by Nick Stone
‘Solomon never does anything in person. He uses subcontractors, hired through middle-men, themselves hired by his inner circle. No one outside that circle ever meets him. They think they do, but he sends doubles in his place. Usually out of work actors, the kind who can’t get waiting jobs. That way if anything goes wrong, no one can ever identify him. And also, it helps perpetuate the myth that he can be in more than one place at the same time. Do you know he once set up meetings with four chapters of the LA Crips at different locations, on the same day, at the same time? They all think they met someone called Solomon Boukman. But they didn’t. It was an illusion.’
‘What about the doubles? What happens to them?’
‘Once the deal’s done they’re done. He specializes in choosing people who won’t be missed. Single people, newly arrived in town, down on their luck.’
‘Shit,’ Max said.
‘And I think the Emperor helps stoke the myth too. He feeds a lot of counter-intel into the system. Those reports you mentioned? Plants. Misinformation. Misinformation is as powerful as information.’
‘So what does Boukman actually look like?’ Max asked.
‘I’ve never seen him clearly. Whenever I meet him it’s in a very dark room, or else he sits behind me. I’ve heard he’s had radical plastic surgery. And you’re not going to believe this, but he’s got a split tongue. Sort of like a lizard’s.’
‘You’ve seen this?’
‘No. But Carmine has. Eva Desamours did it. Carmine told me. In Haiti, Eva was a mambo–a voodoo priestess–the most powerful one on the island; Solomon was her apprentice. In fact Boukman isn’t even his family name. I don’t know what it was originally. Eva changed it after she had a vision of the spirit of the slave who led the first uprising against Haiti’s colonial masters. He was called Boukman. In her vision he told her to move to America, that Solomon would become a great power there if he took his name–the name of Boukman–and had the tongue of a snake. So the next day, Eva took a knife and sliced Solomon’s tongue in two down the middle. Carmine saw it happen. He said Solomon didn’t so much as wince.’
‘Christ!’ Joe gasped.
‘He wore a metal divider in his mouth to keep the two parts of the tongue apart, until it stayed that way,’ Ismael continued. ‘And then they all came over here and the prophecy came true.’
‘How old was Boukman?’
‘Ten or eleven. Him and Carmine are about the same age.’
‘Do you believe in that voodoo stuff?’ Max asked.
‘No, but I believe in Eva. She’s the real deal.’
‘How?’
‘She’s not one of those phoney palm readers, those Madame Zora cross my palm with silver types. And she’s not like any of the genuine ones, the ones with foresight. She sees behind the future–the things that influence fate, the spirits who decide things,’ Ismael said. ‘Like I said: I don’t believe in God, but I believe in Eva.’
Max and Joe exchanged a quick look. Joe shook his head as if to say ‘Don’t go there yet.’
‘What’s the rest of Boukman look like?’
‘From the little I’ve seen, normal. Black–dark skin. About your height, but a thinner build. If you saw him in the street he wouldn’t look like much. But if you spend time in his company, alone–as I have–you feel this presence as though there’s more than one person in the room. It’s the best way I can describe it.’
Max looked at Joe, who shrugged. Max could accept the black magic, but he couldn’t buy the CIA connection. He was sure Boukman had a mole–or several moles–in the police, but he couldn’t imagine it went much higher. Best stick to the hard evidence, the stuff that would stand up in court.
‘OK, Sam,’ Max said. ‘So far you’ve given us voodoo spirits, faked moon landings and how aliens killed the Kennedys. What we need from you now are concrete facts. The clock is ticking. Boukman most likely knows you’re missing. So what’s it to be?’
‘I’ll tell you everything I know. But I’m not going to go on the record until my family’s safe.’
‘I understand,’ Max said. ‘But we’re gonna get details from you now. Specifics, stuff I can take to my CO, and that my CO can take to the DA. You talk to us now, I’ll go and see him as soon as we’re done. Your family could be in protective custody in a matter of hours.’
Ismael stared at Max, and then at Joe, and then back at Max.
