Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

Magnolia Queen.

Jiao must have seen many of these women over the past few weeks. The final photo shows only a male organ entering a woman’s anus, but Caitlin is sure that Jiao knows whose penis she’s looking at. Her doll-like lips purse for a few seconds, then without lifting her eyes from the top image, she says, “Do you have money?”

“Do you need money?” Caitlin asks, confused. Perhaps Jiao has been cut off by her uncle and fears she can’t survive without Sands’s support.

A fleeting smile crosses Jiao’s face, and the aquamarine eyes rise to Caitlin’s. “No, I mean, were you raised with money?”

“Yes.”

“My father made little, but my uncle saw that we never went without. Father wouldn'’t touch that money for himself, but we children got the necessities. After he died, I lacked for nothing. But I found that whether women have money or not, we look for men

who are strong enough to be providers. Strong enough to protect us, yes? But with that strength comes things we do not want so much. A wandering eye, aggressiveness, even cruelty. Yet the men who would always be faithful, the ones who worship us, we ignore or kick away. Do you find this to be true?”

“I’'ve made mistakes like that. But some men are both strong and kind.”

Jiao’s eyes move over Caitlin’s face. “I think my father was like your lover. He was a professor. He taught law in Communist China. What could be more absurd? When I was young, I thought he was a fool. After he died, I attended school in England, as you said. But during breaks I went to Macao, to live under my uncle’s protection. He didn't want me there, but I insisted. I was seduced by his power, his money, the unimaginable wealth. And I fell in love with Jonathan Sands. He seemed a glamorous figure to me, an Irishman who could carve out a place for himself among my uncle’s henchmen. He was white, yet my uncle respected him. And of course, my mother was a Scot.”

The coffee bar’s single waitress walks toward them. Caitlin lays the manila envelope over the explicit photos as the woman passes and goes to the restroom. “You must have been very young when you fell for Sands.”

Jiao shrugs. “Older than my mother when she married. But, yes, I was young. Too young to see what I was to him. A way to rise in the hierarchy, to reach the inner circle. He was playing a role from the beginning, I think.”

Caitlin is impressed by the girl’s sangfroid, but it makes her doubt the soundness of her plan. Without an angry Jiao, nothing of value will be accomplished here.

“I'm curious about something. Did they let you see the violent part of what they did?”

Jiao takes a quick breath, then expels it. “They tried to insulate me from that, my uncle especially. But everyone has a primal fascination with violence. At that point in my life I was curious. But my curiosity was quickly satisfied. Death holds no mystery for me. I think women are interested in life, men in death. What do you think?”

Jiao’s genuine interest in her opinions takes Caitlin off guard. This

meeting reminds her of conversations during college. “I think there’s some truth in that.”

Jiao toys with what’s left of the muffin on her plate. “At first I thought violent sport was something that came along with male strength. They admired in others what they aspired to in themselves.”

She slides the envelope off the picture and stares clinically at her lover fucking another woman. “I saw much dogfighting in Macao. My uncle lives for it. He and his friends. Breeding the dogs, training them—most of all fighting them. But what I learned watching those men was this: They prized the dogs that would fight to the death, beyond all hope of survival. The ones too weak to do that, they killed. In the end, though, all the dogs died.” Jiao looks earnestly into Caitlin’s eyes. “They prized some dogs, you see, but they

loved

none of them.”

This insight silences Caitlin for a while. “Is Sands like that?”

Jiao ignores the question, her gaze still on the photograph. “They see us the same way,” she whispers.

“How do you mean?”

The girl’s eyes rise to Caitlin’s. “You’re a beautiful woman, Ms. Masters. Don’t protest, please, you know you are. It’s a fact, like strength or height. All your life you'’ve benefited from this attribute, as I have.”

Caitlin can feel herself blushing. “Yes. I have.”

“Men prize beautiful women, they pursue us with all their power, shower us with wealth. They settle for those of medium attractiveness, and the ugly ones they treat as slaves.”

Caitlin isn’t sure what to say. “That might be a little extreme.”

“Do you think so? I do not.”

“Well—”

Jiao silences her with an upraised finger. “We all lose our beauty one day, Ms. Masters. All of us. Never forget that.”

