by Nick Stone
Eva had been born with the gift of precognition. She came from a long line of seers and sorcerers, stretching back to Haiti’s colonial days. Her great-grandmother Charlotte had been one of the country’s most famous mambos. She’d been President Jean-Pierre Boyer’s most trusted and–some said–most influential adviser, using spells and sacrifices to keep him in power for twenty-one years.
Eva could read tarot cards at the age of three, and at four she saw her first spirit. By the time she reached her tenth birthday she was telling wealthy Haitian society ladies their fortunes, reeling off details of adulteries, abortions, names and ages of bastard offspring, complex financial and property swindles, and births and deaths with pinpoint accuracy. When she was twelve she was talking to the dead. At fifteen she was enlisting their help in fixing the futures of the living.
In 1963 she was chased out of Haiti by Papa Doc, her former friend and sometime client, after she’d foreseen the end of the Duvalier dynasty.
She took the well-trodden Haitian exiles’ path to Miami with her nine-year-old son Carmine and her helper Solomon Boukman then aged eleven. She’d taken Solomon as payment from the family of a barren woman she’d helped get pregnant, but who’d died while giving birth to him.
For the first year, they lived in a house in the Liberty Square Housing Project, a collection of shacks known to the locals as ‘Pork ’n’ Beans’, because of their pinkish-orange colour. There were a handful of other Haitian families there, but it was mostly home to poor black Americans. The two groups didn’t get along. The Americans resented the Haitians for moving in on the little turf they had: Liberty Square had, after all, been set up for them alone. The Haitians regularly got robbed, beaten up and sometimes killed. The cops did nothing. To them it was just niggers offing niggers, so who cared as long as it didn’t cross racial lines.
A month after they’d arrived, Carmine got attacked by a gang of kids on his way back from the local 7-Eleven. They robbed him of his ten dollars grocery money and kicked him unconscious. Solomon went out, found the gang and attacked them with a razor-sharp machete. He left each of them missing a hand, finger, or an arm, an eye and–in the case of the leader–a nose. He took back the money they’d stolen.
Soon after, Liberty City’s Haitian kids formed their own gang, with Solomon as their leader. It was the start of the SNBC. They fought all the local gangs with fists, feet, bats, switchblades, machetes and zipguns. Solomon was always in the thick of it, his combat skills the stuff of street legend. They robbed people, houses and stores. They fenced the goods. They stole cars to order. They ran protection rackets, first for Haitians, then for anybody who’d pay. They worked too for Vernell Deacon–aka the Charmer–Liberty City’s most successful pimp. He paid them to watch his whores and guard his brothels. But he didn’t think to pay them to watch his back, and he wound up getting shot in a club toilet. Solomon added pimping and prostitution to his gang’s portfolio. The more Haitians came to Miami, the bigger the organization became. Solomon then divided it into subsections, giving the most trusted members control of key areas, which freed him up to get into the narcotics business.
Meanwhile Eva Desamours told fortunes to tourists in South Beach. She rented a fold-up table, two chairs and a parasol and joined a line of half a dozen Jewish and Cuban women who read cards, tea leaves, palms and gazed into crystal balls for anyone who gave them five bucks. The first week she read for twelve people, the second she doubled her clientele, and by the fourth, she had to turn people away. She had Carmine with her at all times, holding the money, because he wasn’t much use for anything else–especially not Solomon’s gang. In the beginning she seriously contemplated sending him back to Haiti, because he was seemingly useless, but then she began to note what a hit he was with women, how they cooed over his caramel skin and doe-like green eyes–just like those bitches had over his scumbag father. And she also noticed how he revelled in their attention and flattery, how sweetly he smiled at them when they told him how pretty he was, which only made them coo and cluck even more. Her cowardly little boy had a way with girls. He sought out their company. He knew how to put them at ease and make them laugh and gain their trust. She understood then his role in her new life.
