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Payne stood, felt the black pillowcase brush his head, then yanked it from the ceiling.

“Yes, sir,” Rapier’s voice said, then added, “Hey, here’s an error message.”

Payne looked back at the screen. The images of all three men had returned.

“Nice boat, Marshal!” Rapier blurted.

Jason and Tony grinned as Kerry placed his head close to the camera. His eyeball now filled his on-screen box, and he rolled it around, pretending to be looking around the Viking.

Jason chuckled deeply as Tony said, “So you’re doing hard time at Club Fed? Looks rough, buddy.”

[FOUR]

Suite 2400, Two Yellowrose Place, Uptown Dallas

Monday, November 17, 9:30 A.M. Texas Standard Time

“Hey, Rapp, come on in!” Mike Santos said. “Me and Bobby here were just talking about what a fine time we had getting to know you last night.”

The office of the chief executive officer of OneWorld Private Equity Partners was penthouse level, twenty-three floors above the Southwest Chop House and the other street-level businesses.

Bobby Garcia stood looking over Santos’s shoulder at the two side-by-side large flat-screen computer monitors on Santos’s desk. The desk was an eight-foot-long slab of thick, perfectly polished petrified wood with two wide stainless steel cylinders for legs. Santos followed Garcia out from behind it.

“Good morning,” Rapp Badde said, forcing a smile, and shook Bobby Garcia’s hand, then that of Santos.

Badde glanced around the office. An impressive space, it was expensively decorated. The walls were filled with large photographs, ones that looked like fine art, of buildings and various commercial developments. And there were artist conceptions of future projects. There had to be more than a hundred. The walls of floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over downtown in one direction and out west in the other direction.

“Can we get you something? Coffee?” Santos said. “Maybe something to kick-start your day? A little hair of the dog?”

“Tempting, but no, thank you,” Badde said. “That was one helluva nice time last night. Exhausting, though. It was tough getting up this morning, and I slept hard all night.”

Well, not exactly all night, Bobby Garcia thought, then noticed Badde absently rubbing his wrists.

“It was a good night,” Santos said. “Glad to hear you got rest, too.”

“I can get used to that nice scenery last night. What business were those women in? Hospitality?”

Is he serious? Garcia thought.

“Right. The service industry,” Santos said. “They come here to train at our hotel across the street—it’s sort of a finishing school—then travel from property to property. It keeps them”—he glanced at Garcia knowingly, clearly enjoying himself—“what’s the word I’m looking for, Bobby? ‘Nimble’?”

Garcia, literally biting his lip, raised his eyebrows, then nodded.

Santos went on: “Now that we’re providing the initial hundred million for your little hotel in Philly, and maybe more, I’m sure we’ll be able to have them there—say, for the grand opening?”

Garcia, watching Badde nod agreeably, thought: The sonofabitch really doesn’t remember a damn thing.

—

Santos and Garcia

had spent the previous fifteen minutes reviewing parts of H. Rapp Badde, Jr.’s first night in Dallas.

“Here’s the footage we got from the chophouse security cameras,” Santos said. “Shows us at the table, having drinks as the girls arrive.”

Garcia watched the image on the left flat-screen that showed Santos and Garcia and Badde getting to their feet. Introductions were made, and then the group walked out of the lounge.

The next image picked up their party a moment later stepping out to the outside bar of the chophouse. In a corner of the softly lit area was a stone fire pit, natural-gas-fed and flickering with orange flames, that was surrounded by plush couches with oversized cushions and pillows.