Salvation Row (17 page)

“I know they’re not. And I will.”

“The other thing, what I came down here to say, I heard about what you did for Alexander. I’m grateful, John. Me and Elsie, we’re both very grateful.”

“It’s the least I could do. He saved my friend’s life.”

“That may be, but you didn’t have to get involved.”

No
, Milton thought.
I did
. He shrugged it off. “I’m just glad that I could help.”

“Me and Elsie are going over there tomorrow. Izzy thinks that we should give him a day to settle in, work out what’s what. He don’t need me and his mother hovering over him until he’s started to get himself straightened out.”

“That sounds best.”

“All right, then. I said what I came here to say.” He reached out and took Milton’s hand again. “You’re a good man, John, you know that? Don’t go thinking we’re not appreciative of what you’re doing for us because we are, you hear?”

Milton smiled. Solomon squeezed his hand and looked into his eyes with gratitude and sincerity. It made Milton feel fraudulent. A good man? Hardly. He would never be that. He was trying to atone, one day at a time, but he would
never
be that.

THE END of the day came, and Izzy gave Milton a key to the front door. He went back to his hotel, showered and changed into fresh clothes, and then drove back into the Lower Ninth. He parked at the end of Salvation Row and stayed there until he saw a taxi draw up. Izzy led her parents out of the house and down the path. They were dressed smartly, Sunday best, and, as they got into the taxi, Milton watched as she paused and looked up and down the road.

He opened the door and stepped out of his rental, nodding at her as their eyes locked.

Milton approached the house, surveilling the street in both directions. There was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. He unlocked the door and went inside. It was as neat and tidy as he remembered. The hall was filled with a delicious aroma. There was a note on the table just inside the front door. ‘Dinner in the oven and the fridge. Thank you.’

Milton went through into the kitchen. The oven was lit, and, inside, there was a warm bowl of Elsie Bartholomew’s jambalaya. He opened the fridge door and saw a slice of Key lime pie covered by a sheet of plastic wrap. Milton put on an oven glove, transferred the bowl to the table, poured himself a glass of water, and set about it.

Milton was washing up the bowl when there was a knock on the door. He carefully laid the bowl on the drying rack, put his clean cutlery back in the drawer, wiped his hands dry, and went into the hall. He looked through the fish-eye peephole and saw two men waiting on the stoop. One black, one white. They were both agitated, swaying to and fro, most likely both high.

Milton opened the door. “Hello.”

The black guy frowned. “Who you?”

“Who are
you
?”

“Don’t get cute, brother.”

“I’m a friend of the family.”

“Where’s the girl?”

“She’s not here.”

“So where is she?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You think?”

“No, it doesn’t. You two are dealing with me now.”

The man squared up to him, his lip curling in a sneer. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“So who
are
you?”

“Yes, that is an important question. I’ll tell you, and I want you to remember so you can tell whoever it was who sent you here.”

“This don’t work like that, bro. I be telling
you
what to do, you don’t be telling
me
.”

“My name is John Smith, but, as far as you two are concerned, since we’re not on first name terms, I’m Mr. Smith. I want you to tell your boss that he has no interest in these houses any longer. They’re not for sale.”

The man puffed up his chest, but it was bravado. Milton could see that he was confused. “That right?” He reached down to his belt and flicked his jacket aside with the back of his hand. Milton saw the handle of a pistol. He moved his right leg back a half pace. He knew that it would make him look nervous, which was good, but it would also allow him to distribute his weight just as he wanted it.

“I’d give you a proper message to deliver, but neither of you look particularly bright, and I’m not sure that you’d remember it. So, you’re going to be the message.”

“What you talking about?” the white guy said. “You listen to this dude, Melvin? Yo, man, what you been smoking? The two of us and the one of you? How’s that going to turn out?”

“Badly,” Milton said.

