Hersing that he would like to have the July payoff early. Hersing took advantage of the requested favor to ask for one in return. There were some “hippies,” he told Woods and Emery, who were running a whorehouse next door to his Walnut Street operation. They were cutting into his business. Hersing wanted Woods to make trouble for them, and he remembers that Woods promised to look into it.
Then, as he had done in the diner two months before, Hersing passed money to Woods—an envelope with $500 inside. It was the monthly payoff for 1245 Vine Street. Hersing had written the word “Insurance” on the envelope. The bills, in denominations of $20 and $100, had been counted out and their serial numbers carefully recorded by the FBI. Hersing agreed to meet with Woods again toward the end of the month to make a $1,100 payment, the $500 owed for 1245 Vine’s July protection, and the first two $300 payoffs for 2209 Walnut.
Seven days later, early in the afternoon on a Wednesday, Woods stopped in at the 1245 Vine Street studio and told the manager that he had to make a bust that day over at the Walnut Street whorehouse. Later, Thompson wrote up an account of what happened.
A confidential source provided the following: Sources advised that George Woods, detective, Philadelphia Police Department (PHPD), Vice Squad went to 1245 Vine Street on June 8, 1981 and told the assistant manager, Evon, that he needed to make a vice arrest at 2209 Walnut Street. Both these places are owned by the same person. Evon called the owner of 1245 Vine Street and 2209 Walnut Street and Woods talked to him. Woods stated he needed
The next afternoon the busy detective again stopped by 1245 Vine to phone Hersing. He explained, cryptically, that the new inspector was pressuring him to make arrests. He had had to move fast the day before. Now he wanted to make sure that Hersing wasn’t upset. He wanted to reassure the whorehouse owner that their deal was still on.
“What was said to me, was said to me,” Woods explained. “So before anything gets screwed up, I said I’ll take care of that. Right?”
“Yeah. That’s cool,” Hersing said. “That’s cool.”
“So, eh, everything worked out fine.”
“Good.”
“Right?” Woods asked.
“Right.”
“Did you hear?…She was only there four and a half hours.”
“No. That was good, George. I appreciate that.”
“I greased the way a little bit.”
“Good. Good. I appreciate that.”
But as Philadelphia’s spring warmed to summer, the new inspector was making things hotter and hotter for Georgie Woods. The plump vice detective was feeling the heat. As July approached, he planned to take a vacation, a long drive south with the wife and kids. That was why he wanted to be paid off early.
Friday, June 26, was an unusually cool, sunny summer day. The baseball strike was three weeks old. Frustrated city children were finally being freed from their classrooms. The bitter winter had forced school closings earlier in the year and delayed summer vacation.
Hersing drove into the city from Levittown that morning. He was supposed to meet Woods in his room at the Holiday Inn that afternoon, but he had to see a doctor about his feet. Hersing had slipped and hurt his feet while working on his boat. They had swollen and developed a horrible rash. It was scary. His feet were bright red. He could hardly walk. Hersing was worried that there was something wrong with his circulation. He had called Woods to postpone the meeting, and Woods, who was leaving on vacation the next Tuesday, had agreed to come by that night at about 10:30.
Hersing was in a third-floor room. He was soaking one foot in a tub of ice water. The other was propped up on a pillow. Thompson and Lash had hidden a tape recorder behind the dresser across the room. They waited downstairs, and watched as Woods breezed in. The detective walked over to the house phone and called Hersing to tell him he was on his way up. Hersing asked Woods to bring up some beer, so the detective detoured into the hotel bar before crossing the lobby, carrying one bottle in each hand, to a waiting elevator. After Woods hung up the house phone, Hersing switched on the tape recorder.
Woods found Hersing with his feet pitifully soaking and propped. He clucked sympathetically as he entered the room.
“You should see underneath the ice,” Hersing said.
“What’s he say? What’s the doctor say?”
“I’m taking water pills, doing a lot of blood tests, shit like that. Blood sugar and all. That all turned out good. He told me my fucking liver was enlarged.”
“An enlarged liver,” Woods said. “My, that’s always good for you.” And the two men chuckled. Their conversation had an easy familiarity to it now, in contrast to the awkwardness that first day when they drove together to the diner. They had gotten to know each other. They talked like partners. As their meetings became more relaxed and friendly, the detective dug himself deeper and deeper into the trap.
Hersing showed Woods a gold bracelet. Woods collected gold. The detective eyed the bracelet appreciatively under a lamp.
Hersing complained that the women running his whorehouses were driving him crazy, fighting with each other. Woods listened sympathetically and offered advice: “Separate ’em,” he said. “Send Yvonne over to Walnut Street. Send her to Bucks County.” Hersing complained about how bad business was getting. He suspected that some of the women with their own pimps were ripping him off.
