The King of Swords Page 40

  He’d come knocking on her door in Liberty Square one morning, said he wanted some ‘dark meat’ for a party he was throwing for his fighters. He’d heard all about her brothels from the cops she was paying off. She remembered him then–a powerfully built, sour-faced man with a contemptuous look in his brown eyes and a sardonic curl to his mouth, like he was on the verge of spitting out an unpleasant taste. She’d drunk in his potpourri of foul smells–the rank sweat of ambition, the vinegar of greed, the splintered wood of violence, the maggoty apple of corruption–but noted too the dew of compassion tempering his extremes. He didn’t add up at all, but he made sense in his own twisted way; a man at ease with his diametric contradictions–a dirty cop with morals, a turncoat with principles, a redneck with black friends. In short he was an opportunist of the purest kind. Over the years she’d tried to penetrate him, tried to find out what spirits were driving and guiding him, who he took his orders from, but she didn’t get far. He had forces around him she was useless against. She’d more than met her match.

  Like her, Burns had a refined nose but his seemed only to pick up the scent of money. While he was talking to her that day he’d sniffed out the bricks of Colombian marijuana she had stored in the back of her house; it was how the gang made its money in the early days. She’d read his mind and offered him a deal. He’d told her he wasn’t interested in ganja, but in something else that was just starting to come into Miami from Colombia.

  She knew what he meant. Over the past six months, her supplier had been slipping single kilo packages into her load–‘Something to try out’. Cocaine–jetset fuel, the Coconut Grove of drugs, popular with the so-called Weekend Warriors, the well-off white collar crowd who partied solidly from Friday night to Sunday morn; the only ones who could afford it.

  Burns told her to get him twenty kilos.

  And so it began. And so they all got very very rich.

  ‘What do you see?’ Solomon asked. He was opposite her, out of range of all light. Behind him stood the spirit of Boukman, watching the reading unfold with an impassive stare.

  Eva turned over the four cards surrounding the enquirer. Above was the Moon–deception, hidden enemies plotting and scheming in the dark–the planet was shown in the upper centre of the card as a blue-eyed man scowling down at a runaway slave bathing his feet in a stream. The slave is oblivious to his surroundings–a barking hound to his right, a tree to his left with a noose hanging from one of its branches, and, sneaking up behind him, an armed mob.

  The card below was the Five of Swords–defeat, loss, a reversal of fortune–a downcast man with three battered swords slung over his arm, bending down to pick up the shattered pieces of two more from a scorched and bloody earth.

  The next card behind the enquirer, representing the recent past, was the Two of Swords–a blindfolded woman sitting with her back to a river, her arms crossed over her heart, a sword in each hand–a warning to keep one’s eyes open and to be on the defensive. Except that the position of the card meant that this warning had come too late, or gone unheeded.

  The final card in this part of the spread, to the right of the enquirer, symbolized the near future–now to tomorrow: the Knight of Swords, charging, armour bloody, sword raised. Eva saw the face of Max Mingus in the card. She’d extracted his essence from the cigarette butt Solomon had brought her. At first she’d thought Solomon had made a mistake, that it couldn’t possibly belong to the same person. The smell was overpoweringly sweet–the cloying honey stench of love, so fresh she’d tasted it to the very pollen. Then she’d seen Mingus and the woman he loved and was loved by. She’d dug deep into the delirium of his early passion–the idiotic infatuation, the blind worship, the shrill excitement, the insatiable lust, all virtually indistinguishable from a teenager who’s just lost his cherry–and found the fear trickling through the heart of it like a hidden stream; fear of something happening to his woman, fear of dragging her down with him. When she’d followed his fear she’d found his rage. He’d had his balls turned off because of what he’d seen people do to children. He hated people who hurt children, hated them with a vengeance. She’d seen the dozens of suspects he’d beaten confessions out of and planted evidence on; she’d seen the five men he’d killed–two in the line of duty, three off the books–monsters all. She glimpsed too, off into the future, the shapes of the seven more lives he’d take.