‘I won’t sign anything until I hear from my family, that they’re safe in the embassy.’ ‘Fine.’
‘And my lawyer approves everything.’
‘Fine again.’
‘Then you have yourselves a deal.’
Joe went and got a tape recorder. Max made coffee.
And then they started.
Ismael talked for four hours, telling them everything he knew, he didn’t hold back–how the Lemon City deal was put together, Preval Lacour, Moyez, the SNBC structure and how it functioned, their connections to every major crime syndicate in North America, the names of everyone he knew about, the human sacrifices, the potions; he told them about the Haitian drug connections, the millions he laundered; he talked shell companies, legitimate businesses, plus hotels, nightclubs and thousands of acres of real estate.
By 5.03 a.m. they were done.
Max and Joe stepped outside and went into another room.
‘We’ve got to tell Eldon now,’ Max said.
‘You’re gonna tell Eldon!’ Joe was furious.
‘Who else?’
‘Shit! ’
‘What? We can not do this on our own any more, Joe.’
‘There’s got to be another way–someone else. How about Jack, the Feds?’
‘The Feds!’ Max stared him up and down. ‘MTF lined up a bunch of patsies for the Moyez killing–patsies I helped find. An innocent man’s dead. Murdered right in front of us. And there’s innocent people in custody right now. We go to the Feds with this, we’re all fucked. No way! We fix this in-house.’
‘What if it’s Eldon…?’
‘What if what’s Eldon?’ Max frowned.
‘Working with Boukman?’
‘Who? The “Emperor”? Get the fuck outta here, Joe!’
‘You don’t know.’
‘I do know,’ Max said. ‘I’ve known Eldon Burns half my life. Yeah, there’s never been a corner he hasn’t cut, but he’s never done business with criminals. Never! He hates them. He hates what they’re doing to this city.’ Max searched his friend’s face and understood what was behind his protests. ‘I know you don’t like him, Joe, but don’t let that blind you. This ain’t about you and him. It never was.’ Joe was silent for a moment. Max could see his brain working behind his knotted brow, trying to come up with another solution. When he couldn’t find one, his face loosened up dejectedly and he gave his assent with a slight nod.
‘He ain’t gonna like it, us sneaking behind his back. Me in particular,’ Joe said.
‘That’s the least of our worries. Anyway, I’ll take the rap. Fuck it. I’ll say the whole thing was my idea. OK?’
‘Yeah,’ Joe said.
By 5.13 Max was on his way back to Miami.
56
Eldon Burns was pissed–raging, fuming, fucking hopping-mad pissed.
He wasn’t sure what was worse, Max going behind his back, or Boukman laughing at him when he’d told him their operations were being investigated by an MTF cop–one of his own, right under his nose. That motherfucker had had the temerity to laugh at him–ha, ha, ha.
He’d got the call as he was leaving his office late the previous night. He’d stayed put. He’d been there ever since, thinking, working out what to do. Now it was morning and he still didn’t have the first fucking clue.
Oh, and in-between his worries and woes, Boukman had called again. He wasn’t laughing this time. Sam Ismael had disappeared. He hadn’t gone back to the dinner at the Fontainebleau, he wasn’t at home and there was a dead girl in the basement of his store–a dissected, semi-frozen dead girl. Carmine–w
ho’d killed her and carved her up–said Max and his black partner had broken into the store. They’d almost caught him too.
Jesus!
Eldon had called the Fontainebleau and talked to the head of security. Ismael had been seen walking out with two men–one tall and black, the other white. Not exactly walking out either, but walked out, like he was drunk and needed air. Which was what one of the men–the white one–had said to the doorman: ‘He’s a bit wasted, needs to clear his head.’
So Max and Liston had broken into Haiti Mystique, discovered the body and arrested Ismael.
Where had they taken him? If they’d gone behind his back, they wouldn’t have him stashed in an MTF safehouse.
How much did they know now? How much had Ismael told them?
Ismael could easily implicate Boukman in both drug trafficking and the Lacour and Moyez killings. But did he know the name Eldon Burns? He was far from stupid. He’d probably guessed that Boukman had heavy protection–but had Boukman told him how heavy?
