The King of Swords (max mingus) (35 page)

E
very time it rained in Miami, it was like God was trying to wash the city into the sea. Today He was trying extra hard.

Rain, wind, lightning and thunder.

Carmine was getting his tic like crazy, his left cheek snapping back and forth every couple of seconds like a rubber band in the hands of a hyperactive child. He'd slap himself hard to correct it, but it would just get worse, his nervous spasm feeding off his anger and frustration and yanking up half his face, completely closing his eye.

He was stood behind the counter of Haiti Mystique, watching the deluge come down in slanted sheets, relentless in its intensity, transforming the street into a wide, fast-flowing stream. The drains were choked and spilling their dark brown guts; solitary passing cars were throwing up knee-high waves, which would crash on the sidewalk, splash walls and windows and ooze under doorways.

Bad day to do ho bidniss, the sorry state o' my sorry ass, thought Carmine, before remembering, with something close to relief, that he'd been demoted to store manager. That was some kind of joke. There wasn't anything to manage. In all the time he'd been in his 'new job', he hadn't served a single customer. In fact, the only people to come through the door outside of him and Lulu had been Sam and Eva, when they'd had their meeting downstairs yesterday.

Sam had been on the TV news and in the papers, standing in front of a row of derelict buildings on North East 2nd Avenue, talking about how he was going to renovate and reinvigorate the area, how he was going to turn it into a Haitian-themed neighbourhood, and how he was already talking to city officials about renaming the place 'Little Haiti'. The press were already referring to him as 'the Haitian George Merrick', after the man who'd transformed Coral Gables out of orange groves. Same concept, different fruit. Tonight Sam was going to be at a big gala dinner at the Fontainebleau Hotel to formally launch the project.

So Sam was a busy man-too busy to talk to Carmine. Carmine was wondering how much Sam knew about Bonbon taking over the pimping. Had he known about it in advance? Maybe, maybe not. Why would they have told him? It had nothing to do with him. But Carmine couldn't be sure. Just like he couldn't be sure that Sam hadn't told his mother about Nevada.

Nevada? Well, that was all fucked anyway. Wasn't going to happen. He didn't have the heart or guts or balls or mind to do that any more-not after what had happened to Julita. He'd spent yesterday night seeing as many of his sideline Cards as he could find, telling them he was cutting them loose. A few had cried, asked him what they were going to do. Some had asked him what he was going to do. Most had taken it with a shrug and a see-ya.

He was still getting out of Miami though, and getting out soon-out of the city, out of his mother's clutches, and out of this sad, bad, broken-down existence.

He'd be gone next Wednesday. He was just about ready.

He'd moved all his money to a locker at the airport. He'd stashed the key at home, deep in his jar of coffee. On Departure Day he'd leave like he was going to work, but he'd go to Miami International instead and get on a plane. He wouldn't tell a soul. Not even Sam. And definitely not his mother.

Where would he go?

He'd first thought of Phoenix, because of that Isaac Hayes song-an old favourite of his-where a man leaves a cheating wife for the last time. But he'd dismissed that as a bad idea because the guy in the song never gets there, and, besides, Sam or someone would probably work it out. So he'd gone through the names of American towns he'd stored up in his mind, names of places he'd heard and never forgotten. He'd dismissed the familiar ones, the landmark cities, until he'd come up with Buffalo. Perfect. Who the fuck would think of looking for him in Buffalo?

What he'd do when he got there, he didn't know, but it would be better than this shit.

The rain let up in the early afternoon and the thunder stopped completely. Carmine left Lulu to mind the store and took a drive over to 63rd Street. He was still using the pickup.

The Spades were all out on the sidewalk, some under umbrellas, others in short and shiny plastic raincoats with nothing but their underwear on. They stood near the kerbs in their twos, three and fours, eyeballing every car that passed, sometimes waving and calling out to the drivers they locked eyes with.

He finally saw Julita, off on her own, near the end of the street. She was wearing a red dress that barely covered her crotch, black spike heels and a transparent windcheater. She looked scared, sad and tired. When she saw the pickup slowing she dipped her eyes to the ground. She hadn't even seen him. He thought of stopping and giving her a ride, but he knew he couldn't take her anywhere, so instead he drove on.

He arrived at Haiti Mystique right after 4.00 p.m and sent Lulu home. No point in keeping her around. Besides, he wanted to be alone, give himself space to think.

