When I was a cop in Philadelphia, it was the food stamps, bartered on the streets like Monopoly money, traded for drugs and booze like any stolen merchandise. Go up the line, and subsidized housing gets used the same way. Hell, some big-name congressman in New York just got popped for using a rent-subsidized apartment as his elections office. I could now see why Billy got into this. This kind of thing enrages him: I, on the other hand…

“So does this illegal transaction of phony requests and exchange of funds take place in your office, Ms. Carmen?” I finally said.

“No, they wouldn’t do it there. No, someone gathers the numbers and then delivers them.”

“And do you know where this place is-the drop-off?”

“No,” she said, and turned her face away.

Ms. Carmen did not lie easily or well. There was something there that I needed to read. The sense of indignation was missing. This wasn’t just some employee angered by the unfairness of it all. I’ve seen the disgust of people in North Philadelphia when the drug dealing got so bad that their kids couldn’t safely walk to school, or had to stay inside on summer evenings for fear of getting shot in some 9 mm pissing match over a corner.

This woman was scared in a personal way: Was this an admission of her own guilt?

“So who is actually siphoning off the numbers?” I said. “Who makes the delivery?”

“A few months ago, I got my brother a job there,” she said, keeping her eyes down. “I was trying to help him. He has not done well for himself these past few years. After I vouched for him, he promised he would work hard, and do what he was told, and always be on time.”

Now her confident voice lost its power and conviction. A tear formed at the corner of one eye, but was held there as if by will alone; it did not drop. She blinked.

“So your brother is the one delivering the numbers?” I said, stating what she could not.