Greg Iles - The Devil’s Punchbowl

‘Good, good.’

‘How was your visit to Greenville?’

‘Fine. Got some good people up there, and they really want the plant. I still like this place, though,’ Necker says almost wistfully. ‘It’s got a romance to it that the other cities don’t have–apart from New Orleans, and there’s no possibility of making that work now.’

I figured as much, but it’s a relief to hear it confirmed.

‘I did an overflight three days after the levees broke,’ he says, looking down at a string of barges on a bend in the river below. ‘Hauled some relief supplies down to Biloxi. Christ, it looked like the End of Days down there. There were still people stranded on the interstate. I couldn’t believe it.’

I shake my head but make no comment. The enormity of the havoc wreaked by Katrina is beyond words. We do what we can, then start again the next day. ‘You want to view the industrial-park sites first? Or look at the city?’

‘Let’s head straight down to the old Triton Battery site. I’m pressed for time today. Okay with you, Major?’

‘It’s your nickel,’ McDavitt replies.

On any other day, Necker’s haste might worry me, but today I’ll take any excuse to get time alone with my thoughts. As we drone southward, following the vast river, the city unfolds beneath us like an Imax film, the classic city on a hill, one of only three on the eastern side of the Mississippi from Cairo to New Orleans. From two thousand feet, you can see the nineteenth-century scale of Natchez, the church steeples still taller than all but two commercial buildings; yet we’re still low enough to take in the Gone With the Wind aura of the grand mansions set amid the verdant forests of the old plantations. A year ago I could rattle off our claims to fame with poetic enthusiasm: how Natchez in 1840 had more millionaires per capita than any city in America; how we survived the Civil War with our property intact, if not our pride; and how, after the white gold of cotton failed, the black gold of oil replaced it. But experience has drained my enthusiasm, and my ambivalence is difficult to mask.

Still…a more picturesque American town could not be found anywhere. For sheer beauty Natchez is unmatched along the length of the river; with its commanding site above the river Mississippi it surpasses even New Orleans, and one would have to travel to Charleston or Savannah to find comparable architecture. But gazing down from this helicopter, I no longer see the city I knew during the first eighteen years of my life, nor even the town I found when I returned seven years ago. Now I see Natchez through the mayor’s eyes, and what I see is a town crippled by a mistake made thirty years ago, when the majority of whites pulled out of the public school system in response to forced integration. A city whose public schools are 90 percent filled with the descendants of slaves, and whose four private schools struggle to provide a superior but redundant education to mostly white students, leavened by a few lucky African-Americans (the children of affluent professionals or dedicated middle-class parents–or those kids recruited to play football) plus the majority of Asians and Indians in the county, who avoid the public school system if they can. Changing this state of affairs was my primary reason for running for mayor, for until it is changed, we’re unlikely to attract any new industry larger than Hans Necker’s as-yet-unborn recycling plant. But thus far I have failed in my quest–publicly and miserably.

Necker asks a lot of questions as we fly, and I answer without going into detail. Every road, field, park, school, and creek below holds indelible memories for me, but how do you explain that to a stranger? Necker seems like the kind of guy who’d like to hear that sort of thing, but the truth is, I’m simply not in the mood to sell. That’s one good thing about casino companies: you don’t have to sell them. They come to the table ready to deal. And like the plain girl dreading prom month, we can’t afford to be too picky about whom we say yes to. We got our prison the same way. (It might look like a college athletic dorm, but the razor wire doesn’t let you forget its true purpose.)

After flaring near the earth beside the river south of town, Major McDavitt sets the chopper down on the partially scorched cement where the gatehouse of the Triton Battery plant once stood. For me this is an uncomfortable visit, because I set the fire that destroyed the shuttered hulk that remains of the factory.

‘You okay?’ Necker asks with a smile.

‘Not bad, actually. Thanks to Major McDavitt.’

The pilot holds up a gloved hand in acknowledgment.

‘Take a walk with us, Danny,’ Necker says.

McDavitt removes his headset.

‘I always use military pilots,’ Necker explains, climbing out of the chopper. ‘Combat pilots when I can get them. They don’t lose their cool when things go awry, which always happens, sooner or later.’

I follow the CEO down to the cracked concrete, bending at the waist until I clear the spinning rotors. McDavitt gets out and walks a couple of strides to our left, like a wingman on patrol. He looks about fifty, with the close-cropped hair and symmetrical build of a Gemini-era astronaut.

‘Lots of history around this town,’ Necker says, walking toward the burned-out battery plant. ‘Not all of it ancient.’

I feel Major McDavitt come alert beside us.

‘For example,’ Necker goes on, ‘this plant here was used by a drug dealer as a hideout until somebody in present company took care of business.’

Danny McDavitt gives me a sidelong glance.

‘And we’re not too far,’ Necker continues, ‘from where somebody ditched a chopper under suspicious circumstances.’ The CEO beams with pleasure at the hitch in McDavitt’s step. ‘I just want you boys to know I do my homework. I’ve checked you both out, and I figure whatever you did, you had good reasons. I check out everybody I plan to do business with, and I’d like to do some business in this town.’

I stop, and they stop with me. Necker has to look up at me, since I’m three inches taller, but I’m the one at a disadvantage.

‘I’m going to be straight with you, Penn,’ he says. ‘I want to bring my plant here. I want to buy that old factory there and recycle all the debris to show the town I mean business. There’s one obstacle in the way, though. This has been a union town since 1945. I used to be a big supporter of unions–belonged to one myself when I worked as a meat packer. But they got out of hand, and you see the result.’ He waves his hand at the abandoned battery plant.

It’s a little more complex than that , I think, but this doesn’t seem the time to argue U.S. trade policy.

‘Mississippi has a right-to-work law, and I plan to use that. But bottom line, I need to know one thing.’ A stubby red forefinger shoots up. ‘When push comes to shove on something–and it always does–am I gonna have your support? Are you going to be in office a year from now, when I need you? If I’m going to bring my plant down here, I need to know you’re going to be the man in charge. I can’t afford some yokel, and I can’t afford the other thing.’

Major McDavitt cuts his eyes at me. The other thing?

‘Don’t get the wrong idea,’ Necker says quickly. ‘I don’t care what color a man is, so long as he can tell red ink from black. But race politics gets in the way of business, and with your fifty-fifty split, I can foresee some problems. I figure you’re my best shot at solving those problems.’

‘You’re saying that if I answer yes to your question, you’ll bring your recycling plant here?’

‘That’s the deal, Mr Mayor.’

‘What makes you think I won’t be here in a year?’