He looked around for something to keep him busy for the last half hour of his day and saw that the drum collection needed wiping down.

Blondie's 'Rapture' was playing on the radio. He turned it up a little. The song made him laugh, that white girl trying to be the Sugar Hill Gang. She really didn't have the first clue about rapping, thought it was just talking like she was going over speed bumps-and that crap she was spouting about eating cars and bars and men from Mars. Jesus! Still, that bitch was fine-looking, a straight-up Heart.

He corrected himself. He had to stop thinking that way, breaking women down into Suits, into how much he could get for them. That day was done. Fact of the matter was-if he was truthful to himself-he never had been a real pimp. Not exactly. All he'd actually done was seduce, recruit and collect. The creative side. He'd never actually set up the business. That had all been his mother. All right, so he'd had his Secret Suit. But that wasn't exactly his fault. What else could he do for money? It was all he knew. He was a-what was it those defence lawyers were always saying?-yeah, 'a product of his environment'. That was it! That's what he was. It was all his mother's fault. She'd started it, virtually as soon as they'd moved into Pork 'n' Beans. She'd pimped out their neighbour, a Dominican called Fabiana. Fabiana had borrowed money off her and couldn't repay it. She'd made Fabiana turn tricks in her house. Carmine would hear her getting fucked through her wall. Then she'd hear her crying after the johns had left. One night Fabiana took a dive in front of a speeding car. His mother didn't give a shit, didn't show a hint of remorse. No, what she did was take over Fabiana's house and move another woman in there. Business as usual.

He cleaned the dust off the voodoo drums and started on the aged Rastafarian ones.

The door open behind him.

He turned around.

It took him a few moments to recognize the person standing there.

'What? You think you seein' a ghost, muthafukka?' Risquee snarled. 'Well you ain't. Yo' peckerwood hitman fucked up!'

Carmine stood up slowly, looking at her, dumbstruck and utterly shocked. She'd changed quite a bit. She was a lot shorter because she was in Converse sneakers instead of high heels. Her wig had been replaced with cornrows, her hoop earrings with small gold studs, her short dresses with baggy black army pants and a loose black T-shirt. She had no make-up on. She'd lost a lot of weight. Her face was lean and tight. And she was missing her front teeth.

'Why you ain't sayin' nuttin' Kahmynne-huh?'

'I-I-I didn't send no one to kill you, baby,' he offered weakly, his voice shredded with fear.

'Yeah-right! An' I'm Nancy-fuckin'-Reagan-BABY!' she shouted.

Standing the way she was-straight and tense, eyes gleaming with rage-he couldn't help but think of a cobra right before it strikes.

'I swear it wasn't me,' he pleaded. 'I-I had your money. I was gonna give it you.'

'Boollshit! '

'I can get you yo' money,' he said.

'I don' wannit!' She started coming towards him.

'What?' He started to panic.

'I…don'…wannit! That's English fo' "fuck dat shit"!'

'But it's-$50,000!'

'I said fuck dat shit! I don't want yo' money no mo'. We pass dat stage, bitch!' She reached into her pocket and pulled something out. He couldn't see what. He couldn't move.

'So-what d'you want? Why d'you come back? You know there's-there's people out lookin' fo' you.' 'Who?' 'Bonbon.'

She stopped in her tracks. Even she was scared of Bonbon. He saw her think things through for a second-but just a second.

'An' you gonna stand there an' tell me you never sent someone ta kill me? You a DUMBASS MUTHAFUKKA, Kahmyyne! You know dat? Good thang yo' dumbness ain't contagious else tha whole world an' its momma be a DUMBASS MUTHAFUKKA too!'

He heard the metallic click of a switchblade opening.

'What are you doin'?' he whimpered.

'Killin' yo' sorry ass!'

Risquee swiped hard at his face, missing his head by a fraction. Then she lunged at him like a fencer, but he sidestepped and slipped behind her.

She spun around and slashed at him again, missing by a broader margin.

'Stop this shit!' he yelled.

'Fuck dat! An' FUCK YOU!'

She crouched down a little, her gaze dancing wildly all over his face. She feinted, made him move to the left, and then jabbed at his chest. Carmine turned away just in time and the edge of the razor-sharp blade nicked his forearm. He cried out.

She charged at him with a loud scream.

