'We ain't too close,' Max said. 'She moved outta Miami. Went back to Louisiana. Talk once in a blue moon.'
'You married?' she asked.
'Wouldn't be here if I was,' he answered. She smiled at that.
The rain had stopped a good few minutes ago. There was a huge puddle about an inch deep in front of them. She'd be going soon. It was now or never. He opened his wallet and took out one of his cards with his direct line on it.
'Say, seein' as we both work downtown, you wanna meet up for lunch sometime? Or maybe just stand someplace and watch the rain again?' He held out his card.
She took it and looked at it. 'Miami Task Force,' she read out. 'I've heard of that. Aren't you guys supposed to be supercops?'
'Supposed to be.' Max chuckled. 'You got a card? Or a number?'
'They don't like us getting personal calls in the office.'
'OK.' Max couldn't keep the disappointment from showing. She'd probably liked his company enough to let him down easy.
'But they don't mind us making them, as long as we're quick. So why don't I call you next week?'
'Sure!' Max said, a little too keenly for his own comfort. But what the hell? She hadn't said, 'No, my nice boyfriend with a nice job and nice prospects wouldn't like it,' had she?
She took off her shoes and rolled up the cuffs of her trousers. She wore sky-blue nail varnish on her toes.
'So long, Detective-sorry, Detective Sergeant Mingus.' She held out her hand.
'Call me Max,' he said, shaking it. 'And call me. Please.'
She smiled and tiptoed out into the puddle. He watched her go. He tried not to disrespect her by checking out her ass, but he couldn't help himself.
'Que culo magnifico! ' The waiter sighed quietly next to him, under his breath, translating Max's uppermost thoughts into the little Spanish he knew.
'Hey! Watch your manners, fuckhead!' Max snapped at him. He doused his cigarette in the beer can and tossed it to the waiter before wading out through the puddle in his shoes.
Sandra waved at him just before pulling out into the road. He waved back and then stayed where he was until her tail lights had disappeared. He had a huge smile on his face.
C
armine didn't immediately recognize Risquee when he saw her waiting for him outside the shop. She wasn't wearing her street clothes. She was dressed in blue denim dungarees, white sneakers and a white T-shirt; her hair was tied back and she was carrying a rucksack. Maybe she was splitting town as soon as he gave her the 50 Gs he had in his trunk. He hoped so.
He wasn't going to kill her. Sure, he'd considered it as a cheaper option, but, when it came down to it, he couldn't see himself doing it. Murder wasn't him.
He parked three blocks down from the store. He wasn't gonna give her the money here. He was gonna walk up to her, take her for a drive, sweet talk her like he'd done the first time he'd seen her; he'd apologize from the bottom of his heart for leavin' her in jail and betrayin' her and then try and get a guarantee from her that she wouldn't say nothin' to his mother. He'd make her see sense, see his way. He knew he could. Plus he even had another 25 Gs in the glove compartment as a token of his appreciation. No way could that bitch resist the combination of green and his smooth charms. They never could. Everyone had their price.
It was dark in the road, with the only light coming from the few passing cars that were around and the one street lamp that hadn't got shot out by kids.
Carmine started walking up slowly, getting his words straight.
'Hey, baby,' he'd say. 'Sorry I kept you waitin'. Traffic was a bit-' No, not 'bitch'; couldn't use no pimpspeak. 'Traffic was hell.' That's what he'd say. 'Traffic was hell.'
'Hey, baby,' a man's voice behind her made Risquee turn around. It wasn't Carmine.
She couldn't quite make him out. He was close by, walking up to her from the right side of the street.
'You waitin' on someone, suga?' the man asked, voice all deep, comin' from inside his stomach like he was imitating Barry White.
'You talkin' to me, mistah?'
'Sure am. Ain't no one else out here on this night.' The man got closer. He had a kind of bounce in his voice, like he was finding shit funny.
'Zzamatta-o-fak I am waitin' on someone-suga,' she said, putting plenty of boot in her tone, so he knew she wasn't interested. 'An' I don't need no company while I'm doin' it.'
He was close enough to see now. Tall and slim, short-sleeved black shirt and loose slacks, a hint of gold in his mouth, gold chain, shiny gators, aftershave-damn, if it wasn't Ole fuckin' Spice! Her pops used to put that shit on his dick after he'd been fuckin' around, so's her moms wouldn't smell another pussy on him. Another no-good dumbass.
