The King of Swords

by Nick Stone

  ‘Sorry…’he started. ‘Do I…’

  ‘Do you what, nigga?’ she snapped, hands on hips, getting up real close to him. He could smell reefer and malt liquor on her breath. ‘Do you know me? Thass what you was gonna say to me, right?–Bitch!’

  He hadn’t seen her in five months, not since she’d got herself busted and slung in jail. He was supposed to bail her out like pimps usually did, but she’d been so much trouble he’d decided to cut her loose and let her rot. Drinking too much. Doing way too much blow ’n’ reefer. Robbing johns. Stealing from him. She’d piled on the pounds too now, gone for that skidrow skeezer look. Time was when she was a sexy little piece. Dangerous and sexy. She’d even got him a little hard come to think of it–and that hadn’t happened to him with a ho since a good while.

  Now her bloodshot eyes were dancing all over him, taking him in and spitting back contempt. Her voice was hoarse, like she’d been screaming all night and basing all day. He remembered how Sam had had to stuff her panties in her mouth when he’d turned her out, on account of her yelling so loud while he was doing her. Johns had loved that about her though, made them feel like ten Tarzans, even though she was faking it.

  ‘Listen…’he began, but his mouth was all dry and the words wouldn’t come. He had a cold, churning feeling in his gut. He wanted out of this picture quick. Every eye in the place was on them now. The waiters and waitresses had stopped what they were doing to look at the commotion.

  ‘Who dis white bitch, Kahmyne? Huh? You playin’ her like you played me? What you tell her it is you do? Huh?’ She pushed past him and changed her tone to something as close to polite and civil as she could get, ‘Wassyo’name, suga?’

  ‘Hey, leave her out of this,’ Carmine managed to say.

  ‘I AIN’T TALKIN’ TO YOU, YOU PUNK-MADE BITCH!’ she yelled in his face, spraying him with spit. She turned back to Dominique. Carmine tried to catch her eye, but she was focused on Risquée. Dominique looked scared and confused. Carmine doubted she’d seen anything like Risquée outside of television.

  ‘What you say yo’ name was, baby?’ Risquée was back to sweetness and light, kind of voice she used on johns to talk their dicks up and their wallets open.

  ‘Dominique.’

  ‘Thass a nice name, baby. Yo’ momma give you that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What this–’ she curled her lip up in disgust–‘this “man” tell you his name was?’

  Dominique looked at Carmine. Carmine shook his head at her, and twirled his index finger around his temple to tell her Risquée was crazy, but Dominique looked away.

  ‘Louis. Louis De Ville.’

  ‘Looooweeeee!’ Risquée scream-laughed like a hyena on fire. ‘An’ what did Looooweeee tell you he does?’

  ‘He says he’s a photographer,’ Dominique said, looking at Carmine with sudden anger now, seeing him as he really was for the first time. He wanted to run off, get away, but he couldn’t fuckin’ move. His feet felt like they were part of the ground which had just given way beneath him.

  ‘He tole me he was a talent spotter fo’ a record company. That was some long time ago. Said he was gonna make me Tina Turner. He give you a card, right?’

  Dominique nodded.

  ‘Well, lemme tell ya, suga–this motherfucker here–he’s a pimp. Ya hear me? He’s a motherfuckin’ PIMP. He was fixin’ to ruin yo’ sweet lil’ self. An’ this is juss about the luckiest fuckin’ day in yo’ life, baby.’

  ‘That’s–that’s–that’s not true!’ Carmine found his voice. ‘Dom, listen to me–this woman–’

  ‘Shut yo’ fuckin’ mouth, bitch!’ Risquée span on her heel and slapped him so damn hard across his face it shook the fillings in his back teeth and made him cry out in pain.

  ‘Don’t ever come near me again, you lowlife,’ Dominique said to him, ice cold. ‘If you do, I’ll call the cops. You disgust me.’

  ‘What?’ Carmine started. ‘You believe her!’

  But Dominique had turned her back on him and was walking quickly away, probably to get the manager.

  Carmine felt like he wanted to faint. Risquée’s palm print was burning his cheek.

  She grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him out of the café, away from the mannequins, away from the place he had, until very recently, most loved to be. She dragged him down the street like he was a big rag doll, her heels clickety-clacking loudly on the sidewalk, her plastic dress squeaking as she moved, pushing her way past people. He tried to pull away from her, but her grip was fast, her hand welded to his arm.

