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Badde, his eyes wide, did not immediately respond. Instead he drained his stem, then burped.
After a moment’s thought, he shrugged, and then said, “Between you and me, Skinny Lenny is not shot, but him being out of the picture would not be a bad thing—”
Badde felt his Go To Hell flip phone vibrate, and saw that the caller ID read PHILA MAYOR’S OFFICE.
Probably that Stein guy. He, and Carlucci, can kiss my big black ass.
He pushed the key, sending the call to voice mail.
“What do you want to tell Raychell and the others?” Jan Harper said.
“What I want to say and what I am limited to saying are two completely different things. You’re the lawyer. Why don’t you earn your keep and come up with a clever quote that says nothing?”
Jan narrowed her eyes at him as she sipped her champagne.
Just as he slid the Go To Hell phone back into his pocket, the smartphone with his general number began to vibrate. Without looking to see who was calling, he immediately pushed the key that sent the caller into voice mail; a moment later, a short vibration signaled that the caller had left a message.
Curiosity caused him to glance at the screen. It read WILLIE LANE, 1 VOICE MAIL MESSAGE.
He pushed the key to play the message, then put the phone to his head.
He heard City Council President William Lane’s gravelly voice: “Rappe, it’s Willie. I need you to call me yesterday. It’s an extremely important matter. You should have my numbers, but just in case, these are my office and cellular . . .”
Oh shit! Badde thought as the numbers were repeated.
“Yesterday”?
Willie sounds pissed.
Then the phone rang again.
He checked its screen.
Willie again? He must really be pissed . . .
—
H. Rapp Badde Jr., using the hand he had not punched the palm tree with, pushed the white canvas flap aside and entered the Jolly Mon Cabana. Janelle was gone, and Santos was on his cell phone.
Santos glanced up at Badde, then said into the phone, “I’ll get back to you.”
He ended the call, stood, and walked over to Illana. He leaned in close, putting his right cheek next to hers.
“Illana,” he said softly, “put those in the safe in my office for now.”
She nodded, and quietly replied, “Yes, sir, Mr. Santos.”
With the folders against her ample chest, tightly beneath her crossed arms, she made a thin smile at Badde, and then turned and walked out of the cabana.
What the hell just happened? Badde thought, his stomach suddenly in a knot.
“We seem to have problems,” Santos said.
[ FOUR ]
McPherson Park
Kensington, Philadelphia
