The Devils Punchbowl pc-3

by Greg Iles

  Who’'s ripping off the city?”

  Tim hugs himself, rocking slowly back and forth. “The people I work for. Golden Parachute Gaming, or whatever you want to call them.”

  “The parent company of the Magnolia Queen is ripping off the city? How could they do that?”

  “By shorting you on the taxes, dude. How else?”

  Jessup is referring to the portion of gross receipts that the casino boat pays the city for its concession. “That'’s impossible.”

  “Oh, right. What was I thinking? I just came out here for old times’ sake.”

  “Tim, how could they short us on taxes without the state gaming commission finding out about it?”

  “That'’s two separate questions. One, how could they underpay their taxes? Two, does the gaming commission know about it?”

  His cold dissection of what would be a nightmare scenario for me and for the town is getting on my nerves. “Do you know the answers?”

  “Question one is easy. Computers. Teenagers have hacked into freaking NORAD, man. Do you really think the network of a casino company can’t be manipulated? Especially by the people who own the network?”

  “And question two?”

  “That’'s tougher. The gaming commission is a law unto itself, and I don'’t know enough about how it operates to know what’s possible. There are three men on it. How many would have to be bent to provide cover for the operation? I don'’t know.”

  I'm still shaking my head. “The auditing system we use was evolved over decades in Las Vegas. No one can beat it.”

  Jessup chuckles with raw cynicism. “They say you can’t beat a lie detector, either. Tell you what,” he says gamely, and in his eyes I see the energy of a man who only comes into his own during the middle of the night. “Let’s assume for a second that the gaming commission is clean and go back to question one. There’s no way to distort the take from discrete parts of the casino operation, because everything’s so tightly regulated, like you said. The company’s own security system makes it impossible. Every square inch of the boat is videotaped around the clock with PTZ cameras and wired for sound. The cameras are robotically controlled—from Vegas, not Natchez. A buddy let me into the security center one night, and I saw Pete Elliot fingering his brother’s wife in the corner of the restaurant.”

  “I don'’t need to know that crap.”

  “I'm just saying—”

  “I get it. What’s your point?”

  “The only way for the company to rip off the city is to understate the gross. You guys see a big enough number, you figure your cut and don'’t look any deeper. Right?”

  “To an extent. The gaming commission looks deeper, though. How much money are we talking about?”

  Jessup flicks his lighter and examines his burned thumb, then squints at the flame as though pondering an advanced calculus problem. “Not that much, in terms of the monthly gross of a casino boat. But that’s like saying a thousand years isn’t much time in geological terms. We’re talking serious bread for an ordinary human being.”

  “Wait a minute,” I say. “There’s a flaw in your premise. A fatal flaw.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no upside for the casino company. However much they rip us off by, their gain is minuscule compared with the risk. They’re practically minting money down there. Why risk killing the golden goose to steal a couple of extra million a year? Or even a month?”

  Jessup smiles sagely. “

  Now

  you’re thinking, dude. Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Me, neither.” He lights another cigarette and sucks on it like a submerged man breathing through a reed. “Until you realize it’s not the corporate parent doing the ripping, but a single guy.”

  “One guy?

  That'’s impossible. Casino companies never give an individual that kind of power.”

  Tim expels a raft of smoke. “Who said they gave it to him?”

  “No way, Timmy. The casinos do everything in their power to avoid that situation.”

  “Everything in their power.

  And they'’re good. But they'’re not God.

  ” He grins with secret pleasure, as though he’s smoking pot and not tobacco. “The company makes certain assumptions about people and situations, and that makes them vulnerable.”

  I run my hand along my jaw. The fine stubble there tells me it’s getting late. “Obviously you have a suspect. Who is it?”

  Tim’s smugness vanishes. “You don'’t want to know that yet. Seriously. For tonight he’s ‘Mr. X,’ okay? He Who Must Not Be

  Named. What matters is that he’s been with the company long enough to put something like this together.”

  I know a fair amount about the Golden Parachute Gaming Corporation. But rather than scare Tim off by speculating over which executive might be the one, I’d rather take what he’s willing to give me. For now. “Let me get this straight: Mr. X is also behind the dogfighting and the girls?”

