The King of Swords (max mingus) by Nick Stone

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