Salvation Row - John Milton #6 (John Milton Thrillers) Read online

  “He hasn’t taken anything?”

  Milton shook his head. “Nothing in it to take,” he said.

  #

  THE ATMOSPHERE was subdued after that. Solomon tried to lighten the mood by telling the story of his friend who said that he had seen a four-foot alligator drinking from a broken water hydrant on Choctaw. Elsie managed a laugh, reminding her husband that his acquaintance had been smoking weed for years and had once sworn an affidavit that he had been abducted and experimented upon by aliens. Solomon chuckled that that was true, but that, on this occasion, he believed him. They tried hard to remove the stain of Alexander’s visit, but it was something that couldn’t easily be forgotten.

  They cleared the table. Milton offered to wash up, but Elsie would hear none of it. She called her husband to help, and the two of them shepherded Milton and their daughter out into the lounge, but not before Izzy snagged a couple of long-necked beers from the fridge.

  They went outside, closing the door after them and sitting down on the wooden porch with their backs up against the wall.

  “You want one?” she said, holding the cold bottles up.

  Milton felt the usual quiver, the waver in his resolve. It would be nice, after all, to share a drink with a pretty girl. That was what civilised people did after a pleasant meal, after all. Right? And then there came the persuasive suggestions—you’ll be all right, it’s just one beer, you’ll be better company with a little booze inside you, it’ll help you ignore the voice telling you that you’re not worth her time—and he moved a little closer to saying yes. But he had been concentrating on his sobriety for the last few months, that had been the purpose behind his long trek through the wilderness in Michigan and Minnesota, and, for now at least, he was buttressed well enough to recognise the danger.

  “No,” he said.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Not ever?”

  “I’ve got a problem with it,” he admitted, surprised at his own candour. “With drink. It got out of control a year or two after I was here last. I had to stop completely to get it sorted out. It’s been a while now.”

  She looked down at the bottles as if embarrassed that she had brought them out.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “You have a drink. It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. I’ll have a smoke. That’s my vice now.”

  She popped the top of one of the bottles and took a long slug of beer. She finished half the bottle, wiped the back of her hand across her lips, and stood it up next to her.

  “Gimme one,” Izzy said, eyeing the cigarettes.

  Milton opened the pack and she pulled one out, putting it to her lips and ducking her head so that Milton could light it for her. The flame of his Zippo glittered in her dark eyes.

  “Stupid habit,” she said, sucking down and then blowing out a languorous jet of blue-grey smoke.

  Milton watched her. He waited for her to bring up what had just happened.

  It didn’t take very long.

  “Look—I’m sorry about that.”

  “Alexander? Don’t worry.”

  “My brother’s in a mess. He’s not doing so good. He’s…” She paused, putting the bottle to her lips and taking another swig as she composed her next words. “You know he was training to be a vet?”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “He only had another year to study, and he would have graduated. That’s a good career right there. That’s a profession. But just after Katrina, after what happened to Mom and Pop and the house, he went off the rails. Totally lost his head. He always drank a lot, too much, probably, but he started to drink all the time. He missed his classes because he was hungover or still out drinking. We tried to get him to see what he was doing to himself was crazy, but he didn’t care. It was as if he wanted to sabotage everything.”

  “He didn’t want to help with the charity?”

  She shook her head. “That made it worse. We started to do good work and I think it made him feel more of a failure. I asked him to work with me, once, and he just laughed. ‘Why would I want anything to do with that?’ he said.” She mimicked the way he spoke now, the low drawl of aggression. “‘Dumbass niggers too lazy to pull themselves up, always be looking for a helping hand.’ I told him that he was out of line, and we had a big argument. Papa got involved, that made it even worse, and then he left. I haven’t seen him much since then.”

  She finished the first beer, stood it neatly on the step, and took another of Milton’s cigarettes.

  “Where is he?”

  “Living in a crack house in Raceland.”

  “Crack?”

  “Got in with a bad crowd. Started doing drugs six months ago from what I can work out.”

  “Where’s Raceland?”

  “An hour west of NOLA. Why?”

  “Why don’t I go and talk to him?”

  She looked at him with cynicism. “Seriously?”

  “I could.”

  “Good of you to offer, John. But, no offence, what are you going to say? Seriously? You saw the way he looked at you.”

  “I’ve got my own problems, just like he does. Compulsions.” He nodded at her empty bottle. “Sometimes you just need someone who speaks the same language.”

  “He won’t listen to you.”

  “No, maybe not. But it’s worth a try.”

  He thought that she would thank him, tell him it was pointless, fob him off in some way or another, but, instead, she reached into her pocket and took out one of her business cards and a pen. BUILD IT UP! was printed on one side. She turned it over, and next to the lines of text that said ISADORA BARTHOLOMEW - EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR, she wrote down an address on Brocato Lane, Raceland.

  “Why not?” she said, giving it to him. “I’m fresh out of other ideas. If you do see him, you tell him that Papa has emptied out his bank account so he can have a place in rehab. I tried to stop him—Christ, it’s not like they can afford it—but he wouldn’t listen to me. It’s paid for and waiting for him. All he has to do is show up.”