Eva cut the deck of tarot cards and slid them across the table to Solomon.
He shu?ed them twice, ri?e and strip. She watched his short thick fingers handle the cards with a dexterity belying their shape. His nails were opaque, twisted and yellow, completely overlapping the fingertips and crowning hands rendered grotesquely large and heavy by his thin arms.
When he’d finished, he cut the deck and gave it back to her.
She laid the cards out face up in a descending pyramid, twenty-eight in all, beginning with a single card at the top, then two below, three after that, then four, and so on until she completed the spread with a final row of seven. The last cards on the right-hand side of the pyramid told the future, the ones before them represented significant past events and the undercurrents influencing it.
To an outsider the cards would have appeared flawed, because none of the court cards had faces, their heads represented by outlines around a white inside. Yet they had been specially designed that way, intended only for the most powerful fortune tellers. Once she’d started her reading, Eva would meditate on the court cards, staring deep into the blank space: the features of whoever they were meant to represent would begin to form in her mind’s eye, sometimes as clear as a photograph, at other times only faint traces of a face would come through.
‘What d’you see?’ Solomon asked.
It wasn’t good, not at all, but she wasn’t going to say anything just yet.
At the top of the pyramid was the King of Swords, which represented Solomon–a powerful, bellicose man who was in a position of high authority in an organization. The second and sixth cards were the Knight of Swords and the Knight of Wands. In-between were three sixes–Wands, signifying plans and ideas; Pentacles, representing money, business and security; and Swords indicating conflict, trouble and strife. But it was the final card in the spread that was the most damaging–the Tower, the great destroyer; harbinger of ruin.
She couldn’t understand it. The future had been so bright the last time. What had gone wrong?
‘Two men are working against you,’ she said, pointing to the Knights. ‘Who?’
She stared at the blank space that was the Knight of Swords’ face. She saw bloodshot blue eyes staring back at her and almost immediately smelled gunsmoke. She picked up the card, held it to her nose and breathed in deeply. A horrid taste formed at the back of her mouth. She broke it down: alcohol, earth, blood, chemicals, cigarettes. ‘This man has killed in cold blood. More than once.’ She put her finger on the Knight of Swords. ‘He’s not an assassin. He’s killed for other reasons. Principles. And a sense of failure. But he’s weak: he smokes, drinks and has taken drugs.’
Of the other man, she could only see his dark brown eyes, yet she sensed his massive, intimidating build. When she smelled and then tasted his essence it was at first a honeyed sweetness, indicating an even, good-natured temperament and a basic honesty–he was the sort of man who’d always help a friend and never cheat on his wife. Then, almost as soon as she was ready to conclude the man posed no real threat to them, she tasted a hint of vinegary sourness buried in the nectar. As she isolated it and drew it out, the taste became so unbearable she had to spit it out.
‘The other man,’ she wiped her mouth with a handkerchief and moved her finger to the Knight of Wands, ‘is ambitious, but he hides it well. He’s the initiator.’
‘Who are they?’ Solomon asked impatiently.
Before she could answer, Eva saw Carmine down on the ground clutching his gut like he’d been punched. She remembered the Knight of Swords’ taste now.
‘They’re police,’ she said and looked at the spread again. ‘They’re acting alone.’
‘Are they from here?’
‘Yes.’
‘They won’
t be a problem,’ Solomon said.
And then the spirit of Boukman appeared at Solomon’s right side. He was holding up a glittering tapestry of the original Haitian flag–blue and red, with the crest in the middle–and pointing to a single thread hanging off the edge. He had his eyes closed as he pointed. Then he opened them, looked at the thread as if seeing it for the first time and pulled it. The tapestry fell apart on the table in an ungainly heap of material and very quickly turned to a spread of dust which Boukman blew away.
She understood what it meant: there was something the cops hadn’t seen yet, the tiniest detail, but if they found it, it would spell the end.
