The King of Swords (max mingus) (29 page)

T
wenty-nine straight hours later, Max and Joe were sitting on the couch in the Overtown garage, drinking weak coffee and staring at the thick pale green rectangle that was Trish Estevez's list. They hadn't slept at all. They were both drained. The last thing either wanted to do was more work.

Plans had been changed in mid-air. First they'd taken Frino to MTF to walk him through his statement, but once there they'd had word from Eldon that their captive needed to spill more names before any deal could be made. Eldon wanted everyone Frino had ever worked for-especially in Miami. Frino refused to give anything up until he'd talked to his lawyer and ratified the original deal he'd been offered. Max and Joe tried persuasion and then threats, but Frino knew he had the upper hand, so he just sat back with his arms crossed and smirking fangs fully bared.

They talked to Eldon. Burns spent fifteen minutes alone in an interrogation room with Frino. When he came out Frino had given up his every employer.

He was formally charged with multiple counts of drug trafficking and possession with intent to go global and given his phone call. At around midday his lawyer, Ida Basil, walked in and demanded to see the dope they'd allegedly caught her client with. Joe stalled her while Max made calls to the coastguard asking for the 300 kilos of coke they had logged into evidence and claimed as their bust to be brought to MTF. Two hours later the coke came in under armed escort.

The following deal was done: Frino would make a statement implicating Casares and Carlos Lehder in the Moyez shooting and testify against them in court. He would also help MTF capture Casares. In return he'd be granted full immunity and get deported as soon as he'd given evidence.

Just after 6 p.m., Frino, wearing a wire, walked into Lazaro's Carwash on North West 3rd Street and told them he needed to speak to the boss. He gave them the number of his harbourside pad. He drove back there and waited for the call with Max, Joe, Powers and Valdeon. Casares called him an hour later, screaming about how his load hadn't turned up in Chicago and asking where the fuck it was? Frino calmly told him there'd been complications mid-sea transit, that they'd almost got busted and had had to divert the load to a safehouse in North Miami. Frino said he suspected a leak in the organization and needed to meet Casares in person to tell him about it. Casares said he'd meet him at the house the next day, Tuesday 11 February at 11 a.m.

He was punctual. MTF was waiting for him. They arrested him, his three bodyguards and driver.

Casares was taken to a basement in Jackson Avenue, Coconut Grove, where Eldon was waiting. He said he'd take it from here and sent them home for the rest of the day.

'You know,' Joe tapped his foot on the list, 'we could both make our lives easier by just forgettin' all about this shit and goin' on home.'

'True,' Max nodded, sparking up his Zippo to light a cigarette, 'but then we wouldn't be police at all.'

'True.' Joe nodded and yawned.

'This shit pisses me off. Here we are, doin' real police work on the sly and fake police work out in the open. This is not what I signed up for.'

'I hear that.'

'I'm fucken' sick of this shit, Joe. It ain't right, you know?'

'So whatchu sayin', man?'

'I'm sayin' I've had enough.'

'You wanna quit?'

'Right now, yeah.' Max sipped his coffee and pulled deep on his Marlboro, holding the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds and then exhaling slowly. 'We could put a stop to Eldon's way of doin' things, you and me.'

'How?' Joe sat up.

'Crack this case-the real case-and go public with it. Expose this Moyez bullshit for the sham it is.'

'You wanna take Eldon down?' Joe asked.

'It ain't only 'bout him. It's about the way he does things. Would you back me?'

'Hell, yeah!' Joe's big voice filled the confined space and echoed back at them metallically, like a gunshot.

'The only thing that'd stop me-that will stop me, I guess-is that if he goes down, we go down. And I wouldn't wanna be an ex-cop in prison. Would you?'

'We could cut a deal,' Joe suggested.

'You could, maybe; you got nothin' to hide,' Max said bitterly. 'The only deal they'd give me is life without. That's if we lived long enough to make any fucken' deal. Eldon's got his hooks in everyone everywhere.'

'Maybe we could go to the press?'

'We'd still go down. Hell, we'd go down harder if we went that route. Police hate bein' the last to know when it concerns their own. You know that.'

Joe didn't say anything, just stared straight ahead of him at the list then at nothing. False dawn. He was still on his own on this. Max wouldn't go along with him. He was right. He had too much to lose. His sense of self-preservation outweighed his principles.

Max extinguished his cigarette in his coffee. The whole time he'd been thinking of Sandra, and the life they could have together, and what she'd said about sharing and openness. He didn't want to lie to her about what it was he did. He thought about requesting a transfer, maybe to Miami Beach PD, if there was an opening.