  “Hell, yeah. The side action’s what brings the whales down here, which in turn makes the Queen all the more profitable, while making Mr. X some serious jack on the side.”

  I sigh deeply, sickened by the thought that I, who reluctantly courted Golden Parachute and helped bring the Magnolia Queen to town, may also have helped to infect my town with this virus. But rather than blame myself, I turn my frustration on Tim. “You picked a hell of a week to come forward. This is balloon-race weekend. We’'ve got eighty-seven hot-air balloons coming to town, and fifteen thousand tourists. I’'ve got a CEO expecting the royal treatment, which I'’ll have to give him to try to pull his new recycling plant here.”

  Tim nods. “Read about it in the newspaper. Sorry.”

  “Seriously, Tim. I don'’t see how you expect me to help you without knowing Mr. X’s identity. I can’t do anything without that.”

  Tim goes back to his submerged-man routine with the cigarette. In its intermittent glow, I watch his eyes, and what I see there frightens me. The dominant emotion is fear, but mixed with that is something that looks and feels like hatred.

  “What’s your idea of help?” he says softly.

  “What do you mean?”

  His eyes tick upward and lock onto mine. “You worked for a big-city DA. You know what I mean.”

  “I saw the pictures,” I say gently. “I know this is bad. That'’s why we have to let the authorities handle it.”

  “Authorities?”

  He almost spits the word. “didn't you hear what I said on the phone? You can’t trust anybody around here with this.”

  “My own police department? Do you really believe that?”

  Tim looks astounded by my ignorance. “They’re not yours.

  Those cops were on the job before you got into office, and they’ll be there

  when you’re gone. Same for the sheriff and his boys. To them, you’re just a political tourist. Passing through.”

  His casual damnation of local law enforcement disturbs me. “I trust a lot of those men. We grew up with most of them, or their fathers.”

  “I'm not saying the cops are crooks. I'm saying they'’re human.

  They’re looking out for themselves and their families, and they like to have a little fun on the side, same as the next guy. How many guys you know wouldn'’t look the other way to get a beer-drinking snapshot with a star NFL running back? I’'ve been to a couple of these barn burners, okay? I know who I’'ve seen there.”

  Like the full import of a cancer diagnosis, the ramifications of what Jessup is telling me are slowly sinking in. “You’ve personally witnessed Mr. X at these dogfights? You’ve seen him encouraging underage prostitution?”

  Jessup snorts in contempt. “Are you serious? You want to arrest Mr. X for promoting dogfighting? On my word? The bastard could get a dozen upstanding citizens to swear he was on the Queen any day or night we name.”

  “Dogfighting is a felony in Mississippi,” I say evenly. “Just watching one is a felony. The maximum sentence is ten years. And with multiple counts? That'’s hard time.”

  This seems to get Tim’s a
ttention. But even as I point out the facts, I silently concede that Jessup has a point about his being a problematic witness. “Obviously, nailing them for defrauding the city would be the lethal hit. Golden Parachute would lose its gaming license, and that would shut down five casinos in one pop. The IRS would eat them alive. The partners would lose hundreds of millions of dollars.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Tim says bitterly.

  “So how do you propose we handle this? Do you have any documentary evidence, other than the pictures I saw?”

  He licks his lips like a nervous poker player. “I'm not saying I got nothing, but I need more. I’'ve got a plan. I’'ve been working on it for a month.”

  A sense of foreboding takes hold deep in my chest. Everything he’s told me up to now has been leading to this. “Tim, I won'’t help you risk your life. I do have experience with this kind of operation, and I’'ve seen more than one informer wind up with his throat cut.”

  Jessup has the faraway look of a martyr walking into the flames. Without warning he seizes my wrist with a startlingly powerful grip. “This is our town, man. That still means something to me. I'm not going to sit still while these carpetbagger motherfuckers ruin everything our ancestors worked to build—”

  “Shhh,”

  I hiss, feeling blood coming into my cheeks. “I hear you, okay? I understand your anger. But it’s not worth your life. It’s not even worth taking a beating. People in this town were gambling, selling slaves, raping Indian women, and cutting each other’s throats before Paul Revere sold his first silver candlestick.”