  They got to where he’d parked his car. She slammed him up against the wall.

  ‘You owe me, nigga!’ she screamed at him.

  ‘Listen, I–I’m sorry I didn’t bail you out of the joint. I was havin’ problems makin’ my paper, you know?’ he said, realizing he was whining. She back-handed him. He felt her bones connect with his cheekbone and yelped.

  ‘Fuck dat! Fuck everythin’! Gimme my money, bitch! Where it at?’

  She didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed his nuts and squeezed them with her left hand; her free hand quickly patted his trouser pockets until she found his $4,000 roll, various denominations held together by a solid-gold clip. He was proud of that clip, the dull green really brought out the gold.

  She quickly counted it and then dropped the roll in her handbag.

  ‘What you doin’?’ he whinged. ‘Thass all the bread I got!’

  ‘No, nigga. Thass all the bread you had. Iss my bread now!’

  ‘Damn, bitch! After everything I done for you!’

  ‘What you did, Kahmyne Dezzamoo, was leave me in the motherfuckin’ joint. Ain’t a damn pimp in the world leaves his girls in no joint. Thass part o’ the deal. Only you done violated that deal. You got no pimp ethics. You done broke the golden rule o’ pimpin’. You can treat yo’ girl like shit, you can beat her black and fuckin’ blue, take her last dicksuckin’ dime, leave her ass broke ’n’ hungry, but you always bail yo’ bitch out.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.

  ‘Well, I ain’t.’ Risquée smirked. ‘I learned some things ’bout yo’ ass in there. See, all that while I was out there peddlin’ my ass, I thought I was one o’ yo’ mamma’s girls. Only I wasn’t. I ain’t got that playin’ card shit tattooed on my thigh, an’ I ain’t got me no retirement plan neither. Yo’ mamma’s girls get to keep ten dollars outta every hunnert they make, an’ she puts aside another ten dollars on that for when they can’t ho no mo’. You bin rippin’ me off, nigga! An’ you straight up lied to me ’bout how I was workin’ fo’ yo’ mamma too. I bin workin’ fo’ yo’ ass the whole time. An’ I know you playin’ yo’ po’ mamma, runnin’ hos on the side without her knowin’.’

  Carmine didn’t reply. She had him. She was completely right.

  ‘I was gonna go see yo’ mamma, tell her everythang, only ain’t no money in that.’

  ‘How much you want?’

  ‘Fiddy thousand bucks.’

  ‘I ain’t got that kind of money.’

  ‘Get it,’ she snapped coldly. ‘Today’s Tooseday. You got till next Tooseday, or I’ll go see yo’ mamma. And maybe I won’t gonna go alone neither, ’cause I’m sure you runnin’ plenty other bitches out here. Meet me at yo’ boyfriend Sam’s store at eight.’

  ‘He ain’t my boyfriend,’ Carmine said bitterly.

  ‘Way that nigga passed up my pussy fo’ my ass that night? He straight fag-fucked me, nigga.’ Risquée sneered. ‘You the only pimp in the world don’t fuck his bitches, you know that? Hell! You ain’t even a pimp–you a motherfuckin’ pimple!’ She laughed her hyena screech. ‘An’ I’ma gonna squeeze you like the pimple you is, nigga! Next Tooseday. You better be there–an’ you better have my money.’

  With that she turned and walked off, squeaking and clicking down the street, head up, swinging her bag.

  Carmine got in his car and drove off.

  Humiliated and panicked, he went through Coral Gable
s, barely giving it a glance, even though it was one of his favourite drives. Normally he loved cruising past all those beautiful big homes, along the smooth, ficus-tree-lined roads, his top down, the warm wind on his face, the smell of big money and fresh grass in his nose. Now he just sped over the Blue Road Bridge, not even glancing at the boats parked in the seawater canals behind their owners’ houses. And he didn’t even bother marvelling at the Venetian Pool. He didn’t give a fuck about all this man-made beauty. He wanted to get the hell away from what had just happened.

  He went down Miracle Mile, faintly aware he’d planned to scope out two potential Cards–Diamonds, one for him, one for his mother–but he felt like such a failure he didn’t even want to think about doing what he did best.

  Christ! That bitch knew!