'Let's make a start on that list,' Max said finally.

They split the list evenly. Joe had the beginning to middle of the alphabet, Max the remainder.

The list was broken down into name, felony details and a capital letter, either C-conviction, W-wanted, A-accomplice, A/S-accomplice suspect and S/I-informant placing suspect at a crime scene. This was followed by a basic physical description and last-known location.

They worked through them in near silence, starring things of importance. Max chain smoked. When it got too much for Joe he opened up the garage to let the tobacco fog out.

Max was finding no trace of a master criminal in his section. All the names so far were mostly petty criminals-home invaders, muggers, cheque forgers, non-fatal stick-up kids, car thieves-plus a few manslaughters and one-off murderers.

When he reached the first name at 'O', he did a double-take and burst out laughing.

'Solomon O'Boogie,' he read out.

'What's he in for?' Joe looked up.

'S/I. Murder in a club on Washington. Informant named him as a major-league drug supplier.'

'Yeah?'

'White male, six foot, grey hair.'

'Solomon O'Boogie, huh?' Joe said, then flipped back a couple of pages. 'I got a Solomon Boogie here. Named as an A/S for the shooting of a drug dealer in Little Havana. This one's described as Hispanic, nineteen to twenty-five-female.'

'Female?' Max frowned. 'What's the date?'

'2.13.77.'

'Yeah?' Max showed Joe. 'I got the same date.'

Remembering how Charles de Villeneuve was said to have had the power to change his appearance, Max looked across at the picture of the King of Swords.

'Joe, why d'you keep turnin' it around?'

'Shit was creepin' me out,' he said.

'Pussy!' Max chuckled. 'You sleep with the light on too?'

They carried on looking through their lists.

Solomon O'Boogie had four more A/S and S/I entries, two for drug-related murders, one for drug trafficking, one for prostitution, all in the same year, 1977. Every listing gave a different appearance, age and gender. O'Boogie was an old white man, a young white man of 'Jewish appearance', an old black woman with a ginger afro wig and an Asian male, approximately five feet tall, mid-thirties.

'Now this is some seriously strange shit here.' Joe turned over the pages rapidly. 'There must be over a hundred listings for this one guy-Solomon Bookman.'

Boukman-the Haitian witchdoctor slave who'd inspired the de Villeneuve cards.

'What did you just say?' Max looked up.

'Bookman.'

'Let me see.'

Max looked down the list.

'Bookman, Solomon,' he read. He turned the pages. Joe was right. The list went on and on.

Then he came to the right spelling. Boukman, Solomon. And read on.

The list detailed A/S and S/I reports on murders (most of them drug-related-dealers, gangleaders, suppliers, all shot or stabbed), drugs, prostitution, extortion, all taking place between 1974 and 1980. Bookman/Boukman's appearance changed every time. Male, female, old, young, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American. Spoke with a Spanish, French, Russian, German accent. Had long and short hair, an afro, cornrows, plaits, dreadlocks, was bald. Had blue eyes, brown eyes, black eyes, green eyes, grey eyes.

'That's our guy,' Max said. 'Solomon Boukman.'

'Which one?' Joe asked.

'All of 'em and none of 'em,' Max said. 'My guess is no one knows what he really looks like because they've never seen him. He uses decoys.'

'Then maybe Boukman ain't even his real name. Why go through all that trouble to hide your appearance when you're using your real name?'

'Maybe. Or maybe he wants people to know his name. Cause his name ain't gonna turn up anywhere. Nowhere official. No record, no driving licence, no IRS, no utility bills. Man as myth.'

Joe took a deep breath.

'It's just you and me on this, right? If this guy's that organized we don't stand a chance.'

'Way it always was.'

'We're talkin' someone with serious juice here, Max. Connected like the city grid, friends in high places.'

'We'll take it as far as we can on our own, Joe. Then we'll look at our options.'

B
ack home Max called up the Department of the Interior for a list of Florida-based calabar-bean importers. He identified himself by name, badge number and date of birth and explained what a calabar bean was. He was told to hold.

He held for fifteen minutes. Then he was put through to the plants division.

The list was short enough to read out over the phone. There were three importers-Mount Sinai Medical Center, Miami University School of Medicine and Haiti Mystique-proprietor Sam Ismael.

Next, Max called Drake Henderson. They fixed a meet in the coffee shop in Burdine's department store on Flagler.

Max shaved, showered, swallowed some bennies with coffee and headed out.

