King of Swords

She reached into her pocket and took out the switchblade she kept there, in case of bad tricks. It had a six-inch razor-sharp stainless-steel blade.

Ole Spice stopped when he heard it pop open.

Dumbass . . . Dinn think to frisk me, did) a? But who's complainin', fukka?

She swung quick and hard and stuck him in the gut. The blade pierced his flesh and ruptured soft tissue. He screamed. She dragged the blade down her like she was pulling on a lever.

He screeched in an unmanly way, reminded her of a little girl getting spooked on a ghost train.

His warm blood pissed out all over her hand and splashed on the ground.

She pulled out the knife; he fell heavily to his knees.

'You fuckin' bitch!' he said, quietly, in astonishment, 'you fuckin' stabbed me!'

'No shit, fukka!' she yelled and kicked him in the face.

He fell back with a grunt.

Risquee ran up the street, fast as her legs could carry her.

She had a great pair of pins on her, sprinter's legs, or so she'd been told. Amount of runnin' away she'd had to do all her life had developed 'em juss right.

She heard Ole Spice yellin' his ass off. Then he shot at her. Pop-pop-pop. She ran faster.

Two cars were coming up the road.

Poppoppop again.

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She heard glass breaking and the first car suddenly swerved sharply and skidded, crashing into Ole Spice's ride.

She ran even faster, just kept on going, faster and faster, oblivious to her busted-up mouth, and the sounds of more gunfire.

Carmine's ride was stolen right from under his nose. He'd left the top down and the keys in. Didn't think he was going to be gone for more than a few seconds. Little fuckers had probaby been watchin' him from the minute he stopped in the street. They'd jumped in when his back was turned and reversed so fast the tyres had squealed. Then they'd spun around and torn off down the street, as hell had broken loose behind them.

First some shots, then a car had swerved off the road and smashed slap-bang-boom into the hitman's ride. Then there'd been more shots - automatic fire, coming from another car — rat-tat-tat-tat-tattatat — loud — sounded like an assault rifle. Bullets had smashed into the vehicles and started ricocheting everywhere.

Who was shooting at who and why, Carmine didn't know or care because he'd started running the opposite way, running for what was left of his dear, precious, sad-ass life.

27

9.30 p.m. Eldon Burns had a home to go to. His day was done. He was going to go to his gated house in Hialeah, kiss Lexi hello, kiss Vanessa and Leanne, if they were still in, have himself a good hot bath and then kick back with some beers and watch some old fight films in his basement den.

Friday nights were his alone, Saturdays he met up with the Cutmen, and Sundays he spent with his family, especially Leanne, the youngest, brightest and sweetest of his daughters.

He hated to admit it and did his best not to show it, but she was his favourite. He had high hopes for her - an Ivy League college, then an internship with a congressman in DC, possibly Strom Thurmond, who the Turd Fairy knew very well.

He got in his dark blue Buick Skylark sedan. Leather seats, dark wood panelling, 2.8 litre engine, gold wire wheels, smooth transmission, plenty of room inside, like being in your own private club; an all over class ride. He also drove a Cadillac Eldorado, but that wasn't as practical for me day to day as this baby.

He got onto Flagler. Traffic was fluid.

He popped a cassette tape into the car stereo. It was an advance copy of Sinatra's new album, She Shot Me Down, which wasn't due out in the stores for another few months.

He'd got it straight from Frank's management, where he had good contacts. He loved Frank, always listened to him on a Friday. It was great end-of-week music.

As Eldon took USi, he decided the album was pretty good for late-period stuff, possibly even the best thing he'd done since September of My Years. He wasn't trying to be

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relevant or appeal to hippies and moptops, and he wasn't doing none of that Star Wars bullshit he'd tried on Trilogy. No, this was Frank at his best, back in some bar on his lonesome, loaded on Jack Daniels and thinking about how Ava Gardner had dumped him for a bullfighter. The years were showing in Frank's voice, but the material he was singing suited him perfectly. It was a nice album you could kick back to. Lexi might even like it, if he could stop her from playing Kenny Rogers for just a second.

He noticed the black Mercedes which had been behind him since he'd left the car park wasn't exactly shy about the fact that it was tailing him. He wondered if he should do something now or later. He smiled to himself. He had a .3 57 Magnum in the glove compartment and a .38 under the seat. He preferred revolvers over automatics. They never jammed.

When he reached Hialeah, Eldon pulled over and parked in a well-lit residential street close to his house.

The Mercedes stopped behind him and killed its lights.