“That day is a long way off for you.”

Jiao smiles. “In the eyes of the man I thought I wanted, it has already come and gone. I sensed it long ago. I’'ve tried to deny it. I have been a fool.”

Caitlin says nothing.

“What do you want me to do?”

CHAPTER

68

It’s 6:00 p.m. as Kelly and I drive down Pierce’s Mill Road toward the

Magnolia Queen,

the flaming sun beginning to set above the bridges behind us. I wanted the meeting earlier, but I was lucky to get it at all. Had the thumb drive not turned out to contain the legal dynamite I’d hoped it would, Hull would have told me to go to hell. As it was, he tried to sidestep my intent by offering a quick meeting between the two of us, but I demanded that Sands be present, and despite Sands’s resistance, Hull forced him to accede to my wishes. What gave me the boost of confidence I feel now was Sands’s insistence that the meeting take place aboard the

Queen.

I’d worried that I might have to insist on this venue myself, but as I’d anticipated, Sands considered it a victory to force his home territory on us.

“What are you thinking?” Kelly asks, braking his 4Runner as we descend the long hill.

“I'm not.”

“Bullshit.”

To my left, the Mississippi River blazes orange under the falling sun, and five hundred hundred yards below us, the fake smokestacks of the

Magnolia Queen

suggest the opening shot of a Technicolor version of

Huckleberry Finn.

“Seriously. Whenever I had to go into court for a summation, or even a critical cross-examination, I

winged it. I figured if I didn't already know everything I needed to, I was lost anyway.”

“I don'’t know if that makes me feel better or worse about this.”

“Everything depends on Hull. I envisioned a bow-tied Beltway tight-ass, but the more I’'ve talked to him, the more I’'ve realized he’s a pro. He’s just been working this case too long. I can’t imagine what trying to run a guy like Sands as a CI would be like. They’re probably like two scorpions in a bottle by now.”

Kelly laughs wickedly. “That I don'’t doubt.”

“Hull and I will be a little like that. More like boxers, maybe. The wire idea was genius. That'’s what’s going to make him let his guard down.”

“Nothing increases the odds of victory more than letting the enemy think he’s already taken your secret weapon.”

Hidden in my belt is a digital transmitter Kelly brought along in his Blackhawk gear bag. Given Kelly’s flint-knife surprise in Sands’s office, we feel sure that Quinn will search every nook and cranny of our bodies before allowing us near Sands. When his search turns up the wire, that should convince our marks that we have no other way to record the conversation. After that everything depends on Sands’s steering us to his office or to the interrogation room below deck.

“You know what I'm wondering?” Kelly says.

“What?”

“Did Jiao really hide those recorders in there?”

“You mean where she was supposed to?”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “I mean at all.”

“She did. Don’t even think about it.”

“Why are you so sure?”

I turn to him, a slight smile showing. “Hell hath no fury, brother. It’s a law of the universe. Like gravity.”

The grade levels out at last, and Kelly pulls the 4Runner alongside the massive barge with the faux steamboat built atop it. The structure dwarfs everything around it, and only the steel cables running above our heads that moor the casino to the shore betray that it’s a vessel and not a building. A red-coated valet approaches the 4Runner, but Kelly rolls down his window and waves him off, then raises the window with a whir.

“Listen,” he says, all levity gone from his voice. “No matter how you look at this, we’re about to walk into hostile territory. Indian country. I don'’t know if Po is coming to this party later or not, but you can bet that Sands, Hull, and Quinn have contingency plans in case things don'’t go their way. At a certain point, every situation becomes every man for himself. Understand?”

“You’re saying if it goes to shit, I'm on my own?”

“No. I'm saying those guys won'’t hesitate to fuck each other or anyone else who gets in their way. Trust does not exist among these people. Not even Quinn and Sands, who probably grew up together. But Sands’s biggest fear is

you.

You’re the loose cannon on his deck. While he had Caitlin, he felt he had you under control, but now…I don'’t think he’d hesitate to kill you if he thought you were going to have him arrested.”

“I get you.”

“After you, his fear is Hull. If Po doesn’'t show, Hull’s going after Sands’s scalp. So Sands has to have an exit strategy in that event too. Just keep all that in mind while you’re ‘winging it.’”

