Mr. Clarinet

"That guy you asked me to check out—Vincent Paul?"

"Yeah?"

"You know, I told you the Brit police wanted to question him."

"Yeah?"

"It was in connection with a missing-persons case."

Max's grip tightened on the receiver.

"Who?"

"A woman," Joe explained. "Back in the early seventies, Vincent Paul was a student at Cambridge University in England. He was datin' this local girl called—" Max heard him thumbing through a notebook. "Josephine…Josephine Latimer. The girl was an artist. She also liked to drink. A lot. One night she ran over this kid in her car and drove off. A witness made the car and her license plate. She gets arrested and stuck in prison until the bail hearin'.

"Now, her parents are big shots in this small town. Everyone knows who they are, so their daughter bein' involved in a hit-and-run is big local news. The police want to make an example of her, show the people that everyone is equal before the law. They delay the bail hearin' for two weeks. The girl stays in jail and gets beaten up and raped. When she gets out she's a mess, tries to kill herself.

"The trial happens a year later. Nineteen-seventy-three. She's found guilty of manslaughter. She's due to be sentenced in two days. They're sayin' five years jail time minimum. She knows she can't do no time. She knows she isn't gonna make it in there.

"The day she's due in court she disappears. There's this manhunt—local at first, then it goes nationwide. Her boyfriend—Vincent—he's gone too. Now Vincent is this giant—six-eight, six-nine—so he's not exactly gonna be difficult to spot, knowwhumsayin'?—but, somehow, it takes a whole two months after her disappearance before someone comes forward and says they saw them on a boat goin' to the…the—the Hook of Holland."

"So that time on the boat? Was that the last sighting?" asked Max.

"Yeah. Him and his girl. She's still wanted in England for manslaughter and skippin' the country. But this is all kinda low priority now. Bonnie and Clyde they ain't."

"Not over there, maybe."

"You see this Vincent Paul in Haiti?"

"Yeah."

"You talk to him?"

"Not yet—you don't talk to him, he talks to you," Max quipped.

"What? Like God in the burnin' bush?"

"Somethin' like that." Max laughed.

"What about the woman? Josephine? You see her?"

"Not that I know of. What she look like?"

"I ain't got a picture for her. But you see this Vincent Paul you ask him where she's at or where she went to."

"I'll do that, if I get a chance."

"You know the Brits sent two police officers out to Haiti to look for 'em. Scotland Yard guys."

"Don't tell me—they found nothin'?" Max said.

"Exactly. You think Vincent or his family might've paid 'em off?"

"Maybe, but his family went bankrupt when he was in England. Besides, from what I know so far, payin' people off isn't Vincent Paul's style. He'd sooner kill 'em."

They both laughed.

"You know a cop called Ray Hernandez—one of yours?" Max asked.

"Yeah, sure, I know him." Joe lowered his voice so his kids wouldn't hear. "If it's the same guy, we call him Ray Headuphisassez."

"Sounds right."

"How you know him?"

"His name came up in the joint," Max lied.

"Used to be a narc," Joe murmured. "Was bangin' his partner's wife. Then he found out his partner was dirty so he snitched him out to IA. They rewarded him with a desk and made him lieutenant. He's a full-on asshole. Time I met him he talked to me like I was a piece of ess-aitch-eye-tut, knowhumsayin'? Thing I didn't get 'bout him? His wife was a hottie. Man must be blind and dumb to cheat on that."

Max guessed Joe's wife wasn't within earshot. He'd never known a woman so jealous. If she caught Joe so much as looking at a woman on a billboard she'd throw a fit.

"I need you to do a couple of other things for me, Joe, please."

"Name it."

"I need you to look up the following people, see what you can get: first up—Darwen Medd. He's a PI out of Tallahassee."

"No problem, but no guarantees on when neither," Joe said. "Say, Max?"

"Yeah?"

"Know what I'm hearin'?"

"What?"

"The sound of you enjoyin' yo'self."

"I wouldn't quite put it that way, Joe."

"I don't mean 'enjoyin' yourself like you gettin' off—enjoyin' yo'self, but you enjoyin' the idea of maybe nailin' these sonsobitches. There's this spring in your voice. The old Mingus, no-bullshit steel."

"You think so?"

"I know so. I know you, Mingus. You're back, Max."

"If you say so, Joe." Max chuckled. He didn't feel back at all. He didn't want to be anywhere near this.

* * *

Afterwards he went to bed and fell asleep as the sun started streaming through his window.