The Last Witness boh-11 Page 10

  Lone Star was a fixed-base operator-an enormous limestone-faced steel building that was the hangar, and a limestone two-story building that served as its corporate offices and lobby reception area, and a concrete pad that could hold fifteen to twenty jet aircraft and two big red fuel trucks-in the northeast corner of the airfield, in the general aviation section. It was separate from the airport’s main terminal building, visible in the distance with orange-bellied 737s lined up at the gates.

  “Tango Romeo is on the ground, Mr. Badde,” the manager of Lone Star Aviation Services announced.

  H. Rapp Badde, Jr., thirty-two years old, was a city councilman-at-large with a well-earned reputation in his native Philadelphia for being alternately arrogant and charismatic. Somewhat fit-he had a bit of a belly rounding out the fabric of his white silk shirt-Badde stood five-eleven and two hundred pounds. He wore a custom-cut two-piece black suit and his trademark narrow black bow tie. A brand-new roller suitcase, a cheap counterfeit Louis Vuitton, black with pink accents, stood at his feet.

  “Tango Romeo?” Badde automatically repeated. “What the hell is that? Sounds like some kind of Roman lover’s Latin dance.”

  He flashed his politician’s bright cap-toothed exaggerated smile, his belly shaking as he chuckled at his own wit.

  “My apology, sir. I should have said Mr. Antonov’s aircraft has landed.”

  “Then what’s Tango Romeo?”

  “The aircraft’s identification number is N556TR. In the language of aviation, ‘T’ is said ‘Tango’ and ‘R’ is said ‘Romeo’ for clarity, to avoid confusion in radio communications.”

  The look on Badde’s face suggested anything but clarity.

  The manager pointed out the window at a Cessna Citation X.

  “There it is now,” he said.

  The twin-engine jet aircraft was turning off the runway onto the taxiway. On the side of the engine that was visible Badde saw: N556TR.

  The aircraft’s paint scheme featured a pair of undulating bright red ribbons. They ran along its gleaming white fuselage, ending on the T-tail, which had two bright red dice, the face of each showing two rows of three white pips.

  “Railcars,” Badde automatically said aloud to himself.

  He had been more or less studying the various games of gambling since becoming involved with the ongoing development of the new Lucky Stars casino, and was quietly impressed with himself for remembering.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Badde?”

  “Those dots on the dice,” he then said loudly, with authority, “those are called railcars when there’s twelve of them.”

  The manager hesitated before replying, “If I’m not mistaken, I believe, sir, that it’s boxcars.”

  Badde turned his head in thought, then said, “That’s what I said. Boxcars.”

  “Of course. My mistake.”

  “Wonder if there’s any significance to their being boxcars?” Badde went on. “It’s not a train, it’s a plane. Guess it probably just looks good.”

  The manager didn’t reply.

  “What kind of plane is that?” Badde then said. “One of those Boeings?”

  “Boeings are much bigger, sir.” He pointed toward the 737s at the main terminal gates. “Those are Boeing airliners.”

  “I came here on that.” Badde pointed to the nearest business jet parked on the pad with eight others, a couple at least twice its size. “It’s a what?”

  “A Hawker.”

  “And this one coming in?”

  “Tango Romeo is a four-month-old Citation Ten, the latest version. It’s a midsized jet, a little bigger than the Hawker.”

  “And faster?”

  “Yes, sir. A little. At flight level four-nine-zero it cruises around four-sixty, four-seventy knots.” He paused, then added, “That’s an altitude of forty-nine thousand feet, and speed just over six hundred miles an hour. With the headwind light tonight, it made the trip from Key West in right at two hours. And that included a stop, a brief one, in New Orleans.”

  Badde nodded as he wondered, What did they do in New Orleans? Their casino downtown is at least a half hour from the airport.

  “Had to stop for gas?” he said.

  “They weren’t on the ground long enough for that. Besides, the Citation’s range is around thirty-five hundred miles. Depending on winds, that’s New York City to Los Angeles and halfway back again.”

  “You’re just full of interesting flying facts,” Badde said. “How do you keep up with it all?”

  “It’s my job, of course. But aviation is addictive.”

  “Yeah. So I’m seeing! This Citation, how many can it hold?”

  “In addition to the two crew, up to twelve passengers, depending on the cabin configuration.”

  “What’s one worth?”

  “New, around twenty million-”

  “No kidding?”

  “-but there are plenty of nice older ones to be had for eight, ten. We have a couple for sale in that range in the hangar, as well as others.”

  Badde nodded, impressed. There had been plenty of general aviation airplanes at the fixed-base operator at Northeast Philadelphia Airport when the Hawker arrived that afternoon to pick up Badde. Most of the ones he’d seen, though, had propellers, not jet engines, and were much smaller than the Hawker.

  There had to be some.

  Maybe, like the Russian’s here, they’re gone somewhere.

  The giant doors on the hangar began sliding open. The interior was brightly lit, and Badde could see even more aircraft inside. Enormous red, white, and blue flags-one of the United States of America with its fifty stars and one of the State of Texas with its Lone Star paying homage to when it was its own sovereign nation-hung in the middle from the steel beam rafters. A tractor tug drove out and connected to the Citation’s nose gear.

  Looks like what they say about everything being bigger in Texas is true!

  And this place is cleaner than the one today in Philly. That glossy floor looks clean enough to eat off of.

