Mr. Clarinet

"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.