Page 30 of The Devil''s Punchbowl

  “What?” asks Caitlin.

  “He stole it,” says Walt. “Right?”

  Kelly smiles. “Lock, stock, and barrel. This is speculation, but probably very close to what happened. Right before Sands and Weldon applied for their license, Po showed up and said, ‘Hello, Jonathan, my faithful servant. I appreciate all the legwork, but Golden Parachute Gaming is about to become a subsidiary of Po Enterprises, Ltd. Unofficially, of course.’ And what could Sands do but grin and bear it? He knew he wouldn’t live five minutes if Po decided otherwise. So, Po’s name went into the five-percent silent-partner pool as a token investor, but in reality, the bulk of the money that funded Golden Parachute was his. Craig Weldon became a figurehead, either bought off with massive payoffs or scared into silence. Chinese gangsters are pros at both. California still has Triad-affiliated youth gangs who can enforce whatever the higher-ups want. Forget Sands and Quinn—Craig Weldon owns a lot of L.A. real estate, and an L.A. youth gang could permanently fuck up his portfolio with one weekend’s arson and vandalism.”

  I wait for Kelly to go on, but he seems to have come to the end of his story. “So Golden Parachute is actually owned by a Chinese billionaire?”

  “That’s what my employers think.”

  “Does the U.S. government know that?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  After digesting this, I say, “What do you think Sands’s real position is with the company? Does he even have an equity stake?”

  Kelly shrugs. “Whatever his title is, he might as well be chief cook and bottle-washer. He’s under Po’s thumb. It’s like he never even left Macao.”

  “Except he has the girl,” Caitlin points out. “Jiao.”

  “How happy did he look to you?” Kelly asks me.

  “Not very. Which brings us to the question I’ve been asking since Tim Jessup first came to me. What the hell is Sands really doing here? And is he doing it on his own, or for Edward Po?”

  “Your father told me about Jessup’s theory,” Kelly says. “Sands could be stealing from the city to try to make his own pile. Get a stake and haul ass, with or without the girl. But is he that stupid? The world’s not big enough to hide from Edward Po. If that’s Sands’s plan, he’s a moron.”

  “He’s no moron. The opposite, in fact.”

  Kelly stands and begins doing dips between two crossbars on the poles supporting the deer stand. His triceps flex like those of an Olympic gymnast. “So,” he says, “whatever game Sands is playing with his accounting, he’s doing it on orders from Po. Or at the very least, with Po’s blessing.”

  “That brings us back to my original question. Why risk a gaming license worth hundreds of millions of dollars to steal a few hundred thousand, or even a few million, from a small town in Mississippi? Edward Po can’t be that stupid.”

  “He’s not,” Walt Garrity says in the tone of someone who knows.

  “Are you familiar with Po?” Kelly asks.

  “Not by name,” says the old Ranger. “But from what you’ve said so far, I think I’ve got the picture. Po’s Chinese organized crime, right?”

  “Right.”

  “If he has U.S. operations, they’ll involve human-smuggling, prostitution, possibly drugs, and definitely money laundering.”

  “Right again,” says Kelly, looking slightly surprised.

  “I wondered about money laundering,” I think aloud.

  “Casinos are tailor-made for it,” Walt explains. “Casinos are just banks, really, without all the pesky regulations. Wherever you have casinos, you have large-scale money laundering. The feds have passed a lot of regulations, but there’s so much money to be made, crooks can bribe casino employees to ignore them.”

  Caitlin says, “Would the profit be enough to tempt someone as wealthy as Po?”

  “It’s not a matter of profit,” Walt says. “Not the way you think of it. The biggest problem any criminal has is what to do with his profits. Take drug dealers. Cash money weighs more than the product they sell. Cash is one big pain in the ass. A guy like Edward Po needs hundreds of legitimate businesses to lay off all the cash he takes in. Maybe thousands, if he’s that big in China. Import-export firms, currency exchanges, car dealerships, you name it. But casinos make the best laundries. Casinos and online gaming sites, based offshore.”

  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.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can. I’m just making the point for Penn.” Walt gives me a piercing look. “Your old-time American dogfighting fraternity is a tough bunch of boys. And from what you say about these Irish bastards, they could be worse. If they figure out Kelly’s close, there’s gonna be gunplay, no doubt about it.”

  I look around the ring of faces, sensing that everyone agrees with Kelly and Caitlin. “I’m not forgetting Annie,” I tell them. “But I’m not forgetting Tim Jessup either. This isn’t up for debate. If we can take Tim’s killers down tonight, I’m going to be there.”

  Caitlin uses her eyes to plead silently with me, but the men are watching my father. Dad rubs his chin for a while, then says, “Peggy was right about Annie needing you. She was right that we’re getting old. But she isn’t right that nothing’s more important than your children. Sometimes you have to take a stand. I’m not saying this is that time. But Tim was your friend, and I understand if you feel you have to go.”

