Mr. Clarinet

"Twenty or so," Carver confirmed with a calm and openness that disconcerted Max.

"You've got records there too, right? Details of each and every sale—who, what, where."

"Yes." Carver nodded. "Filmed and photographic evidence too. But those aren't the crown jewels. By going into that house, the way you people have…Do you have the slightest idea what you're opening up?"

"Tell me."

"This will make Pandora's Box look like a tin of peanuts."

"I understand you're well connected, Mr. Carver," Max dead-panned.

"Well connected!" He laughed. "Well connected? I'm plugged into the fucking grid, Mingus! Do you know I am one phone call from having you killed and two calls from making you disappear without a trace, make it like you never existed. Do you know that? That's the kind of power I wield—THAT is how 'well connected' I am."

"I don't doubt that, Mr. Carver. But those one or two phone calls aren't gonna help you now."

"Oh? Why not?"

"The phone lines have been cut. Try it," Max pointed to a telephone he spied on the other side of the room.

When he'd driven up the mountain road, he'd seen people working on the telegraph poles.

Carver snorted contemptuously and pulled hard on his cigarette.

"What do you want from me, Mingus? Money?"

"No." Max shook his head. "I have questions I need answers to."

"Let me guess: Why did I do this?"

"That's a good enough place to start."

"Do you know that in Greek and Roman times it was common for adults to have sex with children? It was commonplace. It was accepted. Today, in the non-Western world, girls are married off to grown men at the age of twelve, sometimes. And in your country, teenage pregnancies are legion! Underage sex, Mr. Mingus, is everywhere—always was, always will be."

"Those were no teenagers."

"Oh damn you and your stupid morality, Mingus!" Carver spluttered, stabbing out his cigarette and swallowing a good gulp of whiskey. "People like you with your self-righteous codes of conduct and ethics, with your secular notions of right and wrong, you always end up working for people like me—people unencumbered by things like 'feelings' and 'consideration for others'—the very things that hold you back. I do things you wouldn't even think about doing. You think you're tough, Mingus? You've got nothing on me."

"Some of those kids looked no more than six years old," Max said.

"Yeah? You know what? I've had a freshly born baby stolen from right under its mother's nose, because that was what one of my clients desired. It cost him two million dollars and bought me a lifetime's influence. It was worth it."

Carver was raging on whiskey fumes, but this wasn't the drunk bragging of a man who didn't give a fuck until the hangover kicked in. He would have said the same thing and had the same attitude in identical circumstances if he'd been sober. He meant every word he said.

The maid reappeared, replaced the whiskey tumbler and ashtray, and quickly left with the used ones.

"What's the matter, Mingus? You look ill. This too much for you to handle?" Carver sneered, slapping the armrest. "What were you expecting—a mea culpa? FROM ME?!!? FUCK THAT!"

Max doubted the old man really understood his predicament. Decades of having everything his own way had blinded him to the obvious and the certain. He'd never faced someone he couldn't bribe, corrupt, or destroy. Nothing had stood in his way that he hadn't bulldozed or bought out. Right now, he was probably thinking that all of his pedophile clients would come to his aid, that the pervert cavalry would come riding over the hill to rescue him. Maybe he was thinking of bribing Max out of taking him in. Or maybe he had something else up his sleeve, some trapdoor that would suddenly open beneath his feet and drop him to freedom.

From outside the room Max heard a short cry and the sound of breaking glass. He looked at the doorway and saw nothing.

"But you're a father yourself…" Max began.

"That never stopped anyone and you know it!" Carver snapped. "What do you take me for? I'm a professionaclass="underline" I keep an emotional distance from everything I do. It allows me to perform unpleasant tasks with impunity."

"So you admit that what you've been doing is—"

"Unpleasant? Of course it is! I hate the people I deal with. I despise them."

"But you've done business with them for—"

"Close to forty years, yes. You know why? I have no conscience. I eradicated that from my way of thinking a long time ago. Having a conscience is an overrated pastime." Carver edged closer to him. "I may hate them, but I understand pedophiles. Not what they do—that's not for me. But who they are, where they're coming from. They're all the same. They never change: they're all ashamed of what they do, of what they like, of what they are. And most of all they're all terrified of being found out."

"And you exploited that?"

"Absolutely!" Carver exclaimed, clapping his big hands together for emphasis. "I'm a businessman, Mingus, an entrepreneur. I saw a market with a potentially loyal customer base and plenty of repeat trade."

"You also saw people you could blackmail…"

"I never 'blackmailed' anyone, as you put it. I've never had to threaten a single one of my clients into opening doors for me."

"Because they already know the score?"

"Exactly. These are people who move in higher planes. People whose reputations are everything. I've never abused our relationship, never asked for more than, maybe, two favors from any one person in all the time I've known them."

"And these 'favors'?" Max asked. "What did they give you? Trade monopolies? Access to confidential U.S. government files?"

Carver shook his head, smirking.

"Contacts."

"More pedophiles? Ones on even higher planes?"

"Absolutely! You know the theory that you're only six people away from any one person? When you have the esoteric interests my clients do, Mr. Mingus, you're more like two people away."

"Everybody knows everybody else?"

"Yes. To a degree. I don't deal with any everybody."

"Only the ones you can get something out of?"