Free Saint Death - John Milton #3 by Mark Dawson Page B

right.”
    “First name John. Correct?”
    “Correct.”
    “John Smith? Really?”
    “Yes, really.”
    “Alright then, Señor Smith. Sorry about bringing you down here.”
    “That’s alright. Why don’t you tell me what do you want?”
    “I just wanted to visit with you a little bit. Talk to you about what happened. That was some trick with the knife. What are you, ex-military?”
    “I’m just a cook.”
    “Really? You don’t look like a cook.”
    “So you say. But that’s what I am.”
    “Don’t know many cooks who can handle a Kalashnikov like that, either.”
    “Lucky shot, I guess,” the man shrugged. “Who are you?”
    “Lieutenant Jesus Plato. Where you from?”
    “England.”
    “Of course you are. That’s a fine accent you got there.”
    “Thank you very much.”
    “You want to tell me what happened back there, Señor Smith?”
    “You saw it just about as well as I did.”
    “Why don’t you tell me––give me your perspective.”
    “I was in the kitchen and I heard shooting. No-one seemed to be doing anything much about it.”
    “And so you did.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Seriously, Señor, please––you must have been a soldier at some point?”
    “A long time ago.”
    “Don’t think I’m ungrateful––you saved my life and plenty of others in that room. It’s just––”
    “It’s just that you have to make a report. It’s fine, Lieutenant. Ask your questions. I understand.”
    “You want a drink of water?”
    “I’m fine,” Milton said.
    “Smoke?”
    He nodded.
    Plato took out a packet of Luckies and tapped out two cigarettes. Milton took one and let the man light it for him.
    Plato inhaled deeply. “You know who those men were?”
    “Never seen them before.”
    “Those boys were from the cartel. La Frontera. You’ll have heard of them, no doubt.”
    “A little.”
    “A word of advice, John. Do you care if I call you John?”
    “If you like.”
    “Keep your eyes open, alright, John? What you did back there, that’s like poking a stick in a termite’s nest. People round here, they learned a long time ago that it’s best not to fight back when the sicarios come around. It’s better to let them get on with their business and pray to whatever God it is you pray to that it’s not your name they got on their list.”
    “Let them kill?”
    “Most people couldn’t make the kind of difference you made.”
    “I couldn’t just stand aside and do nothing, Lieutenant.”
    “I know. I’m just saying––be careful.”
    “Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.” He drew down on the cigarette, the tobacco crackling. “Who were they after?”
    “We’re not sure yet.”
    “But you think it was the kids on the table?”
    “Most likely. They missed one of them. Probably thanks to you.”
    “The girl.”
    “Yes.”
    “Was she hit?”
    “In the shoulder. She’ll live.”
    “But she’s not safe, is she?”
    “No.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “You know I can’t tell you that.”
    “Where is she?”
    “I can’t tell you that, either. It’s confidential. I’ve already said more than I should’ve.”
    He leant forwards. “You won’t be able to keep her safe, will you?”
    “Probably not.”
    “I can, Lieutenant.”
    “I doubt that.”
    “I can.”
    “How long have you been in Juárez?”
    “Just got into town today.”
    “You know what it’s like here? You know anything about La Frontera?”
    “This isn’t my first dance.” He rested both forearms on the table and looked right into Plato’s eyes. “I can help. I know what they’ve done to the police. I know about the messages they hang off the bridges when they leave their bodies, I know about the threats they make on police radio and I know they’ve got a list with your names on it. I saw what that means tonight. There were three of you. Only you and one of your colleagues did anything at all. The other one was hiding behind the bar.”
    “This might not be your first dance, John,