The Devils Punchbowl

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.

“Ad

vice.”

Walt holds her eye, forcing her to see him straight.

“Okay, okay, let’s hear it.”

“It’s nothing you haven'’t heard before. But I want you to listen this time. Find another line of work.”

“Great. Thanks, granddad. You know how hard it is in this town to find a job that pays what I make on my back?”

“Find a new town. Girls don'’t live long in this racket.”

For a few brief seconds Nancy looks back at him without affect, completely vulnerable, almost hopeful, but then a dealer calls a win, and she blinks, and the walls go back up, her eyes as opaque as plaster marbles.

“Take care, Nancy. And thanks. You brought me luck.”

CHAPTER

47

Caitlin has no idea how long she’s been locked in the car trunk when the vehicle finally stops. As soon as she woke up, she found a taillight with her foot and kicked it out, but though she stuck her hand through the hole and waved it wildly, no one stopped the car.

Two doors open and close, then the trunk pops open. Someone lifts the lid. She hears gruff commands—the accents Irish. Powerful hands seize her and lift her out of the trunk, letting her feet dangle to the ground. Fear is loose in her like a wild thing, but she keeps telling herself that if they meant to kill her, they could have done it before now. She’s glad they'’re holding her up. With the hood over her head, it’s difficult to maintain balance.

“I'm holding a Taser,” says a voice. “Try to run, I'’ll juice you. You won'’t like it. I can tell you from experience.”

They march her forward at a rapid clip, then stop. There’s a jangle of keys. Suddenly she hears panting. A barrage of barking erupts close to her, and she hears heavy bodies slamming into a Cyclone fence. All at once she remembers Linda’s note, about Quinn feeding Ben Li to dogs.

“Get ’em back!” shouts an Irishman. “Goddamn it, go! Use bait if you have to.”

One man lets go of Caitlin, but the yammering dogs keep hitting the fence. Caitlin wants to speak, but duct tape holds her jaw immo

bile. After about a minute, the dogs race away and slam into what must be a different fence. There’s a metallic rattle, then the sound of an opening gate.

The man drags her through, then opens a door and leads her into a closed space that stinks of urine, old food, and dirty animals. She smells alcohol too, rubbing alcohol, plus other medical odors she can’t identify. The floor feels like bare cement. They march her twenty steps, then stop and open another door with a key. This sounds like a real door, not a gate. Someone shoves her between the shoulder blades, driving her into the room. She almost stumbles, but keeps her feet long enough to collide with a wall opposite the door.