  “I’m getting two boats,” I tell them. “End of discussion.”

  Kelly nods once in surrender. “Okay. We’ll put in upstream and take our directions from Danny in the chopper.”

  “What about comm?” McDavitt asks.

  Kelly reaches into his back pocket and takes out a small, black box like a cell phone, with a short, fat antenna. “These walkie-talkies are encrypted and guaranteed across ten miles. We call them Star Treks, like the ‘communicators’ on the old TV show. I brought four with me. For God’s sake, nobody lose one. They’re army-issue, Special Forces only, and it’s my ass if I go back to Afghanistan short.”

  “What kind of weapons are you taking?” Carl asks.

  Kelly looks as if this is the least of his concerns. “I’ll decide that later. I’d like to avoid violence, if possible. But if they start the party, I’ll be happy to bust their pińata.” Kelly gives Carl a frank look. “You down with that?”

  The sniper turns the question over in his mind. “Somebody shoots at me, I gotta shoot back, don’t I?”

  “What if they shoot at me?” I ask.

  Carl grins. “Just think about that insurance commercial, the one with the red umbrella. I got you covered.”

  “How big is your umbrella?”

  “In daylight, over a thousand yards. Nighttime’s a little different. But I won’t be far away. You just focus on staying quiet while Kelly does his job. Danny and I will take care of the rest.”

  “All this testosterone is certainly reassuring,” Caitlin says, “but what if you don’t find a dogfight?”

  Kelly shrugs. “We pull back, regroup, and wait for more intel. From what we know about Sands, I don’t think he’s worried about being caught by the locals.”

  “They’ll be fighting tonight,” Walt says with confidence. “Go outside and smell the air. Feel it. It’s football weather. The blood is up. Animals are getting itchy, starting to move. Bucks are fighting in the woods. Fighting and fucking’s what it’s all about this time of year.”

  I think Caitlin is actually blushing.

  “What about you, Mr. Garrity?” Kelly asks. “I know you didn’t come all this way to twiddle your thumbs.”

  “That’s a fact,” Walt says. “I came because my old comrade-in-arms was in trouble.” He nods at my father. “And I do have a plan. But I tend to play a long game. I like to move slow and careful and let my prey come to me.”

  Carl is listening closely. Undoubtedly, a sniper can relate to this philosophy.

  In a good-natured voice, Walt says, “I’m sure that after tonight, I’ll be redundant personnel. But no matter what happens, this is the last time you folks will see me. I’m like an actor playing a part. Once I get into the role, I don’t break character. I almost didn’t come tonight, but I wanted to see what this mess was really about. I’m glad I did.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help you?” Kelly asks.

  “I have only one request, and it’s for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I rather you not tell your employers about my involvement.”

  “No problem.”

  “Why not?” asks Caitlin. “You don’t trust Blackhawk?”

  Walt spits on the concrete floor and looks off into the shadows. “Blackhawk is a Texas outfit, and they have some good men over there. But after 9/11 they ramped up pretty quick—sort of like deputizing a bunch of laymen for a posse. It’s tough to know who you’re getting when you hire that fast.”

  “I wouldn’t argue with you,” says Kelly. “Don’t lose a second’s sle
ep over it.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Walt stands and stretches, and within twenty seconds everyone else has followed suit. As he lowers his arms, I see a leather string around his neck that triggers a powerful memory.

  “You still carry that derringer with you?”

  Walt smiles, then pops open the top mother-of-pearl snap on his Western shirt and lifts what looks like a child’s toy from where it lies against his chest. Kelly and Carl lean forward. The derringer is smaller than a woman’s hand, with burled-wood grips and metal dulled by years of sweat.

  “Two shots?” Carl asks.

  Walt smiles. “That’s one more than you generally get, ain’t it?”

  “But I’m firing a .308 round.”

  Walt pulls a pin from the gun and removes its cylinder, exposing the brass tails of five bullets. “Two’s generally enough in the kind of situation where you use this thing, but you never know.”

  Carl puts his hand out and touches the gun like a talisman, but Kelly says, “I thought Texas Rangers carried Colt .45s.”

  Walt chuckles. “Pretty hard to hide my old Colt. I’ve been patted down many a time without anybody finding this little lady. She’s loaded with .22 long-rifle rounds. They do the job just fine.”

  While Carl studies the gun, Kelly looks at me. “What’s your day look like?”

  “I’m scheduled to present a citizenship award on the bluff at the Ramada Inn at two p.m. There’s always a big crowd there on Sunday, watching the balloons. Barbecue, lots of city employees, kids.”

  “It’s public knowledge that you’re doing this?”

  “Sure. Printed in the paper. Why?”

  “I may stop by to get a look at whoever’s covering you.”