  He’d been running his own Game for three years now without a hitch, being real careful about everything. And now that cunt Risquée was threatening to blow it all. Solomon would kill him for sure. Didn’t matter what history they had. Didn’t matter that they’d been virtually like brothers from Haiti up. None of that shit mattered to Solomon. He’d torture him too. He’d do him at an SNBC. And what about Sam? What would happen to him? Sam was his best friend, his only friend. Sam was in this shit as deep as him.

  When he got to Little Havana he felt better. The whole place was so run down and poor and derelict it suited his state of mind. Shitty little spic stores. Shitty little spic bars. Shitty little spic diners. Even the sky was shitty little spic something here.

  He should never have brought her in. Bitch hadn’t even worked nowhere nice. She’d worked at fuckin’ Wendy’s! A burger chain!

  And she’d hit him. Twice. Just like his mother did.

  It just wasn’t right! It was too much. He had to stop.

  He pulled over and parked on Calle Ocho. Opposite him a man was standing near a flatbed truck loaded with coconuts. He was cutting the ends off and selling them as drinks to passers-by. Carmine watched him work. Simple job. Simple life. Simple guy. Right then he would’ve traded places with him in a heartbeat if he could. Let that fuck deal with Risquée.

  Bitch had taken his money. Bitch wanted to take more. Bitch was gonna tell his mother. Bitch was gonna tell all his other Cards too. He’d lose them all. And he was so damn close to getting away. So damn close.

  A solitary tear ran down his face, still throbbing on both sides from the slaps. He hated himself for crying. He hated himself for being such a fuckin’ pussy. Bitch was right. He wasn’t no real pimp. A real pimp would’ve broken both her arms and then gone to work on her face. He wasn’t no real pimp.

  Maybe it was time he started behaving like one. Maybe it was time he grew some balls.

  He wiped his face. He was going to see Sam.

  He started his car, pulled out and drove on.

  Risquée wasn’t going to get his money. No way.

  No fuckin’ way.

  22

  Every morning Sam Ismael–a tall, very slim and straight bald man, with a long bulbous nose and yellowy-brown eyes–washed the sidewalk outside his store with an infusion of jasmine, mint and rosewater. It was a Syrian shopkeeper’s custom passed down to him from his parents who’d run a supermarket in Port-au-Prince. The smell was meant to attract prosperity and peace.

  Sam was certainly prosperous, and, partly because of that, he was mostly at peace with himself. His store, or botanica, Haiti Mystique, on North East 54th Street in Lemon City, was doing great. It sold all kinds of voodoo paraphernalia from drums, spirit-calling sticks, candles, dolls, plaster saints, to all manner of herbs, roots, leaves and seeds, and also sacrificial animals–roosters, chickens, doves, goats and snakes. He also did a highly lucrative trade in under-the-counter goods used in black magic, much of it stolen from churches and graveyards–the skulls and bones of nuns, priests and murderers proving exceptionally popular. Everyone came to him from Haitian houngans and mambos, Cuban and Brazilian Macumba priests, African witchdoctors, homegrown witches and fortune tellers, satanists to kinky-sex freaks, musicians and tourists.

  The store stood out a mile in the drab and derelict street. It was an antidote to an otherwise depressing grey vision of row after row of boarded-up buildings, empty warehouses and low-lying tenement blocks that were home to squatters, junkies and ever increasing groups of Haitian migrants.

  Sam didn’t believe in vodou any more than he believed in any religion, but he understood the hold it had on people and he appreciated and respected what the belief could do.

  He thought little of most of his customers–charlatans, quacks, hacks or simply deluded crackpots; people who’d made a living out of being born with weird faces and staring eyes and a perfect aloofness–yet he was still undecided about Eva Desamours. She sometimes scared him enough into believing in the supernatural. Once, on a rare visit to the shop, she’d seen a German couple who were looking at coin chains, and she’d said to the woman, a brunette in her early thirties: ‘It’s a boy and you’ll name him after your father, because he won’t live to see him born. He’s ill and hasn’t got long.’ The couple had left in a hurry, much to Sam’s fury, because tourists were easy spenders. But last year they’d come back with their young boy, looking for Eva, to ask her how she’d known.

  Sam was also a money launderer, specifically for Solomon Boukman, but also for a growing number of senior officers in the Haitian army, who were making serious cash from cocaine smuggling. They’d built private airfields in the north of Haiti and were landing Colombian cartel airplanes stuffed with coke, refuelling them and flying them off to Miami. US Customs never suspected a thing because of where the planes were coming from: Haiti wasn’t cocaine country. The Haitian connection was the source of all Solomon’s narcotics, and the cornerstone of his massive wealth. Sure, he had a hand in almost everything illegal, but nothing paid like drugs. And he owed it all to Sam who’d got him started in the big game, simply by telling him about the airfields in his homeland and arranging a few meetings with the main players. Prior to that Solomon had been strictly a small-bills and dime-bag operator.