  ‘Mingus.’ She pointed at the card and looked into the darkness opposite her at the round table, where Solomon sat. ‘He won’t stop coming.’

  ‘Can’t The Emperor call him off?’

  She shook her head. She saw Mingus and Burns standing somewhere high up, looking out over the city. She saw Burns with a friendly arm around Mingus’s shoulders. She saw Mingus younger, Burns looking down at him with a smile.

  ‘They’re in league,’ she said. ‘They always have been. He protects Mingus. He sees himself in Mingus.’ She closed her eyes. ‘But he’s not seeing things as they are. Mingus isn’t like him at all.’

  She moved to the vertical line of four cards, symbolizing the future. One by one she turned them over.

  Her mouth went dry.

  This was a major upheaval.

  A disaster.

  The King of Pentacles, the Eight of Swords, the Tower, the Ten of Swords.

  The images swirled in front of her eyes, the colours of the cards luscious and wet and very bright, as if freshly painted: the gold of the King’s robe, the gleaming cruel steel of the swords, the burning flames on the bodies falling from the wrecked tower and the blood flowing from the ten gaping wounds in the stuck body.

  Her head went light then heavy.

  ‘What do you see?’ Solomon repeated, leaning in towards the table, but only slightly, so all she saw of him were his hands, the white of his fingernails in sharp relief against the darkness of his skin.

  She took a deep breath and tried to centre herself, to concentrate on the tickertape of interpretation coming through the cards.

  She related what came to her; the unfolding of events.

  ‘They have Ismael.’ She placed her hand over the King of Pentacles–sitting on a gold throne, surrounded by money–and then wafted her index finger up to the Eight of Swords, another blindfolded woman, also bound at the hands and feet, encircled by eight inverted swords, suspended in mid-air–the card of imprisonment, captivity. She closed her eyes and focused. ‘He’s talked to Mingus, told him everything. This has just happened.’

  ‘Where do they have him?’ Solomon asked.

  ‘Not in Miami. But not far. When he comes back to Miami, that will set things in motion.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘They will destroy you,’ she said. ‘The Emperor will take away what he gave.’

  ‘And if I stop Ismael coming to Miami…?’

  ‘It will only slow down the inevitable.’ She stared at the Tower, one of the very worst cards you could possibly get, the card of destruction and ruin, of things being taken away: a lightning bolt striking the roof of a lighthouse and blowing it off; burning bodies falling, ships crashing into rocks.

  And then, finally, the ultimate outcome: the Ten of Swords–a body lying face down on the ground, pierced by ten blades–death or imprisonment.

  She looked at the spirit of Boukman and asked him why this was happening. He didn’t even look at her, just kept staring at the cards on the table. If the spirit didn’t answer you it meant your fate was sealed, it was almost meant to be this way. Even bad spirits weren’t allowed to lie at moments like these.

  Eva smelled a faint trace of dry, burning autumn leaves in the air, and a hint of a cold breeze in the room. She knew it was coming from beyond. It might have been early morning in Miami, but it was summer and there was no such thing as cold.

  ‘How bad does it get?’

  She ran her hands over the cards. She saw Solomon in prison.

  ‘They’ll cage you,’ she said, then she saw the bars being bent back, opening, ‘But they won’t hold you.�
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  The spirit of Boukman raised his head. He looked down at Solomon and then back at her. He pointed to the Emperor card and raised his index finger to his lips.

  ‘Except…you must say nothing about the Emperor. Keep your mouth shut and doors will open for you,’ Eva said.

  ‘What about you?’ Solomon asked.

  She looked at the spirit again, but he turned his back on her.

  Solomon repeated his question.

  ‘This is your reading,’ she answered.

  The smell of burning leaves had become stronger.

  ‘What shall I do?’ Solomon asked.

  She looked at the cards.

  She gasped in shock and choked as she tried to draw her next breath.

  She looked at the spirit, but he was walking away–away from the table, away from them, diminishing, fading into the darkness.

  She looked back at the cards again.

