King of Swords

“Prominent Miami Businessman in Human Sacrifice Deep Freeze Voodoo Death Riddle.” This'll be our very own Black Dahlia.

'So it doesn't matter if you're innocent, you'll look guilty.

And that's all that counts. Appearance is everything in this country: if you look the part, you get the part.'

'I didn't do it,' Ismael repeated, but quietly, looking at the photographs, horrified.

'Who's this “we”?' Max asked. 'As in we sterilize our tools after use? You got an accomplice? Or are you thinkin' of pleading temporary insanity?'

Ismael shook his head.

'Charge me or release me. But if you charge me I'll beat it. And then I'll sue. False arrest. Loss of earnings. Loss of reputation. Psychological damage.'

Max looked him in the eye.

ŚYou forgot police brutality.'

Ismael couldn't stare Max down.

ŚWhat's Florida famous for — apart from gators, sunshine, Disney, girls in bikinis and a skyhigh body count?' Max asked.

'I don't know.' Ismael looked puzzled.

'It's not a trick question,' Max said. 'Think.'

Ismael did. Sweat had massed on his forehead and was trickling down his temples and large parrot-beak nose.

'Oranges?' he offered.

'Exactly,' Max said. 'Oranges. They're very good for you.

Great source of vitamin C. Which I'm sure you know. You eat oranges?'

'Sometimes.' Ismael shrugged.

'I love oranges,' Max said. 'In fact we've got some right here.' Joe handed him the carrier bag. Max took out the contents, one by one — eight large, ripe Florida oranges. He placed one over each photograph and held on to the last.

'What the doctors don't tell you about oranges is that they can also be very fucken' bad for you. There's eight of them there. If I put them back in the bag' — he replaced the fruit in the bag one by one and did it very slowly — 'I have

myself a lethal weapon. You've heard about the phone-book trick cops use in interrogation? Hit you in the torso, maximum pain, no external bruising? Real convenient. Same principle with oranges, except there's a twist.' Max knotted the bag. 'A phone book just hurts you inside. If I hit you hard - with a bag of Florida's finest, your insides will be a medically irreparable mess. Kidneys, liver, spleen, stomach, bladder all haemorrhaging. It'll take you days to die. Long, drawn out, painful days. You'll piss, shit and puke blood.

Very nasty. Wouldn't wish it on anyone - except the twisted fuck who sawed that girl apart.'

Max got off the table and motioned Joe over.

Joe undid Ismael's cuffs, grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet like he was made of string. He held him steady.

Max walked up to him.

'Please!' Ismael screamed.

Max swung the bag and — deliberately — narrowly missed IsmaePs torso's.

'Shit!' Max said. 'Old age.'

He measured Ismael. Stared hard at his stomach like he was taking aim, took a step back, arm extended, all set to swing — 'Let me see the photo again!'

'Sit him back down,' Max told Joe, who shoved Ismael towards the table.

Ismael picked up the head shot and studied it closely. His eyes widened and shock spread over his face.

'You know her?' Max asked.

'That's - that's Risquee. I - I - I didn't recognize her . . .

immediately,' he stammered. 'She's a — a — a girl. Look, I didn't do this. I swear?

'Who did?' Max asked again.

Ismael took a deep breath and stared at Max with the eyes of a man who has just heard the ground starting to

give way beneath his feet and the roof caving in above him.

'Carmine,' he said very quietly, the name coming out of him reluctantly. 'It was most likely Carmine. He's been working in the store.'

'Carmine, as in Carmine Desamours?' Max prompted.

'That's right.' Ismael sighed.

'Eva Desamours' son?'

Ismael nodded.

'I thought he was a pimp. What's he doin' in your store?'

Max asked.

'He — he changed jobs.'

“What? He get promoted? Joe laughed.

'No. The opposite.'

'And this Risquee - was she one of his girls?' Max tapped the head pic.

'Yeah. He owed her money.'

'He owed her money. What kind of pimp is thai? Max laughed.

'Carmine isn't any more a pimp than I am,' Sam said bitterly. 'And he isn't a killer. It was probably an accident and he panicked.'

'No accident about a dismembered corpse,' Max said, putting the bag of oranges down and looking at Joe. They'd talked tactics in the car, on the way over. All was going to plan. Bamboozle Ismael, push him to give them a name, then really push him for what they wanted to know. Joe nodded slightly to Max: Ismael had cracked, now he was ready to break.

But he beat them to it. The panic and fear suddenly left his face. He sat back and smiled at Max.

'Something funny?' Max asked.

'What were you doing in my store?'

Max didn't miss a beat. He'd been ready for this.

'I wanted to see what Solomon Boukman's money

I