Mr. Clarinet

His plate was almost empty by the time conversation resumed.

"So what happened next, Max?" Gustav asked.

"Well," Max began, taking a long drink of water. "You know there's a whole shrink industry devoted to looking into the sort of mind that'll think up the most repulsive torture it can inflict on another human being and then see it through? These are the same fancy mouthpieces defense attorneys wheel out in court to explain that some sick fuck ended up the way they did because they were abused as children, because their parents were fuckups themselves. I don't buy that shit. Never have. I believe most of us know right and wrong, and if you go through wrong as a child you look for right as an adult. But for most Americans, therapy is like confession and shrinks are the priests. Instead of saying their Hail Marys they blame their parents."

Gustav Carver laughed and clapped his hands. Allain smiled tightly. Francesca had gone back to strangling her napkin.

"I knew those kids would get off. There's no death penalty in New York. They'd play the mental illness card and they'd win. Two of them were crack addicts, so that's diminished responsibility right there. They'd put most of the blame on the ringleader, the oldest one, the one who'd organized it—Richard's employee. In between, Manuela would be forgotten about and the trial would be more about the kids. The media would get hold of it and make it into this big indictment of African-American youth. They'd get fifteen to twenty. They'd get raped in prison, sure. The men would get AIDS. Maybe. But for all their wasted, rotted lives, Manuela's would go unlived.

"I found the girl first. It wasn't hard. She was out turning tricks for rock. She took me to the other two. They were holed up in Harlem. They thought I was a cop. They confessed everything, down to the last shitty detail. I heard them out, made absolutely sure it was them…And then I shot 'em."

"Just like that?" asked Allain, looking horrified.

"Just like that," Max said.

He'd never told anybody this much about the Garcia case, and yet it had felt right. He wasn't after absolution or even understanding or empathy. He'd just wanted to free himself of the truth.

Gustav was beaming at him. There was a twinkle in his eye, as if he'd been both moved and invigorated by the story.

"So, you pleaded guilty to manslaughter, yet you committed premeditated cold-blooded murder? You received a very light sentence. The same system you criticized looked after you," Gustav said.

"I had a good lawyer—" Max said, "—and a great shrink."

Gustav laughed.

Allain laughed too.

"Bra-voh!" Gustav barked joyfully, his approval echoing around the room, coming back in sets of two and three, giving Max a small yet highly appreciative spectral audience.

Allain stood up and joined in.

Max was part amused, part embarrassed, part wishing himself away. The two Carvers were no better than the redneck vigilante freaks who'd written to him in jail. He wished now he could have taken it all back, fed them the same line of crap he'd fed the cops and his lawyer, about self-defense with intent.

Francesca broke up the fun.

"I knew it," she said venomously, eyes turned to slits, rounding on Max. "This isn't about Charlie at all. It's about them."

"Francesca, you know that's not true," Allain said patronizingly, as if he were scolding a child for telling a blatant lie. He gave her a cutting, get-back-in-line look that made her lower her head.

"Francesca's understandably upset," Allain explained to Max, leaning over to him, cutting her off.

"Upset! I'm not upset! I'm beyond upset!" Francesca screeched. Her face was crimson, her blue eyes bulged, more washed-out-looking than ever. The pulsing vein in her temple had turned purple, forming a bruise-colored whorl. Like her husband, she had an English accent, only hers was the real deal, no East Coast edges or lopsided-sounding vowels.

"You know why you're here, don't you?" she said to Max. "They didn't bring you here to find Charlie. They think he's dead. They have all along. They brought you in to find the kidnappers—to find whoever it is who dared go up against the all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-owning Carver clan! That story you just told confirms it all. You're no 'private detective.' You're nothing more than a glorified hit man."

Max looked at her, feeling chastised and embarrassed. This wasn't what he'd expected.

In some ways, she was right. He had a short fuse. He acted on his impulses. His temper got the better of him, and yes, it had sometimes clouded his judgment. But that was then, when he still cared, before he'd fallen foul of his own system.

"Francesca, please," Allain said, appealing to her now.

"God damn you, Allain!" she yelled, throwing down her napkin and standing up with such force her chair flew back and fell over. "I thought you promised to find Charlie."

"We're trying," Allain said, pleading.

"With him?" Francesca said, pointing at Max.

"Francesca, please sit down," Allain said.

"Damn you, Allain—and damn you too, Gustav!—damn you and your damn family!"

She shot Max a tearful, hate-soaked look. The veins in the corners of her eyes pushed up against her skin like early-morning worms. Her lips were trembling with rage and fear. Her anger made her look younger, less damaged and vulnerable.

She turned and ran out of the room. Max noticed she was barefoot and had a small tattoo over her left ankle.

Silence followed the explosion, a big pall of nothing that settled over the scene. It was so complete, so still in the room that Max could hear the Doberman's paws scrabbling on the gravel path outside, the crickets chirping in the night.

Allain looked humiliated. He was blushing. His father sat back in his chair, watching his son's discomfort with an amused expression playing on his thick lips.

"I'm sorry about my wife," Allain said to Max. "She's taken this whole business very hard. We all have, obviously, but she's—it's hit her particularly hard."

"I understand," Max said.

And he did. There were two kinds of victim-parent: those who expected the worst and those who lived in hope. The former didn't crack; they lived through their loss, grew thicker skins, became mistrustful and intolerant. The latter never recovered. They broke up and they broke down. They lost everything they'd ever loved and lived for. They died young—cancers, addictions, intoxications. Max could tell casualties from survivors the moment he met them, on the threshold of their greatest grief, not yet stepped over. He'd never been wrong, until now. He'd thought the Carvers would be OK, that they'd pull through. Francesca's outburst had changed his mind.