The black man, the one called Melvin, touched his fingers to the butt of his pistol just as Milton drilled him with the stiffest right-hand jab he could manage. He pushed off with his right leg, putting all of his weight into it, and his knuckles connected with the man’s mouth and nose. He felt the bones crumple, heard them snap, and Melvin staggered backwards, tripped over the step up to the porch, and landed on his back with a heavy impact. The white guy went for his own pistol, but Milton was onto him already. His momentum carried him out of the door, and he swung out a left hook that terminated just above the man’s right ear. His head went limp, his lights already out, and he toppled over onto his left-hand side, his temple bouncing off the concrete paving slabs that comprised the path.

Milton assessed. He was out and would be for a while.

The black guy was the one in charge. He was shaking his head, clearing the cobwebs, his hand patting aimlessly for the gun. Milton took a step up to him and booted him in the chest. The man jerked up off the ground, landed, jerked up a second time as Milton kicked him again. He worked on the ribs, intending to break a couple of them, and his third hefty boot was rewarded with the
crack
that he wanted. The man mewled piteously.

Milton crouched down, confiscated the pistol, then went back to the white guy and took his pistol, too. A Beretta and an S&W. Street weapons, serial numbers filed off, probably seen plenty of action. Milton ejected the magazines, let them drop to the ground, and dropped the guns.

He crouched down, grabbed the lapels of the black guy’s jacket, and yanked him up. He wasn’t heavy, and Milton managed his weight easily. He slammed him against the side of the house.

“Hurts,” Melvin gasped.

“I haven’t even started yet. Tell your boss not to come around here again. If he sends anyone else, I’ll send them back in a worse state every time. You two are getting off easy. You got that?”

The man managed a spastic nod.

“Now,” Milton said. “I’m going to help you get into your car, and you are going to fuck off. Okay?”

“Yes,” he whispered through a mouthful of blood.

Milton did as he promised. He dragged the white guy to the car and tossed him across the back seats. Then, he went back to the black man and dropped him onto the driver’s seat. He waited until the engine started and the car set off, slowly, wending around across the road.

MILTON LOCKED the door, hurried to his car, and set off in the direction that the two men had taken. He picked their Lexus LS400 up two blocks to the north, dropped back until he was a hundred yards behind them, and then followed.

They took North Claiborne Avenue, then a right onto Elysian Fields Avenue, then Abundance Street and, finally, they parked outside the bar at 623 Frenchmen Street. The Spotted Cat looked like a happening venue. There were plenty of people outside, tourists digging the hole-in-the-wall vibe, tattooed buskers toting instruments and hoping to sit in with the bands that would play until the small hours.

Milton watched as they got out of the Lexus and went into the bar.

He waited.

After five minutes, a second car arrived. It was a Jaguar, an expensive sedan that looked out of place in this grimy neighbourhood. The Jaguar slotted into the side of the road next to the battered Lexus. Milton watched as the lights flicked off and a tall well-dressed man emerged. It was too dark for him to see him clearly, but he was a little over six feet tall, dark-haired and wearing a long black overcoat that must have cost him several hundred dollars. Upright posture. Confident. Milton thought he looked ex-military. The man was carrying a folded manilla envelope in his right hand. He crossed the road and went into the Spotted Cat.

Milton opened the door of the Buick and got out. He didn’t know how long he would have to do what he needed to do, but he assumed that it wouldn’t be long. He went to the front of the rental and unscrewed the radio antenna. He went to the trunk, opened it, and took an emergency seatbelt cutter out of the breakdown kit. He walked to the Jaguar, checking the road to ensure that he was unobserved. A truck had pulled up alongside the car, blocking him from view. He took the cutter, inserted the thin end between the upper part of the door and the chassis and firmly tapped it into the space with the heel of his hand. The jammed cutter created a narrow gap, just enough for him to slide the antenna inside the cabin and down to the lock button. It took a moment to find it properly, but, once he had lined them up, a sharp jab was all that was needed to depress the button and pop the locks.

