The Last Witness boh-11 Page 13
Will you please just hurry up and get me on the plane!
“Perhaps later,” the young woman said.
The agent nodded, then turned her attention back to the computer terminal.
I wonder what she’d say if she knew I’m a platinum-level member and have enough miles banked in my account for probably ten first-class tickets.
“You also should seriously look at getting yourself a passport,” the desk agent added helpfully. “It’s not required for Saint Thomas-your valid driver’s license is all the ID you need-but it does speed the process, too.”
Got one.
But sirens would probably go off if you scanned it.
“You’re just going to love the Virgin Isles,” the agent went on. “Hurricane season is as good as over, and you’re there right before the high season starts, mid-December, when it gets really expensive.”
I know. I was just there for two weeks.
“Do you like living in Philadelphia? So much history.”
And crime. Can’t forget that.
Just like our nation’s capital.
The young woman looked as if she were trying to be patient. But the talkative agent, who seemed to be attempting to single-handedly deliver friendly customer service for the entire airline, unfortunately was coming across as increasingly annoying.
Okay, I’ll play along.
“I prefer living here on the Hill much better,” the young woman said. “I don’t know what I’ll do when my internship ends, but Georgetown Law sounds like it might work.”
“Politics. Now, that must be exciting. You know this airport was named for John Foster Dulles, who was secretary of the State Department.”
Now she’s giving a history lesson? Ugh.
Can I just get my ticket, please?
I guess she means well.
Well, except for when I told her I needed the card to sign declaring that I’m checking a firearm.
She about wet her pants. “You have a pistol? And you travel with it?”
Then it really made her mad when I corrected her by quoting the regulations, telling her it was okay to have both the unloaded gun and its ammo in the same bag, as long as they were in a locked case.
“I looked it up on the Internet.”
She practically hissed, “Well, we’ll let our friends at TSA clear that.”
She wasn’t quite so chatty after hanging up with them, having learned that I was right.
The American Airlines desk agent held out a paper ticket.
“Okay, you’re all set,” she said, her tone now professional. “Your first leg, I have you ticketed to Miami on flight six-eight-eight with a connecting flight, five-oh-four, the first flight out to Saint Thomas. I have your bag checked all the way through to your final, SST.” She pulled back to show the back of the ticket. “I’ve stuck your bag tag here, on the back of your ticket. And your inbound”-she paused and glanced at the young woman-“that’s your return flight, I have you booked for next Thursday.”
“Thank you very much,” the young woman said, smiling warmly as she took the ticket. “You’ve been most helpful. I do appreciate it.”
The desk agent smiled back.
“And here’s your ID and debit card,” the agent then said, her tone again cheerful. “Have a nice vacation.”
Well, that seems to have mended the bridge.
“Thank you again very much,” the young woman said.
“Oh, and by the way: Happy birthday, Miss Stewart!”
The young woman looked up. “Excuse me?”
“That’s okay. I see you’re being shy. But celebrate life! Congrats on turning twenty-one last week. It should be a happy, exciting time!”
Yes, it should, she thought, carefully placing the ID and prepaid Visa debit card in her leather clutch near the zippered pocket that held the IDs and debit cards of two other young women.
I’d share that with Alexis Stewart, if she hadn’t stumbled back to Mary’s House and overdosed last month, having never gotten over those years of being raped in foster care.
And with Krystal and all the others. .
“Well, thank you,” the young woman said, forcing a smile. “It is. This trip actually is a birthday gift. I’m just a bit harried right now.”
“Don’t you worry. You’ll figure out this travel stuff soon enough. You’re young. Have a nice flight.”
[FOUR]
Southwest Chop House
Two Yellowrose Place, Dallas
Sunday, November 16, 9:30 P.M. Texas Standard Time
“We can structure the funds, base them anywhere from Delaware to the Cayman Islands,” Miguel “Mike” Santos, chief executive officer of OneWorld Private Equity Partners, said, looking between Rapp Badde and Bobby Garcia. “Our preference, of course, having the majority of our investment products there, is the Caymans.”
They were in the posh high-ceilinged lounge of the five-star restaurant. It was about half full, but there was high energy coming from the lively crowd.
Ten white-linen-covered tables with deep, high-backed, U-shaped leather seating, each capable of holding six or eight comfortably, lined the walls on either side of a black marble-topped bar in the center of the room. A grand piano was in one corner. At the table nearest the piano, Santos sat opposite Rapp Badde, Santos with a view of the entryway between the bar and restaurant and Badde with a view of the nice-looking crowd-mostly women, including the three who had floated past the SUV-ringing the bar. Bobby Garcia sat between them, with a view of both.
Their waitress, young and attractive, had just delivered their second round of drinks.
Earlier, Badde had been first to order, requesting a Jameson Irish whisky and club soda, and then Garcia and Santos had said yes when the waitress asked if they were having their usual. Badde didn’t know what that was, but both of their cocktails were clear liquid with bubbles and a lime wedge. He guessed vodka, or maybe gin, with either tonic or soda water.
