King of Swords

Max shook his head and grunted negatively. The mention of Christmas saddened him. He'd driven to Key West with his girlfriend Renee on Christmas Eve, for a make-up or break-up vacation. They'd broken up before they got there, midway down the Seven Mile Bridge. An argument about the faulty passenger window had escalated into one about the faults in their relationship. They'd both said things they shouldn't have, but meant anyway. She'd got out at Mallory Square with her bags and tears streaming down her face, and boarded the bus back to Miami. Max had returned home, where he'd drunk until he'd passed out. The next day he'd called Joe, who'd come over with a crate of beer, a

bottle of bourbon and a bag of reefer. They'd sat on the beach and got palooka'd. Max had spent the rest of his vacation that way, and was still finding his way out of that zone, slowly.

The radio was on low and playing Beatles songs back to back, non-stop, still mourning John Lennon, shot dead in New York the previous December. You couldn't escape the programmed grief on the airwaves right after it had happened.

Even black stations had played soul, funk and disco versions of Beades tunes, and whenever Max had turned to talk radio for relief, all he'd heard were people arguing away about the murder and what it all meant and how it was probably a CIA-organized hit. It had driven him nuts. Some psycho misfit with a gun and a grudge plugged innocent family men on the street all the time in Miami and barely anyone noticed or even cared. Even Reagan getting shot just last month hadn't quelled Beademournia.

The waitress came over with the coffee pot. Max hadn't touched his. His stomach was burning again — booze-binge acid — and his medicine cabinet at home was fresh out of Pepto-Bismol.

'You no like cafe?' she asked him. Her name tag said Corrina and she was cute as hell — bright brown eyes, almond-shaped face, tan skin, flawless complexion, beestung lips. She could have passed for twenty-one, but Max suspected she was much younger.

'I forgot to drink it.' Max smiled.

You want new cup?'

'Sure,' Max said.

She was about to turn and head back when Drake reached out and stopped her with a quick but gentle hand on her arm.

'Any for me?' Drake asked, holding out his empty coffee cup, bright dental beam right behind it.

She apologized with a giggle, gave him a refill, and then hurried back towards the counter.

'She ivaaay too fine. Kinda waitress you wanna order from juss to watch walk across the room, but,' Drake said, leaning over and watching her go down the aisle, 'thass's a whole heap o' trouble on two legs, right there.'

'How so?' Max asked.

'Don't wanna be goin' mad over no pussy when you makin' moves on the street. Gotta keep yo' mind on yo'

game, and keep that game tight. Fine bitch like dat? Turnin'

every nigga, spic and cracker head in dis town? Fo' you know it that pussy be havin' a entoorage, an' you gotta be swattin' 'em away full time, so you got no time to be makin'

money, dig? Pussy like dat he worse fo' a nigga than dope.'

'So you only date ugly women, is that it?' Max said.

'They ain't ugly, 'zactly - they mo' . . . You know them hey-good-lookins always turn up wit plain Jane as a best friend, make deyselves look better? Plain Jane be the one I be flyin'. Most o' tha time she be so got-damn grateful to even have herself a man she do anythang fo' a nigga — cook,Ś clean, wash yo' back — every damn thang. An' most of 'em fuck real good too. Them good-lookin', straight-offa-cover of-a-magazine bitches? They ain't never gonna do that 'cause they think they too good.“

ŚWhatever floats your boat, Drake,' Max said. He did exactly the same thing in clubs, but he didn't want to start comparing scoring technique with his snitch. You had to keep a professional distance. The, I like to have something nice to look forward to when I wake up in the morning.'

'I work anti-clockwise,' Drake said.

Max chuckled and pulled out a Marlboro. He lit it and took a deep drag, tasting lighter fuel mixed with the tobacco.

He thought about Dean Waychek.

Dean Waychek had killed Billy Ray Swan, aged four.

Dean Waychek hadn't gone to trial because his lawyer had managed to convince the grand jury that his confession had been obtained under 'duress'. He'd produced photo 5°1 graphs of Waychek's bruised torso and an X-ray of his broken nose. Max had claimed that Waychek had taken a dive out of their car. Joe had backed him up. It wasn't enough. Apparently there should have been more broken or fractured bones. Max wished he'd been able to beat him up a lot more. Joe wished he hadn't pulled him off, saying, 'You don't want to kill him.'

He hadn't then. He did now, but not by his own hand.

Not this time. He'd do something else with the information Drake had given him.