The John Milton Series Boxset 4 Read online

  “This is none of your business.”

  “I’m afraid it is my business,” Logan said. “Mr. Espinosa sold me your debt. I paid him a little less than he was owed. Men like him will always tell you that the full amount must be repaid, but, in my experience, they are businessmen. I’m sure he looked at you and saw that you would never be able to do that, especially with the interest that was accruing. My offer was generous, so we were able to do business.”

  “I don’t understand. I—”

  “It’s simple, Rodrigo. It means that you don’t owe him anything any longer. You owe me instead. I suppose you could say that I own this bar. So you can see what I mean when I say that your financial dealings are very much my business.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I have a use for you.”

  “You’re wasting your time. I couldn’t afford to pay him. I can’t afford to pay you.”

  “There are different ways to meet your debts. Money is one way. You have another option. There’s something that you can do for me.”

  Rodrigo watched as Logan reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small clear plastic bag. It contained a dirty white powder. Logan left it on the bar.

  “Drugs? I don’t do drugs. Have you seen what happens to drug dealers under Duterte?”

  “Relax,” Logan said. “This wouldn’t upset the president. It’s not drugs.”

  “So what is it?”

  Logan ignored the question. “Two people are going to come into the bar this evening. A man and a woman.” He reached into his pocket again and took out a piece of folded paper. He unfolded it and laid it on the bar next to the bag. “Look, please.”

  Rodrigo looked down at the paper. It was a printed photograph of Milton. The photograph had been taken at a police station in Texas; Milton was holding up a board with a number, a name—SMITH, JOHN—and measurements that recorded his height as six feet and his weight as two hundred pounds.

  “His name is John,” Logan said. “And John is going to be meeting this woman.”

  He took out a second piece of paper. It was a photograph of a woman. She was good-looking, with long dark hair and soulful eyes. “Her name is Jessica.”

  “So?”

  “I want you to put half of that powder into his drink and half into hers.”

  Rodrigo pushed the pieces of paper back across the bar. “Are you mad? No!”

  “Then pay me my money.”

  “Drug them?”

  “It’s not dangerous.”

  “So do it yourself.”

  Logan pushed the photographs back across the bar. “It’s up to you, Rodrigo. You owe me sixty thousand pesos. I know I look different to Espinosa, but just because I wear a suit and tie shouldn’t blind you to the fact that I am more dangerous to you than he would ever have been.” Logan reached back his left hand and pulled back his jacket. He was wearing a shoulder holster with a pistol beneath his arm. “You have a choice. Put that powder into their drinks and have your debt written off. Or pay me back. But if you want to do that, I’m going to need all the money—plus another thirty thousand for my inconvenience—tonight. So it’s up to you.”

  Rodrigo swallowed down on a dry throat. He pointed down to the bag of powder on the bar. “So what is that?”

  “A tranquiliser. It’ll just loosen them up a little.”

  “And I put it in their drinks?”

  “That’s right. It’ll dissolve. You wait until it’s invisible and then you give it to them. And that will be that. You won’t owe me or Espinosa anything.”

  “All right,” he said.

  Logan stood. He straightened his jacket so that the pistol was hidden once again. “Very good.”

  “The money?”

  “You do that for me, and everything goes away. You’ll be a free man.”

  Logan took out a note to cover his beer and laid it on the bar. He took a final swig, replaced the half-finished glass, nodded his farewell, and made his exit.

  11

  MILTON DISTRACTED himself by spending the rest of the afternoon looking around the city.

  He had forgotten how much he liked it. It was a dizzying confection of influences: the cosmopolitan nature of Paris, the glitz of America and the naïve capitalism of China. Apart from Filipino, Milton saw signs in English, Spanish and Arabic. The traffic was relentless, the heat brutal, the poverty everywhere and the growth rampant and seemingly out of control. One street would be chaotic, the sidewalks crammed with pedestrians and the roads choked with cars and trucks, yet, just a turn or two away, he found peaceful alleys that led to souks and courtyards that were like oases amid the sound and fury. He visited the citadel at Intramuros and had a savoury brioche of ensaymada for his lunch. He walked to the Marikina shoe museum and shook his head at Imelda Marcos’s vast collection. He went to Binondo, the colourful four-hundred-year-old Chinatown, and had a halo halo—a concoction of shaved ice and evaporated milk jumbled with candied fruit, nata de coco, and crème caramel—to cool him down when the heat became too oppressive.

  He returned to his room at five, stood under a cold shower until his skin prickled, and then shaved in front of the bathroom mirror. He knew he looked different from when Jessica had seen him last. He was older, and the weight of the passing years and the worries that they had brought with them had been written in the fresh lines on his face and the grey in his hair. He looked at his tattoos, each of them testament to some event in his life. The biggest—the angel wings across his shoulders and back—was from his drinking days; he couldn’t remember having it done. The newest—the IX across his heart—was a reminder of his constant need to make amends, and a testament to the example set by Eddie Fabian.

