The Devils Punchbowl pc-3

by Greg Iles

  “Did you hear any of it?”

  He shakes his head. “She made it pretty clear that was a private conversation.”

  I take deep breath and blow out a long rush of air, trying to flush the guilt from my system. “Let’s go over there, away from the family.”

  We walk a little way up the lane, then climb some steps to a hill shaded by cedar trees. Like most of the names in this cemetery, the one engraved on the stones in this plot is familiar to me. A cool but gentle breeze blows over the hill, and the sun shines bright enough to warm the bricks of the wall around the plot. Leaning back against the wall, I regard Paul Labry.

  Where most of the Catholics in Natchez are Irish or Italian, Paul is of French descent. By marriage, he’s related to the Acadians forced by the Spanish to live near what would become the infamous Morville Plantation. Labry has dark eyes and skin and he’s still handsome despite losing some hair and putting on weight. He looks more like an aging poet than the manager of an office-supply business, but I never cease to be amazed by how poorly some people fit the stereotype of their occupation.

  “Paul, I want to tell you something that I haven'’t told anyone else.”

  “I thought you wanted to ask me something.”

  “That too. I’'ve decided to step down as mayor.”

  “What?”

  He looks me from head to toe. “You’re not sick, are you?”

  Tim asked me the same thing the night we met here. “No, it’s not that. My reasons are personal, mostly to do with Annie and Caitlin.”

  Paul’s watching me like a man who still can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Are you guys getting back together? You and Caitlin?”

  “If she’ll have me.”

  “Are you kidding? You know she loves you.”

  “Not enough to live here with me.”

  He purses his lips while he mulls this over. “Is that it, then? You want to stay in Natchez, but you feel you can’t?”

  “No. It’s time for me to go. The reason I'm talking to you is that I want you to stand for mayor in the special election after I'm gone.”

  Labry draws back, his face pale. “Are you serious?”

  “It should have been you two years ago. I should never have run.”

  “Oh, that’s bullshit.”

  “No, it’s not. You’re the man for the job, Paul. I think you

  should announce on the same day I resign, and I'’ll throw you my full support.”

  Labry turns away, looking thoughtfully toward the tent over Tim’s grave. “I used to think I might try it,” he says. “But I'm forty-four now, and I'm starting to think I don'’t understand the world anymore. My father’s business is going down, Penn. Wal-Mart and the rest have about killed it. I’'ve tried to save it, but the hole just keeps getting deeper.” His cheeks redden in embarrassment. “All the old retail places are going down. Hell, we don'’t have more than a handful of Jewish families left in town, and they were the backbone of the retail economy when we were growing up.”

  I hoped I wouldn'’t have to play the next card, but Paul’s not giving me any choice. “I'm sorry to hear that. Because if you don'’t run, you know who’s going to get the job.”

  Paul blanches again. “Shad Johnson?”

  “Yep.”

  “Christ.”

  “Who knows? Maybe that wouldn'’t be such a bad thing.”

  “Bullshit.” Paul lowers his voice. “I was talking to Father Nightingale, from out at Mandamus Baptist? He speaks for a lot of the black community. He doesn’'t even like Shad being district attorney. Said you can’t trust him as far as you’d throw him. I'm not sure the blacks would even turn out for him.”

  “They will if you’re not in the race. But if you’re in it, they’ll vote for you. They know where your heart is.”

  Labry looks away for a while, then turns back to me. “Penn, if you can’t accomplish the things we dreamed about, what chance do I have?”

  “That'’s the wrong way to look at it. I aimed too high. I wanted to solve the education problem because that’s where salvation lies, but I couldn'’t do it. I used to blame the whites for that, but there’s blame on both sides.”

  He nods dejectedly. “You know what I think the real obstacle is?”

  “Does it even matter? The existing public facilities couldn'’t absorb the kids from the private schools even if their parents decided to send them.”

  “Oh, hell, that’s just a matter of money. If we really brought all those kids into one system, what you’d have is a bunch of white kids

  who couldn'’t make the athletic teams and a bunch of black kids who couldn'’t make their grades. You talk about something nobody wants?