Carmine punched her straight in the face. It wasn't a hard punch but she ran headlong into his fist and it staggered her. She stood still for an instant, swaying on the balls of her feet, blinking.

Carmine rushed her. He grabbed her hard by the wrists and yanked up her arms. He squeezed hard, trying to get her to drop the knife.

'MUTHAFUKKA!' she yelled and started kneeing him in the balls.

He pushed her back.

She kicked out.

He pushed her harder.

She lost her balance and they both went down, him on top of her.

Risquee's head hit the top of a display case and shattered the glass. The knife fell out of her hand and clattered to the floor. Carmine got off her and grabbed the weapon.

'Game over!' he yelled at her triumphantly, brandishing her switchblade. 'Now get the fuck outta here!'

She didn't move. Her body was draped over the case, limp like a scarf, her feet twisted off at odd angles, her arms floppy at her sides.

Holding the knife tight in his fist, in case she was trying to trick him, he looked into the case. Risquee was staring up at him with pitch-black eyes, her mouth wide open. The case held shrivelled, greyish, mummified hands-all sizes, both genders, fingers bent like sharp roots, skin the texture of prunes. They were said to be able to open any lock.

'I said game over! Get out!' Carmine snapped at her.

Then he noticed something else in the case. His mouth dried and a cold heavy weight crashed into the pit of his stomach.

There was a fast-blooming halo of blood around Risquee's head.

'No!' he whispered.

She was dead.

He dropped the knife and lifted up her head and saw a three inch sliver of glass sticking out of the top of her neck, right below the curve of the skull. Her warm blood pumped over his hands and dribbled onto the floorboards.

He looked out of the window and checked the street. No one around. He lowered her gently to the ground, wiped his hands on her trousers, locked the door and turned off the light.

He had to move her. And fast. But all he could do was stare at her body lying there, blood seeping out of it in a thick puddle, wondering what the fuck he was going to do.

He could drive her out to the Glades and leave her for the gators. No one would miss her. But that was too far a trek in the pickup. And he couldn't go now because he was due back home for his bath soon.

He looked at her face. He didn't feel bad about her being dead-she'd come to kill him. It was self-defence: he hadn't meant to kill her. Just like he hadn't meant to kill that cop in the salon.

He thought of calling his mother, telling her what had happened. She could send someone to clean it up. She needed the store.

No, that might fuck up his escape plans. He had to be smart about this.

He looked at Risquee again, as if she could tell him what to do. With her eyes all black and somehow still mad, and her mouth open like that, despite her missing teeth, she couldn't help but remind him of one of those dried gator heads they sold to tourists out in the Glades. The resemblance was almost uncanny.

He had to be smart about this. Very smart.

T
he first thing Max and Joe noticed when they broke into Haiti Mystique was the intense smell of bleach. The fumes saturated the air and made their eyes run.

They switched on their flashlights and almost immediately saw a smashed display case and the dried hands heaped up in a small pile on top of the case to its left. Max moved his beam down the stand and noticed a few drops of blood on the wood, then a large rough sandy-coloured circle on the floorboards, much lighter than the greyish-brown tone of the rest of the floor. The smell of bleach was strongest here.

Max touched one of the blood drops on the stand with his gloved index finger. It was dark and sticky and left a smudge. It was three to four hours fresh.

He looked inside the case and saw the whole of the inside was stained pink. He noted the fine upward arterial spray at the back of the case, and on the remaining shards of glass.

Joe examined the hands and noted the bloodstains on some of them.

'Someone took a bad fall here,' Max whispered. 'And very recently.'

They looked around the rest of the store. Joe checked behind the counter. He found a sales ledger and a metal cashbox. There were only five pages of entries in the ledger going back to February 1977. He added up the sales figures for each year and laughed.

'Ismael sure didn't get rich here,' he said. 'Guy made all of $2,900 last year, $2,455 the year before that. His most successful year was 1979. He made a total of $3,233.'

Max studied a shelf of belljars-hands, fingers, tongues, testicles, brains, eyeballs of various colours, feet, human hearts, livers, a brain-all pickled in formaldehyde. The prices were drawn on the jars in marker pen. A hundred dollars bought you an Adam's apple, $200 a tongue, $300 a pair of blue eyes. Below were a range of foetuses in various stages of development, most of them black. These went from $750 for the smallest to $3,000 for the biggest. On the last shelf were chicken eggs, some part hatched with a small beak or part of a head protruding.