She asked the spirit what the detail was, but he didn’t answer. It either meant he didn’t know or she wasn’t meant to know. Which it was, she wasn’t allowed to ask.
And for the first time ever she felt afraid.
‘We need to find out who these men are,’ she said to Solomon, ‘and then they must be killed.’
21
1 p.m., Coconut Grove. Miami’s village they called it. Lots of palm trees keeping everything shaded and cool, cute boutiques and restaurants everywhere. The people all relaxed and unsuspecting and rich, taking their time and talking real low. You didn’t come around here unless you had money or wanted to see what it was like to have money.
Now this was living, this was where it was at, the place he wanted to be–Can’t-Afford-Me-Anyway-So-Don’t-Even-Bother-Asking Central, thought Carmine, as he squeezed the lemon slice into his Perrier water and looked around him at the rich ladies lunching outdoors at Dubois’ Fresh & Natural, a healthfood place on Grand Avenue. It had round tables, parasols made from recycled wood; they served you on plates made by indigenous South American Indians, and you spent a lot of money on their specialties–nutroast, seed loaf, soya sausage, dried-berry pudding and tofu fuckin’ everything. Every time he ate there he spent a week shitting his guts out.
Still, there was nothing he liked better than sitting here in the lap of luxury, dressed to the nines and studying all those haughty trophy bitches through his dark-blue-lensed Ray-Ban Aviators with the gold Bausch & Lomb frames. They all sat around in their expensive clothes and discreet jewellery, branded paper shopping bags at their sides and those ugly manicured poodles standing to attention at their feet. Them damn dogs all looked like they got their fur sculpted by the same hairdresser who did their mistresses’ hair. The women all looked the same, give or take–starved down to bone, nervous tics, with so much plastic surgery added in they were like shopfront mannequins who’d been brought to life by Frankenstein when he’d run out of cadavers.
This was his playground. Here he liked to amuse himself and play God in his head, load the dice and turn the tables. He’d take away the rich husbands, the bank accounts, the property portfolios, address books and wardrobes, disconnect the phone and send the staff packing. Then he’d imagine them coming to him with their sob stories, and him acting all boo-hoo-hoo sensitive mucho simpatico, before telling them that there was a way out of their dilemmas, that they had to use what they’d got–or what the plastic surgeons had left them with. Oldest trade known to man, shit that’s been going on since man was a monkey and lived in a tree. Hell, even Mary Magdalene started out that way. They wouldn’t like it at first. They’d slap his face and call him scum, but sooner or later they’d realize it was his way or no way. How low could they go? All the way down that social ladder. After Sam had turned them out good, he’d pimp out these stuck-up cunts to cab drivers, shoeshiners, waiters, bellhops, store managers, gardeners, pool men, cooks–anyone they’d been rude to or turned their noses up at. They’d all get a piece. Once in a while he’d bring them back here and rub their old lives in their faces; only they wouldn’t want to eat salads and fruits, they’d be begging him to go to Wendy’s or BK, get themselves some real food. He chuckled quietly to himself: man, he was a nasty motherfucker when he wanted to be, scared himself sometimes. But life and his evil-ass mother had made him that way, so tough shit and too bad and boo-fuckin’-hoo-hoo-hoo.
Today he was here on busy-ness. Waitress called Dominique. Potential Heart. Only this one wasn’t going to his mother. Oh no, he was keeping this piece for his own Deck. White, long blonde hair (real), big round baby blues that had this way of going wide like she was hearing or seeing something new and wonderful for the first time, slender body, tall, long-legged, narrow waist, good hips and a great pair of tits; real healthy glow to her skin, classic all-American apple-pie blonde straight out of the Christie Brinkley/Chris Evert gene pool. Yessir. Looking just like her workplace, Fresh & Natural.
