The Alamo - John Milton #11 (John Milton Thrillers)

by Mark Dawson

  There was a table up at the front of the room, where the secretary sat with the speaker who would be sharing his story. The meeting started with the attendees raising anything that they wanted to get off their chests. The man with his hand raised to indicate that he wanted to speak was one whom Milton recognised. He had spoken at the same meeting last week. His skin was a very light shade of brown, and his soulful eyes shone out from beneath heavy brows. He wore a neatly clipped goatee, and his hair was cut short to his head. Milton guessed that he was in his early forties.

  “My name is Manny,” he began, “and I am an alcoholic.”

  “Hello, Manny,” the meeting responded.

  “I just want to check in with something,” he said. “You know how much I’ve been worrying about the place across the road from me and my boy. There was an old woman in there until they had to take her into a home six weeks ago, and, since then, one of the local scumbag dealers took it over and started selling heroin. Druggies going back and forward, all hours of the day and night, the fights, the cops being called but doing nothing about it, my boy finding syringes on the street and then him getting mugged for his sneakers. I mean, that was the last straw—he’s only thirteen and they pulled a knife on him, made him walk back across the road in his socks.”

  The secretary encouraged the man to continue. “But something has changed?”

  “When I got back from taking him to school this morning, I saw one of their corner boys outside—I heard him telling the junkies who showed up that the place was closed, and that they needed to go to this new place they’d set up on Ridgewood.”

  “You think it was the police?” the secretary asked.

  “Might be,” he said, “but if it was, they ain’t never done nothing about it until then, so why would they suddenly do something now?”

  “Does it matter?” said one of the other regulars. “They gone.”

  “I know,” he said. “And I don’t know how I should be feeling about it.”

  “You don’t feel good?”

  “Yeah, of course I feel good about it, but it’s more complicated than that. I kinda feel I should’ve done something to make it happen, but I didn’t. They just moved on. I don’t wanna sound like I’m ungrateful, but I used to be in the army before…” He waved his hand around the room. “Before this. Before booze. And before I drank myself into the ground, I would’ve gone over there and sorted it out my own self. I know this is gonna sound stupid, but I kinda feel like I let my boy down. I didn’t do nothing. I didn’t set him the right example.”

  “It’s your Higher Power,” said the woman ahead of Milton. She was particularly fervent in her adoption of the religious underpinning to the fellowship; Milton didn’t buy any of that and had always been pleased that it wasn’t a prerequisite.

  “Yeah,” Manny conceded. “Maybe that’s what it is. Look, I know it sounds like I’m ungrateful, but I ain’t. And I ain’t unhappy. I’m pleased they’re gone. It’s a weight off, believe me.” He leaned back and waved his hands. “Ah, fuck it. I’m giving thanks. Good riddance.”

  Milton listened intently. It wasn’t the response that he had been hoping for, and now he wondered whether he should follow through with the rest of his idea.

  “Thank you for sharing, Manny,” the secretary said.

  The meeting proceeded with the share from the morning’s speaker. Milton sat and listened, closing his eyes and putting his anxiety to the back of his mind. He concentrated on finding the meditative, peaceful space that he could only find when he was with others who shared his weaknesses.

  9

  It was usual for most of the men and women who attended the ten o’clock meeting to go for coffee afterwards. Blendzville Café Inc was a small independent coffee shop a short distance away. Milton rode there, parked his bike on the street outside an old building that had been co-opted as a church—the writing on the awning read Triumphant Church of God, Inc.—took off his helmet and went inside.

  Some of the others had already arrived.

  Manny was at the counter, placing his order. Milton nodded an acknowledgement to the others at the table.

  “Can I get anyone anything?” he asked.

  “Manny’s just got the order,” said the secretary. “Get over there. You can add whatever you want to it.”

  Milton left his helmet on the table and took the bag with the sneakers over to the counter.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “Hey,” Manny replied with a smile. “What you want?”

  “A coffee,” he said. “Black.”

  “One extra black coffee,” Manny said to the barista.

  “You got it.”

  The man took the order, turned to the coffee machine and started to prepare the drinks.

  “Thanks for sharing,” Milton said.

  “For bitching and whining, you mean?”

  Milton smiled. “If it’s any consolation, I wouldn’t have had the guts to do anything either. Maybe I would’ve called the police, but that’s it.”

  “I didn’t even do that,” Manny said, his smile fading.

  Milton was finding the conversation difficult. He didn’t know what was the right thing to say, and saying the wrong thing was evidently going to sour Manny’s mood.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I have something for you. Well, for your son.”

  He raised the bag so that Manny could take it.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s… it’s a pair of sneakers. I hope they’re the right size.”

  Manny took the box out of the bag and turned it over so that he could look at the label. “Sevens,” he said awkwardly. “Yeah, that’s his size.”

  “I’d like him to have them.”

  Manny shook his head. “I can’t take them.”

  Milton had been worried that his offer might elicit the wrong response. He had been worried that he would appear presumptuous or, worse, patronising, and now he feared that Manny was seeing him as both of those things.