  They were now, quite suddenly, completely blank. The lustrous designs were gone, replaced instead by a dull greyish shade of white. She grabbed the rest of the deck and started turning over the cards one by one.

  They were all identical–blank, ashy white.

  She fanned the remainder out on the table.

  All blank.

  The smell in her nostrils intensified. Not leaves now, but something else, something metallic.

  In the darkness around her she heard the scraping sounds of claws, claws on wood. And then a distant growling, the growling of dogs.

  She closed her eyes and tried to focus, tried to listen for another sound, but the clawing and the growling got louder until she could hear the sound of heavy steps, circling her head.

  She felt so very old and very tired, and alone, all alone, nothing and no one left to support her.

  When she opened her eyes again the cards were still blank, but she could see images–faces, two of them–right there in the grain on the table, fragments peeking through the worthless cardboard rectangles.

  She swept the tarots off the table and looked.

  Carmine?

  No. Of course not. The little shit was alive and downstairs in the basement.

  No, it was his diseased prick of a father and that cunt bitch mistress of his. They were looking up at her and smiling. Gloating.

  ‘What shall I do?’ Solomon asked again, his voice cutting through her chaos and lodging itself in her heart.

  She sat back in her chair, away from the table and the light, and the empty cards devoid of meaning. She pushed herself back so he could no longer see her or the warm wet tears spilling from her broken soul.

  ‘Don’t make it easy for them. Hurt them all the way,’ she said, thinking of Mingus’ woman. ‘You’re a warrior. Go to war.’

  60

  At his desk, Max nervously checked his watch: 9.47 a.m. Over three hours since he’d briefed Eldon. He’d heard nothing from him, nothing from Sandra, and nothing from Joe–although an MTF unit had been sent out to relieve him.

  Eldon’s reaction was bothering him. He’d taken it all way too fucking calmly. Max had gone into Eldon’s office expecting fury, or at least some kind of diatribe about conducting private investigations on MTF time, with a strong accent on trust and loyalty, and a whole load of shit about all the years they’d known each other, how far they went back, all they’d been through. But Eldon hadn’t seemed surprised. He hadn’t even challenged the zombie angle. Had he been swayed by Max’s explanation, the excuse he’d given? No, it wasn’t that. Eldon saw through bullshit. He’d virtually written the book on it.

  Was Eldon the Emperor? Like Joe had suggested. The thought had crossed his mind too, but he’d kicked it out. Eldon was many things, but he wasn’t a criminal. Max knew him well enough for that. Eldon hated criminals, the cocaine traffickers especially. They were killing the city. Impossible.

  He stared at his unwanted cup of piss-poor coffee, at the fine layer of oily bean scum floating on the surface.

  His phone rang. He grabbed it.

  ‘Miami Task Force. Detective Sergeant Mingus speaking.’

  ‘Max?’

  Sandra.

  ‘Hey…’He smiled.

  ‘Listen carefully…’ Something was wrong. There were tremors in her voice. ‘I’ve been…I’ve been kidnapped.’ She sounded like she couldn’t believe it. ‘Go to the phonebooths…opposite–opposite the courthouse. Go there now. Wait for the call.’

  ‘Sandra? Listen. Are you–’

  The line went dead before he could ask her if she was OK.

  Five minutes later he was at the booth. He sensed he was being watched but he didn’t know from where. He scanned the street, looking for a stationary car and people who didn’t seem quite right, but all the turmoil in his head fucked with his faculties.

  How the hell had they got Sandra? She’d told him she was leaving town, going someplace safe. Unless they’d been watching her apartment all along. Which meant they must have been following him.

  Since when?

  Had they hurt her?

  The phone rang.

  ‘Sandra…?’

  A man spoke to him: deep voice, French accent, level tone.

  Boukman?

  ‘Every morning you go and smoke a cigarette on the beach. Be at the same place there at midnight. Come alone. If you don’t, you’ll never see her alive again.’ ‘If you hurt her I swear I’ll–’

  The man hung up.