“My advice to you is,” Woods said, very deliberately, offering up a piece of homespun wisdom off the beat, the way he liked to do, “you know what you got…”
“Uh-huh,” Hersing said, listening.
“You might not know what you’re gettin’.”
Hersing nodded. It took a moment for some of the things Georgie said to sink in. Hersing complained that business was off anyway. Woods again sympathized. He said business would be bad this summer: “You know, a lot of people are saving their bucks up, too.”
“Yeah, for vacations,” Hersing said. He asked Woods when he was leaving on his vacation.
“Wednesday morning.”
“Guess you’re looking forward to that, huh?”
“Yes and—yes eighty percent, no twenty percent.”
“What’s the twenty percent?”
“Well, I don’t know. I guess you might call me a workaholic.”
“I don’t know how you work all them fucking hours you work. I really don’t.”
“Well, I put it like this,” Georgie explained. “If you don’t stay on top of it, you’re not going to be on top of it.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure.”
“Now, I got three places yet to go tonight.”
“What fucking time you quit?”
“When the job’s done.”
“Yeah, but when is the job done?”
“The job’s never done,” Georgie said. “The job’s never done.”
“Did you ever get a chance to talk to your boss?” Hersing asked. He was pushing Woods to let him deal with the top man. Woods’s tone changed. He spoke quietly, putting the request off.
“No. It will happen. Later on, you’ll see.” Then Woods complained about how ugly things were getting, how the old system was being reorganized. “This guy, this new boss? He’s got a hangup on machines.”
“Yeah, somebody was in about our machine,” Hersing said, referring to the video poker machine at the Morning Glory.
“Yeah. The lieutenant.”
“Your lieutenant?”
“Yeah,” Woods said, then added hurriedly, as if something had just occurred to him, “Don’t say nothin’ to him.” Woods was on slippery ground here. Hersing had been pushing him to strike a deal with the higher-ups, and he had, after all, been telling him how “hungry” his new bosses were. But if the inspector discovered his private enterprises, the Georgie Woods empire, he was cooked. Woods fumbled for an explanation. He said, “Because he don’t, eh, eh, eh, he doesn’t like, eh, girls.”
Hersing misunderstood. “I thought he liked Terry,” Hersing said. He had heard that the lieutenant had an eye for the woman who managed the Morning Glory.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Woods said sharply, recovering.
“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying two different things.”
“Yeah,” Hersing said. He was confused. Woods tried to explain.
“He likes, see, he, he sees through Terry, like, he just, all he wants to do is get his—he wants to fuck Terry.” He fumbled on trying to explain his way free of this mess. The lieutenant liked girls, but he didn’t like taking money to protect prostitution.
“Why is that?” Hersing asked.
“I don’t know. I, eh,” said Woods—now just why wouldn’t a cop want whorehouse money?—“I’ll put it like this. I really, eh, think it has something to do with the Knapp Commission.”
“What the fuck is the Knapp Commission, if I don’t sound too dumb?”
The Knapp Commission
Woods and Hersing chatted then for a while, comparing notes about mutual acquaintances, bar owners, bookies, crooks, warning each other about whom to trust and whom not to trust. Rapping was a survival technique in the world they inhabited. Word got out about people and places to be avoided. Georgie, the gold collector, collected these tidbits, too. He prided himself on it. When Hersing mentioned that he had gone down to a bar called the Waiting Room with this loan shark, Woods cut in.
“You gotta be crazy.”
“Why?”
“Stay the fuck away from…”
Hersing thought he was referring to the loan shark.
“Not him!” Woods said.
“The Waiting Room?”
“Yeeeeaah,” growled Woods knowingly.
“Why is that?”
“Feds got that so fucking wired it ain’t funny.”
“Really?”
“Oh, oh yeah,” Woods said, chuckling now, as if to say, How could you be so ignorant…? “Stay the fuck away. They’ve had that fucking place fucking wired for almost a year now, a year and a half.”
Hersing’s mind flew for that second behind the dresser to the FBI machine turning silently, listening, recording. There was something delicious about moments like these, he thought, about collecting them silently, deferring revenge, about being the only one in the room who really knows what’s going on, especially when the other guy thinks it’s him.
The two men wrapped up their business. Hersing handed over $795. They agreed that would cover the July payments. The bracelet, which was worth $375, would take care of the $300 Hersing owed for the protection of Walnut Street during June. The extra $75 of value would reimburse Woods for what he gave a sergeant and a court official during the June Dial-a-Bust. Woods actually owed Hersing a few bucks back, but Hersing waived it. “You can have it,” he said. “I know you’re going on vacation. You can use it.”