by Mark Dawson
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.
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 asses
sment 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—”
“The 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.
“Chalcroft,” came a voice from behind him.
He turned. It was Jackson Dubois again. There was a snake of a man, he thought, the perfect lieutenant for Joel Babineaux.
“Yes, Mr. Dubois?”
“Mr. Babineaux wanted me to talk to you.”
“About?”
“About what you are going to do. Shall we sit in the car?”
That was rhetorical. Just like his boss, there was no deference about the man, no ‘sir’ or ‘mayor.’ There was no suggestion that this meeting was optional. No suggestion that this would be a conference of equals, an opportunity to exchange ideas. He was about to be told what to do.
“Fine.”
He lowered his bulk into the air-conditioned oasis of the cabin and ran his fingers over the leather upholstery. The car was expensive. This one was provided by the city, but, he reminded himself, he had a similar model parked in his garage back home. His wife had the sporty Audi, too, and both cars had been purchased out of the largesse that Babineaux had diverted in his direction. His new home, too, not that far from this one. It would not have been possible without the money that Babineaux had used to grease his palm.
Their arrangement was simple enough. Preston was an educated man and he knew that their scheme was one that had, in one form or another, been duplicated throughout the ages. He had political power, the ability to grant favours. Babineaux had money. They each had what the other needed. Theirs should have been a relationship of equality, so why did he always feel like Babineaux regarded him as the shit on the bottom of his shoe?
The scheme that he had suggested was simplicity itself: Babineaux wanted to build on the wreckage that Katrina had strewn behind her. He would build his obscene mall right atop the graves of the New Orleanians who Katrina had killed. In return for a very significant backhander, the mayor would support the proposal in the press and usher it through the planning committees. He had stuffed those panels with his lackeys and, for a small slice of the money that was coming his way, he had ensured that approval was granted. He would also be able to claim the political credit for the regeneration of the area, the hurt of the people displaced by the scheme salved a little by the houses that Babineaux would build for them. Everyone would be a winner.
Except for the interference of the Build It Up Foundation, it would have been simplicity itself.
Dubois opened the opposite door and slid inside.
“Mr. Babineaux suggests that you involve our friends in the police.”
“How?” He almost sighed it, resigned, all semblance of choice and control disappearing and floating away.
“He has two suggestions. One that might end things in a neat and tidy way, and one that will be more complicated—messier—but will provide complete finality.”
“You want to give me a little more to go on?”
“I will. But we need to see the police.”
“He doesn’t trust me?”
“Frankly? No, he doesn’t. But he does trust me. If you do what I say, I’ll make sure this gets sorted out so that you don’t have to worry about things.”
; “Things?”
Dubois nodded, wearing a guileful smile.
“The money?”
“Yes, that, the funding for your re-election campaign, but, more importantly, the publication of photographs that will make clear your unfortunate”—he paused, making a show of searching for the right word—“your unfortunate predilections for underage girls.”
Chalcroft gaped. The driver chose that moment to lower the dividing partition. “Where to, sir?”
He paused, helplessly, biting his lip, unable to think about what he would have to do next. He turned to Dubois.
“The police,” he said firmly.
He managed to find a way through the panic. Yes, he understood what Babineaux wanted him to do. He considered how that would be achieved for a moment until his thoughts alighted upon just the right man.
“City Hall,” he said. “And call Detective Peacock. Tell him that I want to see him this afternoon.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
MILTON WAS back at Salvation Row again at seven. The pickup that collected the crew had just drawn up, and the men were hopping down from the back. Izzy was there, too, and, as she saw him, she came across.
“Did you have a nice evening?” he asked her.
“What?”
“Last night. Dinner, with your parents.”
“Yes,” she said, flustered. “Don’t worry about that. Did they come back?”
“They came back.”
“And?”
“And we had an exchange of views. They told me what they wanted to happen. I told them that they were wasting their time.”
“And that was it?”
He shrugged. “I might have had to underline it a little. But the message was received.”
“I probably shouldn’t ask what that means, right?”
“Don’t worry. It’s all in hand.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it is.”
She didn’t press. That was good. Milton had a plan, and he knew that she wouldn’t approve of it.