'I need the lowdown on three people-two I got names for, one I haven't,' Max said after he'd ordered coffee. They were sitting back to back. Drake had come in after Max, wearing golfing clothes-brown check pants and matching cap, black and white Oxford wingtips, a pale yellow polo neck and a pink pullover tied around his neck. Beside him was a bag of golf clubs. He was eating bright yellow scrambled eggs on rye with a slice of ham and a glass of orange juice.

'First name-Solomon Boukman.' Max spelled it for him.

'I heard that name around the way,' Drake said.

'Where?'

'Around. In passin'.'

'Next, Sam Ismael.' Max's coffee came. He lit a cigarette.

'Now, the third guy is a pimp with green eyes. He's about six feet tall, slim build, light-skinned black, freckles, sharp dresser. Not pimp clothes, more the businessman type. Drives a dark blue Mercedes coupe. Now, this ain't your average pimp. He doesn't strike me as the kind out there on the track, tryin' to knock other pimps for their girls. This one's organized. Recruits 'em workin' in cafes, bars, restaurants. He's got cards printed up with phony names. Poses as a photographer, music producer, film producer.'

'Corporate pimp, huh?' Drake snickered. 'I'll see what I can do. Call me in three days.'

'What do you need?'

'I'm lookin' to rid myself of some competition-the entrepreneurial kind,' Drake whispered. 'I'm gettin' my ass undercut by these two guys outta LA. Ebony 'n' ivory team. The nigga goes by the name o' T-Rex, or Tampa Rex. Real name's Reggie Carroll. The cracker's name is Micky Goss. His streetname's Big Sur, 'cause that's where he came up. Used to be some kinda pro-surfer.

'What they been doin' is sellin' this shit they're callin' freejack-it's like poorman's base. Rock cocaine. They sellin' this shit for fiddy cents a pop, an' people be linin' up all day to get some. They say it's fiddy times the hit of snort, intense like you dunwannaknow. And that shit bin killin' my damn bidniss. No one wants a little toot and a toke no mo', they wanna smoke theyselves some freejack. We talkin' them college kids and fashion types I usually do my bidniss wit'.

'Anyways, should you go lookin' in Apartment 302 in the Flamingo buildings out by the Palmetto Expressway in the a.m., you will catch yourselves two lil' chemists and stop a whole new drug epidemic.'

'I'm sure the DEA will be real interested,' Max said. 'You're a model citizen, Drake.'

'I like to help out any way I can. You know me,' Drake mumbled while scrunching his toast. 'Say, if there's any way you can find out how they be makin' that shit, lemme know, right?'

E
va Desamours gasped in shock and fear when she walked into the bathroom to give Carmine his bath and saw him standing by the steaming tub in his robe, looking every inch like her worst nightmare come true. She thought her son had been turned into a zombi, sent to kill her.

Then she saw he still had eyebrows and her surprise turned quickly into anger.

'What have you done? To your HAIR?!!?' she shouted.

'I-I wanted to see-to see what it looked like,' Carmine stammered.

He'd shaved his hair off earlier that afternoon.

Bad move not asking her first, he knew, but there'd been no time.

She pushed the door closed and glowered at him, her face going from disbelief to belligerent ferocity in a blink. She strode across the floor, shoulders hunched, head tilted slightly forward, fists clenched, neckchains making a loud timpani under her plain blue dress.

Oh no, he thought, here comes a ShitFit.

Carmine took a few steps back. She was an enraged bull and he was the penned-in matador, out of tricks, his balls in his mouth.

After he'd shot that cop in the foot, he'd burnt the car and the clothes he'd been wearing and tossed the gun in the sea. Then he'd completely changed his whole look. He was dressing down now in jeans, T-shirts, sneakers and mirror-lens Ray-Ban Aviators, which were too big for his skinny face and hung slightly crooked on his nose. He didn't care. The priority was keeping on the downlow until this situation blew over. He'd heard how the cop had gone and died and that had seriously fucked him up. He was wanted for murder. How can you die of a gunshot to the foot? Had to be something else happened to him on the way to the emergency room. Maybe the medics had given him the wrong type of blood or sumshit.

The last thing to go had been his hair. Some fag over in Coral Gables had shaved it and waxed his head after. Damn if the faggot hadn't been sweet on his ass too, stroking his scalp and even tickling his fuckin' ear lobes. Couldn't blame him though. Even bald as Kojak he was a handsome motherfu-

'WHY didn't you ask my permission?!' His mother was standing so close to him, their bodies were almost touching. Her eyes-small dry hard black beads of anger and poison-were drilling into his.

