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Guess Cowboy’s the guy.

There was a pair of plate-glass doors on tracks next to the reception area. They had a motion detector, and when the chunky cowboy approached, the pair slid open. The cowboy looked around the lounge and found only a black man standing there.

“Excuse me,” the cowboy said. “You’re waiting for Santos, yes?”

Badde was expecting to hear a strong Mexican accent. It was, instead, surprisingly American.

Well, like my old man made a point of teaching me when he was mayor, immediately establish the power structure.

“Yes, I’m Rapp Badde, and I’ve been waiting for a Mr. Santos.” He nodded toward the suitcase. “You want to grab that?” Then he looked out the window toward the important man. “I assume the boss is expecting me.”

The cowboy glanced toward the pickup and chuckled.

“Excuse me. Did I say something funny?” H. Rapp Badde, Jr., snapped.

“Oh, no. Meeting El Jefe is always the highest priority. I’ll fetch your”—he paused, looking at the bag—“is this a knockoff? I’ve never seen pink Louis—”

“I don’t know what it is,” Badde interrupted, clearly annoyed his luggage would be called into question by anyone, much less a cowboy. “I had to borrow it out of necessity, not that it’s anyone’s business.”

“It happens, I suppose . . .”

Badde, not knowing what to make of that, ignored it and walked toward the automatic door, leaving the cowboy to tend to his suitcase. The door whooshed open, and Badde started for the tall Ford pickup.

As he approached the bald, natty Hispanic, the man turned and had what to Badde looked like a somewhat surprised look.

“I’m Rapp Badde,” Badde announced formally, offering his hand.

The man shook it as he wordlessly looked beyond Badde. The cowboy was quickly approaching. The plastic wheels of the suitcase had seized up, and they were grinding noisily across the concrete.

Badde glanced back, then ignored it.

The cowboy said, “Hey, Jefe, you want to put this in the back? Is there room for it?”

“I’ll get it,” the man began, looking at the cowboy curiously. Then he looked at Badde and said, “I’m Robert Garcia, Mr. Badde.”

What? “Garcia”?

“I expected to see Santos,” Badde immediately said, as they broke their grip.

Garcia looks like he’s a twin of that Wop who’s head of the Center City business district.

Well, Jan did tell me that they call Italian immigrants WOPs because it means With Out Papers. And illegal beaners don’t have papers.

But this guy’s accent doesn’t have any Mexican in it.

The man nodded in the direction of the cowboy.

“I thought you did meet Mike.”

Badde looked at the cowboy, who was holding out his hand.

“Mike Santos,” he then said, grinning as he firmly squeezed Badde’s hand. “Pleasure.”

He’s the one in charge? Damn it!

“I didn’t know,” Badde began, his arrogant tone making it more a statement than an apology. “I thought Mr. Garcia here . . .”

“Completely understandable. Happens to us all one time or another,” Santos said evenly. “Please call me Mike. And this ol’ Tejano is my lawyer. You can call him Bobby.”