King of Swords

Smooth motherfucker, pretty boy too, what I hear. But all them other pimps on the track be scared o' him 'cause he got this guy, this enforcer he uses. Big fat motherfucker goes by the name of Bonbon, on account o' how he eats candy the whole time. Bonbon ain't got no teeth neither.

He's got these sharp dentures. Bites people's faces off. Pimps see Carmine comin', they run. Carmine wants to knock they best-lookin' hos, they gots to give 'em up. They give him any static, that Bonbon dude come by an' kill 'em. Right

there on the street. He don't give a fuck. Way it is out on the track now, pimps won't even put no pretty girls out on the street no mo' 'cause they know Carmine's just gonna come by and knock 'em.'

'Bonbon got another name?'

'Bonbon's all he go by.'

'What else did you hear about him?'

'Nuttin' much, 'cept he's one scary, fearless motherfucker.

Rides around wit' these two dykes. Fine-ass bitches, but they be as bad as him. They his security.'

'Get their names?'

'No. Say, you remember Cook Gunnels?'

'Sure,' Max said. Back in the early seventies, Cook Gunnels had had over a hundred hookers working for him.

He called himself the King of Pimps and sometimes you used to see him riding around in a pink open-top caddy with a real gold crown on his head and an ermine cape. Gunnels was a nasty sack of shit. He had a reputation for pouring drain cleaner or battery acid down his girls' throats if they held out on him. He had even filmed himself doing it so he could show his new recruits what he was capable of.

'You know how he juss disappeared one day?' Drake said.

'Everybody thought the mob had put concrete boots on him and dumped him out in the ocean. Now I'm hearin' it weren't the mob, but the SNBC killed him. Did him the way he used to do his girls too. 'Cause straight after he went Carmine came on the scene, took over Cook's bidniss.'

'Interesting,' Max said. 'I've seen this Carmine around though. And he ain't twelve feet tall.'

'Yeah, I hear that.' Drake licked the mustard off the sides of his mouth. 'Figured that part for bullshit anyways.'

'Maybe not. The gang could all be standin' on stilts - like in the circus,' Max joked. 'The name Eva Desamours come up in any of your conversations?'

'Yeah. That's his moms. Badass bitch, the way they tell it.

Her and Carmine used to live over in Pork 'n' Beans. People around there still talk about the beatin's she gave him — right there on the street, front o' everybody, like he was some kinda dog done wrong. No one said nuttin' to her 'cause they was scared to. She was supposed to be some kinda voodoo priestess. She told people's fortunes, and she used to do all the abortions in the area, plus she could cure the clap. Thass how she got to know all the hos.'

'Did Boukman know 'em?'

'He musta done, 'cause he came up in Pork 'n' Beans too.

He had his gang even then. People was scared o' him too at least all the non-Haitians was. He looked after his own.

You so much as touched a Haitian in the projects, Boukman and his crew would come after you.'

'Noble,' Max commented sarcastically. 'Bet the Haitians paid a lot for his services. Tell me about Sam Ismael.'

'He's good people - legit - far as I can tell.' Drake leant back and belched quietly between mouthfuls. 'Comes from a rich Haitian family. Owns most of Lemon City, runs this voodoo store out on North West 54th.'

'No SNBCBoukmanDesamours ties?'

'None I heard about.' Drake shook his head. 'Most people seem to like him. They say he's gonna redevelop Lemon City into a Haitian quarter, like Little Havana.'

'What's he gonna call it? “Little Haiti”?'

'Has a nice ring to it, don't it?' Drake smiled. He'd now eaten half his Tower of Babel. 'Maybe you should go by an'

tell him.'

'Maybe I just might.' Max checked the time. Just gone 9.15. He thought through the information Drake had given him, what best to start working on first. Eva. He'd traced the number he'd taken down in Haiti Mystique to a house in north Miami.

'What can I do for you?' he asked Drake.

'Put this one here in my favour bank an' let it grow. You

did right by me with them Palmetto Expressway motherfuckers.'

'It was a pleasure,' Max said.

“You find out their secret formula?'

'They're still working on it in forensics,' Max lied as he got up to leave.

'Prolly some complex shit,' Drake said, shoving another layer of meat and pickles into his mouth. The formula was actually simple — 5 o per cent cocaine, 5 o per cent bicarbonate of soda, water, heat, stir until solid, then break off into small quantities and sell cheaply. Anyone could make it and soon everyone who wanted to would. McCalister at the DEA had told Max this new way of smoking coke had already started taking off in the ghettoes of LA, New York and Chicago, and that if it went nationwide it would be an epidemic.

'No way niggas would get hooked on somethin' that fast there wasn't some Einstein shit behind it,' Drake said. 'No way.'

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