  He took out the ironing board and ironed his only other clean shirt. He dressed, checked himself in the mirror one final time, and went out into the night heat to meet his Uber.

  JESSICA HAD emailed Milton to say that she would meet him at the Lazy Lizard in Poblacion. Milton sat quietly in the back as the driver took him to Makati. The bar looked unappealing from the outside, but Milton had eschewed places like this for long enough to know that he was far from an expert as to what was passing for chic these days.

  He went inside. It was quiet, with just a few other drinkers. Jessica was already waiting for him. She sat at the bar, looking down at her phone, and didn’t see him as he came inside. He stood and watched her for a moment. Skype had not done her justice. The years had only touched her lightly. She was as beautiful as he remembered, her long black hair reaching down her back and a single silver bangle shining against the brown of her skin. She was perched on a stool, her slender legs crossed elegantly and offset by an olive dress and a pair of black heels.

  Milton felt the burn of the tension in his stomach. He was frozen to the spot and had started to entertain thoughts of leaving when she pushed the phone away and turned in his direction.

  She saw him and smiled.

  Milton was committed now. He couldn’t turn back.

  He didn’t want to.

  He crossed the room.

  “John!”

  Jessica stood and, smiling again, put her hands on his shoulders and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. Her perfume was of apples; Milton was dizzied, the smell immediately casting him back to the last time they had met.

  “You look great,” he said.

  “You too.”

  Milton allowed himself a smile. “I look old and tired.”

  “Tired, maybe. How was your flight?”

  “Long.”

  “And your hotel? Where are you staying?”

  “Malate. It’s fine. Clean and tidy. That’s all I need.” He pulled up a stool. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  “That would have been your fault. It was your choice to leave.”

  “Not really. I couldn’t stay, could I?”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  “And you could have come with me. I offered.”

 
“To England?” She shook her head. “The Philippines have many problems, but cold weather is not one of them.”

  She sat, and Milton did the same.

  “Do you want a drink?” she said, nodding down to the empty glass before her on the bar.

  “I’ll get them,” he said.

  “No, let me. What would you like?”

  “I’ll have orange juice.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “Sorry?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Really? You used to drink all the time.”

  He flinched with discomfort. “I told you lots of things have changed since the last time.”

  She had seen him at his worst. She probably remembered the foolish things that he had done and said even as the alcohol had wiped them from his own memory. The realisation made him cringe with shame.

  “What happened to make you stop?” she asked.

  “I was drinking too much,” he said. “It took me a long time to realise, but, when I did, I knew I couldn’t do it anymore. I’ve been in recovery for a few years.”

  Her face fell. “Recovery?”

  “It’s nothing that big,” he said, trying to minimise it. “I go to meetings. We sit around and drink coffee and talk about how we ended up there. They’ve made all the difference.”

  “Is this okay?” she said, gesturing around at the bar. “We could go somewhere else.”

  He shook his head. “It’s fine. I’ve been dry long enough that I can come into a bar and not get a drink.”

  LOGAN PARKED his car down the road, not so close to the bar that Milton might spot him, but close enough to attend to things when the time was right. The windows of the rental were tinted. Milton wouldn’t be able to see him.

  Logan had received a text to confirm that both the woman and Milton had arrived and that they were talking at the bar. Jessica had instructions to keep him there long enough for his drink to be spiked. She had impressed him with her ability to dissemble. She and Milton had a lot of reacquainting to do, he supposed. He didn’t think that Milton would be leaving any time soon.

  He had stopped at a 7-Eleven on Juan Luna Street on the way to the bar and purchased the things that he would need for his work this evening: two bottles of vodka and two six-packs of strong beer. He had moved on and bought a box of powdered green nitrile gloves in the pharmacy next door. The items were in a plastic bag on the seat next to him.

  He had almost everything he needed.

  Now he just needed Milton.

  JESSICA ATTRACTED the attention of the bartender—a man with a sleeve of tattoos down his right arm and a head of greasy black hair—and ordered another gin for herself and an orange juice for Milton. The man turned away and busied himself with the drinks. Jessica put her hand to her mouth and cleared her throat. She seemed reluctant to address the thing that had brought Milton halfway around the world to meet her. Milton found that he didn’t mind the delay. He realised he was anxious about what he might hear.

  “You said you didn’t work for the government anymore,” she said.

  “No. I left. About the same time I stopped drinking.”

  “So what are you doing now?”

  “I’m a cook.”

  She stared at him.

  “I’m serious. I work in a little café in London. It’s nice.”

  “I don’t believe you. After what you did before?”

  “I know,” he conceded. “It’s not what you might have expected. Like I said, my life’s taken a few unusual turns since I was here last.”

  “You’re full of surprises.”

  The bartender brought their drinks. Milton reached into his pocket, took out two three hundred-peso notes, and laid them on the table. The man put his hand over the notes and swept them away.

