King of Swords

He'd already broken the ice with Corrina. He'd taken her out twice, walked her home twice. The last time he'd kissed her goodnight on the doorstep of the shithole house she rented a room in. He knew she wasn't a virgin from the way she kissed. She'd stuck her tongue in his mouth. He could have gone further with her then, but he hadn't fucked a target since the first month of his first year on the job. That had been a mistake. The intimacy had messed with his head, made it harder for him to get nasty with the bitch when

she'd got out of line. He'd shared something with her, something fragile and unguarded, something that was all his and she'd tried to turn it on him. She hadn't got far, but since then he'd vowed never to let one of those bitches get close to him again. He left all that to Sam.

Corrina was going to meet Sam tonight, although she didn't know it yet.

Carmine checked his watch. It had gone i o a.m.

The brother in the tennis-player costume settled his bill and left. He looked like he belonged in the Village People in that get-up. Carmine followed him out the door with his eyes, the slow walk across the forecourt, the way he stopped to check out his fine Mercedes coupe and then looked back at the diner to see if he could spot its owner, probably correctly guessing that it belonged to the fly-looking, green eyed brother he'd seen as he'd left. Carmine thought the brother might be getting into the dirty-brown Camaro parked nearby, but it wasn't the right kind of ride for him.I He figured him as a classier type, a Porsche or Ferrari manŚ — if he had the bread._ A few minutes later the white guy in the leather jacketŚ came up to the counter to pay his bill. Close-up he lookedh a bit of a mess. His face was pale, unshaven, sweaty and bad tempered; there were bags under his bloodshot blue eyes.

Carmine could feel him scrutinizing him from the side, taking in his fine suit and shoes. It was an intense looking over too, the kind a guy wanting to start a fight might give you to get you riled up enough to ask him what was up.

The man gave Corrina a twenty and drew a bit closer to Carmine.

The motherfucker stank like he'd fucked a skunk in a distillery: shitty bad breath, booze, cigarettes and stale sweat.

The guy's stare stayed on him until he started to feel small, like he was being looked at under a microscope.

What's with this guy? thought Carmine. Is he a pissed off redneck?

Carmine put his game face on and turned to Stinkyman and looked him straight in his squinty eyes.

Stinkyman met his glare full-on and threw it back at him.

Scary ass motherfucker! thought Carmine, but he didn't let it show. Bitch! Give this peckerwood his fucken' change so's he can be outta my damn face!

Then he saw something glinting under the guy's jacket.

He broke the stare and followed the light to a pair of cuffs and the piece Stinkyman was wearing on his hip.

Shit — a cop!

Carmine felt like a pussy but he turned away, none-of my-business, look-the-other-way, you-just-carry-on-and-act like-I-ain't-here style. He thought about having to explain the switchblade and the roll of cash in his pockets. He thought about the cigar tube full of the beans he'd picked up from Sam's for his mother.

He'd never been in trouble with the police his whole life.

He ran his business real careful and, besides, the SNBC saw to it that the right palms were greased.

The cop was still staring at him. Corrina barely had any bills in the register so she was counting out his change in quarters. He could almost feel the guy knew what he was, like he could look into his skull and read all his thoughts, see all his plans.

Bullshit, he told himself. Cops ain't psychic. They just get lucky.

Corrina was turning to give the cop his change when he told her to keep it and abruptly walked out of the diner.

“Comemierdar she hissed, and dumped the quarters back in the drawer and hit the no sale button.

'He ain't that bad,' Carmine said. 'He gave you money for nothing.'

'Den him grande comemierda,' Corrina said, holding out her hands wide apart.

You'll go far, thought Carmine.

Ten minutes later Carmine walked out of the diner and headed for his car.

He was real proud of his dark blue Mercedes coupe convertible with its beige leather interior and gunmetal blue rims. Driving it was pure pleasure, gliding through the streets in his own unassailable, aerodynamic little world, top down, radio on, volume up.

He took his car keys out of his pocket and smiled. The morning had been a success. Now, if the bitch was waiting for him where he'd told her tonight, he'd be made. After he was done with her, he'd take a drive around Coconut Grove and reconnoitre for some more targets. That was his favourite part of the job; the one which only he could do. Any motherfucker could be a pimp - nigger, spic, peckerwood, nip, slope, it didn't matter. But no man had his special talent, his magic eye for Card-spotting. God hadn't given him much, but he'd given him that.