King of Swords

That was some kind of joke. There wasn't anything to manage. In all the time he'd been in his 'new job', he hadn't served a single customer. In fact, the only people to come through the door outside of him and Lulu had been Sam and Eva, when they'd had their meeting downstairs yesterday.

Sam had been on the TV news and in the papers, standing in front of a row of derelict buildings on North East 2nd Avenue, talking about how he was going to renovate and reinvigorate the area, how he was going to turn it into a Haitian-themed neighbourhood, and how he was already

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talking to city officials about renaming the place 'Little Haiti'.

The press were already referring to him as 'the Haitian George Merrick', after the man who'd transformed Coral Gables out of orange groves. Same concept, different fruit.

Tonight Sam was going to be at a big gala dinner at the Fontainebleau Hotel to formally launch the project.

So Sam was a busy man — too busy to talk to Carmine.

Carmine was wondering how much Sam knew about Bonbon taking over the pimping. Had he known about it in advance? Maybe, maybe not. Why would they have told him? It had nothing to do with him. But Carmine couldn't be sure. Just like he couldn't be sure that Sam hadn't told his mother about Nevada.

Nevada? Well, that was all fucked anyway. Wasn't going to happen. He didn't have the heart or guts or balls or mind to do that any more — not after what had happened to Julita.

He'd spent yesterday night seeing as many of his sideline Cards as he could find, telling them he was cutting them loose. A few had cried, asked him what they were going to do. Some had asked him what he was going to do. Most had taken it with a shrug and a see-ya.

He was still getting out of Miami though, and getting out soon — out of the city, out of his mother's clutches, and out of this sad, bad, broken-down existence.

He'd be gone next Wednesday. He was just about ready.

He'd moved all his money to a locker at the airport. He'd stashed the key at home, deep in his jar of coffee. On Departure Day he'd leave like he was going to work, but he'd go to Miami International instead and get on a plane.

He wouldn't tell a soul. Not even Sam. And definitely not his mother.

Where would he go?

He'd first thought of Phoenix, because of that Isaac Hayes song - an old favourite of his — where a man leaves a cheating wife for the last time. But he'd dismissed that as a

bad idea because the guy in the song never gets there, and, besides, Sam or someone would probably work it out. So he'd gone through the names of American towns he'd stored 3 could cop a plea, do a deal, sell out the SNBC and go into witness protection.

'Max?' That was the cop's partner, the big black guy, calling from behind the stairs, where the trapdoor was.

'Come see.'

The white cop went over to look.

A minute later they'd gone downstairs.

Carmine came out of his hiding place and crept up to the ground floor, leaving the rest of Risquee behind.

He drove straight home. The lights were all out in the house.

His mother had gone to sleep.

He was bringing his plans forward. He was leaving town now. He'd change his clothes, grab his locker key and go.

In his room he stripped off his bloody clothes, bundled them up into his laundry bag and changed. He got out his finest navy blue Halston suit, Pierre Cardin underwear and silk socks, Gucci shoes, his tailored powder-blue Oxford shirt. He had to look his best now that he was starting his new life — even if he would be entering it in a pickup.

When he was dressed, he gave himself a quick inspection in the mirror and winked at his reflection. He was still a handsome sonofabitch.

Time to go. He looked across the room at the coffee jar.

His mother walked into the room.

'Who did you just kill?' she asked him.

Standing on the balcony of his top-floor suite at the Fontainebleau, in his tux and hand-crafted black shoes, Sam Ismael felt like he was nearly there. He could almost taste victory. He was looking out at Miami Beach, transformed by nightfall from a flaking grey tourist trap, to an attainable galaxy of glittering, iridescent neon, a bejewelled lava which appeared to be moving, very slowly, in an unspecified direction. The streets were lit up like luminous veins, traffic flowing white one way, red the other, entering and fleeing.

The summer breeze carried stray music up from the clubs, mixed in with the smells of sea and city.

Twenty minutes earlier, a dozen floors below in the ballroom where the Lemon City Regeneration Project was sating itself on fine food and wine at $500 a plate, he'd had unofficial word from the mayor's office that they would approve his proposal to officially change the area's name to I ittle Haiti. This was due to extensive lobbying on his part, as well as sizeable donations to various interest groups'

campaign chests and preferred charities; there was never progress without corruption.