by Mark Dawson
“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.
Chapter Twenty-Three
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.
&n
bsp; 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.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That seat. It’s mine. I own it. That desk, this office, this whole building. I own all of it.” He walked over to the desk and picked up a framed picture of Morgan and his wife standing in the porch of what looked like a grand colonial house. “This where you live?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Lived, I should say. My lawyers said that the corporation owns the deeds, so that’s mine now, too. The cars. Your yacht. All your country club memberships, silly little things, you had them all in the corporation’s name. They’re all mine, Pierce.”
“I’m going to tie you up in litigation from here until eternity. I’m going to crush you, boy. You hear me? I am going to—”
Babineaux paced across the room, planting his good leg and pushing off faster than Morgan could move. He caught the older man by the lapels of his jacket and pushed him up against the plate-glass window. He braced his right forearm across Morgan’s withered old neck and pushed. “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed. “I’ve had as much as I can take of you telling me what I can and can’t do. How about this, boy? How about I tell you what I’m going to do. I am going to swallow all of this up. By the time I’m done, you won’t be able to tell where you end and I begin.”
“This won’t stand,” he gasped. “The lies, manipulating the share price… I know what you’ve done. I can’t even begin to think about the laws that you’ve broken today.”
Babineaux pulled his arm away and stood back, straightening out the old man’s ruffled suit and smiling broadly at him. “So, sue me. But remember, the mall contract is mine. All of it. You want to think about how many lawyers $326 million is going to buy me.” He stepped back. “A lot of lawyers. But, come on, we’re old friends, right? I’m not going to be a blowhard about it. Take your personal things. I’ll see that you get a box. You can have thirty minutes. After that, I want you off my property.”
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE HOUSE was magnificent. It was in the Garden District, the city’s most high-end and exclusive neighbourhood and even among the often stunning houses that surrounded it, it still stood out. It had been built between 1859 and 1865, constructed in Italianate neoclassical style with a host of period features that spoke of class and expense. There was a grand façade with double galleries and elaborate ironwork. Inside, the mouldings were enhanced with gold leaf, the mantels were made of marble, and several of the ceilings were decorated with custom murals. The spacious grounds, spread out across five lots, included a terraced tropical garden and a classically inspired pool. It had been built to be the finest home in New Orleans, and it was a claim that still held true today.
The previous owner had been a novelist, famous for her vampire novels, and the property had sat on the market for a year until Joel Babineaux had decided that he would like to buy it. He had made a competitive offer, reduced it when he decided that he was in an unbeatable bargaining position, and closed the deal for about three-quarters of what he knew the house was worth.
Babineaux was watching from the window of his study as the mayor’s car drew up at the gates. They slid back and the car nosed ahead, parking in the wide gravelled space before the porch. He reached down for his phone. “He’s here,” he said.
Dubois was waiting for the visitor downstairs. “I see him,” he replied. “You want me to bring him up?”
“Yes.”
“Want me to be there, too?”
“I got this. Speak to him once I’m through with him.”
“I will.”
Babineaux prepared himself for the encounter. It wasn’t a question of nervousness—how could that be possible, with an oily little sycophant like Chalcroft?—but more of an assessment of which tactics to adopt. How best to move the conversation in the direction that he wanted. Threats or inducements? Which pressure points did he need to squeeze?
The door opened and Dubois ushered the mayor inside.
“Joel,” Chalcroft said, a bright, toothy smile on his face. He was a career politician, well versed in making an excellent first impression. If Babineaux would have allowed it, he would have clasped his hand in both of his. Then he would have reached up and grasped him around the elbow, clapped him fraternally on the shoulders. They were cheap parlour tricks, useful in currying favour in the credulous, but worthless when used against someone with Babineaux’s experience and almost sociopathic disdain for the norms of good behaviour.
Rather than engage in pointless civility, he gestured at one of the generous armchairs. “Sit down,” he said. It wasn’t a suggestion, and Chalcroft—more used to giving orders than receiving them—frowned a little before he switched his smile back on and settled back into the chair.
“What’s the matter, Joel?” he said. “We’re having dinner on Friday.”
“You don’t get to call me Joel. It’s Mr. Babineaux.”
Chalcroft’s expression switched to one of confusion. “I don’t—”
“We’ve got a problem.”
“And it couldn’t wait?”
“No, Preston. It couldn’t.”
Chalcroft leant forwards a little and spread his arms wide. “What is it? I’m all ears.”
Babineaux pursed his lips. The mayor was a particularly unpleasant individual. He was oleaginous and insincere, untrustworthy and duplicitous. He also had an unfortunate taste for underage girls, an interesting peccadillo that Babineaux held in reserve and was ready to be deployed should the occasion demand it. It hadn’t, yet, because the mayor was motivated by money even more than his dick. But he had seen the pictures of the man, fat and sweaty, sprawled across beds in flophouses across the city, and there was no way that he would be able to forget them. It pained him that it was necessary to fraternise with such a pervert, but business was business, and, whether Babineaux liked it or not, Mayor Chalcroft was an influential man. It was better to have him inside the tent pissing out than to be outside the tent pissing in.
“Those houses down in the Lower Ninth—”
“Th
e charity?”
“Build It Up. Yes. Those houses. They are in the way.”
“Yes, I know, you said. I thought it was in hand?”
“I thought so, too, but apparently not. I’ve tried to buy them out. They rejected the offer. So I tried to explain why it was in their best interests to conclude this amicably, but that hasn’t worked, either.”
“So?”
“So, Preston, I’m going to let you decide how to handle them. Your role in our little partnership was to provide me with the land, unencumbered, and with the permit ready to build.”
“You’ve got the land and the permit.”
“But they’re worthless until those houses have been cleared. I’ve been looking at this, and you’ve only delivered half of your bargain. And that, in my book, is worse than failing to deliver anything at all.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You want me to spell it out? Get rid of them.”
“How?”
“I don’t care how you do it,” he yelled at him. “Just get it done!”
The mayor shifted uncomfortably.
“I needn’t remind you, Preston, that your cut of this project is dependent upon it going ahead.”
“I’m aware of that. I just…” He frowned, then nodded with unconvincing certitude. “Fine. I’ll deal with it.”
“Good. Because every day this is dragging out is costing me $1.2 million in fees and interest. I’m prepared to eat that, for now, but by the time we get to the end of next week, I’m not sure I’ll feel so charitable. I’ll start taking it out of your end. Understand, Preston?”
The mayor looked as if he was about to object, but, then, as he looked up at Babineaux, he realised just in time that that would have been a foolish course of action. “I’ll get rid of them.”
“See that you do.”
#
MAYOR CHALCROFT emerged into the bright sunlight and the damp wash of the afternoon heat. He was a corpulent man, his temper was up, and he had to bite his lip as his driver held open the door of his sedan for him. How dare Babineaux speak to him like that? He was the mayor of New Orleans, for Christ’s sake. He had won the election in a landslide, the voters loved him, and his mandate ought to have been enough to garner him a little respect. But no, there was no respect. He was ordered hither and thither like an errand boy. No, he thought, it was worse than that. Babineaux had been eloquent with his implications. He was to “get rid” of the men and women who had made their home on Salvation Row. What a dirty little euphemism that was. He knew precisely what he had meant.
