Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“Why, do you think?”

“Same as the major, I guess. He’s somebody who does the right thing, if there’s any way to do it.”

“Isn’t that what you do?”

“Well…I try to. But seeing what’s right, and doin’ it—that’s two different things.”

“What about what we’ve been going through this past week?”

The sniper shrugs. “Life gets complicated. That'’s a fact. But I know this. Taking an enemy from the front ain’t always the best way. I figure Mr. Cage knows what he’s doing—even if he don'’t know he knows it himself yet. You know what I'm saying?”

Caitlin is surprised to hear herself laugh. “Actually, I think I do. I'm not sure I agree with you in this case. But I understand.”

Carl watches her for a few moments, then suddenly looks down, like a boy caught staring. “I didn't mean to keep you down here.”

“No, it’s all right. I appreciate hearing what you have to say.”

He looks back up at her. “You know what I think? I think you two gonna be all right. Sometimes it just takes a while.”

“How old are you, Carl?”

“Twenty-six.”

“You look thirty. And you sound like you’re sixty.”

He laughs warmly. “I'm just quoting what my daddy’s said to me.”

“Well…let’s hope he’s right.”

“Oh, he usually is. Good night, Mrs. Cage—oops, my bad.”

Caitlin smiles and shakes her finger at him. “I

know

that was on purpose.”

The deputy laughs and looks back at his newspaper.

“Call me if you need anything, Carl.”

“Same to you. I'm the one guarding you, remember?”

She smiles.

Caitlin ascends the long staircase, wondering why Penn’s words didn't resonate in her as they would have only a week ago. She walks into her bedroom and opens the dresser, wishing she’d packed more clothes for the trip. As she takes off her sweater and bra and slips on a T-shirt, her thoughts go back to her conversation with Pastor Simpson in the afternoon. Tying back her hair with an elastic band, she hears a noise from downstairs. Thinking it might be Carl knocking on the wall for attention, she goes to the door and sticks her head out.

A rush of movement from the right makes her jerk left, then a black hood descends over her head. As she shouts for Carl, someone yanks a drawstring tight, cutting off her air. Lashing out with both hands, she tries to break free, but a needle-sharp sting like a wasp’s pierces her neck below the jaw. Within seconds her limbs stop obeying her brain. She tries to yell Carl’s name, then screams for Penn, but all that emerges from her mouth is the blubbering of someone being shoved underwater.

CHAPTER

46

Walt Garrity stands between the Devil’s Punchbowl and a row of blinking slot machines, sipping a Maker’s Mark and trying to avoid Nancy. Since making his play with Sands earlier, he’s felt a nice buzz, and the whiskey only makes it better. He’s also realized that the case isn’t the only thing on his mind. The image of the Chinese beauty descending the escalator will not leave him. He’s been half-consciously searching for her all night. The search hasn’'t been easy, because Nancy seems to be noticing his absences more now. In fact, she ought to be running out of chips about now, and he’s going to have to put in a little time with her at the craps table.

Setting his empty glass on a table outside the bar, he heads for the main escalator that leads to the grand salon. Just as he reaches for the moving handrail, a hidden door used by the staff opens in the wall to his left, and the Chinese beauty steps out, wearing what looks like a silk kimono. She’s not looking at Walt, but she’s less than ten yards away and doesn’'t seem to be in a hurry.

He moves to his left, gently intercepting her, and says, “Excuse me, ma’am. Could I talk to you for a minute?”

“You want talk?” she asks in musical voice. “My English not good.”

Her ingenuousness melts something in Walt. “That'’s all right. I'’ll keep it simple. I really just want to sit with you for a couple of minutes.”

“Sit?”

“In the bar maybe? The Devil’s Punchbowl?”

She crinkles her nose. “Food not so good there. I no like.”

“We don'’t have to eat anything.”

She looks mildly anxious, as if she has somewhere else to be.

“Am I holding you up?”

“With someone else tonight. You understand?”

“You’re with someone else? You have a date?”

“Date, yes.” The girl smiles and nods, and Walt’s heart sinks.

She nods considerately, then moves to go. But after walking a few feet, she turns and glides back to him. “No date tomorrow,” she says softly, her eyes shining. “You come back tomorrow, I be your date.”

Something kicks in Walt’s chest, and it can only be his heart. He’d hardly dared hope that this woman could be had by a simple business transaction. But here she stands, waiting for his answer.

“You come tomorrow?” she asks. “Or I make another date?”

Walt swallows, trying to get his mind around the reality of what’s being offered.

“You no be sorry,” the girl whispers. “Me number one girl. Make you come many time. You feel twenty again. You like?”

Walt gulps as he did as an eighteen-year-old in Tokyo when the first streetwalker climbed onto his leg and offered him something he’d never heard of. Prostitution had been legal in Japan then, but it certainly wasn'’t in Texas, and he’d almost popped the moment her warm flesh settled against the leg of his uniform.

“Tomorrow,” he says finally. “I'’ll be your date tomorrow.”

The girl extends her graceful hand and traces one fingernail along his chest. “I like you. What I call you?”

“J.B.”

“Zhaybee?”

“Good enough.”

“Okay. I go now. Date waiting.”

She turns away again, but this time, emboldened by her frankness, Walt reaches out and lays a fingertip on her scalloped collarbone. When she turns this time, he thinks he sees a flash of annoyance, but then the submissive smile of the Orient he remembers from so long ago returns. “Yes, Zhaybee?”

“What do I call you?”

Her smile broadens. “So sorry. I forgot. I am Ming.”

“Ming?”

“Ming. Like the vase, yes?”

“I won'’t forget.”

“Bye for now.”

Walt watches her lithe form glide across the carpet until she slips into the mass of fat American bodies crowding the slot machines.

“I guess you’re dumping me now, huh?” Nancy says petulantly from behind him.

Walt turns, takes in the genuine hurt in her face, and tries to let her down easy. “We’'ve had a good run, Nancy. Haven’t we?”

“What’s so great about her?”

What’s not?

Walt wonders.

“She’s too damn skinny,” Nancy says, “too skinny by half. Nothing to hold on to when you get in the saddle.”

Walt gives her a patient smile.

“Course I guess that doesn’'t matter, since you can’t saddle up anymore.”

Despite the venom in her voice, Walt takes out his wallet and peels off $500 of Penn’s money.

“We had a good run, honey. Will you take some advice from an old man?”

“That'’s the only kind of vice I don'’t like,” Nancy says, her face hard again.