'Whooooh! Ain't you the feisty one, huh?' The man laughed.
There was something off about him, the way he was standing real close to her.
'Yeah, I'm feisty as fuck, you mess wit' me,' she snarled. 'An' you a inch from catchin' that shit! Now, I'm a waitin' on someone and it ain't yo' ass, so why don't you take a long walk outta mah face, OK?'
'Oh, I'm sorry, mam-I do apologize,' he said with exaggerated politeness, but then turned pure nasty, 'but I thought you was some cheap ho' lookin' to make a quick five.'
'Oh, I'm sorry, sah,' Risquee snapped back sarcastically. 'I remine you o' yo' momma? Or is it yo' daddy like to dress up in women panties?'
He hit her in the mouth. She felt metal in the punch. Brass knuckles.
She staggered back into the shop door. She was dazed, head spinning, blood pouring down her throat and out of her mouth.
She felt the man reach through the fog and grab her arm. He started dragging her up the street, in the direction he'd come.
Her rucksack was gone.
Carmine saw it all. At first he'd thought the brother was a john or some guy out tryin' his luck, but then it occurred to him that only trouble or an idiot walked these streets at night, and, right at the instant he hit her, Carmine realized the man was someone Sam had sent.
Fuck that bitch, had been his first and only thought as he'd quickly turned around and started walking back to his car, more relieved that Risquee was really being dealt with for good, than he was mad at Sam for disobeying him. Hell, Sam had only wanted to look after his best interests anyway, so-
Behind him, he heard a scream-a man's scream.
He turned around to see what had happened, but couldn't see shit 'cause it was too far away.
The man was yellin', 'You bitch! You bitch! You fuckin' daid!'
Then, behind him, an engine started and, as he turned back around, headlights came on full beam and blinded him.
Only her mouth hurt. Her head cleared in seconds.
Ole Spice was dragging her up the road to where his car was parked and the passenger door was open.
That fuckin' piece-of-shit-pussy-cocksucker-lowlife Kahmyne had set her the fuck up! She shoulda known. She juss didn't think he had the nutsacks to get her smoked.
She could smell those cheap shit aftershave fumes comin' offa Ole Spice, and stale sweat too. Lazy nigga probably didn't shower regularly.
He had her by her left arm.
She was right handed.
She reached into her pocket and took out the switchblade she kept there, in case of bad tricks. It had a six-inch razor-sharp stainless-steel blade.
Ole Spice stopped when he heard it pop open.
Dumbass…Dinn think to frisk me, didja? But who's complainin', fukka?
She swung quick and hard and stuck him in the gut. The blade pierced his flesh and ruptured soft tissue. He screamed. She dragged the blade down her like she was pulling on a lever.
He screeched in an unmanly way, reminded her of a little girl getting spooked on a ghost train.
His warm blood pissed out all over her hand and splashed on the ground.
She pulled out the knife; he fell heavily to his knees.
'You fuckin' bitch!' he said, quietly, in astonishment, 'you fuckin' stabbed me!'
'No shit, fukka!' she yelled and kicked him in the face. He fell back with a grunt.
Risquee ran up the street, fast as her legs could carry her. She had a great pair of pins on her, sprinter's legs, or so she'd been told. Amount of runnin' away she'd had to do all her life had developed 'em juss right.
She heard Ole Spice yellin' his ass off. Then he shot at her. Pop-pop-pop. She ran faster.
Two cars were coming up the road.
Pop-pop-pop again.
She heard glass breaking and the first car suddenly swerved sharply and skidded, crashing into Ole Spice's ride.
She ran even faster, just kept on going, faster and faster, oblivious to her busted-up mouth, and the sounds of more gunfire.
Carmine's ride was stolen right from under his nose. He'd left the top down and the keys in. Didn't think he was going to be gone for more than a few seconds. Little fuckers had probaby been watchin' him from the minute he stopped in the street. They'd jumped in when his back was turned and reversed so fast the tyres had squealed. Then they'd spun around and torn off down the street, as hell had broken loose behind them.
First some shots, then a car had swerved off the road and smashed slap-bang-boom into the hitman's ride. Then there'd been more shots-automatic fire, coming from another car-rat-tat-tat-tat-tattatat-loud-sounded like an assault rifle. Bullets had smashed into the vehicles and started ricocheting everywhere.
