Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

It helps that Natchez is an oil town. There isn’t much business left here—mostly workovers being done by men trying to suck the last few barrels from wells drilled in the 1950s and capped in the 1980s—but some big fields were discovered in the old days, and the town enjoyed remarkable prosperity. Quite a few Texas outfits still have interests in the area, and with Tom arranging for a geologist friend to let it out that J. B. Gilchrist has an override on a well being drilled next week, the town’s history will firm up his cover just fine.

Walt turns on Main Street and parks outside the lobby of the Eola Hotel. As he dismounts from the big van, he sees several trailers parked crosswise in the crowded lot, most with colorful balloons painted on their sides. At the back of the lot, a couple of crews seem to be packing suitcases into their trucks rather than unpacking, as Walt would have expected. He brought the Roadtrek because Tom had told him he wouldn'’t be able to rent a hotel room during the festival weekend, but Walt senses that the introductory scene he’d planned to play in the lobby might just pay off with a room.

The Eola is a classy hotel from a bygone era, a grand old dame that makes even Walt feel young again. He walks up to the brass cage of the desk and nods to the harried-looking desk clerk whose name tag reads BRAD

.

“Can I help you?” asks the young man, not meeting Walt’s eye.

“J. B Gilchrist, checking in.”

“Yes, sir. Do you have a reservation?”

“Course I do. Check your screen there. It’s

G-I-L,

then the name of our Lord. You follow?”

Brad looks perplexed. “Sir, ah…I'm checking under

G,

but I don'’t show a

Gilchrist.

Could the reservation be under another name?”

“How could it be under another name?” Walt asks, upping his volume enough to turn a few heads. “I only got one name, son. Big Jim Gilchrist. And I'm tired from a damn long drive. Now, I was happy when I walked in. Why don'’t you get me fixed up so I can stay happy?”

“Sir, I'm afraid this is one of the most crowded weekends of the year, and—”

Walt cuts the boy off with a withering glare. “Listen, son, let’s skip the formalities and get your supervisor in on this, so we can have an executive decision. Hotels always keep a couple rooms on standby for when they make mistakes, like you’re making now. You just tell your boss to release one of ’em, and everything will be fine.”

“Mr. Gilchrist, I don'’t think you understand the—”

“Supervisor,” Walt cuts in. “Boss man,

jefe

—are you reading me? Call whoever you got to call to make this right.”

Walt turns away from the desk and walks toward a long, black grand piano that looks like an idling limousine awaiting a driver. He begins hammering out “Chopsticks,” drawing curious and annoyed glances from the guests in the lobby.

“Mr. Gilchrist?” Brad calls. “Sir?”

Walt doesn’'t stop banging the keys, but he cuts his eyes toward the desk. “I'’ll bet you'’ve got some good news for me.”

“Well, actually, it turns out that we do have an unexpected checkout. If you don'’t mind a room that hasn’'t been made up yet?”

Walt laughs good-naturedly. “Son, before I struck it big, I stayed in places a cockroach would have run from. You just print me out a key. I'm ready to get down to one of them boats and lose some money.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

Walt looks around and sighs expansively. “Seems like a lot going on for this town. This ain’t Pilgrimage month, is it?”

“No, sir. It’s the Balloon Festival. The only reason this room is free is because we had a problem this morning with the flight.”

Walt’s inner sentry goes on alert. “What kind of problem?

“Well, someone took a shot at one of the balloons.”

“I'’ll be dogged. Kill anybody?”

“No, sir. But they did have to crash-land the balloon. And the mayor was in it.”

“The mayor?” Walt barks a laugh as he thinks this through. If Penn had been badly hurt, Tom would have called despite instructions not to save in dire emergency. “No kidding? He make it?”

“He’s fine. They just had a hard landing.”

“He must have pissed somebody off, huh? Wrote the wrong ordinance or something. I’'ve known a couple mayors I wouldn'’t have minded shooting.”

“They think it was squirrel hunters.”

“I'’ll be dogged,” Walt says again. “Balloons flying tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir, Sunday too. But everybody’s nervous, and some of the pilots have left town. It’s a pilot’s room you’re taking tonight.”

“Sounds like I owe the lone gunman a favor. Otherwise I wouldn'’t have a room in this fine establishment.”

The clerk slides a form toward him. “If you’ll just initial here, and here, and sign at the bottom. Please note the fine for smoking in the room.”

“Hell, I'’ll just pay you now.”

Brad frowns. “It’s two hundred and fifty dollars, Mr. Gilchrist.”

Walt laughs like a man for whom $250 is a minute’s pay, then signs his name with a flourish. “Just pulling your chain, Brad.”

As the clerk tries to pull back the form, Walt leans in close. “Say, what’s the action like around here?”

Brad looks confused. “The casinos are all beneath the bluff. Our concierge can help you with anything else, but he’s busy right now.”

Walt slides a $100 bill across the desk. “I'm talking about girls, Brad. I know where the gambling is, but that’s only half the party. I’'ve been hankering for a colored girl, to tell you the truth. Been a while, you know? This seems like the right town for that. They got girls on the boats or what?”

Obviously offended, the clerk lets his voice take on a haughty tone. “I'm sure I don'’t know, sir.”

“What about cockfighting? I know you got some of that around here. That'’s the kind of action I'm talking about. Blood sport.”

Brad straightens up and squares his shoulders. “Sir, if you don'’t mind, there are people waiting.”

Walt snatches back the bill. “You’re in the wrong job, sonny. You say the concierge is busy? You got an elevator man? Somebody around a hotel has to know what’s what.”

The clerk’s cheeks are red. “Will you be needing help with your luggage?”

“I need a bellboy who can earn that C-note with some useful information, that’s what I need.”

“Perhaps someone can help you on one of the boats.”

Walt walks away muttering loudly, “I never heard of a deskman in an oil town who don'’t know nothin’ ’bout the local trim.” He turns and shouts, “Send a bottle of Maker’s Mark up to my room from the bar. You know what that is, don'’t you?”

“A full bottle?”

“Jesus, Brad, where’d they find you? I want whiskey, and if you'’ve got a pretty maid who can bring it up, send her up with it.”

There was a time when the way he’d behaved in the last five minutes wouldn'’t have shocked any hotel man in the South, and not many around the country.

I guess times do change,

Walt thinks.

But not that much.

The clerk would gripe to somebody about the old asshole he’d had to deal with, then repeat what Walt had asked for, and soon enough, like ripples in the proverbial pond, word would reach the proper ear. It was simply a matter of waiting.

Any fisherman could tell you that.