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“Rapp,” Santos then said, “if you’re ready to sign, we can move forward to more important things. Like celebrating.”

As if on cue, the white cotton flap of the cabana was pushed aside again, and two very attractive females who looked like younger versions of Illana carried in a polished stainless steel insulated tub containing three bottles of champagne on ice and a serving tray holding champagne stems and an assortment of sushi, sashimi, and raw oysters on the half-shell.

“A little something to celebrate with while the ink is drying,” Santos said, smiling broadly. “It’s a tradition for us. And after we celebrate, tomorrow I will show you the plans for the casino.”

“I like it,” Badde said, and turned to Janelle. “You want to hand me a pen, so I can get this done?”

—

Illana popped open the first bottle of champagne and poured everyone a full stem. After Santos had made a toast—“To the success of Philly’s newest and finest luxury hotel and its developers”—and they touched glasses, Santos reached into the pocket of his shirt. He came out with a small cell phone, looked at its screen, thumbed it, then looked up at Rapp Badde and Jan Harper.

“You’ll excuse me a moment, please,” Santos said, standing.

He put the phone to his head as he carried the champagne stem out of the cabana.

Rapp and Jan exchanged glances when they heard Santos say, “Talk to me, Bobby. What the hell is going on?”

Badde shrugged, then drank half of his champagne. He looked at the tray of food, and proceeded to eat two pieces of the tuna sushi—selecting them over the sashimi only because the pieces were on rice—he wasn’t sure about simply eating slices of raw fish.

And then, feeling adventurous after swallowing the sushi without incident, he tried one of the half-shell raw oysters.

“You sure you want to do that?” Jan Harper said, right before he slurped it from the shell—and began gagging.

She gestured toward his champagne stem.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Rapp. Just wash it down.”

He did, emptying the stem. Then he burped.

“Nice,” Jan said, shaking her head, disgusted.

As Badde reached for the champagne bottle, his Go To Hell cell phone began ringing again. He refilled his stem, then looked at the caller ID. It again read gibberish: #01-0K0-30X-V34-X%K.

He looked at it a long moment, considered ignoring it, began to answer it, then finally decided to let the call go to voice mail. Almost the moment after it did, the phone began ringing again, and again the ID came up as gibberish.

“Damn it,” he said, then quickly left the cabana.

He walked about ten yards over to where a pair of tall palms leaned against each other, flipped open the phone, and barked into it, “What?”

“Councilman Badde,” an adult male said, his tone calm, with no indication he had taken any offense over how his calls had finally been answered. “We have a mutual friend, one who has asked that I get in touch with you.”

Well, that’s how this guy got my private number. But who?

“Who is this friend?” Badde said.

“I believe you will be able to figure that out in due time.”

What kind of accent does this guy have? Badde thought.

Badde was quiet a moment, then said, “What is this about?”

“A matter of mutual concern. We are in the process of recovering some valuables that belong to us.”

“What kind of valuables?”

“Perhaps you have seen the news today about the robbery in the casino.”

Robbery? What robbery? All I’ve seen is Lenny’s craziness.