  That'’s

  it.”

  There’s truth in what Labry says, but he knows the reasons run deeper. “Paul, if I was going to live up to my principles, I would have moved Annie to the public school on the day I was elected. But I didn't. I was unwilling to risk my child’s education, and maybe her safety, unless there were a dozen other white kids in there with her. It’s time for someone with more conviction and a different list of priorities to give it a shot. And that’s you.”

  Labry’s blushing now. “You know, I think when we lost the Toyota plant, we lost the mandate you had after the election. We’ll eventually get there on education. But people’s first concern is high-paying jobs.”

  “You’ll never get the latter without the former. But there are lots of other things to be done. Annexation of county land. Pushing through the eco-preserve on the creek. Keeping the selectmen from covering the bluff with RV parks. Schmoozing people like Hans Necker. You’re twice as good as I am at that stuff. Be honest, Paul. Don’t you want the job?”

  Labry looks down and twists the toe of his shoe into the grass. “From what I’'ve seen these past years, being mayor’s about dealing with a bunch of people who all think they'’re something special.”

  “Well, aren'’t they? If anyone still believes that, I figured it was you.”

  “Sure they are. But no more special than anybody else. We get in trouble when we start thinking we’re better than our neighbor. Or that somebody else is better than the rest of us. But that’s what people always do.”

  “Is that how you see me? As a guy who thinks he’s better than other people?”

  Paul laughs softly. “That'’s the funny thing. You

  are

  better, in a lot of ways. Oh, I'm sure you'’ve got your secrets; everybody does. But knowing you like I do, knowing all you'’ve accomplished in your past, and then seeing you fail in your own eyes ”

  “I'm not a politician, Paul. That'’s why I never ran for DA in Houston. I was a lawyer at heart. Now I'm a novelist, and I think that spoiled me. When you write a book, you have total control of

  the universe and everyone in it. When you’re mayor of a town, you’re lucky if you can control yourself, much less anyone else.”

  Labry steps onto a low concrete wall and sweeps his hand to take in the whole of the cemetery. “Look out there. Jewish Hill, Catholic Hill, Protestants between. Colored Ground. Babyland, where the unwed mothers’ babies went if they died. We try so hard to stay separate from each other that we even do it in death. It’s tribal, man, and it’s not just the South.” Paul turns and points toward the rear of the cemetery. “But the truth is over there behind Catholic Hill, in those thick woods. Paupers’ Field. There’s three thousand bodies back there, just dropped in holes in the ground. In the dark under those trees, there’s no separation. The roots are growing down through all of them, just alike.”

  “I'm not sure I see where you’re going. But it doesn’'t sound like you’re too interested in being mayor.”

  “We’re all equal before God,” Labry says. “That'’s what I'm saying. But nobody walking this planet seems to get that. Everybody sins, Penn.

  Everybody.

  That'’s the great leveler. Not death.

  Sin.

  ”

  “I was hoping for a more definitive answer.”

  Labry gazes into the forest for a while. Then without warning he springs off the wall and looks up at
me with a grin. “Hell, yes, I'’ll do it. I'’ll be the damnedest mayor this town ever had!”

  I look back in amazement for a few moments, then we both burst out laughing.

  CHAPTER

  41

  Caitlin hunches low behind the wheel of her car and takes a sip from a can of diet Dr Pepper. She’s parked between two trucks in the lot of the Bargain Barn on Highway 15. She knows Darla was lying. The girl was so flustered that she’s bound to panic and leave the store at her first opportunity. Forty minutes have passed since Caitlin left the store, but her cell phone has not rung. Despite Caitlin’s promises of confidentiality, Darla was too rattled for that. But Caitlin has dealt with enough sources to recognize the signs of panic. This is a lot like fishing, or what she remembers her father trying to teach her of it during the summers she stayed with him. Only out here there’s nowhere to pee.