“I will.”

Kelly grins at last. “We’'ve been here before, bro. If the wheels come off, hit the deck and listen for me. I'’ll be right with you.”

“I know you will.”

Kelly looks to his left, over the long gangplank that leads to the main deck of the

Queen.

“There’s our buddy,” he says, lifting a hand to wave at Seamus Quinn. “I'm gonna give you one for Linda Church before we’re done, you mick bastard.”

“Aren’t you Irish too?”

“Sure. What?”

“Nothing. Just take it easy. We didn't come to fight.”

“I'm easy, baby. Let’s do it.”

As we walk across the broad gangplank, I lean toward Kelly. “You think it’ll be Sands’s office or belowdecks?”

“Interrogation room,” he whispers. “The Devil’s Punchbowl.”

“Why there?”

He laughs loudly, as though I’'ve just told a joke. “In case they decide to shoot us. Easier to dump the bodies.”

I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not, and before I have time to think

about it, we’re through the main door of the casino, where a doorman with gold-braid epaulets and a captain’s cap greets us in an “Ol’ Man River” bass.

“This way, gents,” Quinn says from behind him in a surprisingly professional voice. We’re within earshot of fifty customers playing the slot machines, so some rudimentary courtesy is called for. Quinn leads us down the length of the three-hundred-foot-long saloon. The sunset has lit the skylights a brilliant orange with purple shading, and for a moment this sight behind the glittering chandeliers makes me dizzy. A second later, though, I see Chief Don Logan standing at the head of the escalator that leads to the

Queen

’s upper or “hurricane” deck.

Logan and a handpicked team of plainclothes police detectives are here to take charge of the recorders planted by Jiao as soon as we vacate the room where the meeting is held. Logan will kill time playing slots on the hurricane deck, and when I appear afterward—either from Sands’s office or from the interrogation room in the bowels of the barge—I'’ll signal the chief by touching the top of my head, and he and his men will move to retrieve the appropriate recorder.

“What did I tell you?” Kelly says softly.

Quinn has walked us behind a partition three-quarters of the way down the saloon, where a brass-plated elevator waits discreetly for staff with business belowdecks.

Quinn punches a nine-digit code into a keypad beside the doors, and they open with a soft whir. The elevator is surprisingly spacious, and Kelly stands unnecessarily close to Quinn during the brief descent.

“Stand back, queer boy,” Quinn says, now that we’re away from the paying customers.

Kelly laughs but doesn’'t move.

When the doors open, three security men in black coats stand waiting for us, wands in hand.

“Assume the position,” Quinn says, gesturing at the wall to our left.

Kelly and I flatten our hands on the wall and spread our legs, though Kelly mutters under his breath for effect. As per the terms set for this meeting, neither of us is carrying a weapon, but as strong

hands pat and probe me, Quinn says, “I’'ve half a mind to poke a light up Ponytail’s arse, to make sure he hasn’'t got one o’ them knives stuck up it.”

Kelly mocks a girlish squeal. “That'’s just the excuse you need to check out what you been craving since you saw me, isn’t it?”

Quinn is cursing when one of the wands stops and hovers at my belly button, beeping softly.

“What is it?” asks Quinn.

“Probably my belt buckle,” I say, straightening up.

“Not so fast,” says Quinn, gripping my upper arm. “Take your belt off.”

“What for?”

“Jaysus, just do it.”

With obvious reluctance I remove my belt. The guard wands my belly while Quinn feels his way along the belt. His hand stops, then with a chiding smirk he draws a knife from his boot and slices the leather on the inside of the belt. One flick of the knifepoint exposes a thin wire antenna, and he rips out the transmitter with a laugh.

“Sneaky bastard. Wouldn’t have thought it of you, Your Honor.”

Quinn uses this find as an excuse to have the men go over Kelly again, but they discover nothing. Telling the guards to stay where they are, Quinn leads us down a narrow corridor. The barge really feels like a ship down here, with hatches dividing the compartments instead of doors. Suddenly Quinn stops, then twists the wheel on a hatch, pushes it open, and motions for us to follow him.