Salvation Row (40 page)

The bus rolled north east on I-10, passing the abandoned Six Flags, the skeletal struts of the roller coaster picked out in the blistering sun. They passed through Bayou Sauvage National Wildlife Refuge, the dense vegetation reminding him of the bayou shack where Avi Bachman’s wife had met her end.

Milton settled himself so that the pain from his injuries became a dull ache that he could almost ignore and closed his eyes. He was tired. He thought of Izzy and her family, the meals that he had enjoyed in the beautiful home that she had built, and drew satisfaction from the knowledge that they would have no need to move now. Solomon and Elsie could live and die in the Lower Nine, surrounded by old neighbours called back by the progress that was being made by their daughter. Their amazing, inspiring daughter. Milton had made mistakes, but not there. It was a good job, well done.

The bus rumbled onto the Pontchartrain Expressway across the glittering, treacherous waters of Lake Pontchartrain and headed on to Slidell, Diamondhead, and Diberville.

Milton thought of Avi Bachman. Was he a loose end? He could have put a bullet in him, tied it up for good, but Izzy was there, and what would she have thought of that? He had lifted his mask a little since he had arrived in town, but taking it off completely would have poisoned him to her forever. He couldn’t have done that. He had done the only thing that he could have done. But, still, the idea of a man like Avi Bachman, or Claude Boon—or whatever he chose to call himself—walking the earth with a grudge against him was not something that would allow for easy sleep. The thought that he was incarcerated was of some comfort.

Wishard finished his first can, closed his eyes, and started to snore. Milton opened his eyes and looked out past him at the unwinding landscape, the endless Gulf and the primeval swamp that fringed the road. They drove alongside a long, wide inlet and, as Milton watched, a big alligator roused itself from the burning rocks and slid into the muddy waters, quickly sinking out of sight.

Milton closed his eyes and tried, again, to sleep.

CLAUDE BOON waited in line. There were three pay phones and six men who wanted to use them. Louisiana State Penitentiary was known as Angola, but the inmates referred to it as the Farm. It was the largest maximum-security prison in the United States, with more than six thousand offenders and nearly two thousand staff.

It was a nasty, brutish place, but there was nothing too surprising about that. Boon expected it. He had heard all the stories: rape, gang rape, men who were bought and sold like cattle.

Boon was not a large man. He did not look particularly impressive.

Fresh meat.

Boon had been in places like it before and knew what he would have to do to render his stay bearable. He knew, for example, that he needed to make a demonstration as soon as he arrived. He selected the man who would help him to do that. An inmate called Clarence Wright, better known as the “Booty Bandit,” a bear of a man whose vocation was beating, torturing, and sodomising fellow inmates while prison guards looked the other way. Wright, a psychopathic serial rapist, was the guards’ resident enforcer. They arranged for men who needed to be reined in to be transferred to his cell. Boon made a nuisance of himself in the canteen to make that happen and, on the first night, as Wright made his move, Boon murdered him with a shank that he had fashioned from a toothbrush, pushing the sharpened plastic into his throat. The carotid artery had been severed clean in two, and Boon had bathed in the fountain of the big man’s blood. None of the guards or other inmates wanted anything to do with him after that.

Now the authorities were in the process of adding a new homicide charge to his rap sheet, but Boon didn’t care about that. He wouldn’t be around long enough for that to become relevant.

The man at the phone nearest to the line finished his call and replaced the receiver. Boon walked to the phone, ignoring his place in the queue. One of the others, a tattooed brute who ran with Ride or Die, started to protest until he saw who it was who was cutting the line.

Boon gave him a glance, even and calm, and saw the man take a step away from him.

He picked up the phone and dialled the number that he still remembered from all those years ago.

“Pronto Dry Cleaning. How can I help you?”

“I need to speak to the director.”

There was a slight pause as the woman on the other end of the call adjusted her expectations. “Can I ask who’s calling, please?”

“Yes,” Boon said. “Tell him it’s Avi Bachman. I’d like to come home.”

Building a relationship with my readers is the very best thing about writing. I occasionally send newsletters with details on new releases, special offers and other bits of news relating to the John Milton, Beatrix Rose and Soho Noir series.

And if you sign up to the mailing list I’ll send you all this free stuff:

1. A copy of my best-seller, The Cleaner (178 five star reviews and RRP of $5.99).

2. A copy of the John Milton introductory novella, 1000 Yards.

3. A copy of the introductory Soho Noir novella, Gaslight.

4. A free copy of my best-seller, The Black Mile (averages 4.4 out of 5 stars and RRP of $ 5.99).

5. A copy of the highly classified background check on John Milton before he was admitted to Group 15. Exclusive to my mailing list – you can’t get this anywhere else.

6. A copy of Tarantula, an exciting John Milton short story.

You can get the novel, the novellas, the background check and the short story,
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Thanks for reading Salvation Row. I hope you enjoyed it. I’m very fond of New Orleans, ever since I visited it as a fresh faced 21 year old (an awfully long time ago). I remember Bourbon Street, an amazing visit to Preservation Hall for some very funky jazz, and looking out over the Mississippi just like Milton. Hurricane Katrina and the consequences of the storm couldn’t really have been any more traumatic for a city that was already struggling, and I hope I have done justice to New Orleanians like Izzy Bartholomew who have worked so hard to repair the damage. Her fictional charity, Build It Up, is unashamedly based on the groundbreaking work done by the Make It Right Foundation, set up by Brad Pitt in the aftermath of the storm to repair the damage to the Lower Ninth. I will be making a donation to the charity, so some of the money you spent in buying this book will be going to a very good, and very deserving cause.

John Milton will be back in 2015. He has unfinished business with Avi Bachman…

Best wishes

…I would really, really appreciate it if you would help others to enjoy it, too. Reviews are like gold dust and they help persuade other readers to give the stories a shot. More readers means more incentive for me write and that means there will be more stories, more quickly.

Mark Dawson is the author of the breakout John Milton, Beatrix Rose and Soho Noir series. He makes his online home at
www.markjdawson.com
. You can connect with Mark on Twitter at
@pbackwriter
, on Facebook at
www.facebook.com/markdawsonauthor
and you should send him an email at
[email protected]
if the mood strikes you.

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Thanks, as usual, to my wife for her support (especially with regard to one very important decision). Thanks to my editors, Martha Hayes and Pauline Nolet, and the members of Team Milton who stomped on typos and checked facts until this book is as shiny and pristine as we can make it. You know who you are, and you all rock.