Joe came from behind the counter, treading on a loose floorboard which creaked loudly. He looked at the masks and drums, the books of spells and curses, the candles, the statues of saints, the skulls, and the roots and bunches of herbs and twigs hanging down from the ceiling like twisted baubles.

Max's beam landed on the back door. He tried it. It was unlocked.

Downstairs they found themselves in a hot, dimly lit room staring at two long rows of cages of various types and sizes, with a wide gap in between them. It stank of animal shit, and the air buzzed with the clucking of chickens, the flapping of agitated wings and the sound of bodies moving against the metal grilles that held them.

Max saw three mountain goats with long black fur and magnificent horns, which rose a foot above their heads and branched off into sharp points; he saw a chained vulture, a sleeping fox, a brown monkey, and, at the far end, where the cages ended, three chicken coops, and a tank filled with toads.

Beyond that were bales of hay and burlap sacks stuffed, Max guessed, with feed. Although they marked the end of the room, he sensed he hadn't seen everything, that there was more to discover. He moved his flashlight over the hay.

'Max!' Joe whispered from the stairs. 'Come see.'

Behind the stairs Joe was standing near an open trapdoor.

'The fuck is this place?' Joe asked, when the strip lights came on and they found themselves standing in an all-white tiled, cold and sterile space.

Again the smell of bleach saturated the air, far stronger than in the store.

'Operating theatre?' Max suggested, looking from the marble slab and the sluice drain that ran alongside it to the trolley of glinting, stainless-steel surgical instruments he was standing next to.

'Or a torture chamber,' Joe said, pointing to the meathooks hanging from the metal railing running across the ceiling. He went over to the nearby showerhead, which was still dripping. He looked at the plughole, then took one of the scalpels and scraped the blade around the opening. He showed it to Max. 'There's blood here too.'

They walked over to the six large rectangular freezers at the end of the room and each opened one.

They were empty.

They moved on to the next two. Also empty.

But the final pair were filled to capacity with alligator parts, all wrapped in clear ziplock bags, tails in the first freezer, headless torsos in the next.

'That's a lotta luggage,' Max quipped as he hefted one of the carcasses out and placed it on the floor. He took it out of the bag and turned it over. There was a long vertical slash all the way down the animal's trunk, where its insides had been removed. Apart from its tail and head-both removed with precise cuts-it was also missing its legs.

'Got the belts, wallets and pimp shoes right here,' Joe said, cradling a three-foot-long, deep-frozen tail.

They began emptying the freezer's contents and laying them out on the floor. The tails and torsos varied in length and weight-some so long they'd been sawn in half.

It was Max who found the first human body part-a right arm, black, definitely female, about halfway down.

He showed it to Joe, who, just then, was looking at a black woman's torso, wedged in-between two tails.

Max recovered the left arm and both legs. The head was at the very bottom of Joe's freezer.

They removed the remains from the plastic. They were only partially frozen.

They took them over to the slab and laid them out in order.

Like the gators the body had been cut straight down the middle and all of its internal organs removed.

'How'd she die?' Joe asked.

Other than the clean amputations, there were no marks on the torso, arms and legs. Max inspected the head. When he turned it over he saw the deep gash in the skin below the cranium. He got some tongs and prised back the flesh. Something was imbedded deep in the wound. He reached in with the tongs and pulled out an inch of bloody glass.

'Severed medulla,' he said. 'She was dead before she knew it. My guess is she fell backwards on the glass. Someone was either on top of her, or else they grabbed her head and pushed it down on the glass. So it was either an accident or a murder. And I'm guessing it's murder. Why else would you carve her up?'

'What d'you wanna do?' Joe asked.

'Go get the print kit and the camera.' Max looked at his watch: 10.35 p.m. 'Then we'll go and see Ismael. He should still be at the Fontainebleau. He's hosting that fundraiser there.'

They'd spent most of the day following Sam Ismael around, as he'd gone from one publicity junket to the next around Lemon City. It was culminating tonight in a black-tie dinner at one of Miami's most exclusive hotels.

'But he didn't do this,' Joe said.

'No, he didn't,' Max agreed. 'But this is still his store.'

'When do you wanna call it in?' Joe asked.

'Before we go talk to him.'