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As Badde squirmed on the bed, a short, effeminate Hispanic male wearing a ridiculously small white cowboy hat strode into view. The camera angle was such that only his backside was visible—but it was a great deal of backside, as he wore only a pair of leather chaps with a holstered revolver hanging from each hip. He had a very well-defined and muscled body.
Then he turned and placed his groin in close proximity to what in role-playing would be considered the piñata’s face.
“Damn! He’s hung like a horse, an angry one!”
The camera then captured the “cowboy” removing the sombrero and performing on the “piñata” a sexual act that Garcia thought could never be described in polite company.
Garcia shook his head.
“You are one sick sonofabitch, mi amigo.”
“Thanks to that zolpidem, Bobby, he’ll never know that this ever happened—as long as he does what he’s supposed to. I haven’t decided if I’ll get a snipped version of it to Yuri or not. But we’ll have the whole thing here for safekeeping.”
—
Garcia studied Badde, who looked severely hungover. He knew that it was from all the alcohol and cocaine—and there had been a lot of it—because the zolpidem left no side effects. Garcia also found it interesting that one of the results of Badde being so badly bent was that he didn’t exhibit his usual flashes of arrogance.
Still, no matter how hard he tried, Garcia simply could not look at Badde and shake the vision of him trussed up in the video.
Maybe he’s lucky he doesn’t remember a thing about it. . . .
“I’m going to run down to my office, Rapp, and get the papers for you to take back to Philly for your people to review and for signature,” Garcia said, and moved toward the door. “Sooner we get the paperwork in motion, the sooner we can get preapproval of your project for the EB-5 funding. I’ll be right back.”
After Garcia went out the door, Badde turned to Santos.
“You know, Mike,” he said agreeably, “you could have just overnighted those papers to me. You really shouldn’t h
ave gone through all the trouble of bringing me here to Dallas.”
Santos grinned.
“It just wouldn’t have been the same, Rapp. And it was no trouble at all.”
“Well, I am glad you did.”
“And I’m glad we did, too.”
VI
[ONE]
Cyril E. King International Airport
Saint Thomas, United States Virgin Islands
Monday, November 17, 10:30 A.M.
“Mr. Garvey, nice to see you again. Headed home for the holiday?” the U.S. Airways desk agent said, her tone genuinely sincere. She was a pleasant-looking dark-skinned Crucian (one born on Saint Croix) who was maybe thirty. “I thought you might treat your family, get them out of Philadelphia by bringing them here to our paradise. Weather says it’s snowing there again.”
John Garvey, thirty-six years old, was a fit five-eight. Fair-skinned, he had a scholarly, angular face with a full head of sandy blonde hair. He wore starched cuffed khakis, a white collarless shirt under a linen blazer, and tan loafers with no socks. His business card that was on his luggage tag identified him as John A. Garvey, Jr., Associate, D. H. Rendolok LLC, Historic Restoration & Preservation, Phila., Penna.
“Nice to see you, too,” Garvey said, putting his black fabric suitcase at her feet, then automatically handing over his ID. He then lied, “Flying here was discussed, but the issue became how much of the family would get to come. When the wife’s side exceeded ten, I said sorry. Can’t afford that.”
She made the obligatory look at his driver’s license, handed it back, then noticed that he was sweating.
“Are you well, Mr. Garvey?”
“Just a touch of rock fever, I think,” he said, and forced a smile.
