The Devils Punchbowl

Kelly, Carl, and Danny are looking at Walt with new respect. Apparently, they took the older man for what he appeared to be, a tired cowboy who might know his way around a horse and saddle, but not a computer.

“So Tim might have been right about Sands manipulating the casino’s gross,” I reason. “But if I understand you correctly, they could be

exaggerating

the earnings of the casino rather than underreporting.”

“They might run some dirty money through that way,” Walt says, “but they’d be paying county, state, and federal taxes on it, and that gets costly. The bulk of the operation would be handled by wiring large sums into the casino’s bank for gamblers who show up a day or a week later, then gamble for twenty minutes, and cash out their accounts in money that’s now legally clean. The casino makes false reports to the government to understate or misrepresent the wire transactions, and that’s it. It’s a dream setup. How many casinos does Golden Parachute own?”

“Five in Mississippi alone.”

Walt chuckles softly, then begins to laugh outright.

“What is it?” asks my father, who seems to recognize Walt’s tone.

“Those casinos ain’t casinos at all,” says the Ranger, his face reddening. “They’re goddamn Chinese laundries.”

Kelly’s nodding thoughtfully. “That'’s got to be it.”

“If you’re right,” I say, “then why would Sands risk such a sweet deal to do things like fight dogs and run whores?”

Caitlin leans forward and speaks with cutting clarity. “The same reason a dog licks his balls.”

There’s an awkward silence, then the men burst out laughing.

“Because he can,” Carl says.

“It may be just that simple,” Kelly reflects. “Men follow their compulsions wherever they are. I see it all the time overseas.”

My father clears his throat and says, “This Freudian analysis is all fine and good, but what are we going to

do

? My wife and granddaughter are sitting in Houston with strangers because of these bastards. I want to know how to resolve this situation—fast.”

Everyone’s looking at Kelly. He stands motionless for a time, his eyes focused on the floor at the center of our circle with Zen-like calm. He’s thirty-nine years old, with not a spare ounce of fat on him. When he moves, his body ripples with corded muscle, yet his blue eyes seem mild, even amused most of the time. He may work for a security company, but when I see him like this, all I can think is

Delta Force.

“I'm tempted to pay Sands a personal visit,” he muses, still looking at the floor. “Before we do anything else.”

“For what?” I ask.

“To lay out some ground rules. He already threatened your family. He could strike at any time. He needs to know that any move against you will result in him being wiped from the board.”

I hear a couple of audible swallows.

“I can see that,” Walt says pragmatically. “The problem with going that way is you’re unzipping your fly the minute you talk to him. If Sands sees what he’s up against, he could pull in his horns and shut down for a while. That'’s the opposite of what we want. Right?”

Kelly considers this argument, then nods with certainty. “That'’s

why we’re going to end this thing tonight. Sands and Quinn are our immediate problem. We need to get them by the balls as fast as we can. Then the inevitable will happen.”

“What’s that?” Caitlin asks.

“Their hearts and minds will follow,” says McDavitt.

Kelly looks at me. “You said dogfighting’s a felony, right?”

“Right. Even attending one is a felony. And the sentences can be pretty stiff.”

“Then tonight we’re going to run a quiet little op. A photographic expedition. We’ll shoot pictures of Sands, Quinn, and any local dignitaries who might be in attendance, plus the whores and anything else worth shooting. At that point, you’ll have evidence that could put Sands in jail for serious time. Your DA will have no choice but to cooperate. I’'ve seen dogfighting in Kabul. It’s brutal stuff. If Caitlin publishes one photo spread on the

Examiner

’s Web site, the PETA people will be calling for the partners of Golden Parachute to be crucified on the Washington Mall.”

Walt nods. “I’'ve been trying to find out where they fight. Nothing yet, but I'm on it.”

“What do we use for equipment?” I ask.

“I’'ve got night-vision optics in my gear bag,” Kelly says. “Scope, camera, range finder. Carl’s probably got some stuff too.”

The sniper nods. “We got a new scope at the sheriff’s department. I can have it up from Athens Point by tonight.”

“How do we get close to one of these fights without being detected?” I ask.

Kelly smiles cagily. “Most of them happen by the river, right?”

“That'’s what Jessup told me.”

“Then we do a Huck Finn.”

“A raft?”

“Not exactly. didn't you tell me you'’ve done some kayaking with the guy who organizes that annual race here? The Fat something or other?”

“The Phat Water Kayak Challenge.”

“Right.” Kelly tries to puzzle this out. “Is he a rapper or something?”

“No, he’s an ex-marine, force recon. He’s about fifty.”

“Will he lend you a boat?”

“Sure. He’d be happy to guide us to wherever we’re going.”

“That'’s it, then. Danny will fly air support. He’ll be my eye in the sky, with Carl riding shotgun with his sniper rifle. Wherever the VIP boat docks, I'’ll slip into shore a hundred yards away, find the action, photograph it, then get out before they even know I'm there.”

“Sounds like a plan,” says McDavitt. “I'’ll bet they go the same place they docked last night.”

“Where was that?” asks Caitlin.

“A spot down the river. Louisiana side. Looked like an old farm, maybe a deer camp now. I was pretty high up, but I saw what could have been a small crowd of men under some trees.”

“Wait a second,” I cut in. “Those kayaks are nineteen feet long, but they only seat one paddler. We—”

“I know they only seat one,” Kelly says, looking hard at me. “It’s not

we

on this trip, buddy. It’s me.”

I feel blood heating my face. “You’re not going without me.”

“I'’ll move a lot faster without you, Penn.”

“You’re missing the point. I need to be there so that I can corroborate the evidence later. We don'’t know what kind of legal proceedings might come out of this. You’re going to go back to Afghanistan, or Iraq, or Africa, wherever. I need to be able to say I was there, that I saw you take these pictures and the action they document.”

Kelly takes a deep breath and looks at my father, but Dad says nothing.

“You’re forgetting something, buddy,” Kelly says. “Something I heard your mother told you not to forget.”

“What?” I ask, but it’s coming back to me now. The morning we evacuated them with Kelly’s people.

“Annie,” Caitlin reminds me. “This is no Outward Bound course. There’s real risk here.”

“Believe it,” Walt says. “Dogfighters are like drug growers, obsessed with security. They’re well-armed, high-tech, and highly mobile. You should expect guards—human and canine. You might run into booby traps, laser fences, God knows what.”

Kelly nods as though this is all part of a night’s work. “I’'ve been fighting Taliban insurgents for the past year, Mr. Garrity. I can handle this.”