  Sam’s services varied from straightforward routing of money through offshore banks to accounts in Switzerland, Monaco and Luxemburg, or, in Solomon’s case investing the money in businesses and property. Sam was the frontman for the Lemon City project, and in some ways the brains behind it. He’d had a vision of sorts. He’d been driving back through Coral Gables with Carmine one day after the two of them had been gator hunting out in the Everglades. Carmine had been talking about how the area had once been orange groves until George Merrick had come along and decided to build a city there in the 1920s. Twenty minutes later they’d found themselves stuck in traffic in Little Havana. He’d seen a sign on the kerb reading ‘Parking For Cubans Only. All Others Will Be Towed’. He’d been shocked at first by the audacity of it, immigrants doing this to their host nation, but then it had occurred to him they could get away with it because it was their area–built, owned and run by the ‘Freedom Flighters’, the Cubans who’d fled Fidel. And that’s when he’d had his vision of a similar area for Haitians: a ‘Little Haiti’.

  Sam had seen that whole chunks of Lemon City were being sold off and he’d suggested to Solomon that he buy it all up as a long-term investment. Sam had even told Solomon there was a bizarre symmetry between Lemon City and Coral Gables, because back in the early 1900s Lemon City had earned its name because of its abundant lemon groves. Between them, they’d be building a modern version of the Gables. It took some convincing, but Solomon had gone along with the idea. To him the place would just be one huge money laundrette.

  Not so for Sam. Although Syrian by birth, he considered himself Haitian. He spoke French and Kreyol fluently–as well as English, Spanish, Arabic and Circassian. He loved Haitians and wanted to do something for them. He’d come to the island as a baby and lived there until his early twenties, when he’d gone to the University of Miami to study economics. The country had been good to him and to his parents, Rafik a
nd Zada, who’d made a considerable fortune with their supermarkets, thrift shops and garment factories.

  Sam had met Solomon nine years ago, shortly after he’d first opened the store. Solomon had sent Bonbon round to collect protection money. Sam had pulled a shotgun on him. Bonbon had waddled off, warning him that he’d made a big mistake.

  Sam had heard about Solomon Boukman and his gang. Solomon was a neighbourhood legend, and impressionable minds were already ascribing mystical powers to him. The Liberty City Haitians considered him their guardian. The rest of Liberty City feared him. This hadn’t fazed Sam, who’d thought it was all bullshit, but had still taken precautions and always kept the gun to hand in the store.

  Solomon had never come to him in person. He’d sent Eva. She’d apologized for Bonbon, said it wouldn’t happen again. Then she’d looked around the store, bought a John the Conqueror root and left. She’d returned the following week and bought two chickens and a toad. Both times he sensed her scoping him, looking into him, even though their conversation was limited. On her third visit she told him Solomon needed someone to help manage his money.

  How had she known he was good with numbers? Sam guessed she’d done a little research into his background, possibly found out he was managing his parents’ investments here in the US. It wasn’t exactly a secret. They liked to boast that their son was a whizz with money, a regular Richie Rich.

  He didn’t want to do it. He wanted to make his money honestly, like his parents had, but Eva mentioned his sister Malika, studying in Gainesville, and he understood he had no choice.

  Sam met Solomon face to face a month later–after a fashion. They’d sat across from each other in an empty room with closed curtains. It was late afternoon and the sun was going down. Solomon was an ambiguous silhouettein the feeble light, appearing to change shape as night encroached on the room and merged more and more with his outline. They’d talked business. Solomon’s voice was soft, American-accented with the mildest hint of Haitian. His words, although few, were well chosen and precise; he wanted to make sure he wasn’t misunderstood. He’d struck Sam as highly intelligent, as clever if not cleverer than the brightest people he’d known at university. He had a quick mind and remembered every detail of what was said to him. He’d asked Sam to set up six savings accounts–four for him, two for Eva, but not in their names. He’d then asked about numbered accounts in Switzerland. Sam had told him he needed serious capital to get one of those. ‘It will come,’ Solomon had said. And it did.