  “I bought them for my nephew,” Milton explained. “Wrong size.”

  Manny put the box back in the bag and held it out for Milton to take again. “So take ’em back.”

  “I can’t. I got them back home. In the UK.”

  “So eBay them.”

  “I could,” he said, “but I’d rather your son had them. It was awful what happened to him. Really—it’s fine.”

  Manny thought about his offer for a moment. Milton had no idea which way he would go: it was obvious that he felt bad about being the recipient of Milton’s charity, yet perhaps he would be unable to find the money to replace the shoes himself. Manny could make his son happy by taking the sneakers and giving them to him, but the price would be the admission—as he saw it—that he couldn’t provide for him himself, just as he had obviously concluded after he had failed to confront the dealers. Milton didn’t want him to view the offer in such a fashion, but it was clear that was what he was doing.

  Milton started to speak, but changed his mind and waited.

  Manny shook his head. “That’s kind of you. Thanks. And I don’t even remember your name, man.”

  “It’s John.”

  “I feel bad about taking them without giving you no money, though. At least let me do that.”

  “It’s fine. To be honest, I’d forgotten I’d even bought them. I’m just glad you can put them to good use.”

  The barista returned with a tray of coffees.

  “All right,” Manny said.

  10

  Milton took a seat between the secretary and the ‘Higher Power’ woman. Milton would have preferred to avoid her, but it was the only space left around the table. He kept an eye on Manny and saw that he drank his coffee quickly, said a hurried goodbye to the others and then left. Milton turned to watch him as he set off on foot, heading east on Sutter.

  At least he had taken the sneakers with him; Milton hoped, again, that he hadn’t miscalculated. It seemed apt to take the mon
ey that he had taken from Tramon and use some of it to right at least one of the wrongs that had been caused by his business on Danforth Street. He worried that he had let the pretty symmetry of his forced redistribution get the better of him. Perhaps it would have been better to have skipped that. Perhaps it would have been better to have done nothing at all. Milton was trying hard to be a better man, but he found it difficult to empathise with others and predict how they might react. He was concerned that he had misjudged Manny’s reaction and worried that he had made things worse.

  It looked as if the woman was about to engage him in conversation when the secretary turned to him. Milton turned and smiled broadly at him, angling his shoulders away from the woman just enough to suggest that she would find a more willing conversationalist on her other side.

  The man put out his hand and Milton shook it.

  “It’s John, right?”

  “That’s right. And you’re Charlie.”

  The man nodded. His grip was firm and he held it for a little too long.

  “How you finding New York?” he asked Milton as he released his hand.

  “I like it,” he said.

  “You been here before?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “Business?”

  “A bit of both.”

  Milton was being economical with the truth, but he could hardly be honest. His visit had been to assassinate a Russian mole who had somehow managed to worm his way into the British embassy. The man had been using a dead drop at Penn Station to pass secrets to the SVR and, once Milton had collected the evidence to confirm his treason, he had garrotted him in the Upper West Side apartment that he called home.

  Charlie asked a question and brought him out of his reverie. “What’s your business here now?”

  “I’ve been travelling. I wanted to see a different part of New York. Everyone goes to Manhattan. I knew there’d be more to the city than skyscrapers.”

  “Like Brooklyn?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Where you living?”

  “Down in Coney Island.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’ve got a little apartment there. It’s nothing special, but it’s fine for me.”

  “It’s dead in the winter.”

  “I like it. It’s beautiful out of season. And I like that it’s quiet. It’s peaceful.”

  “It is that,” Charlie said. “Peace and quiet is no bad thing for a drunk.”

  Milton didn’t answer.

  “I saw what you did,” Charlie said.

  “About?”

  “The sneakers. That was a nice touch.”

  “I had a pair I didn’t need,” he lied. “They would’ve gone to waste otherwise.”

  “It was good of you. I’ve known Manny a while. He might not say, but I know he’s grateful.”

  “I didn’t do it for his gratitude,” Milton said.

  “I’m not saying you did.”

  “I hope he took it the way it was intended. I was worried that he might think I was taking pity on him.”

  Charlie sipped his coffee. “Look, you did him a good turn and I’d like to do you one, too, if you’d let me. You’re trying to get an idea of what it’s like to live here, right?”

  Milton said that he was.

  “So have you been to see the Giants?”

  “I haven’t,” Milton said.

  “You want to? I’ve got a spare ticket for the game tonight. Playing the Cowboys. Can’t get too much more of a typical New York experience than seeing the Giants and Cowboys.”

  Milton’s instinctive response was to say no. He had always had trouble accepting the kindness of others, partly from a reluctance to accept favours that might one day be called in and partly because he didn’t think he deserved it. But this was tempting.

  “It’s the same thing as you and the sneakers,” Charlie said, sensing his hesitation. “My business has a box. We got ten seats and one of our guests has pulled out. Last-minute deal. It’ll be wasted if you don’t take it.”