  There was no hope in her voice, just resignation. He could see that she didn’t think it would help, but the relationship between her brother and the rest of the family was already so corrupted that it would hardly be possible for him to make it any worse.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Milton said, slipping the card into his pocket.

  She looked at him questioningly. “Why would you do that? You don’t have to.”

  “I do. I owe your family. You saved my friend’s life. And I got to fly out of New Orleans the day afterwards like nothing had happened. Your brother was right. And I never felt comfortable about it.”

  “You don’t live here. Why would you have stayed?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  They were silent for a moment. Milton looked out over the street, at the row of beautiful new houses, the well-tended gardens, the jungle that grew up behind them all. He listened to the sound of the nocturnal animals. He heard the noise of a bin being tipped over and then a feral scuffling inside it. He heard the hooting of an owl overhead. He sucked down on his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs, enjoying the sensation of a full belly.

  “The legal thing,” he began. “The eminent—”

  “Domain,” she finished.

  “The eminent domain.”

  She laughed grimly. “Yeah, it’s all sweetness and light around here.”

  “Seriously. Can you fight it?”

  She sighed. “I couldn’t lay it all out honestly, not in front of my mom and pop. The other guy has millions to throw at it. The city council is on their side. And it’s just me and a few volunteers. I can make it expensive and inconvenient for them, but, eventually?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Nah. Probably not. You ask me, in six months, they’ve won and these houses, they aren’t here anymore. And we’re through.”

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  “Got a couple million bucks floating around? I
could hire a slick law firm, even things up a little.”

  He smiled ruefully. “Afraid not.”

  “Then there’s not much you can do.”

  They were quiet again. Izzy pointed into the darkness at the end of the street. They both watched as a possum trotted out of it, making its way along the sidewalk. It was big and brazen, unafraid of them.

  “This place is nuts,” Izzy said when it had waddled away again.

  “I want to help. I want to do something.”

  “With what?”

  “You said you have volunteers, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “So this is me volunteering.”

  She finished the cigarette, carefully screwed it into the concrete, and dropped the end into the mouth of her empty bottle. “You’re crazy, John, you know that? But I’m not going to turn my nose up. You want to help, be at the office tomorrow at eight o’clock. There’s plenty of work to get done.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE MEETING with Pierce Morgan had been scheduled for nine in the evening. It was a drive of a couple of hours and, although Babineaux would have been quite content to have been driven there in the Bentley, using the time to catch up on his emails, he wanted to make an impression. So, instead, he had his driver take him to the Downtown Heliport south of Tremé.

  The driver took him all the way out to the apron where his helicopter was waiting. He had purchased the AgustaWestland AW101 VVIP helicopter several months earlier. The company was the registered owner of the aircraft, but, in truth, it was Babineaux’s personal plaything. It had cost twenty-one million dollars, but he thought it was worth every last cent. They were typically sold to air forces who needed to fly heads of state and other VIPs, and they were equipped with that in mind. It had the largest cabin in its class, nearly three metres across, fitted with eight leather reclining chairs, enhanced air conditioning, video entertainment systems with personal monitors, a galley and a washroom. The cabin was divided at one end to accommodate Babineaux’s private suite with a separate air-stair entrance. There was a bed, a leather sofa, and a private en suite bathroom.

  He circled the big helicopter, inspecting it carefully. He looked for signs of corrosion, stone damage to the tail rotor, or erosion beyond the bond line on the blades. He rapped each panel as he walked along, then rapped the surface of the tail and the stinger. He knew what those impacts should sound like, and he had always found it an accurate and safe way to be sure that all was well.

  There was nothing to worry about tonight. The wiper blades and the windscreen had been washed, and all looked good. Babineaux opened the pilot-side door, climbed inside, put on his helmet, strapped himself into his seat and completed the rest of the preflight checks. The chopper had already been fuelled, with plenty of range to get him out to Lafayette and then back again. Babineaux started the engines, felt the vibration through his seat, then looked out to see the big blades slowly begin to turn.

  He touched the mic so that it was suspended just above his throat, and keyed the channel.

  “New Orleans Downtown, Westland Golf Echo Golf November Romeo, on west apron, with information Tango. Request clearance to lift off, departing to the west.”

  “Westland, this is Downtown. Cleared for flight, sir.”

  He repeated the clearance to confirm that he had received it, put the RPM into the normal operating range, and then increased the power. He added anti-torque pedal and added cyclic to counter the tendency of the rotor to roll. The helicopter grew light on its landing gear, and Babineaux could tell now that his control positions were correct. The chopper was stable, with no pitching or rolling, and the cyclic was properly centred. He raised the collective until the helicopter transitioned into the air. He lowered the nose by two degrees and felt the very slow acceleration. He hit his climb-out airspeed, started to gain altitude, and put the airport behind him.

  Babineaux was religious in ensuring that he put in the requisite number of hours to keep his licence. He loved to fly. He had learned early, and being successful in business had meant that there were plenty of opportunities to go up.