  Tim’s eyes are glistening. “That was centuries ago. What the hell’s wrong with you, Penn? We’re talking about innocent lives. Underage girls and defenseless animals.” He lowers his voice at last, but the urgency does not leave it. “Every week Mr. X sends out four pickup trucks with cages in the back, a hundred miles in every direction. When those trucks come back, the cages are filled with house pets—cocker spaniels, poodles, dalmatians, cats. The trainers throw ’em into a hole with starving pit bulls to teach the dogs how to kill, or tie ’em to a jenny to make the dogs run. Then they feed them to the dogs when it’s all over. Every one of those animals gets torn to shreds.”

  Even as the shiver goes through me, I recall that a neighbor who lives three houses down from me lost her seven-year-old cocker spaniel last month. She let the dog out to do its business, and it never came back.

  “I didn't ask for this,” Tim says stubbornly. “But I'm in a position to do something about it.

  Me, okay? What kind of man would I be if I just turned away and let it go on?”

  His question pierces me like a blade driven deep into my conscience. “Timmy shit. What would you say if I told you that the only reason I'm still mayor of this town is that I haven'’t figured out how to tell my father I'm quitting?”

  Jessup blinks like a stunned child trying to work out something beyond its grasp. “I’d say you’re bullshitting me. But ” A profound change comes over his features. “You’re not, are you?”

  I slowly shake my head.

  “But why? Are you sick or something?”

  He asks this because our last mayor resigned after being diagnosed with lung cancer. “Not exactly. Soul sick, maybe.”

  Tim looks at me in disbelief. “

  Soul sick? Are you kidding? I'm soul sick too! Man, you stood up all over this town and told people you were going to change things. You made people believe it. And now you want to quit? The Eagle Scout wants to quit? Why? Because it’s tougher than you thought? Did somebody hurt your feelings or something?”

  I start to explain, but before I can get a sentence out, Jessup cuts in, “Wait a minute. They came to you with money or something, right? No they threatened you, didn't they?”

  “No, no, no.”

  “Bullshit.” Tim’s eyes flash. “They got their claws into you somehow, and all you know to do is run—”

  “Tim!” I grab his leg and squeeze hard enough to bruise. “Shut up and listen for a second!”

  His chest is heaving from the excitement of his anger.

  I lean close enough so that he can see my eyes. “Nobody from any casino has come to me with anything. Not bribes or threats. I wanted to be mayor so I could fix the school system in this town, which has been screwed since 1968. It’s been our Achilles’ heel for nearly forty years. But I see now that I can’t fix it. I don'’t have the power. And my child is suffering because of it. It’s that simple, Timmy. Until tonight, all this stuff you'’ve told me was just whispers in the wind.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I can’t get those goddamn pictures out of my head.”

  He smiles sadly. “I told you. I warned you.”

  “Yeah. You did.”

  He rubs his face with both hands, so hard that his mustache makes scratching sounds. “So, what now? Am I on my own here or what?”

  “You are unless you tell me who Mr. X is.”

  Jessup’s eyes go blank as marbles.

  “Come on. I know law enforcement people who aren'’t local. Serious people. Give me his name, and I'’ll get a real investigation started. We’ll nail his hide to the barn door. I’'ve dealt with guys like this before. You know I have. I sent them to death row.”

  With slow deliberation, Tim stubs his cigarette out on the mossy bricks behind him. “I know. That'’s why I came to you. But you have

  to understand what you’re up against, Penn. This guy I'm talking about has got real juice. Just because someone’s in Houston or Washington doesn’'t mean they'’re clean on this.”

  “Tim, I took on the head of the FBI. And I won.”

  Jessup doesn’'t look convinced. “That was different. A guy like that has to play by the rules. That'’s like Gandhi beating the British in India. Don’t kid yourself. You go after Mr. X, you’re swimming into the shallow end of Lake St. John, hoping to kill an alligator before one kills you.”

