King of Swords

35ť of black folk, but what they don't tell you is what they employ them as: Dispatch, Records, Patrol, Front Desk, Lock-up. That's all we ever get. Sure, you'll find one or two black Detectives, but it's a damn small number. So, when I got that shield, it felt good — hell, felt good. Proud of myself. I'd achieved somethin'.

'And it was all thanks to Max. He didn't owe me squat.

He was the golden boy with the predestined future. I was supposed to show him the ropes, help him up his street IQ then fade away. He didn't let it happen. He took me with him. He damn well refused to work with anyone else. You hear that, Lina? He refused. He told Sixdeep he'd rather stay in Patrol than work with some cracker who was gonna cut corners on a case so he could go watch a ballgame or ball some hooker. You talk about integrity and decency, that motherfucker's got it in spades!

'You say it's about doin' what's right for me?' he continued as the song ended and the needle left the vinyl and went back to its cradle. 'But it ain't just about that. See, every day in Miami innocent black folks get pulled over by a white or Latino cop. Sometimes it's for a genuine reason, sometimes it's because the cops just want someone they can fuck with. Black man starts to protest, they arrest him for assaulting a police officer, resisting arrest and disturbing the peace. He gets hauled up before a judge, and all the jury see is the colour of his skin. If they're lucky they go to jail. If they're not they end up like McDuffie. And you know what?

I hadn'a been a cop, that could've been me takin' that shit, just because of havin' the misfortune of being' born the wrong colour in this so-called civilized society of ours. Sixdeep, MTF, the way they do things — ne do things — they're all part of the problem, and a big part of the problem. And yeah, you're right, Lina, I'm sick of it. Sick to my stomach.

And they gotta be stopped. Simple as that. And that's what I'm gonna do. But Max is gonna go down with 'em.'

'Because he's part of the same problem you've been talking about,' she said.

'I suppose so,' Joe answered and finished his wine.

'I want to meet him,' Lina said.

'Who? Max?

'Yeah, Max. Your partner.'

'Why?'

'I want to put a face to him. I want to look him in the eye. I want to see what kind of person he is.'

'I've told you.'

“You have. But I want to know for myself.'

'I don't think that's a great idea,'Joe said. 'I'm gonna fuck this guy's life up, and you wanna make nice?

'It's about being sure. Because I'm going to go through this with you too.'

'I'll think about it,' Joe said. And right then a big part of him saw a chance that somehow he could find a way of accepting his well-paid desk job and paper over the humiliation with the material comforts a bigger salary would bring; that he wouldn't have to take the hard option, that he could let it all pass. Lina might like Max as much as he did. Lina might talk him out of it for Max's sake. But then, what about their case? He felt they were getting closer to cracking it every day. It wouldn't be long now before the truth started to show itself.

PART FIVE

June—July 1981 46

'Guess you're gonna have to go get yourself some whole new voodoo, Solomon, 'cause there ain't no cops investigatin'

you,' Eldon said without turning around, but keeping his eyes on the dark outline in his rearview mirror.

Solomon didn't answer.

It was after 10.00 p.m., and Eldon was parked in a side road facing his house. The lights were on. He was beat.

He'd had a long old day. He needed a hot bath and his bed.

Instead he had this: Boukman doing his pop-up act in the back of his car for one of their talks. Eldon hated their 'talks' because talking wasn't one of the nigra's strengths.

He had this thing for silence, for saying nothing, for being Ia conversational black hole. It pissed Eldon off and also made him ill at ease.

Boukman was unique in that way. A lot of the people Eldon had done business with in the past had been talkative as hell. Some you just couldn't shut up. The spies and guineas were the worst offenders; talked the whole fucken'

time, like they considered silence a personal affront. Niggers could talk some too - not that they talked properly, no they jived in that shouty sing-song way they had, like they was all trying to be James Brown. He'd stopped doing business with Jamaicans because of the way they talked — he couldn't understand a single word they said, and when he got himself an interpreter, he couldn't understand a word he said.

The cop Boukman had asked him to look into was some guy who'd walked into Sam IsmaeFs store a week ago, asking about calabar beans and the de Villeneuve tarot cards. The guy had claimed to be a researcher from the university and

36, hadn't given his name. Even if he had, it would've been a false one. Any cop investigating something on the sly wouldn't exactly go and give out his real name, would he?