The Devils Punchbowl

Jessup smiles sagely. “

Now

you’re thinking, dude. Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“Not to me.”

“Me, neither.” He lights another cigarette and sucks on it like a submerged man breathing through a reed. “Until you realize it’s not the corporate parent doing the ripping, but a single guy.”

“One guy?

That'’s impossible. Casino companies never give an individual that kind of power.”

Tim expels a raft of smoke. “Who said they gave it to him?”

“No way, Timmy. The casinos do everything in their power to avoid that situation.”

“Everything in their power.

And they'’re good. But they'’re not God.

” He grins with secret pleasure, as though he’s smoking pot and not tobacco. “The company makes certain assumptions about people and situations, and that makes them vulnerable.”

I run my hand along my jaw. The fine stubble there tells me it’s getting late. “Obviously you have a suspect. Who is it?”

Tim’s smugness vanishes. “You don'’t want to know that yet. Seriously. For tonight he’s ‘Mr. X,’ okay? He Who Must Not Be

Named. What matters is that he’s been with the company long enough to put something like this together.”

I know a fair amount about the Golden Parachute Gaming Corporation. But rather than scare Tim off by speculating over which executive might be the one, I’d rather take what he’s willing to give me. For now. “Let me get this straight: Mr. X is also behind the dogfighting and the girls?”

“Hell, yeah. The side action’s what brings the whales down here, which in turn makes the Queen all the more profitable, while making Mr. X some serious jack on the side.”

I sigh deeply, sickened by the thought that I, who reluctantly courted Golden Parachute and helped bring the Magnolia Queen to town, may also have helped to infect my town with this virus. But rather than blame myself, I turn my frustration on Tim. “You picked a hell of a week to come forward. This is balloon-race weekend. We’'ve got eighty-seven hot-air balloons coming to town, and fifteen thousand tourists. I’'ve got a CEO expecting the royal treatment, which I'’ll have to give him to try to pull his new recycling plant here.”

Tim nods. “Read about it in the newspaper. Sorry.”

“Seriously, Tim. I don'’t see how you expect me to help you without knowing Mr. X’s identity. I can’t do anything without that.”

Tim goes back to his submerged-man routine with the cigarette. In its intermittent glow, I watch his eyes, and what I see there frightens me. The dominant emotion is fear, but mixed with that is something that looks and feels like hatred.

“What’s your idea of help?” he says softly.

“What do you mean?”

His eyes tick upward and lock onto mine. “You worked for a big-city DA. You know what I mean.”

“I saw the pictures,” I say gently. “I know this is bad. That'’s why we have to let the authorities handle it.”

“Authorities?”

He almost spits the word. “didn't you hear what I said on the phone? You can’t trust anybody around here with this.”

“My own police department? Do you really believe that?”

Tim looks astounded by my ignorance. “They’re not yours.

Those cops were on the job before you got into office, and they’ll be there

when you’re gone. Same for the sheriff and his boys. To them, you’re just a political tourist. Passing through.”

His casual damnation of local law enforcement disturbs me. “I trust a lot of those men. We grew up with most of them, or their fathers.”

“I'm not saying the cops are crooks. I'm saying they'’re human.

They’re looking out for themselves and their families, and they like to have a little fun on the side, same as the next guy. How many guys you know wouldn'’t look the other way to get a beer-drinking snapshot with a star NFL running back? I’'ve been to a couple of these barn burners, okay? I know who I’'ve seen there.”

Like the full import of a cancer diagnosis, the ramifications of what Jessup is telling me are slowly sinking in. “You’ve personally witnessed Mr. X at these dogfights? You’ve seen him encouraging underage prostitution?”

Jessup snorts in contempt. “Are you serious? You want to arrest Mr. X for promoting dogfighting? On my word? The bastard could get a dozen upstanding citizens to swear he was on the Queen any day or night we name.”

“Dogfighting is a felony in Mississippi,” I say evenly. “Just watching one is a felony. The maximum sentence is ten years. And with multiple counts? That'’s hard time.”

This seems to get Tim’s attention. But even as I point out the facts, I silently concede that Jessup has a point about his being a problematic witness. “Obviously, nailing them for defrauding the city would be the lethal hit. Golden Parachute would lose its gaming license, and that would shut down five casinos in one pop. The IRS would eat them alive. The partners would lose hundreds of millions of dollars.”

“Now you’re talking,” Tim says bitterly.

“So how do you propose we handle this? Do you have any documentary evidence, other than the pictures I saw?”

He licks his lips like a nervous poker player. “I'm not saying I got nothing, but I need more. I’'ve got a plan. I’'ve been working on it for a month.”

A sense of foreboding takes hold deep in my chest. Everything he’s told me up to now has been leading to this. “Tim, I won'’t help you risk your life. I do have experience with this kind of operation, and I’'ve seen more than one informer wind up with his throat cut.”

Jessup has the faraway look of a martyr walking into the flames. Without warning he seizes my wrist with a startlingly powerful grip. “This is our town, man. That still means something to me. I'm not going to sit still while these carpetbagger motherfuckers ruin everything our ancestors worked to build—”

“Shhh,”

I hiss, feeling blood coming into my cheeks. “I hear you, okay? I understand your anger. But it’s not worth your life. It’s not even worth taking a beating. People in this town were gambling, selling slaves, raping Indian women, and cutting each other’s throats before Paul Revere sold his first silver candlestick.”

Tim’s eyes are glistening. “That was centuries ago. What the hell’s wrong with you, Penn? We’re talking about innocent lives. Underage girls and defenseless animals.” He lowers his voice at last, but the urgency does not leave it. “Every week Mr. X sends out four pickup trucks with cages in the back, a hundred miles in every direction. When those trucks come back, the cages are filled with house pets—cocker spaniels, poodles, dalmatians, cats. The trainers throw ’em into a hole with starving pit bulls to teach the dogs how to kill, or tie ’em to a jenny to make the dogs run. Then they feed them to the dogs when it’s all over. Every one of those animals gets torn to shreds.”

Even as the shiver goes through me, I recall that a neighbor who lives three houses down from me lost her seven-year-old cocker spaniel last month. She let the dog out to do its business, and it never came back.

“I didn't ask for this,” Tim says stubbornly. “But I'm in a position to do something about it.

Me, okay? What kind of man would I be if I just turned away and let it go on?”

His question pierces me like a blade driven deep into my conscience. “Timmy…shit. What would you say if I told you that the only reason I'm still mayor of this town is that I haven'’t figured out how to tell my father I'm quitting?”