King of Swords

After Waycheck had walked, Max'd finally come to the conclusion that he didn't want children of his own. They would bring him no pleasure, only dread: he'd seen what people could do to them, and he knew he'd be such an overprotective parent he'd make their lives a misery. So he'd had a vasectomy at the end of January. He hadn't told anyone about it. He'd just booked himself in and had his tubes snipped. The procedure, the surgeon had informed him, was completely reversible. But the things he'd witnessed and the effect they'd had on him were not.

A few moments later Drake said goodbye and stood up.

He was dressed head to foot like a tennis player - white shoes, socks, shorts and a polo shirt. He even had two blue-finished metal rackets with him. It was always a different look with him.

Max watched him leave and was surprised he didn't get into the Mercedes, but instead walked out of the forecourt altogether, turned left and continued down the road.

Max finished his cigarette and went over to the counter to pay.

The brown-skinned man in the emerald-green suit and shiny shoes he'd noticed come in half an hour ago was still there, perched on his counter stool like a ravenous crow.

He had brilliantined wavy hair and wore a thin gold bracelet on his right wrist. He was holding Corrina's hand close to

5'

his mouth, poised to kiss it. She was blushing and looking at him through wide, sparkling eyes. She was smitten. Was he her boyfriend? It didn't seem so. He looked a lot older, early thirties.

Max reached the counter and pulled out his wallet.

Corrina didn't notice him until the man nodded Max's way and straightened himself up. She apologized, took the check down from a hook near the register and handed it to him.

But something was nagging at him, stopping him in his tracks. The guy was all wrong.

None of your business, he told himself. Pay and go.

Max had the right change, but he handed Corrina a twenty so he could stick around a little longer, check the guy out some more. Wouldn't hurt.

The guy watched Corrina's back as she turned. Max followed his stare to her ass, watched as he licked his bottom lip and mumbled something to himself.

The guy wasn't her boyfriend.

Max broke him down: the suit and shirt were real expensive, the sort that spoke money to burn. No one dressed like that to go to work, and most people couldn't afford those kind of clothes.

He checked the shoes. Black and green gator loafers, gold band across the middle - $500 a pair.

Drug dealers didn't dress like that in the day time.

But pimps did.

The guy sensed he was being observed because he turned his head and looked straight at Max. They locked eyes. The pimp had sharp green eyes, which matched his suit and probably explained why he'd chosen it. He had a smattering of freckles across his nose. Hispanic with a black bias.

Handsome motherfucker, but with a very hard edge to him.

He frowned aggressively at Max and stiffened his posture.

A challenge moved to his lips and his eyes narrowed. Then

he caught sight of Max's gun on his belt under his jacket, read the situation and turned away in one almost interchangeable motion.

Max told Corrina to keep the change and walked out.

Hot bitch, thought Carmine Desamours as he watched Corrina bend over to pick up the spoon she'd just dropped.

'You a dancer, baby? Es usted bailariri? he whispered to her, taking in the shapeliness of her ankles, the smooth, almost mannish musculature of her calves and the width and firmness of her thighs. She was two or three inches over five feet tall — the kind of size most men would want to protect. Protect and fuck: the perfect combination in a woman. He could almost see the money he'd make off her sweet ass.

'No,' she said, turning her head round and smiling at him over her shoulder, a strand of hair falling down past her cheek. He swore right then she was the best little thing he'd seen in at least six months — a straight up Diamond with Heart potential.

'Coulda fooled me.' He smiled, still keeping his voice low so he wouldn't wake the old codger sitting snoozing at the end of the counter by the kitchen door — Al, the manager.

He could see Shirley back in the kitchen smoking a cigarette, listening to a Beatles song on the radio, lost in her memories.

They'd had their grand opening on the Monday John Lennon got shot, 8 December, last year. He and his friend Sam had been their first paying customers, coming in after gator hunting out in the Glades. That was when he'd first clapped eyes on Corrina.