Mr. Clarinet

Max didn't say anything. Neither did Joe. Max heard the sounds of office life going on through the receiver—conversations, phones ringing, doors opening and closing, pagers. Joe was probably used to his children apologizing about now, and then crying. Joe would pick them up and squeeze them and tell them it was OK, but not to do it again. Then he'd give them a kiss on the forehead and put them down.

"I'm sorry, Joe," Max said. "It's been hard."

"No es nada, mi amigo," Joe said, after a deliberate pause meant to make Max think he was evaluating his sincerity.

"But it's gonna stay hard for you as long as you keep runnin' away. You got to go to the mountain otherwise that sucker's gonna go for you," Joe said. Probably what he told his kids when they complained about their homework being difficult.

"I know," Max said. "I'm working on it right now. In fact, that's one of the reasons I was calling. I need a couple of favors. Records, old files, anything you've got on an Allain Carver. He's Haitian and—"

"I know him," Joe said. "Missin' son, right?"

"Yeah."

"Came in here a while back and filed a report."

"I thought the kid went missing in Haiti?"

"Someone reported they'd seen him here in Hialeah."

"And?"

"That someone was some crazy old lady claimed she had visions."

"Did you check it out?"

Joe laughed—big and hearty laughter, but dry and cynical too—classic cop's laugh, the way you got after more than two decades on the job.

"Max? We started doin' that we'd be lookin' for little green men in North Miami Beach. That ole lady's from Little Haiti. That kid's face is everyplace—stuck on everythin'—walls, doors, stores—I bet it's in the water they drink, too—his face and the fiddy-thousand-dollar reward for information."

Max thought about Carver's initial campaign in Haiti. The Miami version had probably yielded the same results.

"You got an address for the woman?"

"You takin' the case, right?" Joe said. He sounded worried.

"Yeah."

"Main reason Carver came to see me was he wanted to get in touch wit'chu. I hear you played hard to get? What changed your mind?"

"I need the money."

Joe didn't say anything. Max heard him scribbling something down.

"You'll need a piece," Joe said.

"That was the second favor."

Max was banned from owning a gun for life. He'd expected Joe to refuse.

"And the first?"

"I'll need a copy of everything you've got on the Carver kid, plus his family."

He heard more scribbling.

"No problem," Joe said. "How about we meet at The L tonight, say 'round eight?"

"On a Friday? How about someplace quiet?"

"The L's got this new lounge bar? Away from the main one? It's so quiet you can hear a flea fart."

"OK." Max laughed.

"It'll be good to see you again, Max. Real good," Joe said.

"You too, Big Man," Max said.

Joe was going to say something and then stopped. Then he tried again and stopped again. Max could hear it in the slight sucking noises he was making as his mouth opened and he took in the right amount of air to launch the words massed at the back of his throat.

They still had it, their old telepathy.

Joe was worried about something.

"What's bugging you, Joe?"

"You sure you wanna go to Haiti?" Joe asked. "'Cause it ain't too late to back out."

"Where's this coming from, Joe?"

"It ain't gonna be too safe for you out there."

"I know about the country's situation."

"It ain't that," Joe said slowly. "It's Boukman."

"Boukman? Solomon Boukman?"

"Uh-huh."

"What about him?"

"He got out," Joe said, his voice dropping close to a mumble.

"What?!!? He was on death row!" Max shouted, standing up as his voice rose. His reaction surprised him: seven years in prison and he'd mostly kept his emotions in check, his expressions to a bare minimum. You couldn't afford to let people see what got you up or down in jail, because they'd use it against you. He was already adjusting to the free world, finding his left-behind self again.

"The government gave him a free pass home," Joe explained. "They're deportin' the Haitian criminals instead of keepin' 'em locked up. Happenin' all over—state and fed."

"WHAT?!!?"

"This ain't official. It's one of those under-the-radar things you never find out about. And even if it did come out, who'd give a shit? Us? We'd say good riddance. The Haitians? Who they gonna complain to? Us? We're already rulin' their country."

"Do they know what he did?" Max said.

"That ain't the point, as far as they see it. Why waste taxpayers' money keepin' him in prison when you can send him back home?"

"But he's free."

"Yeah, but that's the Haitians' problem now. And now it's yours too—you meet him out there."

Max sat himself back down.

"When did this happen, Joe? When did he get out?"

"March. This year."

"Mother-fucker!"