He’d been working her since before Christmas, taking it real slow, reluctant at first, truth be told, because he wasn’t too sure about recruiting on his own turf, but in the end he’d recognized she had way too much potential to pass up. In fact, she was the one who had initiated contact, not the other way round. He’d noticed her OK. Damn near couldn’t miss this fine piece of cornfed ass. He’d just come back from posing as a photographer around Biscayne Bay, and she’d asked him if he was ‘a professional’. He’d laughed at the unintentional irony of what she’d said and she’d thought he was laughing at her. She’d blushed and looked hurt, which was a perfect entry point for him. He’d made up some shit about how he’d just got called an amateur that morning, blah blah blah, and they’d hit it off. She’d told him she came from Vegas. She’d tried making it as a model in LA, but hadn’t got anywhere, and now here she was. He did the usual–got to know her, made sure she had no one around–husband, long-term boyfriend, family. When she said it was just her and her ambition he mentioned an assignment he had coming up in the next few weeks. He shot a few Polaroids of her and gave her his card. Sam had almost come when he’d seen the photographs, so he’d decided to move in today, final phase–date her a couple of times, gain her trust, then introduce her to Sam, the turn-out man.
‘Hey, Louis!’ Dominique called out to him and smiled in that high-voltage white flash-bulb way she had. Louis De Ville, photographer. That’s what it said on the card he’d given her.
‘Whassappenin’, princess?’ Carmine smiled at her and pushed his glasses up. He made his fingers into a rectangle and framed her. She posed, pouting, holding up her hair. The mannequins looked their way. Carmine got up and kissed her on the cheek. Had to tiptoe up a little. Bitch was taller than him by an inch or two and she was wearing flat shoes; some fat old dwarf would love her.
She’d just started her shift. She’d work late today, right through to midnight closing. After sundown the place was popular with young couples who sipped fruit-juice cocktails while looking into each other’s eyes. She said she hated that time of day the most because seeing those happy couples only reminded her of her loneliness. It never ceased to amaze him the kinds of intimate shit bitches told you when they trusted you–kinds of shit he could turn to gold.
‘I’ve got some real great news,’ he said to her, slipping into pro photospeak. ‘That job I told you about? It’s a new Calvin Klein shoot.’
‘Calvin Klein!’
‘Thassright.’
‘With Brooke Shields?’
‘No.’ He laughed. ‘I ain’t all that. This is like a local campaign, aimed at Florida. And they want some local models, so I thought of you.’
‘Oh, mi God! Oh, mi God!’ She jumped up and squealed loud enough to turn every starved head in the place their way. She hugged him tight, pressing herself right against him.
‘Now hold on, hold on.’ He disentangled himself. ‘Lots we got to talk about first. Like what the process is gonna involve, and how you gotta be gettin’ yourself a good agent.’
‘Sure, OK.’
‘How’s ’bout I pick you up after you get done, an’ we can go get ourselves a bite to eat, an’ I’ll talk you through what is what?’
‘I get out of here about 12.30,’ she said.
‘Kahmyne?’
Right behind him, he heard it, but it didn’t fully register.
; ‘I’ll be here,’ he said, then he heard it again, clearer and closer.
‘Kahmyne?’
Dominique was now looking over his shoulder, knots of puzzlement in her happy expression.
‘Kahmyne Dezzamoo!’
Oh shit! It was Risquée!
‘Kahmyne Dezzamoo–nigga, turn yo’ ass arown when I address yo’ redbone ass!’
There was a hand on his shoulder and a real pissed-off voice bellowing in his ear.
He turned around. Risquée, one of his own Cards. What the fuck was she doin’ here? Bitch looked like all kinds of shit. She was squeezed into a short ’n’ sheer pink pvc dress, so tight it made her flabby thighs spill out over the hem. She stood unsteadily in leopard-skin heels, and had a handbag to match. Big gold Africa earrings and a short black wig that looked like she’d scraped a dead crow off her porch and glued it to her scalp. She was sweaty faced and wild-eyed, anger over all what was left of her looks.