  61

  Max got to the beach two hours early. He found his spot, sat down and lit a cigarette. It was a clear night. The stars were twinkling like a spray of rhinestone pinheads and the dense heat was cut in two by a cool breeze coming in from the sea. The air tasted of pure salt and smelt of those rare days when he’d had nothing better to do but lie in the sand and let himself be lulled into an easy half-sleep by the sound of the waves lapping at the shore.

  He stared out at the ocean. The crests of the bigger waves reminded him of dead gulls in an oil slick. To his left he could just about make out the outlines of the Collins Avenue hotels, haloed in neon, a light in every window, a life in every room. In the opposite direction he could see a large group of people sitting around a bonfire, singing and laughing as the flames formed an amber tepee. One of their number was playing guitar. They all sounded young and probably were. No one with any sense or good intentions came out here at night: he wished them away, yet he was glad for their company and their innocence.

  He’d brought both his guns–hip and ankle–plus two extra clips, but he doubted he’d need them. Boukman didn’t want him dead just yet. He wanted him to suffer.

  Since that last phone conversation, his day had been one long, fraught, agonizing blur. He’d said nothing to anyone about Sandra’s kidnapping. Not to Joe when he’d come back from Coral Springs, and not to Eldon when he’d called them both into his office for a good news/bad news update–the Ismael family had been moved to the US Embassy in Port-au-Prince, but there were ‘logistical difficulties’ with Sam’s deal because both his lawyer and the DA wouldn’t be free to start negotiations until tomorrow. At midday he and Joe had gone to the Overtown garage, removed all the boxes of paperwork and brought them back to MTF. Then they’d had a long meeting which everyone in the unit attended. Provisional plans had been drawn up for simultaneous arrests of all the SNBC members Ismael had named. Top of the list were Carmine and Eva Desamours. Max should have felt exhilaration and excitement, the thrill of the impending chase, satisfaction at the way things were coming together and how they’d turned out so far, but all he could think about was Sandra. Sandra and what she was going through, how he hadn’t been able to protect her, and how, if she’d never met him, none of this would’ve happened.

  The kids were singing ‘California Girls’–except they’d substituted the title state for ‘Florida’. No one seemed to know the words to the verses, so they stuck to the chorus. They’d start it, stop it, laugh, giggle, whoop, belch, talk and then start singing again.

  Time passed slowly. People drift
ed around behind him, alone or in twos or threes, but he couldn’t see much more than the vaguest smudges of them in the darkness. Max chain-smoked, checked his guns and homed in on the sound of the sea. None of it helped his nerves, which were shot. His pulse was up and his mouth was dry. He remembered how Sandra had come out here with him the morning after the night they’d first made love. They’d watched the sun come up from his spot. They hadn’t said much. They hadn’t needed to. He teared up.

  At a quarter to midnight he stood up.

  He listened out for incoming footsteps, scanning right to left, then back again.

  Nothing.

  He turned around and looked towards Ocean Drive and Lummus Park.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the campfire had disappeared.

  Or so he thought, because, very quickly, he realized someone was standing in his line of sight, blocking the view. The person was coming towards him.

  He saw the silhouette of a head and shoulders, then the person moved abruptly to the left and the flames were back in view. The kids were dancing around them in a circle, holding hands.

  ‘Why are you investigating me?’ the man addressed him from the darkness. Haitian accent, the tone calm and measured and quiet, a loud whisper. It wasn’t the voice from the phone.

  ‘Who are you?’ Max tried to position himself in the direction the voice was coming from, but he couldn’t get a specific bearing. It was all around him, and seemed close too, almost at his ear.

  ‘You know who I am,’ the man answered.

  ‘Boukman?’ Max chased the voice, his eyes straining for a face in the darkness, but finding none. ‘Where’s Sandra?’

  ‘Why are you investigating me?’ the man repeated. There was a hint of gravel in his whisper.

  Max thought he saw the man standing directly in front of him, his back to the sea. He took a few steps forward.

  Big mistake. What sounded like twenty guns were suddenly cocked all around him; the air crackled with hammers snapping back into firing position.