King of Swords

'She callt him her man. Dinn say nuttin' 'bout no marriage.'

'When d'you last see them all together?'

'On a Sunday. In the mo'nin'. I think they was goin' to church.'

'Why?'

'They was dresst up all fine an' dandy. Like what you do when you goin' to church. You go to church?'

The? Yeah, sure I do. Every Sunday, mam.' Joe smiled.

'What church did they go to?'

'I dunno. Fact, I ain't sure they went to church, zactly.

You know, they's from Haydee. They still eatin' folks out there, what I heard.'

'Did she have the baby with her, when they went out that day you told me about?' Joe asked, trying not to laugh at what the old woman had just said.

'I think so. I didn't look too good though, you know. She wood'na left home without him.'

'Was the baby a boy or a girl?'

'Lil' boy. Sweet thang. Smiled a lot at me — and my dogs.'

'Was there anyone else with them when they left?'

'Juss the man drivin' the car.'

'What car?'

'A shiny black one. Fancy and long, kinda like you see at a funeral.'

'What did the driver look like?'

'I dinn' see no dryva. See, I guess't there were a man there cause they's all get in the back. Ain't no car can drive itself - yet.'

'Did you notice anyone coming to the house afterwards?'

'Except you, no. Why it take you so long to come anyway?

A whole month done gone by from since I callt.'

'We're pretty busy, mam,' Joe said. 'I apologize.'

'You think somethin' bad happened to her, right? Else you wouldn't be here.'

'I hope not, mam. This is a routine visit. Miss Cajuste might've moved. Did they have any visitors? People who came by regularly?'

'No. But Madlayne's brother used to live wit her for a lil'

time.'

'Her brother? What was his name?'

'John or Gene, somethin' like that.'

'What did he look like?'

'I never sin him. Just heard he was there, what she tole me.'

'When did he leave?'

'A long time back. I ain't sure when. One year. Longer. I dunno. He was good to her though. She tole me he sent her money regular. How she get them bars on the house, and that green grass there.'

'You ever see a man with a hat hanging around the house?'

'Near every man arown here wear a hat, 'cept you.'

'Tall guy, maybe my height. Fat.'

She shook her head and the thick white explosion she had for hair swayed like ghost wheat in a field.

'Did Madeleine mention any other relatives she had here in Miami?'

'Said somethin' 'bout a cousin over in Liberty. Went by the name o' Neptune,' she said.

'Neptune? Was that it? Anyone else?'

'Not that I can think of.'

'Well, thanks, mam, you've been mighty helpful.' Joe closed the notebook he'd been scribbling in. 'You did the right thing calling us.'

'You coulda got here sooner.'

'I wish we had,'Joe said. 'You have a nice day now.'

Back in his car he went through the missing person's list, running his finger down first names, looking for Neptune.

He found it.

Neptune Perrault, 29 Baldwin Gardens, North West 75 th Street, Liberty City; reported missing: 27 April.

Baldwin Gardens was a project building. In Miami they built them way lower than in other cities, on account of the weather, but the principle was exactly the same: officially, affordable housing for the poor with great views thrown in; unofficially, concrete pens to crowd the minorities in like sardines. Meant for four to five people, the tiny apartments

housed anywhere up to twice or often three times that number.

Joe took the stairs to the fourth floor, breaking into a sweat as he went up. The building reeked of piss, garbage, alcohol and too much humanity crammed into too small a space.

Neptune Perrault's corridor was dark, hot and wet. Joe heard TVs and radios bleeding through the thin doors, as well as conversations and arguments, most of them in a foreign tongue he recognized as Haitian Kreyol, a hybrid of French and West African.

There was no answer when he knocked at No. 29. He tried the apartment next door. Same thing.

Someone stuck his head out of a door at the end of the corridor.

'Police, do you know . . . ?'

The head went back in.

He tried the next apartment along.

A young girl opened the door wide and stared up at him.

She had wet cereal on her face and her hair in braids. She couldn't have been older than eight.

'Hello, sweetie. Are your mummy and daddy home? It's the police.'

A man shuffled up behind her, red-eyed, half awake, a pair of orange Bermuda shorts barely clinging to his skinny pelvis, golfball for a navel. He had an old man's face, craggy, lined and droopy, but an anorexic teenager's body, bone breaking through skin, zero fat.

'Morning, sir. Police.' Joe held up his badge. 'You speak English?'

The man nodded silendy.

'Do you know a Neptune Perrault? Apartment twenty nine?'

The man nodded again.

'Have you seen him today?'

The man shook his head, 'What about yesterday? Or recently?'

Another negative shake of the head.

'When was the last time you saw him?'

'April,' the man said with a cough.

'Beginning, middle, end?'

'End.'

'End?'

'That's what I said,' the man replied. He had an island accent — one of the smaller ones, Trinidad or Barbados.

'How can you be sure?'