Who was shooting at who and why, Carmine didn't know or care because he'd started running the opposite way, running for what was left of his dear, precious, sad-ass life.
9
.30 p.m. Eldon Burns had a home to go to. His day was done. He was going to go to his gated house in Hialeah, kiss Lexi hello, kiss Vanessa and Leanne, if they were still in, have himself a good hot bath and then kick back with some beers and watch some old fight films in his basement den. Friday nights were his alone, Saturdays he met up with the Cutmen, and Sundays he spent with his family, especially Leanne, the youngest, brightest and sweetest of his daughters. He hated to admit it and did his best not to show it, but she was his favourite. He had high hopes for her-an Ivy League college, then an internship with a congressman in DC, possibly Strom Thurmond, who the Turd Fairy knew very well.
He got in his dark blue Buick Skylark sedan. Leather seats, dark wood panelling, 2.8 litre engine, gold wire wheels, smooth transmission, plenty of room inside, like being in your own private club; an all over class ride. He also drove a Cadillac Eldorado, but that wasn't as practical for me day to day as this baby.
He got onto Flagler. Traffic was fluid.
He popped a cassette tape into the car stereo. It was an advance copy of Sinatra's new album, She Shot Me Down, which wasn't due out in the stores for another few months. He'd got it straight from Frank's management, where he had good contacts. He loved Frank, always listened to him on a Friday. It was great end-of-week music.
As Eldon took US1, he decided the album was pretty good for late-period stuff, possibly even the best thing he'd done since September of My Years. He wasn't trying to be relevant or appeal to hippies and moptops, and he wasn't doing none of that Star Wars bullshit he'd tried on Trilogy. No, this was Frank at his best, back in some bar on his lonesome, loaded on Jack Daniels and thinking about how Ava Gardner had dumped him for a bullfighter. The years were showing in Frank's voice, but the material he was singing suited him perfectly. It was a nice album you could kick back to. Lexi might even like it, if he could stop her from playing Kenny Rogers for just a second.
He noticed the black Mercedes which had been behind him since he'd left the car park wasn't exactly shy about the fact that it was tailing him. He wondered if he should do something now or later. He smiled to himself. He had a.357 Magnum in the glove compartment and a.38 under the seat. He preferred revolvers over automatics. They never jammed.
When he reached Hialeah, Eldon pulled over and parked in a well-lit residential street close to his house.
The Mercedes stopped behind him and killed its lights.
'Whaddaya want?' Eldon said, finally looking in the rearview mirror at the passenger who'd been riding with him the whole way. He could only see the side of his forehead.
'The most powerful man in town shouldn't be leaving his car door open.'
'I didn't,' Eldon said. 'Whaddaya want?'
'Two of your finest are investigating me.'
'Who?'
'I don't have the names. One's black, one's white.'
'How d'you know this?'
'I just do.'
'This more of your voodoo shit, Boukman? The spirit of King Kong materialize in your living room or somethin'?' Eldon laughed.
'You'll never understand,' Solomon said. The leather squeaked as he moved slightly in the seat.
'I'd "understand" if you gave me a name or two.'
'Look into it.'
'You heard of "please", or don't that word exist in Haiti?'
'Look into it-please,' Solomon said. No sarcasm in his tone. No emotion. No nothing. Usual flat, dull, personality-free voice. 'We don't want any problems, not with the construction about to start.'
'There's no problems I don't see comin' a month before they show up,' Eldon said. 'I'm your future, remember? So you got nothin' to worry about, s'long as you remember who's in charge.'
'Long as I remember my place, you mean?'
'Don't gimme that civil rights shit!' Eldon laughed. 'You ain't a nigra, Boukman. You're Haitian. Martin Luther King did not die for you.'
Solomon didn't answer. He shifted closer to the door on the passenger side.
'Why are you sweatin' this anyway? No one knows what you look like, right? You probably forgotten yourself, way I bin hearin' things. How many operations you had to your face?'
'You remember what I look like, Eldon. You never forget a face, right?' Solomon opened the door and got out of the car.
Eldon watched him walk off to the Mercedes, which had pulled back away from the street light and into the dark. The car then reversed up the road, did a three-point turn and headed back to Miami.
Weirdly, Eldon had the feeling someone was still in the car with him. He switched on the light and looked behind him. There was no one there, but Boukman had left something on the seat, his signature, his calling card: the King of Swords.
Their troubles weren't over. There'd be more killing.