King of Swords

'Take off,' he told her, tossing the empty bag in her lap.

She didn't move. Her lower lip trembled. Damn. Bitch was gonna cry.

'What's up witchu? You heard me. Time to get busy.'

'I ain't had nothin' to eat all day but dick, baby. I need me some bread.' She sniffed.

'You need bread, huh?' Carmine looked at her. 'Then go fuck a baker. Vamos!'

She got out the car and he hit the gas, laughing his handsome ass off.

Shit, he was sharp as a tack too-day.

'Go fuck a baker' - ho, ho, ho!

Shit, did he just say 'ho ho ho'?

Man he was double sharp!

He spent the rest of the morning collecting from Cards and going to the kind of places he knew Risquee went to — nail parlours, hair salons, boutiques and a few bars she liked to drink rum and Coke in.

He did the cop thing as good as any Jack Lord or Kojak motherfucker. He'd walk in someplace, go up to someone working there, flash his badge and introduce himself as 'Officer Bentley, Miami PD'. He'd ask his questions. He'd get headshakes and, 'No, ain't seen no one like that.' It was disappointing and might have been a real unproductive way of spending a day, if it hadn't been for the vibe he got off the people he was questioning. They all kind of WW when they saw his badge, got a scared look in their eye, started trembling. These cats — some of them big overgrown stone cold niggas and bitches with monuments of attitude — were intimidated by little old him and his big shiny shield. He liked the way that felt. He felt good, powerful, running things, badass. Damned if it didn't even get his dick a little hard. Cops must've got that way too, when they started out.

All that power over people. Hell, maybe he should've been a cop instead of a pimp. Sure, the money was shit if you played it by the book, but there were perks a-plenty in what it did for your manhood and self-esteem.

He stopped at a hair salon called Proud Heads, on North West 5 2nd, near Olinda Park.

Carmine walked inside. A receptionist was opposite the front door, behind her a silhouette of a black woman with a huge afro. The place was full of potentials. Damn! Great late discovery of the day deux: he should be fishin' in this pussy stream, hittin' all-a those places only women went.

No way would they suspect what he was. Shit, he could even pretend to be some fag needing a manicure or his hair relaxed. Nothin' some bitches liked more than a fag for a best friend, some guy to go cry over movies and talk lipstick with. It wasn't zactly too late in the day to change up his plan. Maybe he'd do that at his dude ranch in Nevada. OK, the faggot thing bothered him a lot, but hey, business was business.

The receptionist looked up from the Ebony magazine she

was flipping through. Girl had a plain face, no older than nineteen. Radio was on. The Pointer Sisters singing 'Betcha Got a Chick on the Side'. He'd always liked that one.

'Good mo'nin',' he said with a smile.

'Can I help you?'

'Officer Bendey, Miami PD.' He showed her his badge.

'Lookin' for a girl mighta been here. Busted-up face. Goes by the name of Risquee.'

'Risss-kayyj}“ the girl said. 'Kinda name's that?'

'Kinda name her momma gave her,' Carmine said. 'What name yo' momma give you?'

The girl turned around and yelled out over the hairdryers, radio and general chit-chat in the salon.Ś 'Janet! Poh-lice here to see you.'I Everything stopped a beat in the salon — even the radio, it seemed, though it was still playing - and Carmine felt all eyes turn his way.

He got an uneasy feeling deep in his gut, but he tightened his jaw and stared back at the chicks.

A woman came out from the end, drying her hands. She was short, dark, worried-looking.

'This about Timothy?' she asked.

'No, this ain't about no Timothy,' Carmine said. 'This 'bout somethin' different'

'So he's cool?'

'This ain't 'bout Timothy. I'm here on different bidniss.'

She frowned and looked at him in a new way that made him uneasy, like she was trying to work out something about him.

'What fe'-ness?' She pronounced it slowly and carefully, taking Carmine in from his shoes to his hair. Bitch musta been one of them mommas beat their kids over table manners and shit. No wonder Timothy was givin' her problems. Those who got treated the harshest rebelled the hardest, Carmine remembered sumshit he'd heard on TV or the radio or read on a wall somewhere.

'I'm lookin' for a girl mighta come in here. Had a busted-up mouth.'

'Her mouth busted-up she'd need a dentist not a hairdresser.'

'Yeah, I hear that,' Carmine said. The bitch was standing there with hands on her hips. Hips were wide too. He knew tricks who liked that shit though. 'Only she mighta come by get her hair done after her mouth got patched up, you know?

Make herself feel better.'

'You got a picture?'

'No.'

'You a cop lookin' for someone and you ain't got a picture?

Damn! He swore this Janet knew he wasn't for real.

'What does she look like — apart from the mouth?'

'She about your height, slimmer, built.'