The King of Swords

by Nick Stone

  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 Risquée 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,’ Risquée 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 Risquée 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.

  Risquée 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.

  27

  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.

  PART FOUR

  June 1981

  28

  ‘Tarot cards are used in the art of divination, commonly known as fortune telling. They’ve been around since the fifteenth century, and are thought to have originated in Italy, although fortune telling itself is older than the Bible. The books of Leviticus and Deuteronomy rail against fortune tellers. And in Chronicles, one of the reasons King Saul dies is because he asked a medium for help. You could even say it’s the oldest faith,’ Phyllis Cole explained to Max in a room at the Tuttle Motel on Collins Avenue, where she taught card-reading and palmistry classes on Thursday nights. She was a professional psychic who also helped cops with their investigations. Max had never used psychics himself, but it was a common, if not publicized practice, especially in missing persons cases. Phyllis had a good reputation: she’d found several people, although they’d all turned up dead.

  ‘There are seventy-eight cards in a tarot deck. They’re divided into two groups–Major Arcana and Minor Arcana,’ she continued, laying out four on the table. ‘There are twenty-two Major Arcana cards; they signify life’s prime forces, things over which we have no control–twists of fate, acts of God, the intangibles, the imponderables. They’re results too. You’re probably familiar with some of them, on account of seeing them on TV or movies–Death, the Devil and the Lovers. None of these are meant to be taken literally. Take a look at the design. What do you see?’

  She passed the Death card over to Max, who was sitting opposite her at a table at the end of the room. He saw a giant grinning skeleton in black armour riding a white horse. The horse was trampling over a body. In front of it stood a cardinal in his mitre and robes, hands clasped together in prayer and supplication, while two children knelt beside him, one looking up at the skeleton, the other looking away in fear.

  ‘Oh, I know, I know,’ she said before he stated the obvious. ‘Looks like a scene of devastation, doesn’t it? But look to the right of the picture, behind the horse’s head.’

  ‘A rising sun,’ Max said.

  ‘Exactly.’ She nodded. ‘A rising sun. A new day. After the end, a new beginning, a fresh start; change, regeneration. That’s what the card symbolizes–one door closing, another opening. And if you look at the rest of the background, you’ll see a waterfall, symbolizing the constant flow of life.’

  ‘And tears too, right?’ Max said.

  ‘See? You’re learning.’ Phyllis smiled warmly. She was a short, large, but not unattractive, woman who wore her hair in an almost militaristic afro, cropped close around the back and sides, but higher and pointed on top. It shouldn’t have suited her, but it did.

  She put the cards away and picked out eight new ones from the deck, laying them face up so Max could see them.

  ‘This is the Minor Arcana, which closely resemble traditional poker cards. There are four suits–Swords, Cups, Pentacles or Coins and Wands or Batons. Playing cards are also used in fortune telling, and when they are, Spades are taken to mean Swords, Hearts are Cups, Clubs are Pentacles and Diamonds are Wands.

  ‘Like playing cards, the number suits run from an Ace to a Ten. Swords represent aggression and drive, as well as pain and suffering; Cups are the emotions; Pentacles symbolize money and all that goes with or without it; Wands mean ideas and creativity, as well as communication.

  ‘Now, the main difference is in the court cards, of which there are four in tarot–King, Queen, Knight and Page–as opposed to just three. The court cards represent people, seniority usually reflecting their age. Except for the Queen. She can be any age.’

  One of the cards Phyllis had put out was the King of Swords–a scowling man in robes, sitting on an ornate stone throne, holding a huge sword in his left hand. His right hand was clenched into a fist. Ar
ound him, in the background, much smaller than him, were three trees and low-lying clouds. Max understood the card represented someone who dominated with aggression, but–peering closer at the King’s wary sideways glance–also someone who was always looking over his shoulder to make sure nothing was sneaking up on him from behind.

  ‘So Swords are bad cards to get?’ Max asked.

  ‘Yes and no. It depends where they turn up in a reading. The Ace of Swords, for example, turning up in the middle of good positive cards can mean a heroic triumph over adversity. But the Three of Swords means heartbreak, and the Eight, Nine, and Ten are all bad news.’

  Max considered the King of Swords a lot more closely. What was it doing in two people’s stomach? Was it a sign, a message, a calling card or part of a potion?

  ‘Now, do you want to know how these work?’

  ‘Please,’ Max said.

  ‘Would you like me to read for you?’

  ‘No thanks, mam.’

  ‘You don’t believe in it?’

  ‘Not really, no. No disrespect meant or anything.’

  ‘None taken.’ She shu?ed the cards overhand, but considered him curiously, like she’d noticed something new about him. Max sensed a gentle pleasant warmth behind his neck, close to the nape, as if he was being massaged.

  ‘Tarot readings can be like confessionals. Do you go to church?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Max admitted, ‘but not for the religion.’

  She frowned.

  ‘I go there to think things through occasionally, when I need peace and quiet.’

  ‘To reflect but not to pray?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Max nodded. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘To help solve your cases?’

  ‘The difficult ones, sometimes, yeah.’

  ‘And do you solve them?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, when I’m there I find I’ll remember things I missed.’

  ‘But do you think it’s God shining his light in those dark corners of your mind, wiping away the dust?’