“Politically,” Badde now said, a bit arrogantly, “it would be a good idea to use Delaware. What with Wilmington being right down the road from Philly.”
Santos and Garcia exchanged a glance.
“Well,” Santos then said, turning to look at Badde, “you’re right. There is good reason why so many-sixty percent, in fact-of Fortune 500 companies incorporate in Delaware. Their laws are better geared to corporations than most other states. But as friendly as Delaware can be, Cayman keeps everything quiet.”
Garcia, who was stirring his drink, looked up and added, “That’s why it’s called the Switzerland of the Caribbean. Its confidential Relationships Preservation Law, Section Five, has criminal penalties-imprisonment and cash fines-for anyone who even attempts to offer to divulge confidential information. They don’t so much as report who the officers of a company are, never mind where the money comes from or where it’s going.”
Santos nodded. “You can’t accomplish that anywhere in the States. So we’re not being political. We’re talking business.”
Badde met his eyes, then nodded.
Got it.
And maybe some money can find its way into a confidential account in my name.
“The Caymans have more than five hundred banks,” Santos went on. “While financial markets everywhere have been melting down in the last few years, not a single one in Cayman went out of business. In fact, they were providing trillions of dollars in cash infusions to cash-strapped countries.”
Badde nodded thoughtfully as he sipped his Irish whisky and club soda.
“Let me ask you this. .” Badde then began.
“Of course.”
“. . where does Yuri base his?”
Santos raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry. But I’m sure you’ll understand that we do not discuss anything about our other clients.”
Then why the hell did you bring him up driving here?
“It would violate our client confidentiality,” Garcia put in. “Which we’re sure you can well appreciate.”
I can. . but I won’t.
“What we can tell you,” Santos said, “is that our Focused Investment Niche Strategies are Cayman-based funds. They’re highly diversified, including many EB-5s. And, as your PEGI records will show, all OneWorld investment vehicles for Diamond Development are FINS.”
Why the hell didn’t Jan tell me that before I came down here?
I wonder if she knew.
He took another sip of his whisky, then nodded.
“I knew that, of course. That Diamond had FINS. I just didn’t realize the fine print of FINS being in Cayman.”
Listen to me. I’m already talking like them.
Not bad for the son of a South Philly barbershop owner.
But I’m not really sure exactly where Cayman is. Maybe near Puerto Rico?
Too many little islands down there.
“I know you’ve heard all this,” Santos said, “but please let me just lay it all out.”
“That’s why I came,” Badde said, smiling broadly. “Have at it.”
“As I said, FINS is diverse,” Santos then began. “We create vehicles-these specialized instruments known as funds-that invest in everything from oil and gas to cruise lines, resorts, restaurant chains, and much more.
“Some domestic money is there, but it’s tight. There is, however, significant foreign money out there. For OneWorld, Asian investments right now are biggest, followed by Central and South American monies. Accordingly, that’s where the EB-5 monies originate.”
The what? “EB-5 Central and South American monies”?
So much for talking like them.
“EB-5?” Badde said. “Didn’t you say you have one yourself, Mike?
Santos nodded. “Yes, as you know, the EB-5 is a visa designed for immigrants of serious means. It’s nothing like the well-known specialty occupation H-1B and -2 visas, which the United States Citizenship and Immigration Service also administers.”
Well, now I know.
And you don’t know that I didn’t.
“For starters,” Garcia said, “while there’re only ten thousand EB-5s available each year, the U.S. has never issued the entire lot of them. Compare that to ‘specialty occupation’ visas. Those are gone by mid-year, and they run in the six figures.”
“The H-1B and -2,” Badde said.
“Right,” Garcia said. “H-1Bs are architects, doctors, engineers, university professors, all sorts of computer types-hell, even fashion models. Their stay is only good for three years, with a three-year renewal. So, six tops. And if they quit their sponsoring employer, or get fired, they have to find another or leave the U.S.”
“Not that they always do,” Santos added. “Plenty overstay their visas illegally. But then if found, they can be deported. Same with H-2B visas, the seasonal jobs, like agriculture.”
“But not EB-5. It’s golden,” Garcia said, then smiled. “No pun intended.”
“You said ‘serious means,’” Badde said. “How much we talking?”
“Each EB-5 requires at least a million dollars,” Garcia said.
Badde nodded thoughtfully.
“That’s the other main difference,” Santos said. “You cannot buy an H-1B or -2. But, as long as you meet the requirements, a foreigner can buy as many EB-5s as he can afford.”
“Up to ten thousand,” Badde said, a little loudly.
He grinned, then took a long drink of his whisky.
Santos and Garcia chuckled, then exchanged a brief knowing glance.
Garcia drained his drink, and Santos discreetly motioned for the waitress’s attention. Badde saw her look over, then smile and nod. She started toward them, carrying fresh drinks.
Now, that’s service!
She was keeping an eye on us, and didn’t even have to be told to have the bartender pour us another round.
