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“Tay-hawn-oh?” Badde repeated.

Santos nodded. “A Texan of criollo Spanish descent. His family was here when they still called the place Tejas.”

Spanish descent!

That explains why he looks like the Center City Wop’s twin.

“Me,” Santos went on, “I’m just a wetback. I set foot in Texas only after swimming across the Rio Grande.”

Badde stared back.

Garcia laughed out loud.

“Don’t believe that bullshit,” Garcia said. “He was a snot-nosed thirteen-year-old. The real hardship of his arrival here was having to fly coach on Delta Airlines from Rio de Janeiro. Then, after prep school, he spent four years at TCU chasing ass while pretending to be a business major.”

Rapp looked between them.

Prep school?

I don’t know what to believe.

They’re treat

ing me like we’ve known each other for years.

But I know enough to be damn careful—they didn’t get around all this money by being stupid shit kickers.

And what about those women? I want to ask what that was about, but they haven’t said a word. . . .

“TCU?” Badde said.

“Texas Christian,” Garcia explained. “In Fort Worth, thirty miles from here, aka ‘Cowtown, Where the West Begins.’ And, Rapp, for the record, I know that about Mike because I was there every step of the way. We were even in the same fraternity. Then I came to Dallas for law school. Southern Methodist is, if it’s possible, probably more out of control than TCU.”

Santos then laughed, and slapped Badde on the back.

“Oh, hell. It’s true. I was in the ranch management program.”

“Ranch management?”

Santos nodded, then gestured at the pickup.

“Let’s get rolling. I need a drink. We can talk on the way.”

—

The gate in the chain-link fence rolled opened, and the tall black Ford pickup truck roared through it. Mike Santos was behind the wheel.

“My family,” Santos explained, “has spreads in Argentina, Brazil, and Colombia. Cattle, mostly. My father wanted to get something going here, so he sent me to boarding school in San Antone—where Bobby and I met in eighth grade—then college. Big ranches are big business, and that ranch management program is like an MBA—an MBA in cow shit.”

Santos, grinning, glanced over at Badde, who was in the front passenger seat. Bobby Garcia had taken the seat behind Santos, so that he could see Badde when he turned to talk.

Badde was impressed with the truck. It rode surprisingly comfortably, and its interior had heavy leather and wooden panel accents throughout, giving the cabin the rustic feel of a lodge. There was stitching in the leather that, like the badge on the front fender, read KING RANCH EDITION and had the “Running W” brand that had been, among other things, seared into the hides of countless herds since the ranch’s founding in 1853.

“Like this King Ranch?” Badde said. “What’s up with that?”

“King’s is one of the biggest spreads in the world. Takes up damn near all of South Texas. My father wasn’t looking for that—just something big enough down along the border. I oversee my cousins who run it.”

“So how did you go from that to what you’re doing now?” Badde said. “The private equity?”