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.’”
[FOUR]
Liberties Bar
502 N. Second Street, Philadelphia
Monday, November 17, 4:45 P.M.
A grim-faced Jason Washington crossed the room to where Matt Payne, Jim Byrth, and Mickey O’Hara were at the bar.
“Gentlemen,” he said evenly, his deep tone sounding flat and tired.
Washington patted O’Hara on the back.
“I trust you’re doing well, Michael?”
O’Hara nodded. “Well enough, considering. Thanks. And thank you for having Matt fill me in on the other case workers. I updated the story with their names.”
Washington’s eyes went to Payne, then Byrth, then back to O’Hara.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. O’Hara,” Washington said.
“Of course not, Lieutenant,” O’Hara said, nodding.
“But you’re welcome,” Washington added. He then said, “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting. I had to get a ride from Highway Patrol. The Crown Vic I was given to drive while they repaired the one they gave me last week has also died. I suggested that they start using bigger Band-Aids.”
“I don’t even have a car,” Payne said.
“Unlike my unfortunate circumstance, Matthew, that is not because the city has slashed our budgets.”
“It’s because,” O’Hara put in, raising his drink toward him, “you keep totaling them, Marshal Earp.”
The bartender, a great big guy, came up and slid a cocktail napkin onto the bar before Washington.