Mr. Clarinet

"What about your late wife's family? Are you in touch with them?"

"On and off," Max said.

Gustav nodded.

"Allain got upset about Emmanuel because they were childhood friends. I put Emmanuel through school, college. His mother was Allain's nanny. He loved her more than he loved his own mother," Carver said. "In Haiti we have a servant culture. We call them restavec. It's Kreyol for 'stay with,' derived from the French rester—to stay—and avec—with. You see, we don't pay our servants here. They live with us, 'stay with' us. We clothe them, feed them, give them decent accommodation. And in return they cook, clean, do things around the house and garden. It's feudal, I know." Carver smiled and showed his caramel-colored teeth. "But look at this country. Ninety-eight percent of the population are still rubbing two sticks to light a fire. Have I offended you?"

"No," Max said. "Prison was kind of like that. Bitch culture. You'd see people getting bought and sold for a pack of smokes. A cassette player'd buy you a blow job for life."

Gustav chuckled.

"It's not as barbaric here. It's a way of life. Servitude is in the Haitian gene. No point in trying to reform nature," Carver said. "I treat my people as well as possible. They all have bank accounts. I put all their children through school. Many have gone on to be modest middle-class achievers—in America, of course."

"What about Emmanuel?"

"He was very bright, but he had a weakness for women. Stopped him concentrating."

"His mother must have been proud."

"She would have been. She died when he was fifteen."

"That's way too bad," Max said.

Gustav stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. The maid returned. She brought something over to Max and put it on the table in front of him. Frank Sinatra's Duets CD, personally autographed to Gustav in blue ink.

"Thank you very much," Max said.

"I hope you enjoy it," Carver said. "There should be a CD player in your house."

They looked at each other across the table. Despite witnessing the old man's undeniable cruelty, Max liked him. He couldn't help himself. There was a fundamental honesty to him that let you know where you stood.

"I'd offer you coffee but I feel like turning in," Carver said.

"That's OK," Max said. "Just one more thing: What can you tell me about Vincent Paul?"

"I could talk about him all night—although most of it wouldn't interest you," Carver said. "But I'll tell you this one thing: I think he's behind Charlie's kidnapping. He's not only someone I think could have organized it, but the only one who would."

"Why's that?"

"He hates me. Many do here," Carver grinned.

"Has he been questioned?"

"This isn't America," Carver guffawed. "Besides, who'd dare go talk to him? The mere mention of that ape's name makes brave men shit their panties."

"But, Mr. Carver," Max said. "Surely you—a man in your position—you could've paid people to…"

"To what, Max? Kill him? Arrest him? On what 'charge'—to put it in your terms?—suspicion of kidnapping my grandson? Doesn't hold water.

"Believe me, I looked at every way to bring Paul in—'for questioning,' as you say. Can't be done. Vincent Paul's too big a deal here, too powerful. Take him down for no reason and you've got a civil war on your hands. But, with proof, I can move on him. So get it for me. And bring back the boy. Please. I implore you."

Chapter 12

BACK IN THE car, heading down the mountain to Pétionville, Max heaved a big sigh of relief. He was glad to be out of that house. He hoped he never had to have dinner with the Carvers again.

He hadn't realized how much the pressure of the evening had gotten to him. His shirt was sweat-stuck to the lining of his jacket and he was picking up the beginnings of a stress headache behind his eyes. He needed to walk, unwind, be alone, breathe free air, think, put things together.

He got the men to drop him off at the bar he'd spotted on their way out. They weren't happy about it, told him "it not safe," and insisted that they had orders to drive him all the way home. Max thought of showing them his gun to reassure them but he told them everything would be OK, that he wasn't far from his house.

They drove away without so much as a wave. Max watched their taillights disappear in the night faster than pennies down a well. He glanced down the road to get his bearings.

At the very bottom was the middle of Pétionville—the roundabout and marketplace—lit up in bright orange neon and totally deserted. In between was near-complete darkness, broken, here and there, by stray bare bulbs over doorways and in windows, small fires on the roadside, and random headlights. Max knew he had to turn down a side street, walk to the end of it, find the Impasse Carver, and follow it home. He now realized he should have let the men drive him back: not only would it be a bitch finding the gate to his compound in the dark, but, more immediately, he didn't know which street led to home. He could see there were at least four to choose from.

He'd have to walk down the hill and try each of the streets until he came to the right one. He remembered being in simple, stupid situations like this when he was younger, always drunk and stoned when he hadn't scored. He'd always made it home. Safe and sound. He'd be OK.

But first he needed a drink. Just one—maybe a shot of that six-star deluxe Barbancourt old man Carver had offered him earlier. That would see him home, help him along his way, isolate him from the fear that was starting to whisper in his mind. He was seeing Clyde Beeson in his diaper again and asking himself what had happened to Darwen Medd. He was imagining Emmanuel Michelange with his dick scissored off and stuffed down his throat and wondering if he'd been alive when they'd done that to him. And he was thinking about Boukman, sitting there, somewhere on the street, maybe by one of those small fires, watching him, waiting.

From the outside, La Coupole was a small, bright-blue house with a rusted corrugated-iron roof whose eaves were hung with a string of flickering multicolored bulbs, similar to the ones surrounding the sign—two wooden planks with the bar name painted in white in a crude, jumbled script: part block, part cursive, part straight, part bent. Small spotlights were trained on the walls and highlighted the chips and cracks in the concrete. The windows were boarded up. Someone had spray-painted LA COUPOLE WELCOME U.S. in black on one of the boards, and painted a list of drinks and prices on the other—Bud, Jack, and Coke were on sale; nothing else.

Music was thudding from within, but it wasn't loud enough for him to make out more than the bass. It was the only noise in the street, although plenty of people—all of them locals—were hanging around outside the bar, talking.

A bald teenager in a grubby white suit with no shirt and shoes was sitting on an old motorbike. The seat was sprouting springs and foam from its four corners. The kid was surrounded by a semicircle of little boys, also bald, all of them looking up at him with awe and respect. The picture belonged in a church or a modern-art museum—Jesus cast as a Haitian slum kid dressed in a soiled John Travolta disco suit.