Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“I want to talk to your boss. It won'’t take long.”

Quinn plants both hands on the side of my car and glares into the backseat. “You fuckers banjaxed it, did you?”

In my rearview mirror the two bruisers hunch in the backseat like toddlers dreading a spanking. Quinn stares in amazement as I take two Glocks from my waistband and hand them to him butt-first. “I'm already late for something, and if I don'’t show, people are going to come looking.”

The glinting eyes narrow, but Quinn finally waves me forward with a guarded smile. “I'’ll follow you in, your lordship.”

As he walks away, the gate rattles open on its electric chain, and I drive through under the watchful eye of a video camera mounted on a pole to my right. Is Sands watching from his bedroom? I wonder as my car tops a low rise, and I see the casino manager’s house for the first time. In a city famed for Greek Revival, Spanish, and Italianate mansions dating to before the Civil War, Sands has chosen the closest thing to a Miami drug lord’s palace as his residence. The linked boxes of white stucco may overlook the river, but they look like alien spacecraft that landed in the antebellum South by mistake, crushing an acre of pink azaleas when they set down.

“Why does Sands live here?” I ask the guys in the backseat.

“Why not?” one says sullenly.

“There’s concrete and steel under that stucco,” says the other. “He won'’t sleep in a house that won'’t stop a bullet. I think it’s an Irish thing.”

“Must be.”

“You are

sooo

fucked,” the second guy says for the tenth time. “I can’t believe you’re driving into this place. If I had the keys, I’d be halfway to Mexico by now.”

“I'm not the one who banjaxed it” is my reply. “Whatever that means.”

Sands’s driveway is a long ellipse, and the river shows to great advantage, for the bluff is lower here than in town and steps down gently to the water. As I brake to a stop behind an Aston Martin Vanquish—an automobile beyond the reach of any honest casino manager—it occurs to me that the best way to go after these guys might be to put the IRS on their tails.

Quinn skids to a stop behind me, jumps out, and opens my door. “Here we are, guv’nor,” he says, his voice dripping mockery. “Let’s go see the man.”

“If you’re waitin’ on me, you’re walkin’ backwards.”

Quinn’s eyes become slits. “Eh?”

“Never mind.”

The Irishman opens the back door and motions for his two thugs to get out. After some effort one of the guys manages to work his way out of the small backseat with his bound hands. Quinn regards him silently for about ten seconds. Then he takes something out of his pocket and fits it over his right hand. I catch the gleam of brass just as Quinn swings, a powerful uppercut delivered with such speed that it would have taken a stop-action camera to capture it. The snap of bone shatters whatever illusions of security I might have had.

“That'’s battery,” I say stupidly.

Quinn gives me a grin that’s close to a leer. “You’re seeing things, Mr. Mayor. He fell down.” He extends a hand toward the mansion. “After you.”

Jonathan Sands awaits me at his kitchen table in a white terry-cloth robe, a steaming cup of coffee and the

Natchez Examiner

laid out before him. The kitchen looks like an operating theater: The cabinets

are white, the appliances steel, the countertops architectural concrete. The only raw touch in the room is the owner’s unshaven face. Sands’s sniper’s eyes rake left and right as he scans the

Examiner,

but he says nothing.

Before entering the front door of the house, I was hand-searched, scanned by two electronic wands, and had my gun and personal cell phone taken away, along with the BlackBerrys belonging to the unfortunate men sent to watch me.

“I'm told you have a message for me,” Sands says in his artificial accent, not lifting his eyes from the newspaper.

Why,

I wonder,

does he preserve the illusion of Englishness here?

“That'’s right. I sent my mother and daughter away this morning. I wanted you to know that.”

Sands sniffs, sips from the steaming cup, then looks up, his eyes devoid of everything but irritation. “That wasn'’t part of our agreement.”

We have no agreement,

I think. “I realize that. But you need to understand something about me. I’'ve come close to losing my daughter before, and I can’t function if I have to worry about her safety. So I took her off the board. I'm still clear about what you want. I don'’t care about the money you left with me, so you might as well take it back. But I will try to locate what Tim stole from you, and I will give it back to you if I find it.”

After a long silence Sands says, “I find that difficult to believe, Mr. Cage.”

“Which part?”

“That you’ll return my property to me.”

“You shouldn’t. I might look to you like some Dudley Do-Right with a savior complex—and maybe I used to be that way, a bit—but I'm cured of that. When I first took this job, I was full of fire. My priority was to fix the school system, because all progress flows from that. It took about a year to realize that was never going to happen. I wanted to bring industrial jobs back to this town, and I lost my best chance of that when Toyota pulled out. I got your boat instead. The truth is, I’'ve been thinking about stepping down for some time. My priority is my little girl, not this town. So, if you want to rake a little extra money out of the local yokels’ pockets, it’s fine by me. I'm ready to get out, and I mean

out.

”

A lopsided smile has lightened Sands’s face. His teeth are perfectly straight and startlingly white; much too perfect for a working-class Irishman.

He wears dentures,

I realize.

Before he can reply, a door to my left opens, and I go rigid, half-expecting the eerie white dog to enter the kitchen. Instead, a brown-skinned Asian woman of startling beauty glides into the room with grace so effortless the most cultured belle would be hard put to match it. Scarcely five feet tall, she radiates a self-possession that seems to affect Sands as profoundly as it does me. When she takes the chair nearest me and gazes up at me, her eyes take my breath away. They are aquamarine, but they shine from the perfect archetype of a Chinese face. I'm put in mind of some English smuggler who spread his seed during the Opium Wars or the Boxer Rebellion and left half-caste beauties like this one behind to suffer the fate of mixed-blood children.

“We have not yet been introduced,” she says, and in those six words I hear the pure source of the English accent Sands mimics so well. The woman looks no more than twenty, but she must be older.

“I'm Penn Cage.”

She grants me the slightest of smiles. “I’'ve seen your photograph in the newspaper. I am Jiao. I did not mean to interrupt. Please continue.”

Jiao’s unexpected appearance has jarred my sense of purpose. “I’'ve already said what I came to say,” I say awkwardly. “My only concern is the safety of my family.”

Sands’s lopsided grin has returned. “And your friend? Jessup? What about him?”

“Whatever Tim did to you, he was on his own. I'm sorry he’s dead, but I warned him not to do anything stupid. When you stick your nose in other people’s business, you get hurt sometimes.”

“Just so,” Jiao says gravely. “In business and politics, casualties are a fact of life.”

I incline my head toward her.

“It’s rare for an American to understand this,” she says.

“Oh, we understand it. We just don'’t like to admit it in public.”

Sands laughs softly, but only the memory of a smile is on his lips. With almost affected care, he takes a cigarette and a gold lighter