Solomon Boukman: gang leader, drug baron, pimp, money-launderer, kidnapper, rapist.
Solomon Boukman: his last case as a cop, his last collar, the one that almost killed him.
Solomon's words to him in court: 'You give me reason to live,' stage-whispered with a smile that chilled Max to the core. Those words had made the whole thing between them very personal.
Max's words back: '
Boukman had headed up a gang called The SNBC?short for Saturday Night Barons Club, adapted from Baron Samedi, the voodoo god of death. Its members swore their leader had supernatural powers, that he could read minds and predict the future, that he could be in two places at once, materializing in rooms just like they did on
Max was shaking with anger, fists balled up, heat rising up in his face, the vein in his forehead twitching and wriggling like a worm in a frying pan. Solomon Boukman was someone Max had taken great pride in catching?and great joy in working over with his fists and a sap before he'd booked him.
Now Boukman was free. He'd beaten the system. And he'd beaten Max and pissed in his face. It was too much?too much to have to come back to.
Chapter 3
MAX HAD KNOWN Joe for twenty-five years. They'd started out as partners in Patrol and moved on up through the ranks together.
The pair were known as 'Born to Run' within the Miami PD. Their boss, Eldon Burns, coined the nickname because he said the way the two of them stood together reminded him of the cover of Bruce Springsteen's eponymous album, where the pale, scrawny singer is propped up against Clarence Clemons, his gargantuan, pimp- hatted sax player. It wasn't a bad comparison. Joe dwarfed everyone. Built like a linebacker who'd swallowed the team, he was six foot five in his socks and had to duck to get through most doors.
Joe dug the nickname. He loved Bruce Springsteen. He had all his albums and singles, and hundreds of hours of live shows on cassettes. It was virtually all he seemed to listen to. Whenever Springsteen toured, Joe would have front-row seats for all the Florida concerts. Max dreaded having to share a car with his partner after he'd seen his hero in the flesh, because Joe would describe the experience in excruciatingly precise detail, song by song, grunt by grunt. Springsteen's shows averaged three hours. Joe's reports would go on for six. Max couldn't stand Springsteen, didn't know what all the fuss was about. To his ears, the 'Boss' 's voice was stuck somewhere between throat- clearing and throat cancer?and the perfect soundtrack for white guys who drove station wagons in motorcycle jackets. He'd once asked Joe what the attraction was. 'It's like everything that moves one person and leaves another standing still: you either get it or you don't. Ain't just about the music and the voice with Bruce. It's about a whole lotta
That said, he had no problem with their nickname. It meant they were being noticed. After they'd both made detective, Max had the album image and title tattooed on his inner right forearm. A year before he'd had a traditional cop tattoo?a shield bearing a skull and crossed six-guns, surrounded by the legend DEATH IS CERTAIN?LIFE IS NOT?inked into his left arm.
* * *
The L was named after the shape of its building, although you'd have to see it from above to know. Detective Frank Nunez had first spotted it from a police helicopter while giving chase to a vanload of bank robbers across downtown Miami. He got some of his friends to come in with him in return for points, including Max and Sandra, who put in $20,000. Until they had to sell their share to help pay Max's legal bills, the bar had made them double their investment every year. It was a big hit with the downtown business-and-banking crowd, who packed it Monday through Saturday.
From the front, The L resembled a fairly typical bar, with its wide, black-shuttered windows and flashing beer signs spelled out in bright neon squeezed-toothpaste lettering. There were two entrances. The right took you straight to the bar, a big, high-ceilinged space with varnished wooden floors and a maritime theme in the ship's wheels, anchors, and shark harpoons mounted on the walls. The left entrance led up a long flight of stairs to the L Lounge. The lounge was screened off from the bar by a tinted wall-window that allowed its patrons to see the goings-on down below unobserved. It was ideal for first dates and clandestine office affairs, because it was sectioned off into intimate booths, each softly lit with red and gold Chinese-style lanterns. The lounge had its own bar and served some of the best cocktails in Miami.
When Max walked in, he saw Joe sitting on the outside of a middle booth, close to the window. He was in a blue suit and tie. Max felt underdressed in his loose sweatshirt, khakis, and running shoes.
'Lieutenant Liston?' Max said as he drew up to his friend.
Joe smiled broadly, a capsized quarter- moon of teeth that glowed across the bottom of his dark face. He got up. Max had forgotten quite how immense he was. He'd put on a few pounds around the waist and his face was a little rounder, but he still looked like every suspect's interrogation-room nightmare.
Joe gave Max a big hug. Despite his prison workouts, Max's shoulders didn't make either side of Joe's chest. Joe patted Max's arms and stood back a couple of steps to look him over.
'See they fed you,' he said.
'I worked the kitchen.'
'Not the barbershop?' Joe said, patting Max's bald head.
They sat down. Joe took up most of his side of the booth. A ring-binder file was on the table. A waiter came over. Joe ordered a Diet Coke and a shot of bourbon. Max asked for a fat Coke.
'You dry?' Joe asked.
'Dry-ving. You?'
'Slowed drinkin' down so much I might as well
'You feel better for it?'
'Nope.'
Joe's face hadn't aged much?not in the lounge light at any rate?but his hairline had been beaten back from his forehead and he wore his hair lower than before, which led Max to suspect he was thinning in the middle.
There were a few couples in the lounge, all still in their office suits. Anonymous piano Muzak tinkled from corner speakers, the tune so indecipherable they might as well have been playing the sound of a horse pissing on wind chimes.
'How's Lena?' Max asked.
'She's good, man. Sends her love,' Joe said. He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out some photographs, and handed them to Max. 'Mug shots. See if you recognize anyone you know.'
Max looked through the pictures. The first was a family shot with Lena in the middle. Lena was tiny, next to Joe almost fetal. Joe had met her at his local Baptist church. He hadn't been particularly religious, but church was a better and cheaper alternative to trawling bars and clubs or dating fellow cops; he'd called it 'the best singles spot outside of heaven.'
Lena had never liked Max. He didn't blame her. The first time they'd met, he'd had blood on his collar from where a suspect had bitten his earlobe. She'd thought it was lipstick, and from then on, she'd always looked at him like he'd done something wrong; relations, like their conversations, had stayed the polite side of functional. Things hadn't improved between them after he'd left the force, either. His marrying Sandra had appalled her. Even God didn't cross the color line in her world.
The last time Max had seen Joe he'd had three children, all boys?Jethro, the eldest, then Dwayne and Dean, one year apart?but there were two baby girls on Lena's lap.
'Yeah, that's Ashley on the left and on the right is Bryony,' Joe said proudly.
'Twins?'
'Double trouble. Stereo.'
'How old?'
'Three. We wasn't plannin' on havin' no more kids. They just happened.'
'They say the unplanned ones are the most loved.'
''They' say a lot of things, most of 'em bullshit. I love all my babies equally.'
They were cute-looking kids, took after their mother, same eyes.
'Sandra never told me,' Max said.
