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Center City?

He looked at the cardboard vodka box.

He texted back: “Okay.”

[THREE]

Penthouse Suite 2400

Two Yellowrose Place, Uptown Dallas

Monday, November 17, 4:45 P.M. Texas Standard Time

The chief executive officer of OneWorld Private Equity Partners was leaning back in his black leather chair, the heels of his crocodile-skin Western boots resting on the massive stone desktop and his fingers laced behind his head. Mike Santos was watching an intense Bobby Garcia pace in front of the desk. They were alone in the cavernous office, listening to Nick Antonov’s voice over the speaker of the desktop telephone.

Antonov, in Philly, in his casino office, was saying: “But did Palumbo know Jorge Perez had any connection with the Cubans wrecking that boat and drawing so many police? Because if he did, I think that that would be the first thing a chief of staff would tell his senator.”

Garcia had a mental image of the portly forty-year-old Charles A. Palumbo, Esquire, and his senatorial office colleague, Anthony N. Navarra, forty-six—both wearing khaki shorts, baggy Cuban shirts, and foolish grins—almost staggering off the casino’s big boat onto the dock at Lost Key Resort.

“No, he didn’t,” Garcia said evenly. “And I don’t think that he—for that matter, neither Chuck nor Tony—really gave a damn it even happened. Keep in mind that they spent the day drinking during the Poker Run. They were too interested in Tatiani and the girls from Kiev. I know they didn’t see it happen.”

“You can be sure?”

“Yeah. Jorge already had the go-fast tied up at the marina. But it’s a moot point. When the Cubans crashed on that island, word spread quick over the radios and phones and around the bars. There was a shitload of bitching about immigration reform, and I bet they took that back to their boss.”

Antonov considered that, then said, “If such is the case, good then. I will tell Yuri. And keep a closer eye on Perez. Yuri was concerned, especially because of the recent troubles with Diamond Development. He does not tolerate such distractions. Let us say there is not complete confidence in a certain member of the majority partnership.”

“Why didn’t Yuri call us and ask about this?” Santos said.

“He is dealing with the new casino in Macau and asked that I handle this.”

Garcia thought that Antonov had replied quickly—too quickly. It sounded like a prepared answer.

Garcia looked to Santos, who mouthed Bullshit!, then said evenly, “Nick, we don’t anticipate there being any problems with any development deal with our good friend the councilman-at-large, if that is what you’re referring to.”

Antonov was quiet a moment.

“I am to assume you have additional photographs?”

—

Ten minutes earlier, Santos and Garcia had shared a slideshow over a video stream between their computers.

“Where were these taken?” Antonov had said, watching images of Palumbo and Navarra that were being played from Garcia’s laptop.

The slideshow started with shots of the two pasty middle-aged men sitting at a seaside tiki bar. It then showed them, first Palumbo and then Navarra separately, with young women in large luxury hotel rooms that had views overlooking the bar and the ocean.

“At Queens Club,” Santos said, “the Yellowrose property on Grand Cayman. Cavorting with quote British Overseas Territory citizens unquote. I hear it said that sex tourism is a rising industry.”

“What do they call that? A ‘constituent fact-finding trip’?” Antonov said, either ignoring or missing his witticism.

“Simply a fact-finding trip,” Garcia said. “Their constituents would be in their home state.”

“Right,” Antonov said sharply, clearly annoyed at the correction.

“This shot showing Palumbo’s so-called manhood,” Santos said lightly, “would seem to give new meaning to the title ‘chief of staff’—or at least call into question his right to use it.”

The image changed to one of Navarra with two women.