Mr. Clarinet

During his first six months behind bars he'd had fan mail by the sackful. He'd never replied to any of it. Even the sincerest well-wishers left him cold. He'd always despised strangers who corresponded with convicted criminals they'd seen on TV, or read about in the papers, or met through those fucked-up prisoner pen-pal clubs. They were the first to demand the death penalty when the boot was on the other foot and that foot had stomped one of their loved ones to death. Max had been a cop for eleven years. There was a lot of it left over in him. Many of his closest friends were still on the force, keeping these very same people safe from the animals they wrote to.

When Carver's first letter arrived, Max's mail was down to letters from his wife, in-laws, and friends. His fan base had moved on to more appreciative types, like O. J. Simpson and the Menendez brothers.

Carver met Max's silence over his first letter with a follow-up two weeks later. When that, too, elicited no response, Max received another Carver letter the next week, then two more the week after that, and, seven days later, two more again. Velasquez was pretty happy. He liked Carver's letters, because the paper—thick, water-marked cream stationery with Carver's name, address, and contact numbers embossed in the right-hand corner in emerald-foil letters—had something in it that reacted fantastically with his weed and got him more stoned than usual.

Carver tried different tactics to get Max's attention—he changed paper, wrote longhand, and got other people to write in—but no matter what he tried, everything went by way of The Incinerator.

So, the letters stopped and the phone calls started. Max guessed that Carver had bribed someone high up, because only inmates with serious juice or imminent retrials were allowed to take incoming calls. A guard brought him from the kitchens and took him to one of the conference cells, where a phone had been plugged in, just for him. He spoke to Carver long enough to hear his name, think he was English from his accent, and tell him what was what and never to call him again.

But Carver didn't give up. Max would be interrupted at work, in the exercise yard, at meals, in the shower, during lockdowns, after lights-out. He dealt with Carver as he always did: "Hello," hear Carver's voice, hang up.

Max eventually complained to the warden, who thought it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Most inmates griped about hassles on the inside. He told Max not to be such a pussy and threatened to put a phone in his cell if he bothered him again with this bullshit.

Max told Dave Torres, his lawyer, about Carver's calls. Torres put a stop to them. He also offered to dig up some information about Carver, but Max passed. In the free world, he would have been curious as hell; but in prison, curiosity was something you gave up with your court clothes and your wristwatch.

The day before his release, Max had a visit from Carver. Max refused to see him, so Carver left him his final letter, back on the original stationery.

Max gave it to Velasquez as a going-away present.

* * *

After he got out of jail, Max was all set to go to London, England.

* * *

The round-the-world tour had been his wife's idea, something she'd always wanted to do. She'd long been fascinated by other countries and their cultures, their histories and monuments, their people. She was always going off to museums, lining up to get into the latest exhibitions, attending lectures and seminars, and always reading—magazines, newspaper articles, and book after book after book. She tried her best to sweep Max along with her enthusiasms, but he wasn't remotely interested. She showed him pictures of South American Indians wearing pizza plates in their bottom lips, African women with giraffe-like necks fitted with industrial springs, and he really couldn't begin to see the attraction. He'd been to Mexico, the Bahamas, Hawaii, and Canada, but his world was really just the USA, and that was a world big enough for him. At home, they had deserts and arctic wastes and pretty much everything in between. Why go abroad for the same shit only older?

His wife's name was Sandra. He'd met her when he was still a cop. She was half Cuban, half African-American. She was beautiful, clever, tough, and funny. He never called her Sandy.

She'd planned for them to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary in style, traveling the globe, seeing most of the things she'd only read about. If things had been different, Max would probably have talked her into going to the Keys for a week, with the promise of a modest foreign trip (to Europe or Australia) later in the year, but because he was in prison when she told him her plans, he wasn't in a position to refuse. Besides, from where he was, getting as far away from America as possible seemed like a good idea. That year out would give him time to think about the rest of his life and what best to do with it.