Read Online The King of Swords (max mingus) by Nick Stone - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nick Stone
Tags: det_police
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had any bills in the register so she was counting out his change in quarters. He could almost feel the guy knew what he was, like he could look into his skull and read all his thoughts, see all his plans.
Bullshit, he told himself. Cops ain't psychic. They just get lucky.
Corrina was turning to give the cop his change when he told her to keep it and abruptly walked out of the diner.
'Comemierda! ' she hissed, and dumped the quarters back in the drawer and hit the no sale button.
'He ain't that bad,' Carmine said. 'He gave you money for nothing.'
'Den him grande comemierda,' Corrina said, holding out her hands wide apart.
You'll go far, thought Carmine.
Ten minutes later Carmine walked out of the diner and headed for his car.
He was real proud of his dark blue Mercedes coupe convertible with its beige leather interior and gunmetal blue rims. Driving it was pure pleasure, gliding through the streets in his own unassailable, aerodynamic little world, top down, radio on, volume up.
He took his car keys out of his pocket and smiled. The morning had been a success. Now, if the bitch was waiting for him where he'd told her tonight, he'd be made. After he was done with her, he'd take a drive around Coconut Grove and reconnoitre for some more targets. That was his favourite part of the job; the one which only he could do. Any motherfucker could be a pimp-nigger, spic, peckerwood, nip, slope, it didn't matter. But no man had his special talent, his magic eye for Card-spotting. God hadn't given him much, but he'd given him that.
His right leg suddenly smacked into something he hadn't noticed, something hard and solid. He fell flat on his face and his car keys shot out of his hand. He started to push himself up when something heavy landed on the middle of his back, and pinned him down on the ground.
'Hands out, palms flat, spread your fingers,' a voice above him said. The man smelled of dead booze and fresh cigarettes.
The cop frisked him and tossed his pockets. Out clattered his gold lighter, switchblade, bankroll, his small bottle of aftershave, his wallet and the grey cigar tube. The cop picked up everything except the aftershave and lighter.
Shit! Not the tube!
'Get up!'
Carmine did as he was told and came face to face with those mean, blue, booze-boiled eyes again. The cop was shorter than him but much broader and way stronger-looking.
'Louis De Ville, photographer…Jack Duval, agent…Harold Bernini, talent scout…' The cop read aloud from the small set of business cards he'd found in Carmine's wallet, flicking each at his face when he was done. 'Who the fuck are you? What's your name?'
'Louis De Ville,' Carmine answered.
'That so?' The cop looked at him angrily. 'Where you from Lou-wee?'
'Around here?'
'Not with that accent,' the cop said. 'What is that? Haitian? You Haitian?'
'No,' Carmine lied. 'I'm from New Orleans.'
'I know New Orleans. Which part?'
'French Quarter,' Carmine lied again. 'Left a long time ago though.'
'But your accent never went there.' The cop snorted. 'I say you're Haitian. What d'you want with that girl in there?'
'What would you want with a fine bitch like that?' Carmine smiled, trying to get some man to man empathy going, but deeply regretted it when, out of nowhere, the cop slammed his fist into his solar plexus. Pain exploded all the way to Carmine's spine and up into his chest. He fell to one knee with a sharp cry and clutched his gut hard as the punch reverberated all the way up to the base of his skull. Then he retched hot orange juice all over his $850 suit.
'You're a pimp and you're recruiting her.'
'Fuck you!' Carmine spat. 'I ain't no pimp, you racist redneck pig motherfucker!'
The cop squatted down next to him and shook the grey cigar tube.
'What's in here, Willie Dynamite? Drugs?'
'No-seeds.'
'Seeds?' The cop unscrewed the tube.
'Yeah-seeds. Like what you plant in the ground and watch grow motherfucker.'
The cop shook out the smooth beans into his palm. They
Bullshit, he told himself. Cops ain't psychic. They just get lucky.
Corrina was turning to give the cop his change when he told her to keep it and abruptly walked out of the diner.
'Comemierda! ' she hissed, and dumped the quarters back in the drawer and hit the no sale button.
'He ain't that bad,' Carmine said. 'He gave you money for nothing.'
'Den him grande comemierda,' Corrina said, holding out her hands wide apart.
You'll go far, thought Carmine.
Ten minutes later Carmine walked out of the diner and headed for his car.
He was real proud of his dark blue Mercedes coupe convertible with its beige leather interior and gunmetal blue rims. Driving it was pure pleasure, gliding through the streets in his own unassailable, aerodynamic little world, top down, radio on, volume up.
He took his car keys out of his pocket and smiled. The morning had been a success. Now, if the bitch was waiting for him where he'd told her tonight, he'd be made. After he was done with her, he'd take a drive around Coconut Grove and reconnoitre for some more targets. That was his favourite part of the job; the one which only he could do. Any motherfucker could be a pimp-nigger, spic, peckerwood, nip, slope, it didn't matter. But no man had his special talent, his magic eye for Card-spotting. God hadn't given him much, but he'd given him that.
His right leg suddenly smacked into something he hadn't noticed, something hard and solid. He fell flat on his face and his car keys shot out of his hand. He started to push himself up when something heavy landed on the middle of his back, and pinned him down on the ground.
'Hands out, palms flat, spread your fingers,' a voice above him said. The man smelled of dead booze and fresh cigarettes.
The cop frisked him and tossed his pockets. Out clattered his gold lighter, switchblade, bankroll, his small bottle of aftershave, his wallet and the grey cigar tube. The cop picked up everything except the aftershave and lighter.
Shit! Not the tube!
'Get up!'
Carmine did as he was told and came face to face with those mean, blue, booze-boiled eyes again. The cop was shorter than him but much broader and way stronger-looking.
'Louis De Ville, photographer…Jack Duval, agent…Harold Bernini, talent scout…' The cop read aloud from the small set of business cards he'd found in Carmine's wallet, flicking each at his face when he was done. 'Who the fuck are you? What's your name?'
'Louis De Ville,' Carmine answered.
'That so?' The cop looked at him angrily. 'Where you from Lou-wee?'
'Around here?'
'Not with that accent,' the cop said. 'What is that? Haitian? You Haitian?'
'No,' Carmine lied. 'I'm from New Orleans.'
'I know New Orleans. Which part?'
'French Quarter,' Carmine lied again. 'Left a long time ago though.'
'But your accent never went there.' The cop snorted. 'I say you're Haitian. What d'you want with that girl in there?'
'What would you want with a fine bitch like that?' Carmine smiled, trying to get some man to man empathy going, but deeply regretted it when, out of nowhere, the cop slammed his fist into his solar plexus. Pain exploded all the way to Carmine's spine and up into his chest. He fell to one knee with a sharp cry and clutched his gut hard as the punch reverberated all the way up to the base of his skull. Then he retched hot orange juice all over his $850 suit.
'You're a pimp and you're recruiting her.'
'Fuck you!' Carmine spat. 'I ain't no pimp, you racist redneck pig motherfucker!'
The cop squatted down next to him and shook the grey cigar tube.
'What's in here, Willie Dynamite? Drugs?'
'No-seeds.'
'Seeds?' The cop unscrewed the tube.
'Yeah-seeds. Like what you plant in the ground and watch grow motherfucker.'
The cop shook out the smooth beans into his palm. They
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