'Permission f-for what?' He hadn't told his mother about the cop any more than he'd told her about his hair.

'For THAT!' She reached up and slapped the back of his head so quick he didn't even see her move.

'I-I-dunno. I-I-just thought it up and went ahead and did it,' Carmine said, his voice scaling up and up, his words coming out in whimpers and bleats.

'You just "thought it up" and "went ahead and did it?" She mimicked his voice, then roared, 'You don't just think OR do anything without asking my PERMISSION FIRST!'

She punched him in the chest, but the robe's collar absorbed most of the hit so it came through to him like a weak tap. This emboldened him. Mentally he was suddenly back out on the street, and she was some impertinent Card, mouthing off at him.

'The fuck you sayin'!' he shouted, bringing his voice back to normal. 'It ain't yo' damn hair!'

She backed away a couple of steps, astonished, confused.

This inspired him some more.

'I'm twenny-nyynne motherfuckin' years old! You can't tell me to do a damn motherfuckin' thang-MOTHER!' he yelled. 'An-an-an-an anyways-YOU BALD TOO!'

Now, why the fuck hadn't he stood up fo' hisself like this years ago? he thought.

She stood, hands on hips, looking him up and down, mouth agape, incredulous. He swore he even saw her wig move a little.

Yeah, he thought. You stand there and stare all you want, like this is some Star Trek shit you witnessin', but you ain't never washin' my ass no mo'. Fuck this, fuck Solomon, and FUCK YOU!

Fixing his eyes on the door, he started walking forward.

Damn! He was pleased with himself! All it took was to stand up to her and-

Then he hit an obstacle that stopped him dead in his tracks. More precisely, the palm of her hand pushing hard into his chest, right where his heart was.

'WHAT did you just say to me, boy!' she yelled.

Her voice deafened him and drowned out the sound of his own thoughts. And just as easily as he'd slipped into his street persona, he fell back into being a scared little kid again; her towering over him, threatening to bring the whole world as he knew it down on his head.

He could hear his heart pounding, and he was sure she could feel it too. His mouth dried up all the way down to his throat. And damn if his legs weren't trembling. His will to resist snapped. His bravado fled from his bones like a bird escaping out of an open cage.

'I-I said-I'm-I'm-'

'YOU WHAT?!'

'I-I-I…'

'You dare raise your voice at me, boy! Who do you think you are?'

'I-I'm-I'm s-s-sorry,' he blurted.

'STRIP!' she snapped.

He did as he was told and took off his robe and dropped it on the floor.

She looked at it.

He picked it up and went over to the wall to hang it up, then padded back to where he'd been standing.

She looked him up and down, naked and shaking, her eyes stopping on his dick, now all shrivelled up. She came up close to him and grabbed him by the jaw, digging her nails deep into his cheeks, forcing his lips apart.

'Never raise your voice at me again, boy! You hear? Never!'

He tried to say yes, but her fingers had clamped his teeth so tight he was scared her nails would tear his skin. He tried to nod his assent, capitulation and surrender, but he couldn't move his head, so fast was her grip.

'You trying to be independent now, is that it, boy? Want to be a MAN?' she bellowed. 'You're not a man. You were NEVER a man!' She kept on burying her fingers into his skin, her face contorted, mad and merciless. Carmine was utterly terrified. He'd never seen her like this before. 'And you'll never BE a man. NEVER! You're WEAK! A WEAK PIECE OF SHIT like your coward FATHER!

'Now get on your knees,' she commanded, letting go of him.

'What?' He hadn't heard or understood.

'Get. On. Your. FUCKING KNEES!'

Carmine quickly did as he was told.

She kicked off her bathroom slippers and stepped around him. Behind him he heard her lockets bumping together, the chains scraping against them.

The first blow to his head was so hard it made everything inside it shake-his brains, eyes, teeth and tongue all shuddered. She hit him even harder the second time. He cried out and snot flew out of his nose. She kept on whacking the back and top of his head. She was using one of the slippers. They were rubber and plastic, but so solid and thick they might as well have been wood.

He didn't turn around.

She hit him again and again and again. A few stray shots struck his face and ears. A few blows landed on his neck and hurt like fuck, making him groan in agony.

The blows stung and burnt and bit and smarted. She was an accurate hitter too, got him in the exact same spot near the top of his head three times and made him yelp with each strike. Now he knew where he got his shooting skills from. He'd hoped it was from his dad. But they'd come from her.

His scalp felt scalded and raw. He wished he hadn't shaved off his hair. Then he understood the punishment. She would have done this to him no matter what.