  This image hits me with primitive force. I’'ve cruised the shallow end of the local lake from the safety of a ski boat at night, and there’s no sight quite like the dozens of red eyes hovering just above water level among the twisted cypress trunks. The first thrash of an armored tail in the water triggers a blast of uniquely mammalian fear that makes you pray the boat’s drain plug is screwed in tight.

  “I hear you, okay? But I think you’re a little spooked. The guy is human, right?”

  Jessup tugs at his mustache like the strung-out junkie he used to be. “You don'’t know, man you don'’t know.

  This guy is smooth as silk on the outside, but he’s got scales on the inside. When the dogs are tearing each other to pieces, or some girl is screaming in the back of a trailer, his eyes turn from ice to fire right in front of you.”

  “Tim—” I lean forward and grasp his wrist. “I don'’t understand is what you want from me. If you won'’t go to the professionals, how do you propose to stop this psycho? What’s your plan?”

  A strange light comes into Jessup’s eyes. “There’s only one way to take down an operation like this, and you know it.”

  “How’s that?”

  “From the inside.”

  Jesus. Tim has been watching too many cop shows. “Let me get this straight. The guy you just described as Satan incarnate, you want to wear a wire on?”

  Jessup barks out a derisive laugh. “Fuck no! These guys carry scanners into the john with them. “

  “Then what?”

  He shakes his head with childlike stubbornness. “You don'’t need to know. But God put me in this position for a reason.”

  When informants start talking about God, my alarm bells go off. “Tim—”

  “Hey, I'm not asking you to believe like I do. I'm just asking you to be ready to accept what I bring you and do the right thing.”

  I feel obligated to try to dissuade him further, but beneath my desire to protect a childhood friend lies a professionally cynical awareness of the truth. In cases like this, often the only way to convict the people at the top is to have a witness on the inside, directly observing the criminal activity. And who else but a martyr would take that
job?

  “What are you planning to bring me?”

  “Evidence. A stake to drive through Mr. X’s heart, and a knife to cut off the company’s head. Just say you’re with me, Penn. Tell me you won'’t quit. Not until we take these bastards down.”

  Against all my better judgment, I reach out and squeeze Tim’s proffered hand. “Okay. You just watch your back.

  And

  your front. Informers usually get caught because they make a stupid mistake. You’ve come a long way. Don’t go getting hurt now.”

  Tim looks me full in the face, his eyes almost serene. “Hey, I have to be careful. I’'ve got a son now, remember?” As if suddenly remembering something, he seizes my wrist with his other hand, like a pastor imploring me to accept Jesus as my savior. “If something does happen, though, don'’t blame yourself, okay? The way I see it, I’'ve got no choice.”

  Your wife and son wouldn'’t see it that way,

  I say silently, but I nod acknowledgment.

  Now we sit silently, awkwardly, like two men who’ve cleared the air on some uncomfortable issue and have nothing left to say. Small talk is pointless, yet how else can we part? Cut our palms and take a blood oath, like Tom and Huck?

  “You still dating that lady who runs the bookstore?” Tim asks with forced casualness.

  “Libby?” I guess word hasn’'t spread to Jessup’s social circle yet. “We ended it about a week ago. Why?”

  “I’'ve seen her son down on the

  Queen

  a few times in the past couple of weeks. Looked high as a kite to me. Must have a fake ID.”

  After all I’'ve heard tonight, this news falls on me like the last brick of a backbreaking load. I’'ve spent too much time and political

  capital getting my ex-girlfriend’s nineteen-year-old son out of trouble with the law. He’s basically a good kid, but if he’s broken his promise to stay clean, the future holds serious unpleasantness for us both.

  Tim looks worried. “Was I right to tell you?”

  “Are you sure he was high?”

  Suddenly Tim hops to his knees, tense as a startled deer, holding up his hand for silence. As he zeros his gaze somewhere past the wall between us and the river, I realize what has disturbed him: the sound of a car coming up Cemetery Road. We listen to the rising pitch of the engine, waiting for it to crest and fall but it doesn’'t. There’s a grinding squeal of brakes, then silence.