King of Swords

His right leg suddenly smacked into something he hadn't noticed, something hard and solid. He fell flat on his face and his car keys shot out of his hand. He started to push himself up when something heavy landed on the middle of his back, and pinned him down on the ground.

'Hands out, palms flat, spread your fingers,' a voice above him said. The man smelled of dead booze and fresh cigarettes.

The cop frisked him and tossed his pockets. Out clattered his gold lighter, switchblade, bankroll, his small bottle of aftershave, his wallet and the grey cigar tube. The cop picked up everything except the aftershave and lighter.

Shit! Not the tube!

'Get up!'

Carmine did as he was told and came face to face with those mean, blue, booze-boiled eyes again. The cop was shorter than him but much broader and way stronger looking.

'Louis De Ville, photographer . . . Jack Duval, agent . . .

Harold Bernini, talent scout. . .' The cop read aloud from the small set of business cards he'd found in Carmine's wallet, flicking each at his face when he was done. 'Who the fuck are you? What's your name?'

'Louis De Ville,' Carmine answered.

'That so?' The cop looked at him angrily. 'Where you from Lou-wee}'

'Around here?'

'Not with that accent,' the cop said. 'What is that? Haitian?

You Haitian?'

'No,' Carmine lied. 'I'm from New Orleans.'

'I know New Orleans. Which part?'

'French Quarter,' Carmine lied again. 'Left a long time ago though.'

'But your accent never went there.' The cop snorted. 'I say you're Haitian. What d'you want with that girl in there?'

'What would you want with a fine bitch like that?' Carmine smiled, trying to get some man to man empathy going, but deeply regretted it when, out of nowhere, the cop slammed his fist into his solar plexus. Pain exploded all the way to Carmine's spine and up into his chest. He fell to one knee with a sharp cry and clutched his gut hard as the punch reverberated all the way up to the base of his skull. Then he retched hot orange juice all over his $850 suit.

'You're a pimp and you're recruiting her.'

'Fuck you!' Carmine spat. 'I ain't no pimp, you racist redneck pig motherfucker!'

The cop squatted down next to him and shook the grey cigar tube.

'What's in here, Willie Dynamite? Drugs?'

6 'No - seeds.'

'Seeds? The cop unscrewed the tube.

ŚYeah — seeds. Like what you plant in the ground and watch grow motherfucker.'

The cop shook out the smooth beans into his palm. They were dark brown and shiny, like giant kidney beans dipped in thick chocolate.

“What you growin'?'

'They ain't for me, they're for my mother.'

'What? You got one?' the cop said, looking at the seeds once more and putting them back in the tube.

'Very funny,' Carmine replied. 'Look. We can do us a deal here, man. You gimme back the tube and the rest of my shit and let me get on outta here; you can keep the money.'

The cop looked at him and right then Carmine flinched because he swore the thunderous look the cop gave him was a prelude to another punch.

'I could bust you right here and now for attemptin' to bribe a police officer,' the cop said. 'What's your name? Tell me the truth or I'll take you in.'

'I ain't got to tell you nothin 'cause I ain't done nothin', 'cept in your imagination. Y'all bent out of shape 'cause you see a black man drivin' a nice car, wearin' nice clothes and gettin' hisself some fine-ass pussy,' Carmine said angrily.

You got me all wrong. I ain't got nothin' against black folk. Quite the contrary,' the cop said. 'I just hate pieces of shit like you. See, only exist because you exist. My role in life is to make your life constant fuckin' hell, and your role in life is to suffer or die - preferably the latter after a lot of the former.' The cop picked up Carmine's car keys. 'On your feet.'

Carmine got up and almost fell over. The pain in his gut was so intense he had to look to make sure he wasn't bleeding. He was sure the bastard had fucked him up inside.

The cop made him get in the car and cuffed his hands to the steering wheel.

He popped the trunk and rummaged inside. He didn't find anything besides cleaning products, cloths, a jack and a spare tyre. He looked in the glove compartment and found his licence and registration.

'Carmine Des-a-moures,' the cop read out. 'Kind of name's that?'

'It's a name. What's yours?'

'None of your business.'

'Suits you.'

The cop studied the licence for a long moment, probably trying to see if it was fake or not. It was the real deal, but the cop didn't look convinced. He tossed it into the car and uncuffed Carmine.

'Remember me and remember this: I am going to be in your shit for the duration. I catch you tryin' to recruit girls again I'll bust you for real, and I'll see to it you share a cell with some redneck ass bandido who turns you out so much you'll shit a whole watermelon with a smile on your face,'

he said, tossing Carmine his wallet, lighter and aftershave bottle. 'Now0.' He stabbed his finger towards the exit.

'What about my seeds, man? You don't need 'em,'

Carmine pleaded.