The Devil's Punchbowl by Greg Iles

allow babysitters to use my first name. “Everything’s fine, Carla. What about here?”
     
She pulls back the door, revealing her blue-and-white jumper and eyes red from sleep or studying. “Yeah. I was kind of scared, though. I heard the car stop, but then you didn’t come in…”
     
I smile reassuringly and follow her inside, keeping the file pressed inside my shirt with my left hand while I dig for my wallet with my right. Having no idea how long I’ve been gone, I pull a couple of twenties and a ten from my billfold and give Carla permission to go with a wave.
     
“Annie did all her homework,” she says, slinging a heavy backpack over her slight shoulder. “Paper’s written.”
     
“Did she do a good job?”
     
“Honestly?” Carla laughs. “That girl knows words I don’t know. I’d say she’s about one year behind me, gradewise.”
     
“I feel the same way sometimes. Thanks again. What about this weekend?”
     
Carla’s smile vanishes. “Um…maybe some late at night, if you need me. But I’m going to be at the balloon races most of the time. They have some decent bands this year.”
     
“Okay. Any time you can spare, I’ll pay you extra. This weekend is crazy for me.”
     
She smiles in a way that doesn’t give me much hope.
     
After closing the door behind Carla, I pour a tall iced tea from the pitcher in the kitchen fridge, carry it to the leather wing chair in my library, and spread the file open on the ottoman.
     
Golden Parachute Gaming Corporation pitched itself to the city as the Southwest Airlines of the casino industry. Capitalized by a small, feisty group of partners led by a Los Angeles entertainment lawyer, the company evolved a strategy of moving into secondary gaming markets and undercutting the competition’s prices in every way possible, while simultaneously providing personable and personalized service, even to its less moneyed patrons. They run a phenomenally efficient operation, but what’s opened many stubborn doors for them is their practice of forming development partnerships with the communities they move into, building parks, ball fields, community centers, and even investing in the development of industrial parks in some cities. Small town officials eat this up, and Natchez was no exception.
     
More than anything, though, Golden Parachute’s success in penetrating our market came down to timing. They applied for their gaming license in the aftermath of Toyota’s disastrous decision to build a new plant in Tupelo versus Natchez. Citizens were bitter about the lost jobs and ready to climb into bed with someone else—almost anybody else—on the rebound. Golden Parachute already had successful casinos up and running in Tunica County, near Memphis, and Vicksburg, just sixty miles north of Natchez. With that track record, they had no trouble getting local heavyweights to lobby the state gaming commission to grant a fourth license for Natchez.
     
Bringing another casino boat to town had not been one of my goals when I ran for mayor. (In truth, none of the floating casinos are navigable vessels; they are barges built to look like paddle wheelers from the era of Mark Twain, but at five times historical scale.) My platform was reforming education and revitalizing local industry. But after considerable persuasion by the board of selectmen, I agreed to help close the casino deal. My reasons were complex: exhaustion in wake of the Toyota failure; a savior complex running on adrenaline after the depletion of my initial inspiration; disillusionment with my colleagues in government and with many of the citizens I was supposed to be serving. I was also frustrated that the board of selectmen were often divided along racial lines: four black votes and four white, with me the deciding factor. I voted my conscience every time, but few people saw it that way, and with every vote, I lost more allies on one side or the other. The only thing the board could agree on was any proposition that could bring money or jobs