The Last Witness

[THREE]

Penthouse Suite 2400

Two Yellowrose Place, Uptown Dallas

Monday, November 17, 4:45 P.M. Texas Standard Time

The chief executive officer of OneWorld Private Equity Partners was leaning back in his black leather chair, the heels of his crocodile-skin Western boots resting on the massive stone desktop and his fingers laced behind his head. Mike Santos was watching an intense Bobby Garcia pace in front of the desk. They were alone in the cavernous office, listening to Nick Antonov’s voice over the speaker of the desktop telephone.

Antonov, in Philly, in his casino office, was saying: “But did Palumbo know Jorge Perez had any connection with the Cubans wrecking that boat and drawing so many police? Because if he did, I think that that would be the first thing a chief of staff would tell his senator.”

Garcia had a mental image of the portly forty-year-old Charles A. Palumbo, Esquire, and his senatorial office colleague, Anthony N. Navarra, forty-six-both wearing khaki shorts, baggy Cuban shirts, and foolish grins-almost staggering off the casino’s big boat onto the dock at Lost Key Resort.

“No, he didn’t,” Garcia said evenly. “And I don’t think that he-for that matter, neither Chuck nor Tony-really gave a damn it even happened. Keep in mind that they spent the day drinking during the Poker Run. They were too interested in Tatiani and the girls from Kiev. I know they didn’t see it happen.”

“You can be sure?”

“Yeah. Jorge already had the go-fast tied up at the marina. But it’s a moot point. When the Cubans crashed on that island, word spread quick over the radios and phones and around the bars. There was a shitload of bitching about immigration reform, and I bet they took that back to their boss.”

Antonov considered that, then said, “If such is the case, good then. I will tell Yuri. And keep a closer eye on Perez. Yuri was concerned, especially because of the recent troubles with Diamond Development. He does not tolerate such distractions. Let us say there is not complete confidence in a certain member of the majority partnership.”

“Why didn’t Yuri call us and ask about this?” Santos said.

“He is dealing with the new casino in Macau and asked that I handle this.”

Garcia thought that Antonov had replied quickly-too quickly. It sounded like a prepared answer.

Garcia looked to Santos, who mouthed Bullshit!, then said evenly, “Nick, we don’t anticipate there being any problems with any development deal with our good friend the councilman-at-large, if that is what you’re referring to.”

Antonov was quiet a moment.

“I am to assume you have additional photographs?”

Ten minutes earlier, Santos and Garcia had shared a slideshow over a video stream between their computers.

“Where were these taken?” Antonov had said, watching images of Palumbo and Navarra that were being played from Garcia’s laptop.

The slideshow started with shots of the two pasty middle-aged men sitting at a seaside tiki bar. It then showed them, first Palumbo and then Navarra separately, with young women in large luxury hotel rooms that had views overlooking the bar and the ocean.

“At Queens Club,” Santos said, “the Yellowrose property on Grand Cayman. Cavorting with quote British Overseas Territory citizens unquote. I hear it said that sex tourism is a rising industry.”

“What do they call that? A ‘constituent fact-finding trip’?” Antonov said, either ignoring or missing his witticism.

“Simply a fact-finding trip,” Garcia said. “Their constituents would be in their home state.”

“Right,” Antonov said sharply, clearly annoyed at the correction.

“This shot showing Palumbo’s so-called manhood,” Santos said lightly, “would seem to give new meaning to the title ‘chief of staff’-or at least call into question his right to use it.”

The image changed to one of Navarra with two women.

Garcia chuckled. “Maybe they should change both of their titles to simply ‘foreign affairs adviser.’”

“This was an official trip?” Antonov said, his tone humorless.

“Absolutely,” Garcia said.

“Who paid?”

“Who else? OneWorld did.”

“And this is legal?”

“Excuse me?” Garcia said, mock-indignant. “As corporate counsel of OneWorld, Mr. Antonov, sir, I can assure you that absolutely every act of this company is conducted to the letter of the law.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Nick, for your edification,” Garcia then said, “I’ll recite from memory from the ‘United States Senate Ethics Manual’-said title being, I might add as a sidebar, a classic oxymoron. In chapter four, I believe on page one-twelve, it states quote For expenses other than those enumerated in Section 311(d) as amended by the Act. . yada, yada, yada. . if an expense is deemed by a Senator to be related to official duties then the expense may be paid with either (or a mixture of) Senate funds, the Senator’s personal funds, or-”

“Can you get to it?” Antonov interrupted.

“I’m getting there, Nick,” Garcia shot back. “Sounds like you’re not having a good day.”