And what was Max going to do with the information? Who was he going to go to? He and Liston couldn’t take on Boukman alone. They were disloyal, double-dealing scumbags, but they weren’t suicidal.
Max wouldn’t go to the Feds or the DEA. Both had more leaks in them than the St Valentine’s Day Massacre.
And why the fuck had Max gone behind his motherfucking back?!
Christ, that didn’t just piss him off–it plain fucking hurt. He’d known Max more than half his life. Sixteen years they went back! He’d treated him like a son, like his blood, like fucking FAMILY! He’d saved him from a life of crime. He’d looked out for him. He’d cleaned up his messes–all those brutality and intimidation complaints, the suspects he’d beaten up, the evidence he’d planted, and those three men he’d killed out in the Everglades–all of that gone, swept away, as good as vanished. Hell, he’d even given Liston a job–against his better fucking instincts.
All of that he’d done for Max, all of that, and that disloyal cocksucker had gone behind his back!
Or maybe it was Liston who’d instigated this shit? Mr By-The-Book. Mr Righteous. Mr Never-Cut-A-Corner. Liston had probably sensed he was getting demoted. Those nigras were always paranoid, had a persecution complex in every gene.
Mother–Fucker!
What was he going to do?
If they dared go up against him he’d turn them to dust. They’d know that.
At exactly 6.30, Helga knocked on his door, like she always did after she’d settled down at her desk and turned on the computer, regular as Rolex.
She opened the door and saw him sitting there slumped in his chair, hand on chin, seething.
‘Are you OK, Eldon?’ she asked.
‘When Mingus and Liston get in, send them up here straightaway,’ Eldon growled.
She knew him, knew his moods, knew when to talk, when to keep quiet. She nodded and closed the door.
Shit!
This was all happening at the wrong fucking time. The Turd Fairy had mentioned some experiments his people were doing on some kind of cheap version of freebase–so simple you could make it in your kitchen. A couple of guys had roadtested it out in Liberty City recently, but then out of the blue, the DEA had busted them. The project was now temporarily on hold. The drug had a few glitches that needed refining: the high lasted too long and wasn’t intense enough. Exciting, pioneering times were just around the corner. If the cheapbase took off they’d have an epidemic on their hands in the ghettos. That would mean more crime, and more crime would mean more police–tough, no-nonsense police too. Police like him. The Turd Fairy was going to wave his wand and get him made Chief. Chief with sweeping powers, Chief with a mandate to reform the Miami police, Chief of this city he loved so much.
But this thing Max was doing could fuck the whole thing up. They needed Boukman’s Haitian connection, and they’d need Boukman’s distribution to get the cheapbase out there in the inner cities.
If Max and Liston didn’t turn up at MTF at 8.30, when they were due, he’d have to consider sending people out to look for them.
His phone rang. Helga.
‘Yeah?’
‘Mr Marko’s here to see you,’ Helga said.
The Turd Fairy! What the fuck did he want?
Eldon straightened his tie and put on his jacket.
‘Send him in.’
57
Up on the roof, with the sun rising and the sky turning shades of bruised violet and deep pink, Max told Eldon everything they’d found out about Boukman and the SNBC.
He’d planned what he was going to say, in what order.
He started with an apology for going behind Eldon’s back. He explained how, during a routine conversation with an informant, the informant had IDed the courtroom shooter as Jean Assad. He and Joe had looked into Assad, simply to tie up a loose end before it tripped up the official MTF investigation and made the division look bad–or worse.
Then Max told him most of the rest–everything he’d found out about Boukman, the SNBC, Eva and Carmine Desamours, Bonbon, Sam Ismael and the Lemon City project; he went into minor detail about the tarot card, major detail about the potions, zombies and calabar beans; he talked about the Haitian cocaine connection, mentioned Ernest Bennett, Baby Doc and money laundering; and he told Eldon about Solomon’s protector, the Emperor, and a possible CIA link to the whole thing. He didn’t mention the photographs, nor the fact that Boukman knew who he was. He’d got Sandra out of harm’s way. The rest he’d handle himself. He was a cop and that kind of shit came with the territory.
