by Mark Dawson
“I can be persuasive.”
“That bruise on his chin?”
He shuffled a little. “Shall we just leave it at that?”
She looked at him, a new curiosity on her face. “I don’t really care how you did it,” she said eventually. “He’s in there, where he needs to be, that’s enough for me.”
There was a pause, a silence that felt friendly and companionable and not awkward. The waitress returned with their breakfasts. Milton started into it with gusto. The food was excellent, and they were both quiet as they ate.
Milton paused to take a long drink from the tall glass of orange juice. “So,” he said. “What needs doing today?”
“What do you mean?”
“The houses.”
“You don’t have to help,” she said. “It was good of you to help yesterday, but come on…you’ve done more than enough already.”
“I want to help, Izzy. Yesterday was good. It feels good to be doing something positive. And clearing those lots, or building something…you can see your progress. It’s tangible. And it feels therapeutic.”
“Never heard it described like that before,” she said as she smiled a little, but not enough to mask the flicker of discomfort that had passed across her face.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a problem.”
“What kind?”
She looked hesitant. Milton encouraged her to go on.
“Last night. Two men came to the house.”
“Who?”
“Thugs. They’d never say, they probably don’t even know, but it’s obvious they were from Babineaux.”
“Guy who wants to build the mall?”
She nodded.
“And?”
“They told us that we had to accept the offer to buy the houses or they’ll make us leave. And they said it wasn’t ‘safe’ for me to be in court. They threatened us. My father got involved, and one of them punched him. He’s all right, a nasty bruise, pride hurt, you know, but they say they’re coming back again tonight.”
“Call the police?”
“They won’t do anything,” she said dismissively. “You couldn’t pay them to come down to the Lower Nine.” She shook her head with certainty. “My papa is a proud man. He won’t stand down, especially if he thinks me or my momma are being threatened. And if something happens to him, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“And you think they’ll come back?”
“Maybe Babineaux will win in court. Probably he will. But I can drag it out and that’ll cost him money, lost revenue and lawyers’ fees, maybe a lot of money. People like him don’t get to where they are by letting the little people tell them what to do. So, yes, I think they’re coming back. And I don’t know what to do about it.”
Milton laid down his knife and fork. He knew that he was on the precipice of a decision. The things he had done so far were nothing. Small acts of kindness, inconsequential when laid against the grand scheme of things. Bringing Alexander to rehab, even if that meant knocking out a gangbanger to do it, that was nothing. If he helped Izzy with this, he would be standing alongside her against something more momentous. Making enemies, most likely.
Didn’t matter.
His decision was never in question.
“I’ll help, Izzy.”
“I don’t see how you can.”
“Can you persuade your parents to go out? I bet they haven’t been into town for months, right?”
“No—”
“Look, here.” He reached for his roll of notes and peeled off four fifties. He laid them on the table. “Take them out and get them dinner. Somewhere nice.”
She shook her head and slid the notes back to him. “No, John. Out of the question.”
“Take it.” He pushed the money back to her. “Tell them about your brother. That’s a reason to celebrate, right?”
She shook her head, anger on her face. “What’s that going to achieve?”
“I want to have a quiet word with these men. No one else around.”
“So they go after you, instead.”
“I can look after myself.”
Her eyes flashed at him. “There are two of them, John.”
“Really, Izzy. Trust me. It’ll be fine.”
“They’ll just come back tomorrow, or the day after that.”
“No,” Milton said. “They won’t.”
#
MILTON AND IZZY drove back to Salvation Row. The crew had already made good progress with the lot that they were going to clear today. This one was particularly overgrown, with a stand of sturdy-looking saplings and scrub that reached up past the waist. Milton changed into his work clothes and went over to greet the men.
Hector tossed over a bottle of water. “You doing okay, Esé?”
“Doing fine.”
“Gonna be a hot one again. You ready?”
“Sure.”
He took a slug of water, left the bottle in the shade, and took one of the weed whackers. He fired it up, the engine chugging and fumes spewing out. He started into the worst of what was left, taking out the height again so that it would be easier later to come back and dig the growth out by the roots. The sun slowly climbed above them, baking the ground, the heat radiating in dizzying, woozy waves. Milton finished the water and started another, the sweat dripping off him, the chewed-up fragments of vegetation sticking to his skin.
It was just past ten when Solomon Bartholomew turned the corner onto Salvation Row and walked over to them. The old man moved a little gingerly, favouring one side over the other. He stopped at the lot, saw Milton, and raised his hand in greeting. Milton killed the weed whacker’s engine, propped it against a stubborn dogbush, and stepped through the remains of the vegetation.
“Morning,” Solomon said. His nose and right eye socket were badly bruised, the eye partially closed by the puffy inflammation.
Milton wiped his dirty, sweaty hand against his T-shirt and held it out. The old man took it in the same strong grip.
Milton pointed to his face. “How are you doing?”
“This? Ain’t nothing, John. You heard about what happened?”
“Yes.”
“Took my eye off ’em for a moment and got cold cocked. My own stupid fault.”
“You need to be careful, Solomon.”
He waved the admonition off. “Would’ve been different ten years ago. Shit, would’ve been different five years ago. Izzy ever tell you I used to box?”
“She didn’t.”
“Hell, yeah. In the army. Used to have a right hook like a trip hammer. Had twenty-two fights, dropped the other guy in the first round fifteen times, never got beat once. Young punk like that, yeah, just five years ago, I would’ve stitched him square on his jaw, dropped him right on his ass.”
Milton smiled at him. “I used to box, too.”
“What weight?”
“Middle.”
“Were you any good?”
“Not too shabby. Long time ago, though.”
“You still look like you got a bit to you.”
“I don’t know. I’m too old for all that now.”
“You and me both.”
Solomon took a bottle of water from the crate and handed it to Milton. He unscrewed the top and drank half of it down in one draught.
“Can I speak frankly, John?”
“Of course.”
“It’s not me that I’m worried about. They can have a go at me, knock me about if they have to, but I can take it. It’s Izzy. She’s headstrong, you must’ve seen that.”
Milton nodded.
“She won’t back off. They won’t scare her away, not over something like this. I’m afraid that they’ll up the ante until it gets to be something that could be real dangerous. And if something happened to her…” He let the sentence trail off.
Milton wiped his hand across his brow, palming the sweat out of his eyes. “Nothing’s going to happen to her, Solomon.”
“Don’
t take this the wrong way, I can see that you’re capable, but how can you say that for sure? These guys, they got money, they got a real motive to get rid of us, too.”
“I’ll say the same thing to you as I said to her. You’ve just got to trust me. Nothing’s going to happen to her. You have my word.”
He nodded. “Good of you, John. But you be careful. These guys, they ain’t fooling around.”
“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.