  “What about you?” Milton asked. “What are you doing?”

  “I work with my father. We have a bakery in Lucena.”

  “I don’t know where that is.”

  “Two hours south. We make pandesal. Sweet breads. You should come. I remember you have a sweet tooth.”

  There was a moment of silence. Milton glanced up at the mirror behind the bar and used it to look back into the room. One of the tables that had been occupied when he arrived was empty now. There was hardly anyone else here.

  “I’m surprised you stayed here,” he said. “I thought you might leave.”

  She shook her head. “No. This is my home. And I didn’t think it was necessary. You were thorough. Fitz went to jail. And…” She paused. “And there had been a change in my circumstances.”

  She smiled a little weakly at him, but then continued before he could speak.

  “My parents were here. I was young, and I didn’t know if I wanted to be a mother. It wasn’t planned.”

  Milton put his elbows on the bar and steepled his fingers. This was the moment. The question he knew he would have to ask.

  He turned and looked directly at her. “And you’re sure?”

  “That I’m a mother?” She smiled at him. “Pretty sure.”

  “That James is my son?”

  Jessica reached down into her bag and took out a small leather-bound book. “Here.”

  She laid it on the table and pushed it across to Milton. It was a scrapbook. He opened the pages, the protective plastic sheaths sticking together until he peeled them apart. A series of photographs had been affixed to the adhesive surfaces of the pages and further secured in place with the sheeting.

  He looked at the photographs.

  The first page contained pictures of a baby. It was a boy, with fat cheeks and a shock of messy black hair. His skin was smooth and coloured the lightest of browns. His eyes were blue, piercing, as he looked into the camera.

  He turned the page.

  The baby was older now. A toddler. The hair was more blond than brown, but his plump cheeks were a little less fat. His eyes were no less blue.

  He turned the page.

  The toddler was a small boy, and then, as he flipped through, a bigger boy. Milton was terrible at guessing the ages of children, but even he could see the passage of time. Five years. Ten years.

  He felt choked. He felt a stickiness in the back of his throat and a tightness in his chest.

  “He’s…” he began. “He’s…”

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s yours.”

  “There wasn’t—”

  “Anyone else?” she finished when he could not. “There was de Lacey, like you know, but… he doesn’t look like him, does he? He looks like you.”

  Milton thought that he had processed the information, but, as he sat at the bar with Jessica, he found that he had not. He felt blindsided.

  “Would you like to meet him?”

  “I… I…”

  “It’s Independence Day here the day after tomorrow. There’s a parade and fireworks. James wants to go. Maybe you could come, too?”

  Milton emptied the rest of his drink in one swallow. “I need a cigarette,” he said. “You want one?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just need a breath of fresh air,” he said.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “Can I get you another drink?”

  He got up. “Yes, please. The same again.”

  12

  LOGAN SAW the door to the bar open and watched as a man walked outside.

  There was a brief flare of red and then a steady glow as the man lit and drew down on a cigarette.

  Milton.

  Logan held his breath. Milton looked up and down the road, but it was apparent that he was distracted. He took a couple of puffs and flicked the unfinished cigarette into one of the large plant pots that flanked the entrance to the bar. He paused for a moment—Logan was concerned that he was going to leave—but then turned on his heel and went back inside.

  RODRIGO WATCHED the man buy a pack of cigarettes from the machine and leave the bar. The woman was still sat on the stool.

  “Could I g
et the same again, please?” she asked.

  “Another orange juice and a gin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course.”

  She got up, collected her phone from the bar and went back to the bathrooms.

  Rodrigo swallowed hard. He was nervous. He had been thinking about what Logan had told him and, the way he figured it, he didn’t really have a choice. He was deep in the hole, there was no way he could find the money to pay him back, and, worse, there was something about the way Logan had looked at him that made him even more fearful than he had been with Espinosa. The loan shark was a typical thug, covered in tattoos and with a mouth full of gold caps. Logan was neat and tidy, well dressed, not the kind of man who would come and hang out in a dive like this, but there was something icy about his manner. He had looked at Rodrigo with disdain, as if he was nothing, and, when he had showed him his pistol and made his polite threat, Rodrigo had believed him.

  He quickly filled both glasses with ice, added gin and tonic and a slice of lime to one and poured orange juice into the other. He had the bag that Logan had given him in his pocket. He reached down, found it amid the loose change and lint, and brought it out. He unsealed the mouth of the bag and tipped half of the dirty white powder inside it into the gin and then the other half into the orange juice. He took a stirrer and whisked it around in both drinks until the powder had dissolved.

  The woman returned and, a moment later, the man came back in through the door.

  Rodrigo dropped the plastic bag on the floor, picked up both glasses and set them on the bar. His hands were shaking.

  “Thank you,” the woman said, taking out three hundred-peso notes from her purse and handing them to him.