He talked for a good ten minutes. He’d expected Eldon to explode, but he didn’t. His boss stayed very calm and very attentive. No interruptions. His tell-tale wart stayed its neutral-brown colour.
‘We’re gonna have to move quickly on this one,’ Eldon said finally. ‘I’m going to send a team over to Coral Springs to relieve Liston and babysit Ismael. Then I’m going to talk to the DA. Bringing this Boukman down ain’t gonna be a problem, but this thing with Lemon City is political. Ismael touched a lot of big hands with dirty money, if you catch my drift.’
‘This could get ugly,’ Max said.
‘Maybe, maybe not.’
‘What about Ismael’s family?’
‘Leave that to me.’
‘Thanks, Eldon.’
‘No. Thank you, Max.’ Eldon put his hand on his shoulder. ‘This is exemplary police work.’
Max went to his desk and called Sandra. He told her to get out of town, stay with friends, and not to tell her family where she was going. She asked him what the hell was going on. He gave her an edited version of what had happened, and the danger she was in. He told her to call him from wherever she’d gone to.
58
Eldon sat back at his desk and began planning.
The Turd Fairy had waved his magic wand.
It was open season on Haitians.
A week ago two men had been arrested for raping a German tourist. Turned out they were Haitian workmen from the Lemon City project, and illegals too. The Herald had got hold of the story and gone digging. They’d interviewed more workers and discovered that more than three-quarters of Ismael’s workforce were illegals. They’d been smuggled over from Port-au-Prince in the hold of a cargo ship owned by Sam Ismael. Now the Herald was starting to look into Ismael’s affairs.
The Turd Fairy’s people were letting it happen.
But that wasn’t the only thing. Word of the Lemon City project had spread all over Haiti, and there had been a 100 per cent increase in Haitian immigration to Miami. They were coming over in makeshift boats and rafts. Many were drowning and washing up on the coast. Now, Cubans were one thing–they were refugees from the tyranny of communism who could easily be assimilated into a city so steeped in Latin culture it was virtually a home from home–but Haitians were another. They were black, spoke neither English nor Spanish, and had no political reasons for being here–Haiti wasn’t a communist country and, for now, Baby Doc was
a friend of the US.
The Haitian armada would have to be turned back.
Let them drown in their junkyard rafts. Just not in US waters.
Lemon City’s current redevelopment would be shut down.
Meanwhile Ismael would be indicted on a million counts of money laundering, fraud and corruption. Then he’d turn state’s and give up Boukman and the SNBC. MTF would move in and shut them down.
Eldon couldn’t help but smile. He’d never liked the voodoo nigra, never liked him at all.
He’d need a new team in place to handle the Haitian connection. Couldn’t let all that coke fall into the wrong hands. Cassares and Frino–they’d do. They had the experience and he had the goods on them.
He picked up the phone and began dialling.
59
Eva turned over the first two cards in Solomon’s spread. The King of Swords was in the upright, enquirer position and, crossing it, the Emperor. In all the other readings she’d ever done for him, the Emperor had always been separate, usually above or behind, but never ever touching the King of Swords. It meant only one thing: the future was no longer theirs to determine.
The Emperor was depicted as a small, stout, man; he was cloaked in ermine, sitting on top of a mountain, surveying his surroundings–a dwarfed city stretching all the way to the rising sun. A raven was perched on his shoulder, a serpent coiled around his leg. On the ground at his feet were an upended cup, a sword, a glowing gold coin and a wand. In the de Villeneuve deck, the Emperor controlled all four suits in the Minor Arcana, all four mortal elements; he was life and death and everything in-between to those under him.
To Eva and Solomon, the Emperor was Eldon Burns. She saw his face there.
She’d first met Eldon in the summer of 1968, although she’d seen him coming in her cards and visions for the last nine years. He was the King of Swords then. The spirits had spoken of the white man who would elevate her to great heights, but warned he could bring her down just as fast.
