Mr. Clarinet

Max wasn't outwardly nervous, but inside he was wired with anticipation. Very little in his life had prepared him for a moment like this—captured, utterly at the mercy of a foe. He didn't know what was around the next corner. If Paul carved him up and turned him into Beeson, he thought, he'd blow his brains out first chance he got.

"I don't follow." Paul frowned. The hands that had crushed and torn a man's testicles from his body were folded across his lower chest, abnormal in their girth, intimidating in their size, hands nature had made so big they'd needed each an extra pinkie to keep in proportion. And he'd had a manicure. His nails glowed.

"You carved up one of my predecessors so he can't hold his shit," Max said.

"I don't follow," Paul repeated slower.

"Didn't you—or one of your guys—split Clyde Beeson in two and rearrange his insides?"

"No."

"What about that Haitian who was working the case? Emmanuel Michaels?"

"Michel-ange—" Paul corrected him.

"Yeah."

"—who was found by the docks with his penis stuffed down his throat and his balls in his cheeks?"

"Was that you?"

"No." Paul shook his head. "Michelange was fucking somebody's wife. The husband had him taken care of."

"Bullshit!" Max reacted instinctively.

"If you ask around you'll see that it's not. It happened two weeks into his investigation."

"The Carvers know about this?"

"They would if they asked around," Paul said.

"How did they know it was the husband?"

"He confessed to it. He did it in his bedroom, with his wife watching."

"Who'd he confess to?" Max asked.

"The UN."

"And?"

"And what?"

"They take him in?"

"Sure. For as long as it took him to tell them what he'd done. Then they let him go. He runs a hotel and casino near Pétionville. Doing well. You can talk to him, if you want. The place is called El Rodeo. His name is Frederick Davi."

"What about his wife?"

"She left him," Paul answered, face deadpan, his eyes laughing. Max carried on his questioning.

"OK. Darwen Medd? Where is he? Did you kill him?"

"No." Paul shook his head, looking surprised. "I don't know where he is. Why would I want to kill him?"

"A warning. Like the one you sent out to the UN rapists," Max said through a dry mouth.

"That wasn't a warning. That was punishment. And there hasn't been another rape by the occupiers since," Paul said and smiled. "I knew you were following me that time. You weren't hard to miss. Good cars stand out here."

"Why didn't you do anything?"

"I've got nothing to hide from you," Paul said. "Tell me more about your predecessors."

Max explained. Paul listened, his face solemn.

"It wasn't me. I assure you. Although I can't say I'm sorry to hear about Clyde Beeson." Close up, Paul's accent favored English over French. "Pathetic little toerag. A lump of greed waddling on those two stumps he calls legs."

Max managed a smile.

"So you met him?"

"I had them both brought here for questioning."

"Shouldn't it have been the other way around?"

Paul smiled but didn't answer. He had a mouth of bright white teeth. He suddenly looked disarming and pleasant, almost boyish, the kind of person you could imagine doing good deeds and meaning them.

"What did they tell you?"

"What you're going to tell me: how the investigation is progressing."

"You're not my client," Max said.

"How much do you know about me, Mingus?"

"That you'll torture the information out of me."

"Something we have in common." Paul laughed, picking up a file from his desk and holding it up. It had Max's name on it in bold capitals. "What else?"

"You're a major suspect in the kidnapping of Charlie Carver."

"Certain people think my name's a euphemism for everything that goes wrong here."

"Witnesses placed you at the scene."

"I was there." Paul nodded. "But I'll get to that."

"You were seen running away with the kid in your arms."

"Who told you that? That old woman outside the shoe place?" Paul chuckled. "She's blind. She told Beeson and Medd the same thing. If you don't believe me, go and check when we're done. And you might want to look in the shop too. She keeps her dead husband's skeleton in there in a glass case, opposite the door. You'd swear someone's watching you."

"Why would she have lied to me?"

"We lie to white people here. Don't take it personally. It's in the DNA." Paul smiled. "What else do you think you know about me?"

"You're a suspected drug baron, you're wanted in connection with a missing person in England, and you hate the Carvers. How am I doing so far?"

"Better than your predecessors. They didn't know about England. I take it you got that from your friend"—Paul flicked through some pages in the file until he came to the one he wanted—"Joe Liston. You two have a lot of history, don't you? The MTF, 'Born to Run,' Eldon Burns, Solomon Boukman. And that's just when you were in the police. I have a lot more information on you."

"I bet you got everything there is to get." Max wasn't surprised that Paul had looked into him, but hearing him mention Joe got him worried.