  He corrected his course to the west and settled in for the flight. Across the dusty mesa, the looming shadows grew. Above was a small silver moon and, as Babineaux looked down through the cockpit window, he thought of rattlesnakes going in pursuit of their quarries. Predators and prey. Life-and-death struggles locked in eternal embrace, a cycle that would repeat forever.

  #

  HE PILOTED the AgustaWestland from New Orleans to Lafayette, following the route of I-10. He passed over LaPlace, Gonzales and Prairieville, oases of light smothered by the overwhelming blackness of the wilderness around them. He approached the headquarters of Morgan Construction from the direction of Broussard to the south. It was a large, sprawling facility, with offices and warehouses, engineering sheds and rows of heavy machinery. He flew over it, circled back, and touched down in a wide field to the rear.

  He was met there by one of Pierce Morgan’s personal staff. He showed him to a golf cart and drove him the short distance to the main building. The place was ostentatious, with sculpture and extensive grounds that must have cost thousands of dollars to irrigate. Morgan was worth millions, much more than Babineaux, but money was useless until it was put to proper use. Morgan Construction was traditional, slow, and lazy. In Babineaux’s opinion, it was much like its patron. He, on the other hand, represented hunger and drive. And the corporation that he led was nimble enough to pivot quickly when opportunities presented themselves, just like they had presented themselves in New Orleans.

  The attendant delivered him to a conference room on the second floor. There was a wide floor-to-ceiling window that would have offered a splendid vista over the gardens during daylight. Now, the trees and plants were picked out by discreet external lighting here and there.

  “Where’s Mr. Morgan?” he asked.

  “He’ll be a few minutes. Could I get you anything while you wait?”

  “No,” Babineaux said.

  It was a chump move, entirely predictable, but it annoyed him nonetheless. The message was obvious: I am in charge, I am the senior man, we will meet when I am good and ready. He had been waiting twenty minutes and was beginning to think that Morgan was going to stand him up entirely, and whether it might just be better to save what was left of his reputation and return to the helicopter and beat a retreat, when the door opened and Morgan bustled in.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” the man said. He had a slow, deep southern drawl that Babineaux found particularly grating. “Heard you flew in?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You know, I used to be a flyer in the army. Vietnam? Hueys.”

  Babineaux nodded amiably enough, but he knew that Morgan was blowing smoke up his ass. He had commissioned a two-hundred-page report on him, including his history and his family. The alcoholic daughter, the son who would have done time for statch rape without his old man paying the victim off. The investigator had looked for anything that might have been useful, any lever that he could have used, but he had struck empty. One benefit of the report, which he had studied again before taking off this evening, was that he didn’t believe that Morgan had ever flown a Huey. His war had been spent with the National Guard. By the time he deigned to go out to the front line, the shooting was practically over. Babineaux was proud of his service, and that kind of bullshit was the kind of thing that could make him hate a man.

  But he smiled, took his hand, and said, “Thank you for seeing me, Pierce.”

  “Always a pleasure. You want a drink?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Well, you won’t mind if I do? It’s cocktail hour around here.”

  “How is Elizabeth?”

  “She’s well. Sends her best wishes.”

  Babineaux knew that was a lie, too. Elizabeth Morgan was a catty old bitch who had always made her disdain for him very obvious. The Morgans were the epitome of old money. The company had originally belonged
to Pierce Morgan Senior and, before him, his father and then his father’s father. Four generations of Morgans had striven for nearly two hundred years to make the company what it was today. Elizabeth Morgan thought of Babineaux as a parvenu. New money. Distasteful, brash, vulgar. Babineaux was quite sure that her husband shared her opinion. It did not concern him. The opinions of others were irrelevant. The only score that was worth keeping was the size of your bank balance, and Babineaux knew that what he had planned would put the Pierce and Elizabeth Morgans of this world in his shadow once and for all.

  There was another five minutes of inane small talk that Babineaux had to suffer through. Morgan was good at it, all that fancy chit-chat and hail-fellow-well-met, all that shit. It was a skill that Babineaux just did not have. He couldn’t butter people up, pretend to be their friend, when all he really wanted to do was take that glass, smash it, and grind the edge into his face. He did his best to conceal his impatience, nodded, said the right things, answered the pointless questions, but he couldn’t do it without giving himself away, and that made him even angrier. He was used to being in control and, here, he was not.

  Finally, a member of the staff brought through a bottle of scotch and two glasses. Morgan sat down at one of the conference table chairs and indicated that Babineaux should do the same. He did. Morgan poured himself a large measure, offered the bottle to Babineaux, and shrugged with a gesture of helplessness when he turned it down again. He crossed his right leg over his left, and Babineaux’s eyes were drawn to the snakeskin cowboy boots that he was wearing beneath his suit. He had to stifle a snort of derision since he found it so ridiculous. All this southern bullshit. The man was a fool.

  Morgan leant back in the chair and spread his hands. “So what can I do for you, partner, coming all this way at this time of night?”

  “You can probably guess.”

  “Well, then, yes, I probably could. You want to talk about the mall.”