He opened the door. The cabin was neat and tidy, with a folded copy of the
Times-Picayune
resting on the dash. Milton opened the glove box and took out a clear plastic folder, within which were stored a neat sheaf of papers. He opened the folder and quickly shuffled through the contents. He found a card from Esurance Insurance Services, Inc. that confirmed that liability insurance was in place for the vehicle. The insured’s name was listed as Jackson K. Dubois, and his address was 5201 St. Charles Avenue, New Orleans. The card was clipped to the car registration paper and confirmed that Dubois was the registered owner.

Milton took out his phone, activated the flash, and took pictures of each document. He replaced them in the folder and slid that back into the glove box. The truck pulled away. He got out, shut the door, and went back to the Buick.

The man—Jackson Dubois?—emerged from the bar five minutes later. Milton watched him as he crossed the road. As he passed beneath the glow of a street lamp, he saw that his face was stiff with suppressed anger. He walked quickly, as if anxious not to stay in the neighbourhood any longer than was absolutely necessary. He blipped the lock from ten paces away, not noticing that the doors were already unlocked. He got inside and quickly drove away.

Milton would have followed him, but that wasn’t necessary now.

It was a good start, but he wasn’t finished yet. Not even close. If Izzy was right, there were millions of dollars on the line. The kinds of businessmen who dealt in stakes that large, they were the sort with no time for scruples. The sort who had no compunction in sending two strung-out junkies to do their bidding for them. Milton had dealt with men and women like that before. There would be an escalation, and it would be more difficult to respond next time. More dangerous.

He was going to have to persuade Izzy to move her parents out of the house, just until things had settled down. He knew they wouldn’t like it, especially Solomon, but it wasn’t safe for them there. They would have to stay in a hotel until he had managed to put a lid of things.

But that wasn’t going to be easy.

Milton was going to need some leverage.

He was going to need help.

He was going to need to call in a favour.

JOEL BABINEAUX flew to Lafayette in an entirely different mood from the miserable funk he had stewed through when he had last followed the route of the interstate, back east to New Orleans, two nights ago. This time, the Westland was carrying ten members of his executive team, and there was a co-pilot in the seat next to him in the event that he was needed elsewhere.

He buzzed the facility, swooping down deliberately low, and, rather than landing in the field, he brought the chopper down in the parking lot. A storm of dust was kicked up by the rotor wash. Little stones were flung around, many of them striking against the expensive cars that were parked a little too close. He pushed open the door, lowered himself carefully to the ground, and then stalked to the doors, aware of his limp, but dispassionate about it.

The Pirate of Canal Street.

It had never been more pertinent.

He swept into the lobby, his lawyers and executive staff trailing behind him. The security guards looked up at them in confusion.

“Get Morgan,” he said to the nearest man.

“He’s not—”

“Yes, he is. Get him, now, or you’ll be the first one I fire.”

The guard furrowed his brow in doubt, spoke to his colleague, picked up his handset, and spoke to someone on the other end of the line.

Pierce Morgan’s personal assistant emerged from the elevators less than three minutes later. She managed a thin, weak smile and invited them upstairs. Mr. Morgan would see them, she said.

The elevator deposited them on the executive floor. There was a lounge with plush furniture and deep carpets, and a picture window that offered the same resplendent view as the one from the conference room that Babineaux had been in just two days previously. He told the others to wait and followed the girl into the suite of offices. Morgan’s was the largest of them with thick deep-pile carpet, mahogany tables, and a huge desk.

Morgan was at his window, his back turned.

The assistant cleared her throat.

Morgan turned. His face was puce, livid with rage.

Babineaux grinned.

“You’re responsible for this?”

“Let the best man win. That’s what you said.”

“This c-c-company,” he began, his voice cracking. “This company was started by my great-grandfather nearly two hundred years ago. I took it over when you were just a shake in your daddy’s pants. This company is an institution in the South. It’s… it’s…”

“Sit down,” Babineaux said, dismissively waving his hand at the chair.

Morgan glared at him, but, to Babineaux’s pleasure and surprise, he actually started to do as he was told.

Babineaux stalled him with a raised hand. “On second thought, don’t. Stay on your feet.”

“What…?”

“That’s not your seat anymore.”