King of Swords

Max grumpily put his smoke back in the pack. He'd showered, shaved and ironed his clothes but he still looked and felt like a wreck. Before he'd left his home he'd swallowed a mouthful of Pepto-Bismol to douse the burn in his stomach, but it was still smouldering. The doctor told him he didn't have an ulcer, just an acid build up caused by a cocktail of job pressures, booze, coffee and not eating a balanced diet at the right times of day. And he badly needed a damn drink. And a cigarette. 'Next thing, you're gonna tell me is they're bad for me.'

'They are bad for you.'

ŚYou smoke cigars.'

'Not any more.'

You quit?'

'Uh-huh,' Joe said smugly.

'No wonder you're actin' like such an asshole.'

Joe laughed.

“You should think 'bout quittin', Max. For real'

'Think about it all the time. For real,' Max said gloomily.

And he had. After the first cigarette of the day, he didn't like smoking. The next nineteen to thirty were all reflex and habit, things to do with his hands, things to relieve stress,

IOI things to help him think, things to do for the sake of something to do — the necessity of addiction. But that initial cigarette - the curtain raiser - was still one of the best three or four experiences he'd had outside of sex, his job and the boxing ring.

It had all the makings of turning into another nice spring day in Miami. The sky was a limpid clean blue, the sun was bright without being intrusive and there was a good but not forceful breeze cutting through the column of palm trees at the side of the road. January through to May were the best times to be in town, climatewise - warm but never hot, humidity low, rainstorms likely to last hours rather than days like they did in the summer.

The traffic was moving at a slow, loud, angry, crawl.

Midtown to downtown, the cars were bumper to bumper, horns were being tooted, people were leaning out of their windows or standing up shouting and cursing, yelling, screaming. At least they hadn't started shooting each other, like they did in LA, but that couldn't be far off.

“You hear from Renee?' Joe asked.

'No.'

wers and Valentin came back in.

'What are you doin' here, Lieutenant?' Max asked.

21?

'Been a change of plans. We ain't takin' him in.'

'What? Says who?'

'You know who,' Powers said. 'You two get over here.'

He beckoned.

'Hey! I want some compensation for that door, putaV Grossfeld shouted out and started coming forward.

'Shut up you! And back up where you were!' Powers barked, stopping Grossfeld in his tracks. He retreated to the wet patch he'd previously occupied.

As Max and Joe were approaching Powers, Valentin stepped past them and shot Grossfeld twice in the chest.

His back blasted out and splashed thick crimson treacle on the wall. Grossfeld fell face down on the floor.

'WHAT THE FUCK?!' Max yelled.

Valentin walked over to the body, holstering his piece.

He took a silver . 3 8 out of his waistband.

Powers motioned for Max and Joe to step outside.

'OK, you two saw it. You came in and took fire. Valentin popped him. Simple.'

They heard a single shot go off in the house.

'When was this decided?' Max asked. He was shaking with shock and anger. Joe was ashen and silent.

Valentin came out.

'All clear,' he said.

Lights were going on in the neighbouring houses, doors were opening, people were starting to come out on the street. The monotonous chirping of crickets was giving way to the wail of sirens.

'Eldon'U explain everything once we get through the debrief,' Powers said, then looked at Joe. 'You OK, Listen?'

'What do you think?' Joe growled low.

Powers gave him a long hard look, then stared at Max.

You two best go help control the spectators.'

'Did you know that before he got busted the first time, Octavio Grossfeld was top of his class at Miami University?

His parents were dirt poor farmers. He was a scholarship kid. Got through on his own brains and merit,' Eldon said to Max.

They were up on the roof. It had gone 2 p.m. The sky was thickening to thunderstorm black, sunlight only breaking through in patches. There was no breeze at all. The heat hugged them close, tight and humid. Below there'd been an accident on Flagler, and traffic was backed up halfway down the road.

Max had just been through his witness report — taped and written. He'd repeated what he'd been told to say: he and Joe had gone in first, with Brennan and Valentin behind them. Grossfeld had come out and shot once in their direction. Valentin had returned fire twice, hitting Grossfeld in the chest at point-blank range. It was self-defence; a good call which had saved their lives; exemplary police work.

Then he'd had to type up two reports because Joe was too messed up to concentrate. It had taken him five attempts before he'd got it right.

'And that's why he had to go,' Eldon continued. ' 'Cause there ain't nothin' worse for a cop than an intelligent criminal.

He'd've caused us all kindsa problems when he came down ofFa his bong cloud. Happened before with his kind.