  Using her cell phone, she’s trying to Google some more recent information on local Pentecostals when Darla McRaney hurries through the door of the Bargain Barn, looks right and left, then runs to an ancient Pacer hatchback parked in the corner of the lot. Once she’s inside, Caitlin starts her own car but stays low behind the wheel until the Pacer reaches the highway turn.

  Darla crosses the westbound lanes, then turns east toward Vidalia and Natchez. Caitlin follows, but since there aren'’t many traffic lights on this road, she leaves ten or twelve car lengths between them.

  Less than a mile down the highway, the Pacer turns into a used-

  car dealership. It’s a small operation with older-model cars and pickup trucks parked on a vacant lot with the grass worn down to mud in many places. Garish signs scream EASY TERMS! and NO MONEY DOWN! while the banner over the gate reads NO CREDIT, NO PROBLEM!

  Caitlin pulls onto the shoulder fifty yards from the entrance, then gets out and walks into the parking lot of the adjacent business, a small engine-repair shop. Its parking lot is crowded, making a covert approach to the car lot easy.

  Ten yards from the border between the lots, she sees Darla gesturing vehemently at a silver-haired, red-faced man. They’re standing between a van and a large SUV, apparently to shield their conversation from anyone in the trailer that serves as the dealership’s office, but Caitlin has a good view of them both. She creeps along the side of a trailer until she hears Darla call the man Pastor Simpson.

  That'’s got to be right,

  Caitlin thinks, because now she remembers Simpson from the story she did on charismatic religions.

  Having heard enough to be sure of what she’s seeing, Caitlin steps out of cover and walks right up to the pair. “Pastor Simpson?” she says. “I’d like to speak to you for a minute.”

  Simpson looks up sharply, as though prepared to respond angrily, but then he mistakes Caitlin for a customer.

  “Ma’am, I'm busy just now, but if you’ll wait a minute, I'’ll be right with you.”

  “I'm not here about a car.”

  “That'’s

  her,”

  Darla says anxiously. “The newspaper lady.”

  “Aw, hell,” Simpson says. “What do you want with me?”

  “I'm here about Linda Church.”

  “I don'’t know who you’re talking about. I never heard a nobody by that name.”

  Caitlin sighs wearily. “I find that hard to believe, since the first person Darla ran to after I questioned her about Linda was you.”

  “Well, you flustered this poor girl. I'm her pastor. She’s afraid you’re going to put her in the newspaper or somethin’.”

  Caitlin holds up both hands in a placating gesture. “I'm not here to put anybody in the newspaper.”

  “That'’s a bald-faced lie,” says Simpson with conviction. “That'’s

  what you live for, to see your name in the paper. I remember the story you did on our church, don'’t think I don'’t. You twisted the truth ever which way to make us look like fools. I got nothin’ to say to you.”

  Caitlin steps closer and speaks with all the sincerity she can muster. “Sir, my only concern is the safety of Linda Church. She’s a material witness to a major crime, and I believe her life is in danger.”

  “Well, what’s that got to do with us?”

  “I believe you helped Linda. I think you got Darla to carry a note from Linda to Penn Cage.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The mayor and I are very close friends.”

  Simpson snorts. “Livin’ in sin is what you mean, ain’t it?”

  “Mr. Simpson, I believe you acted as a Good Samaritan to Linda, just as your faith teaches, but I'm not sure you understand how dangerous the people who are looking for her are. If you really want to help Linda, you’ll tell me how to find her. I'’ll make sure she receives around-the-clock protection.”

  Simpson stares at Caitlin for a long time, as though about to come clean. Then he says, “It’s hard to stay protected when you’re on the front page of a newspaper. I tell you what, missy. If Linda Church had asked me for help—and I'm not saying she did—I woulda got her straight outta town where no slimy sons-of-bitches could hurt her. Okay? Now, that’s all you’re gonna get from me without the sheriff.”

  Caitlin turns to Darla, but before she can speak, Simpson interposes himself between them. “You leave this girl here alone too, or I'’ll have some law on you. We don'’t take kindly to harassment on this side of the river, especially by the likes of you. Now, get off my lot.”

  Caitlin tries to step around Simpson to address Darla directly, but he steps in front of her and shoves her backward.

