Nick Stone - The King of Swords

'I hear you,' Max said, barely moving his lips, 'but you know how it is. It's the law.'

'Then the law's all fucked up. Shit needs changin'. You get mo' time for peddlin' reefer than you do rapin' some lil' girl.'

'I hear that too.'

'Yeah?' Drake leant back a little so his mouth was closer to Max's ear. 'You hear so good, why you still a cop?'

'Same reason I had when I joined: I thought-and still do think-I can make a difference. Even if it's a small one no one notices. Somewhere, to someone, what I do counts. For better or worse depends on the someone. And that's why I'm still here, meetin' you for breakfast,' Max answered.

'You believe in Santa Claus too?' Drake chuckled and Max could almost hear him flashing his smile, that same sardonic, knowing, each-day-as-it-comes-and-fuck-tomorrow nonchalant expression that had landed him more pussy than he could handle and a bullet in the leg from a husband he'd cuckolded.

Max shook his head and grunted negatively. The mention of Christmas saddened him. He'd driven to Key West with his girlfriend Renee on Christmas Eve, for a make-up or break-up vacation. They'd broken up before they got there, midway down the Seven Mile Bridge. An argument about the faulty passenger window had escalated into one about the faults in their relationship. They'd both said things they shouldn't have, but meant anyway. She'd got out at Mallory Square with her bags and tears streaming down her face, and boarded the bus back to Miami. Max had returned home, where he'd drunk until he'd passed out. The next day he'd called Joe, who'd come over with a crate of beer, a bottle of bourbon and a bag of reefer. They'd sat on the beach and got palooka'd. Max had spent the rest of his vacation that way, and was still finding his way out of that zone, slowly.

The radio was on low and playing Beatles songs back to back, non-stop, still mourning John Lennon, shot dead in New York the previous December. You couldn't escape the programmed grief on the airwaves right after it had happened. Even black stations had played soul, funk and disco versions of Beatles tunes, and whenever Max had turned to talk radio for relief, all he'd heard were people arguing away about the murder and what it all meant and how it was probably a CIA-organized hit. It had driven him nuts. Some psycho misfit with a gun and a grudge plugged innocent family men on the street all the time in Miami and barely anyone noticed or even cared. Even Reagan getting shot just last month hadn't quelled Beatlemournia.

The waitress came over with the coffee pot. Max hadn't touched his. His stomach was burning again-booze-binge acid-and his medicine cabinet at home was fresh out of Pepto-Bismol.

'You no like cafe?' she asked him. Her name tag said Corrina and she was cute as hell-bright brown eyes, almond-shaped face, tan skin, flawless complexion, beestung lips. She could have passed for twenty-one, but Max suspected she was much younger.

'I forgot to drink it.' Max smiled.

'You want new cup?'

'Sure,' Max said.

She was about to turn and head back when Drake reached out and stopped her with a quick but gentle hand on her arm.

'Any for me?' Drake asked, holding out his empty coffee cup, bright dental beam right behind it.

She apologized with a giggle, gave him a refill, and then hurried back towards the counter.

'She waaay too fine. Kinda waitress you wanna order from juss to watch walk across the room, but,' Drake said, leaning over and watching her go down the aisle, 'thass's a whole heap o' trouble on two legs, right there.'

'How so?' Max asked.

'Don't wanna be goin' mad over no pussy when you makin' moves on the street. Gotta keep yo' mind on yo' game, and keep that game tight. Fine bitch like dat? Turnin' every nigga, spic and cracker head in dis town? Fo' you know it that pussy be havin' a entoorage, an' you gotta be swattin' 'em away full time, so you got no time to be makin' money, dig? Pussy like dat be worse fo' a nigga than dope.'

'So you only date ugly women, is that it?' Max said.

'They ain't ugly, 'zactly-they mo'…You know them hey-good-lookins always turn up wit plain Jane as a best friend, make deyselves look better? Plain Jane be the one I be flyin'. Most o' tha time she be so got-damn grateful to even have herself a man she do anythang fo' a nigga-cook, clean, wash yo' back-every damn thang. An' most of 'em fuck real good too. Them good-lookin', straight-offa-cover-of-a-magazine bitches? They ain't never gonna do that 'cause they think they too good.'

'Whatever floats your boat, Drake,' Max said. He did exactly the same thing in clubs, but he didn't want to start comparing scoring technique with his snitch. You had to keep a professional distance. 'Me, I like to have something nice to look forward to when I wake up in the morning.'

'I work anti-clockwise,' Drake said.

Max chuckled and pulled out a Marlboro. He lit it and took a deep drag, tasting lighter fuel mixed with the tobacco. He thought about Dean Waychek.

Dean Waychek had killed Billy Ray Swan, aged four.

Dean Waychek hadn't gone to trial because his lawyer had managed to convince the grand jury that his confession had been obtained under 'duress'. He'd produced photographs of Waychek's bruised torso and an X-ray of his broken nose. Max had claimed that Waychek had taken a dive out of their car. Joe had backed him up. It wasn't enough. Apparently there should have been more broken or fractured bones. Max wished he'd been able to beat him up a lot more. Joe wished he hadn't pulled him off, saying, 'You don't want to kill him.'

He hadn't then. He did now, but not by his own hand. Not this time. He'd do something else with the information Drake had given him.

After Waycheck had walked, Max'd finally come to the conclusion that he didn't want children of his own. They would bring him no pleasure, only dread: he'd seen what people could do to them, and he knew he'd be such an overprotective parent he'd make their lives a misery. So he'd had a vasectomy at the end of January. He hadn't told anyone about it. He'd just booked himself in and had his tubes snipped. The procedure, the surgeon had informed him, was completely reversible. But the things he'd witnessed and the effect they'd had on him were not.

A few moments later Drake said goodbye and stood up. He was dressed head to foot like a tennis player-white shoes, socks, shorts and a polo shirt. He even had two blue-finished metal rackets with him. It was always a different look with him.

Max watched him leave and was surprised he didn't get into the Mercedes, but instead walked out of the forecourt altogether, turned left and continued down the road.

Max finished his cigarette and went over to the counter to pay.

The brown-skinned man in the emerald-green suit and shiny shoes he'd noticed come in half an hour ago was still there, perched on his counter stool like a ravenous crow. He had brilliantined wavy hair and wore a thin gold bracelet on his right wrist. He was holding Corrina's hand close to his mouth, poised to kiss it. She was blushing and looking at him through wide, sparkling eyes. She was smitten. Was he her boyfriend? It didn't seem so. He looked a lot older, early thirties.

Max reached the counter and pulled out his wallet. Corrina didn't notice him until the man nodded Max's way and straightened himself up. She apologized, took the check down from a hook near the register and handed it to him.

But something was nagging at him, stopping him in his tracks. The guy was all wrong.

None of your business, he told himself. Pay and go.

Max had the right change, but he handed Corrina a twenty so he could stick around a little longer, check the guy out some more. Wouldn't hurt.

The guy watched Corrina's back as she turned. Max followed his stare to her ass, watched as he licked his bottom lip and mumbled something to himself.