“For the million dollars,” Garcia said, as the waitress put the drinks before them, “the investor gets fast-tracked to permanent residency-a green card for himself, for his wife, and for his kids under twenty-one. In order to keep that status, the investment must create and maintain at least ten jobs for existing Americans, plus ones for himself and his family. These can be directly and indirectly created. For example, a hotel creates direct jobs-from the front desk to the restaurant staffs to housekeepers-as well as indirect ones-vendors who wash the sheets and towels, landscapers, valets. It’s not hard to do.”
“And it’s extremely lucrative,” Santos said.
“How so?” Badde said.
“These foreign investors mostly want to become permanent residents,” Santos explained. “That’s their focus. So while a typical investor would expect seven, eight, even ten percent return on investment, these immigrants are content with, say, two percent. Additionally, if you’re the one borrowing the money, you’re paying less interest, so your profits are higher.”
“That’s damn cheap capital, Rapp,” Garcia said. “And it’s capital that may have left the country and now has an avenue back to create opportunity here.” He made a sweeping gesture around the lounge with his hand. “You’re sitting in an example.”
“How do you mean?” Badde said.
“Yellowrose is one of four significant companies in the hospitality market owned by China Global Investments. We packaged Yellowrose, then sold it to them and continue to help them expand it.”
“The Chinese have all these new high-rises?” Badde said, his tone not concealing his surprise. “I thought the yellow rose had something to do with Texas.”
“It does,” Garcia said. “The Texas War of Independence. It’s legendary. There was even a hit song in the 1950s about it. Mitch Miller’s ‘Yellow Rose of Texas.’”
“So then what’s the connection with the flower?” Badde said.
Garcia looked toward the bar. “See that long-legged filly in the tight black dress? One of the three we saw earlier?”
Badde stole a look, then turned back to Garcia. “Oh, yeah. Beautiful woman. That creamy light chocolate skin is incredible.”
“In the day, that was called ‘high yellow.’ Legend is that a high yellow mulatto by the name of Emily West-she was an indentured servant who got herself captured when the Mexican army took Galveston in 1836-seduced General Santa Anna. My mother’s side of the family is descended from Santa Anna, which makes this story not one of our prouder moments.”
“What was wrong with being seduced?”
“The problem was Santa Anna became so enamored with the beautiful half-breed that her distraction allowed General Sam Houston’s Texas Army to win the decisive Battle of San Jacinto. And ol’ Sam trounced Santa Anna. It was really an ass-kicking-the whole thing lasted only eighteen minutes. When the dust settled, six hundred Mexicans were dead. That’s-what? — more than thirty killed every minute. Houston lost only nine men. Santa Anna was taken prisoner and, being president of Mexico, signed a peace treaty. And so began the Republic of Texas-thanks to the Yellow Rose of Texas.”
“Damn!” Badde said, impressed. “The power of. . women, huh?”
Garcia and Santos chuckled.
Santos said: “That the company name, as you note, Rapp, suggests local ownership doesn’t exactly hurt, either.”
Garcia nodded. “Right. And as I was saying, in addition to this development, there are twenty-five Yellowrose luxury hotels and resorts around the world. New York City, London, Paris, Tahiti, the Caribbean, Uruguay, Cabo San Lucas. This Dallas complex was in part financed with EB-5 funding that we at OneWorld put together. Every worker here counts toward the jobs needed to qualify.”
Badde glanced around the room, nodding appreciatively.
“For securing the approval of Immigration Services,” Santos said, “which designated OneWorld an elite regional center because of our history with them, we get a transaction fee of ten percent. Plus of course management fees for the investment vehicles themselves.”
Rapp Badde picked up his drink and sipped
as he started to do the math. Feeling the effects of the alcohol, he gave up calculating after coming up with a hundred thousand for each million dollars invested.
If a building gets a hundred million, their cut is a cool mil just in fees.
Who knows what they bring in for management fees. .?
“Rapp,” Mike Santos said, “when Bobby here said earlier that we know where to find money, he wasn’t kidding. We have a long list of investors in our various funds. Among them are those already preapproved by the Immigration Service for EB-5 visas.”
“More than two thousand waiting,” Bobby Garcia added. “And another thousand in the process leading up to preapproval. Our goal is to use up all those ten thousand available visas before anyone else.”
“What’s the holdup?” Badde said.
“We need approved projects. Immigration Services has to sign off on the investments to ensure that the jobs are in fact created. You happen to know anyone who might be looking to build something?”
Badde looked between Santos and Garcia, then grinned broadly, flashing his bright white-capped teeth.
I could tear down all of North Philly and build new!
“Like maybe a new hotel?” he said, then held up his cocktail glass.
Garcia and Santos touched theirs to it.
“Rapp, assuming the project meets requirements,” Santos said, “and from what I’ve seen, it does, we’re prepared to put up a hundred mil, for starters. How does that sound?”
Badde looked between them for a moment, then smiled.
“I’d say it sounds like a deal.”
“All right. Let’s talk about something more interesting!” Santos announced, then glanced at the bar ringed with women.
Badde’s eyes followed his, then he smiled and again held up his glass.
After they clinked, Badde drained his drink.
Garcia and Santos did the same with theirs.
These guys can drink! Badde then thought.
Screw it. I’m feeling good. What’ve I got to lose asking?