  “That'’s assault,” Caitlin says quietly.

  “You don'’t get your ass off my property,” Simpson snarls, his eyes blazing, “I'’ll show you some battery too. Git!”

  Caitlin holds her ground for a face-saving moment, then turns and walks back to her car.

  CHAPTER

  42

  Walt Garrity blinks in surprise as he’s ushered into Jonathan Sands’s office. He expected the antebellum decor to be uniform throughout the boat, but this room could be the office of a European investment banker. The play that brought him here is simple: He’s told the pit boss that he needs to speak to the manager about a special group event, one the standard event planner won'’t be able to okay without the manager’s approval, and since that’s the case, he’d rather talk directly to the man with the power to answer his questions.

  Sands looks bigger than he did walking the casino floor. He has an imposing density that Walt has seen in natural fighters, and he has a fighter’s eyes as well, always probing for vulnerability. Yet when he rises from his desk, the watchfulness recedes, and he offers his hand with a smile. Walt takes it, gauging the power in it. It’s the hand of a laborer or an infantry soldier.

  “Hello, Mr. Gilchrist,” Sands says in a cultured English accent. “It’s good to have a real gambler aboard.”

  “Aw, you must see my type all the time.”

  “You’d be surprised. The average player on a Mississippi boat loses about fifty dollars. Our average is higher, because we have a higher percentage of table games, and we draw the affluent clientele that does exist. But still. It’s good to have a real player aboard.”

  “Winning, losing, hell, it’s all the same after a while. It’s the risk

  that keeps you going. Just like the oil business. I hate a duster, but, goddamn, it just makes it all the sweeter when you hit that pay sand on the next one. You know?”

  “A man after my own heart,” Sands says. “A man who can live out Kipling’s famous advice about victory and defeat—to treat those two impostors as the same.”

  Walt laughs. “You Brits sure have a way with words. I'’ll bet the ladies just fall over and beg for it when they hear that accent, don'’t they?”

  Sands smiles and takes his seat. “What business are you in?”

  “Oil.”

  “Not too much of it left around here, is there?”

  “More than you’d think. And with the price through the roof, the numbers on old wells look a lot better than they used to. Course, you’re right. In the fifties and sixties, they fo
und some fifty-million-barrel fields over here. Most of them are still producing. But I'm rambling. Times have changed, that’s for sure.”

  “You mentioned a group event in the future.”

  “Right. But it’s not your standard-type junket.”

  Sands smiles expansively. “I always have time for a man with an interesting proposition.”

  “I'm the same way myself. You never know what’ll come your way if you keep your ears open.”

  “What sort of event do you have in mind?”

  Walt hesitates as he once did when asking a pharmacist for a condom, but inside he’s feeling a too-long-absent thrill. He loves nothing more than facing his mark and winging it, which is what he’s always done best. If you look a criminal in the eye and come right at him—tempt him toward a crime as though it’s your idea—he frequently forgets to doubt you. Of course that can get into entrapment issues, these days. But in the heyday of the Rangers, there’d been a lot of latitude when it came to that kind of thing, and not much concern about procedure. Case notes tended to be spare, running a line or two every couple of days. “Drove from Austin to Dallas. Located suspect in barn. Killed him at dawn. Returned to Austin” was one Walt remembered fondly. Times have changed of course, but this meeting has some of the flavor of the old days.

  “Mr. Sands,” he says, “when you get to my age, like me and my

  friends, there’s not much you haven'’t seen. It tends to take a lot to get the old ticker racing.”

  A sympathetic smile from Sands. “All pleasures grow stale, don'’t they?”

  “Indeed. But in about a month, I'm bringing over a bunch of boys for a visit. We’'ve been looking for a place to blow off some steam without the wives, and we got to talking about Natchez. We used to come over here for a golf tournament they had every year, the local oilmen. Man, after that thing was over, we’d go back to the hotel, and they’d have the girls waiting. There were lines out the doors of some rooms, and local guys charging admission just to watch.”

  “That'’s the kind of action you’re looking for?”