'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 ivaaay 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 he 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,Ś 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.
ŚWhatever 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. The, 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 photo 5°1 graphs 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
5'
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.
The guy wasn't her boyfriend.
Max broke him down: the suit and shirt were real expensive, the sort that spoke money to burn. No one dressed like that to go to work, and most people couldn't afford those kind of clothes.
He checked the shoes. Black and green gator loafers, gold band across the middle - $500 a pair.
Drug dealers didn't dress like that in the day time.
But pimps did.
The guy sensed he was being observed because he turned his head and looked straight at Max. They locked eyes. The pimp had sharp green eyes, which matched his suit and probably explained why he'd chosen it. He had a smattering of freckles across his nose. Hispanic with a black bias.
Handsome motherfucker, but with a very hard edge to him.
He frowned aggressively at Max and stiffened his posture.
A challenge moved to his lips and his eyes narrowed. Then
he caught sight of Max's gun on his belt under his jacket, read the situation and turned away in one almost interchangeable motion.
Max told Corrina to keep the change and walked out.
Hot bitch, thought Carmine Desamours as he watched Corrina bend over to pick up the spoon she'd just dropped.
'You a dancer, baby? Es usted bailariri? he whispered to her, taking in the shapeliness of her ankles, the smooth, almost mannish musculature of her calves and the width and firmness of her thighs. She was two or three inches over five feet tall the kind of size most men would want to protect. Protect and fuck: the perfect combination in a woman. He could almost see the money he'd make off her sweet ass.