King of Swords

He felt good about what he was doing, good about what it would mean to and for Haitians. They would finally have a place of their own in Miami, a place to come to and settle in, a place where they could rebuild their lives. He didn't care that it was Solomon's drug money funding it. The Colombians and Cubans were doing the same thing, buying up miles of real estate and building condos to rent out to rich folk. They were Helping themselves. Sam was helping others.

()nly one thing spoiled this moment - well, four in fact

4M - Solomon Boukman, Bonbon and his two skanky dyke sidekicks — Danielle and Jane — were inside, waiting for a delivery of photographs he had to go through. He hoped it wouldn't take long.

Behind him the window slid open.

'We're ready,' Solomon said.

Sam drained his tumbler of neat Barbancourt rum and walked back into the suite. The lights had all been turned off except for a reading lamp by an armchair. A thick pile of black and white Miami PD headshots was waiting for him on the chair.

Sam sat down and went through them.

Ten minutes later he recognized the man who'd come into his store.

'That's him,' Sam said, holding up the picture.

Solomon's hand reached out from behind him and took it. He turned the picture over.

'Max Mingus. Detective Sergeant. Badge Number 8934054472. Date of Birth 8 March 1950,' he read out. And then, after a short pause, and with a hint of laughter. 'Miami Task Force.

'You can go,' Solomon said to Sam, as he began punching telephone keys.

Before rejoining his guests at the function, Sam went to the restroom to wash his hands and face and get back into schmoozing mode.

He barely registered the two men who came in while he was by the sink, a split second's glance telling him they were nobody he had to bother with.

'Mr Ismael?' the big black man asked him in a tone that sounded official, that sounded like how a cop would speak.

'Yes?' He looked up from the sink, in time to see the other man coming up behind him.

He felt a heavy blow on the back of his neck.

I They drove Sam Ismael to the MTF condo in Coral Springs, two hours out of Miami.

They dragged him inside and cuffed his right arm to a metal chair welded to the floor of a windowless room with whitewashed walls, a single lightbulb and a table, also bolted down.

Ismael was still groggy from the blow Max had dealt to his neck with a lead-shot-filled beavertail sap. Joe threw a bucket of cold water over him and he came to with a gasp and a start, blinking rapidly, panicked yellowy-brown eyes darting from Joe to the ceiling, to the table, to the door and then to Max, where they stopped and settled.

'Where am I?' he asked Max.

Well, it ain't the Fontainebleau.'

“Where am I?' Ismael banged the table with his free hand.

'I don't believe I correctly identified myself, the last time we met — in your store, remember?' Max looked at him and saw that he did. 'I am Detective Sergeant Mingus of the Miami Task Force. That over there' — motioning his head to Joe, stood against the wall with his hands in his pockets and a plastic carrier bag at his feet - 'is Detective Liston.

And you, Sam Ismael, are officially fucked.

'Now, let me clarify just what 'officially fucked' means. It means fuck your lawyer, fuck your civil rights, fuck your human rights, fuck the rights we didn't read you and, most of all, fuck you. And it also means that your life, as you knew it, is officially fucken' over. Do you understand?'

'What do you want?

4'7 Max held up a Polaroid photograph of the severed bead and placed it in the middle of the table.

'Who is she?'

'How should I know?'

'You should know.' Max lined up half a dozen pictures of the girl's body, laid out in loose order on the floor, with inch-wide gaps between the amputated parts. 'That's the basement of your store. And that's what we found in your freezers.'

Ismael looked at the photographs. He went pale.

'I don't know anything about this,' he said.

'No?' Max dropped three clear bags of surgical instruments one by one on the table, where they each landed with a bang. 'These have your prints all over them. And forensics will also find blood, tissue and hair samples that match the victim's. Do the math. Prints, plus tissue, plus hair, plus blood equals you.'

'But I didn't do it!' Sam shouted. 'And you haven't even got my prints on those.' Ismael pointed at the instruments.

'We sterilize them after use.'

'Your prints are on there, trust me.' Max smiled. 'Every digit.'

'Then you put them there when I was out cold!' Sam yelled. 'This is an outraged Max ignored him.

'OK, let's just say, for the sake of argument, you are innocent. You're still gonna be charged, and you're still gonna have to stand trial. Now, the press will have themselves a field day. Think about it. All that shit you've got in your store, all those body parts, religious icons, candles, masks —'

'Don't forget the chickens,' Joe prompted.

'And the chickens too. Can you imagine the headlines?