Garcia had exchanged a glance with Santos, who smiled and nodded, appreciating that Garcia was sending Antonov the less than subtle message that he wasn’t easily pushed around.

“Patience is a virtue,” Garcia went on, in a lighter tone. “You should write that down. I was just getting to ‘it’ here: Quote paid with the Senator’s personal funds, or in the case of ‘fact finding,’ funds provided by a third party otherwise consistent with applicable requirements governing such activities. Unquote. OneWorld would be that third party.”

“And the purpose of this fact-finding trip was for what?”

“The Cayman Islands have no casinos, as I’m sure you know, being in the business,” Santos said. “No gambling, outside the financial industry, that is. Ironic, no, what with all that investment money flowing through there? I envision building a Caymans’ version of GoldenEye. But bigger and of course with gaming.”

“What is this GoldenEye?”

“It’s in Jamaica, which has the closest casinos, a dozen of them. But Kingston’s a forty-five-minute flight.”

“And GoldenEye is. .?”

“The resort that used to be James Bond’s home. Or at least where Ian Fleming wrote double-oh-seven spy novels, including GoldenEye. Considering your boss’s background, I really thought you would have known all about that.” He paused, and when it was clear Antonov was not going to respond, he went on: “Okay, so the senator sent his two top advisers-or perhaps it was Palumbo who had the senator send him and Tony-to George Town to open a dialogue on gaming with His Excellency the governor. I understand a follow-up with the senator has been scheduled there.”

Santos grunted as the slideshow continued.

“And the other purpose, I suppose,” he said, “being to determine if Palumbo can maintain his tiny hard-on longer with one, two, or three partners. . ”

“Or maybe one underage?” Antonov said.

“Nick,” Santos then said evenly, “it’s not if she is or isn’t. It’s the appearance thereof.”

Garcia chuckled.

“What?” Antonov snapped.

“Hell, even Palumbo said it this weekend,” Garcia explained. “He was feeling no-pain drunk at the time.”

“And what did he say, Bobby?” Antonov pressed.

“Navarra, on his pious high horse, was babbling on about all the good they do in Washington ‘for the people.’ Then Palumbo said, ‘But, you know, as an individual you can do millions of things right. Mess up once, that’s what you’re remembered for.’”

“Fact is,” Santos said, “a married forty-year-old snorting a small mountain of coke off the ass of a seventeen-year-old Russian hooker ain’t exactly ‘messing up once.’”

Garcia, shutting down the slideshow, added: “Particularly when he’s caught with different girls in different locations. . ”

“Nick, I’m not sure what additional photographs you might be inferring,” Bobby Garcia said, unconvincingly. “I’m just saying that we don’t anticipate any problems with any development deals.”

Antonov grunted. “Well, no problems is good to hear, Mike. But being a politician, Badde talks much more than he accomplishes. He is, to use that quaint American phrase, only a big fish in a small puddle.”

Garcia and Santos exchanged grins, knowing it was not worth it for either of them to say, “Small pond.”

“Unfortunately,” Antonov went on, “I had to send my man to take care of what he should have handled. There were obstacles, human ones, holding up the project. Badde proved either unwilling or unable to deal with it. Which suggested to Yuri that, to use another American phrase, Badde plays out of his league. And that is dangerous.”

“Okay,” Santos said. “So we’ll keep an eye on that, on him.”

“Speaking of a bigger fish in a bigger puddle,” Garcia said, seeing Santos smirk at that and shake his head, “when you report back to Yuri, tell him we need the senator to have a word with someone at DHS.”

“U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, Nick,” Santos put in helpfully, “is under the Department of Homeland Security. Pressure from the top down works best.”

“I am well aware,” Antonov said, not pleasantly, “having suffered my own time dealing with them.” He paused, then added, “Perez told me that Palumbo and Navarra enjoyed themselves this weekend.”

“Clearly,” Garcia said, “and I reminded them this weekend to talk to their boss about CIS greasing the skids on getting our visas approved. Maybe suggest that CIS not sweat every detail on certain applications. Palumbo said it already had been done, that he’d personally set up the call with him and the DHS undersecretary who handles CIS. But we’re just not seeing anything change.”

“The delay at CIS is our biggest bottleneck, Nick,” Santos added. “My investors are sitting on a lot of cash that must move. They are anxious. But without their first investment in the EB-5 visa being approved-they want those green cards for their families-they will not dump another dime in.”

Antonov grunted. “Perhaps there would be more response if certain photographs found their way to Mrs. Palumbo. . ”

“Now, that’s just damn devious, Nick,” Garcia said with a chuckle. “As we say here in Texas, ‘Cold as an ex-wife’s heart.’”