  “Well, Mr. Badde,” the manager said, “welcome again to Texas. And please let me know if there’s anything else that we can do for you and the City of Philadelphia. Particularly if you’re in the market for a fine aircraft.”

  “Now, that would be a very nice thing to get!” Badde said. “And none of that TSA security nonsense. Just hop onboard and go. I can get used to this kind of lifestyle.”

  The manager smiled, then left.

  H. Rapp Badde, Jr., watched with almost childlike fascination as the impressive Citation rolled up to near the limestone-faced hangar and was wanded to a stop on the well-lit pad. He heard the whine of the engines winding down.

  Idling nearby was a highly polished black Cadillac Escalade ESV with darkened windows and shiny chromed wheels. The big SUV’s Texas license plate read Y-ROSE-5. It began moving slowly, then stopped alongside the aircraft as the jet’s stair door opened and rotated downward. The driver’s door swung open and a clean-cut brown-skinned young man in a two-piece black suit and collarless white dress shirt stepped out. He opened the door behind the driver’s.

  Jan would like this kind of living large, too, Badde thought.

  It’s a shame she already had the meeting set up for tomorrow and couldn’t come. But Santos assured Jan there would be more opportunities.

  On paper, Janelle Harper, a graduate of Temple’s Beasley School of Law, was Badde’s executive assistant. In reality, the curvy, full-bodied (five-six, one-forty) twenty-five-year-old with silky light brown skin was his paramour.

  Although Badde adamantly denied that they had a relationship that was anything but professional, the truth of the matter was not exactly a well-kept secret in Philadelphia. Months earlier, for example, a photograph of them on a Bermuda beach had appeared in the local media. Thus, it was known-though mostly ignored-by Wanda Badde, Rapp’s wife of six years.

  He had spent the previous night with Jan, in the luxury Hops Haus twentieth-floor condominium he provided for her, aft
er a furious Wanda had thrown him out of their house.

  When Jan got the call that the Hawker would pick up Rapp at Northeast Airport that afternoon, he’d had enough clothes at the condo for the trip. But he’d found it necessary to borrow the counterfeit Louis Vuitton suitcase he had bought on the street in New York City for Jan as a surprise, not expecting she could tell it was a fake.

  She had never touched it.

  [FIVE]

  Talk about things being bigger in Texas! Badde thought when he saw the first person appear in the open doorway of the aircraft.

  The nicely tanned, long-legged blonde had a full figure with impressive breasts. She wore a short, tight white dress and glittering silver high heels. He guessed she was around Jan’s age.

  With all the skill and ease of a runway model, she smoothly descended the steps and went across the pad. As she hopped into the backseat of the Escalade, swinging in one long leg at a time, her dress rode up her thighs, and Badde watched with great interest as she rotated her hips and tugged it back down.

  My God! That is a good-looking creature!

  Badde then heard the peculiar ring tone of one of two cellular phones that he carried. He had selected the sound of a klaxon, thinking the annoying repetitious note was appropriate for what he called his Go To Hell phone. He gave out that phone’s number-listed as belonging to Urban Shelters LLC-only to his accountant, his three lawyers, and a select few others who were friends or business associates. When any of them called it, the odds were that something was going to hell-or about to.

  He pulled it from his coat pocket. The caller ID showed 3040201.

  Last time a weird number like that came up, it was Yuri.

  And I don’t want to talk to him now.

  He waited for the call to go to voice mail. When there was no message left, he quickly turned off the phone.

  Whoever it was, I can blame the phone being off from still being in flight.

  He looked back to the aircraft. A second passenger had appeared in the doorway.

  Another stunning woman!

  She started down the stairs and was followed by four more fashionably dressed, long-legged women, all but two of them blondes. They also climbed into the Cadillac.

  Is there a mold that these girls come out of, or what?

  The clean-cut brown-skinned young man got back behind the wheel as the shiny black Escalade’s doors closed. The SUV began to move toward a gate that was being opened in the chain-link fence that surrounded the airfield.

  Wonder where they’re going?

  He looked back to the aircraft. Next off was a tall light-brown-skinned man who looked to be in his thirties. He wore crisp slacks and a white dress shirt and a navy blazer. With the exception of a neatly trimmed goatee, his head was almost cleanly shaven. He waved once toward the Escalade. The driver waved back as the SUV began pulling away.

  Now, Baldy here looks like someone important.

  A tall black Ford F-150 four-door pickup with six-inch-high chromed badges on the front fenders that read KING RANCH EDITION then drove onto the pad. It pulled to a stop at the aircraft’s wingtip. Its driver, a beefy Hispanic with wavy black hair and wearing faded blue jeans, black pointed-toe Western boots, a snug black T-shirt, and a dark blazer, hopped out. He looked younger, maybe in his mid-twenties. He was talking into his cell phone, gesticulating angrily with his free hand, as he went to the foot of the stair door.

  I wonder who the chunky cowboy is?

  And why didn’t that important guy go with the hot girls?

  As the tall man came down the steps, the cowboy broke off the call, then held out his right hand and smiled broadly. They shook hands and then walked toward the pickup, talking and nodding as they went. The cowboy then glanced toward the building where Rapp stood watching, then started in that direction as the tall man went to the pickup.

  Well, Santos’s executive assistant called Jan about the airplane picking me up and told her that I’d be met here.

  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.”

  “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 preten
ding to be a business major.”

  Rapp looked between them.

  Prep school?

  I don’t know what to believe.

  They’re treating 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.