He didn't know how many times she beat him, but there was no let up and she didn't get tired. When one blow landed more softly than the last, the next was a hundred times harder.

After a while, his mind went blank. He focused on the door in front of him, the tiles in-between. He looked at his shadow. Eventually, he thought, this will stop.

It did occur to him, when she caught him right behind his ear and it hurt so much he thought she'd burned him, that he could always turn himself in to the cops. But he knew Solomon had his hooks all the way into their souls via their wallets. They'd cut him loose and he'd be the star attraction at the next SNBC. They wouldn't have to bother shaving his head.

The pain leaked through his cranium. His head began to hurt like he had an almighty hangover; pressure began to build up in his brow. Every blow made white stars explode in front of his eyes. His nose started to bleed. He couldn't even feel the blows any more.

Eventually he heard her drop the slipper on the floor.

'Now get in the fucking bath!'

He thought she'd have been spent from all that beating, but she scrubbed him harder than ever, really ripping chunks out of his back and legs. The bathwater even had a mild tinge of pink to it.

He stared at the wall of fish in front. That dumb beautiful shoal. They had it so damn easy, nothing better to do all day but swim, eat, look pretty and die.

He thought of his father and Lucita. They'd loved him, he knew, and he'd been happy then. Things would've turned out so differently if they were still alive. He wished he'd died with them that day.

He began to cry. Silently. He did that sometimes when his mother's humiliations got too much to bear, when she'd found a new soft spot to expose and mock, poke at and stab. His face was already wet so she wouldn't see the tears.

He thought of what had happened, his brief moment of rebellion, her retribution.

She was right. He wasn't a man.

Crying relieved him. And with it came another kind of relief. His bladder went too. He pissed a long, uncontrollable jet in the water. He positioned his legs and crouched over a little so his mother wouldn't see and the piss made only the most ambiguous of ripples on the surface.

Thank God for Dettol, he thought, which would kill the germs before they could infect the wounds on his back.

Eva had smelt and tasted the stench of fear on Carmine so strong she'd known the little fuck was bluffing. He didn't have the balls to stand up to her. All she had to do was bark and stamp her foot and his spine crumbled.

She saw him pissing himself and trying to hide it. She wanted to laugh.

She smelled the tears running down his face. Tears were like sea water and fresh water mixed together. When they were sad tears they were heavy on the salt, and that's the way Carmine's were. Crying for his pathetic useless little self. And his daddy. And that bitch whore Lucita. If only he knew what had happened to Lucita. She'd show him the pictures one day. Maybe. She'd told his father's killers to make sure they all got a piece of Lucita before they killed her. And they had.

She scrubbed away at his back and shoulders, drawing up a pinkish lather as the blood from the opened cuts mixed in with the froth. She was still mad enough at him to beat him some more. She had half a mind to.

Then she smelled something familiar but totally unexpected coming off the side of his head. She put her nose close to the spot and inhaled deeply, tasting what she'd caught in the back of her throat. Metal, oil, smoke-guns! She always smelled it strongly on members of Solomon's crew, sometimes weeks after they'd carried out hits or been in shoot-outs. What was it doing on this pathetic son of a-son of a lowdown scumbag? She smelt the spot again, breathing in so deep it stung her nostrils. Definitely guns. On Carmine? Couldn't be!

She rolled the taste around her mouth. She detected a hint of the just curdled milk flavour of confusion.

'Who did you shoot?' she asked him.

The little fucker almost jumped out of the tub, splashing the floor, teary-eyed, lips trembling.

'I-I dinn shoot anyone!'

He was wide-eyed with terror.

She just couldn't imagine him pulling a gun on anyone, let alone pulling the trigger. He didn't have the nerve. You needed steel in your soul to kill. He had nothing but shit in his.

'I smell guns on you. Why? And don't even think of lying to me, boy!'

Lies smelled like the sweetest perfume but tasted like shit, and the odour was coming off him.

She glowered at him. He was petrified and she liked it-liked having him here, all wrecked, in the palm of her hand, a fish skewered on her hook.

'I-I was messin' around with one of Sam's guns and-and the thing went off. I swear thass what happened.'

'So, if I call Sam he'll tell me that?'

'Yeah, sure.'

'Get out of the bath.'

He was too broken up inside to hit the streets that night. Besides, his head was so bruised and swollen it looked like he had most of his hair back.

He lay down on his bed and closed his eyes.

He wished he'd never wake to see another day again.

But he did wake up. And when he did his mother was standing over him.

'Who's Risquee?' she asked.