King of Swords

When she'd seen off her last customer, Bonbon emerged from the car and opened the passenger door. Eva Desamours got in and they pulled away. As they did so, Max noticed a line of small pieces of paper lying in the gutter where the Mercedes had been parked.

He went over to take a look. There were at least twenty red and white striped candy wrappers lying there - identical

to the one he'd found in the Lacour house. He scooped them up in his handkerchief.

They tailed the Mercedes back to Haiti Mystique. Eva walked into the store at 3.15. Five minutes later Sam Ismael pulled up in an orange Honda and went inside.

They left together after five, each going in separate directions - Ismael east, Eva west.

Max photographed the comings and goings.

'When are we gonna look in there?' Joe asked as they drove past the store, following the Mercedes.

'Tomorrow night,' Max said.

Eva Desamours lived in an imposing coral-rock house in a wide, leafy residential road off Bayshore Drive; only the top tier and roof of her home were visible behind the high wall surrounding it and the palm, banyon and mango trees growing in its grounds.

The Mercedes stopped outside a spiked iron gate, which opened automatically from the inside. The car went in.

'Very flashy,' Joe commented.

'What did you expect? Dopers get high, dealers get to live in a piece of heaven,' Max said.

A few minutes later the gate opened again and the Mercedes came out.

At 5.45 a white Ford pickup truck went through the gate.

Max recognized Carmine at the wheel.

'That ain't a pimp mobile,'Joe said.

'Maybe he's been demoted.'

Max got a picture of the plates.

No one came out of the house. When it started going dark, at around 8.30, spotlights went on in the trees, bathing what they could see of the house in a deep green, shadow splashed pall, making it look like it was covered in camouflage netting. A light went on in one of the top-floor rooms,

but they couldn't see inside because the curtains were closed.

They waited another two hours, by which time the light upstairs had gone out.

Max and Joe called it a day.

It was close to midnight when Max got to Sandra's place.

They'd decided to spend alternate weeks in each other's apartments as a prelude to buying a home together. Yes, they both agreed things were moving fast, that maybe they should be taking longer, factoring in pauses, checking each other out, looking for fatal flaws, but it just felt right between them. No point in delaying the inevitable.

Before letting himself in, Max sat down on the steps and lit up a cigarette. The atmosphere was hot, humid and oppressive, with no wind and the smell of a downpour heavy in the air. Not that anyone seemed to notice or care. Little Havana was alive with its usual sounds — multiple parties trying to drown each other out with live salsa, car horns, firecrackers, arguments — good natured and angry. He smelled barbecues and Cuban cooking. He really wanted a drink, a shot and a cool brew - that'd be real nice. But Sandra would smell it on him and he'd promised her. He hoped he'd get used to not drinking, that he wouldn't be one of those secret sippers who used mouthwash after every transgression.

Solomon watched the white pig sitting on the steps of the apartment building, smoking his cigarette. He was sat in the back of the yellow cab he'd been following the cop in ever since he and his partner had left Eva's house.

'He's not Cuban,' Solomon said to Bonbon, who was at the wheel. 'His woman must live there.'

'Want me to take him?'

'Not yet,' Solomon said. 'Tomorrow I'll know everything about him.'

The cop flicked his cigarette out into the middle of the street, got up and went into the apartment.

Solomon got out of the cab and walked over to where the cigarette was still smouldering. He put it out with his foot, slipped the butt into a clear ziplock plastic bag and went back to the cab.

51

Every time it rained in Miami, it was like God was trying to wash the city into the sea. Today He was trying extra hard.

Rain, wind, lightning and thunder.

Carmine was getting his tic like crazy, his left cheek snapping back and forth every couple of seconds like a rubber band in the hands of a hyperactive child. He'd slap himself hard to correct it, but it would just get worse, his nervous spasm feeding off his anger and frustration and yanking up half his face, completely closing his eye.

He was stood behind the counter of Haiti Mystique, watching the deluge come down in slanted sheets, relentless in its intensity, transforming the street into a wide, fast flowing stream. The drains were choked and spilling their dark brown guts; solitary passing cars were throwing up knee-high waves, which would crash on the sidewalk, splash walls and windows and ooze under doorways.

Bad day to do ho bidniss, the sorry state o' my sorry ass, thought Carmine, before remembering, with something close to relief, that he'd been demoted to store manager.