  Milton didn’t say, but he had followed American football ever since it had been big in the UK during the eighties. He’d been to see a preseason game at Wembley, but this was something else.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’d love to. How much?”

  “Don’t be crazy. No cost. The box is already paid for. I’ve no idea what a ticket would cost, and I wouldn’t take it even if I knew.”

  “That’s very kind,” Milton said.

  “Great. I’ll meet you outside gate six. The game starts at eight; if we get there at seven, we could have a chili dog first.”

  11

  Officer Bobby Carter pulled up outside the precinct building on Sutter Avenue and checked his reflection in the mirror on the back of the pull-down visor. He had been out drinking until late last night and he hadn’t had enough sleep. He had awakened on the couch in his den, stinking of alcohol, and had showered for fifteen minutes in an attempt to get the stink of booze and cigarettes off his skin. The effort had failed; he concluded that he was probably still drunk and that the odour of it was leaking out of his pores. Becky had gone out to work, leaving a note stuck to the door of the refrigerator that she would see him when he got back off his shift tonight. Carter had felt a moment of shame; she was heavily pregnant, and he knew that she would be asleep when he got back. He wouldn’t see her until tomorrow morning at this rate. The shame didn’t last, though. He was able to rationalise it away. He had been busy. He and Shepard had hit a smoke house on Pitkin, climbing up the outside fire escape and using the sledge to smash down the door and get inside. They had cleared two thousand each, plus a good haul of dope that Shep was going to sell to his connection. Shep needed the money now that he was retired and it would come in useful for Carter, too. Two grand would buy a lot of baby clothes.

  He locked his car, crossed the sidewalk to the entrance and went down to the locker room in the guts of the building. It was the end of the eight-to-four shift, and the officers who had worked it were ending their tour. Men were taking off their uniforms, some of them showering before getting changed and going out for a beer to help them decompress. Others, like Carter, were getting ready for the four-to-twelve. The day was divided into three shifts: eight in the morning until four in the afternoon; four until midnight; and midnight until eight in the morning. Of the three shifts, the midnight tour usually held the promise of the most serious action. Carter was being rotated to it next week and was looking forward to the fun and games and the opportunities that were always presented.

  Carter had been stationed in three precincts during his career, and there was no doubt in his mind about one thing: the locker room in the basement of the precinct house on Sutter Avenue was the loudest and most unruly of all of them. It was a big space, with a long double row of lockers leading to a shower room and, opposite it, a lounge with easy chairs and an old TV. The set had been donated by a grateful storekeeper whose life had been saved after the punk who had slashed him with a machete had been shot in the head and killed by the officers who had responded to the 911 call. There was a separate locker room and shower block for female officers, but the lounge was shared. About a hundred men and ten women shared the space, using the space to play cards, drink beer, and, when they ran into problems at home, sleep. Carter had seen it done out as a target range on one occasion, with playing cards stuck to the wall and officers taking pot-shots with their service pistols. There had been threats of an investigation and terminations after that, but all that had happened was that the atmosphere was dialled back for a week or two. As soon as memories had been allowed to fade, it had returned to how it was before.

  That suited Carter. Hanging out with the men and women of the Seven Five before and after his shift was one of the highlights of his day.

  Carter was changing into his uniform when he saw the newcomer making his way down into the locker room. He was around six feet tall and had a slender build, with neatly cut hair and nervous eyes. He was carry
ing his new uniform in the crook of his elbow. He had probably picked it up earlier; the pressed trousers and blue shirt were still shrink-wrapped from the dry-cleaner’s. He looked tense.

  The rookie found his locker, opened the door, and hung the uniform over the top of it. He looked around. No one paid him any attention.

  Carter buttoned up his shirt and went over to the new man.

  “How you doing?”

  The rookie looked up. “I’m all right.”

  “Bobby Carter,” he said, putting out his hand.

  “Jimmy Rhodes.”

  “First day?”

  “Yeah,” Rhodes said. “Is it obvious?”

  “I know what you’re feeling. I been there, years ago. You wanna make a good impression?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Everyone in here felt that way once. You’re no different.”

  “Thanks.”

  Carter grabbed his belt, put it around his waist and fastened it tight. He took his pistol and put it into its holster.

  “You got roll call in three minutes. Get your uniform on and go up to the muster room. Don’t be late on your first day.”

  12

  Carter climbed the stairs and went into the muster room. There were nine tables arranged into three rows of three, with six chairs to each row. There was a lectern at the front of the room and, behind that, a whiteboard. A projector was suspended from the ceiling and a cork board tacked to the wall held a series of official notices and departmental documents. A pile of summonses had been stacked in a box by the door. The other officers on the shift filed in, joshing amiably with each other, some carrying takeout coffee and slices of pizza wrapped in greaseproof paper.

  Rhodes hurried into the room. He saw Carter and gave him a nod. There was a spare seat up at the front and he went to it and sat just as the sergeant arrived. His name was Ramirez and he had a printout in his hand.