Mr. Clarinet

"You obviously don't understand the man, Mingus." Vincent chuckled sourly. "You've been to his house? You've seen the Psalm haven't you—in gold, near that picture of his dead wife? Psalm twenty-three, verse five?"

"Yeah, I've seen it."

"Did you read it?"

"Yeah, I know it: 'Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.' It's from the famous 'The Lord is my Shepherd' Psalm. And?"

"I take it you didn't do too well in RE."

"RE?"

"Religious Education—sorry, you probably call it 'Bible study.'"

"I did OK."

"The meaning of psalm twenty-three, verse five, is this: in ancient times, the best form of revenge on your enemies wasn't death or imprisonment, but for them to watch you living it up and having a good time. After all, isn't success the greatest triumph over those who've hated you and wished you ill?"

Max was struggling to stay objective, neutral, even on his client's side, but what Paul was saying, coupled with the things he'd heard and read about Gustav Carver, were tempting him out of his professional shell.

"So he kept you here so you could watch Allain step out with the love of your life?"

"Technically, yes," Paul chuckled. "But…theoretically, no."

"What do you mean?"

"She wasn't stepping out with Allain."

"But I thought…" Max stopped. He was lost.

"What kind of detective are you? I thought you were supposed to be good—no, the best."

Max didn't say anything.

"You mean you really didn't notice anything at all?" Vincent was on the verge of laughing. "About Allain?"

"No, should I?"

"You've lived in Miami all your life, you've just spent seven years in prison, and you still can't tell a queer a mile away!"

"Allain?!!?" Max was shocked all over again. Something else he hadn't expected or seen coming. He could normally tell people's sexual orientation, not that it was too hard to spot in America—especially Miami—where people tended to be more open and upfront about which way they swang. Had his skills deteriorated that much?

"Yes, Allain Carver is a homosexual—G-A-Y—a massissi, as we call them here. Actually, Mingus, I'm not so surprised you missed it. Allain's very discreet and straight-acting.

"There had been rumors about him for years, but no proof. Allain's never shat on his own doorstep. He just goes for long weekends in Miami, San Francisco, New York. Does his thing there, bottles it up over here."

"How do you know?"

"I've got photographic proof—videos too. Clyde Beeson took them for me. I employed him—anonymously, through a second party—about ten years ago."

"Figures. He fishes for shit," Max said. His head was still spinning. "So I guess coming out here is a big no-no?"

"Squared. You know what they say about gays? They say: 'There aren't any in Haiti—they're all married with kids.' It's like that all over the Caribbean. Homosexuality is viewed as a perversion, a sin."

"Poor Allain," Max said. "All his money, influence, status, position—and he has to sneak around pretending he's something he isn't."

"He's not a bad guy," Vincent said. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

"So why did you get those pictures taken?"

"To smear him. I was going to plant the pictures in the Haitian press."

"Why?"

"Ying and yang. The ying, to liberate Allain, free him of his secret. The yang—revenge on Gustav, to embarrass him. The timing would have been perfect: the old man was in poor shape. Baby Doc had fallen from power, his wife was dying, his health wasn't good—I thought a little public humiliation would push him over the edge—you know, kill him with natural causes."

"Why didn't you see it through?"

"I couldn't do that to Allain, exploit the poor guy's sexuality, trample over him so I could get to his father."

"How honorable," Max sneered. "I can see where you're coming from and God knows you've got as good a motive as any, but if you hate him that much why don't you just shoot the bastard?"

"Once bitten, twice shy."

"You tried that?"

"Eddie Faustin stopped the bullet."

"That was you? Figures." Max nodded. "So, Gustav married Allain to Francesca to put an end to the rumors?"

"Yes." Vincent nodded. "And…"

"And?"

"That wasn't all Gustav wanted her for. He also wanted her for himself—not just for sex, but for breeding. He desperately wanted a grandson. All he has is granddaughters and he's backward enough to believe that men make better leaders.

"He spent most of a decade trying to get her pregnant. He referred to their sessions as 'making a deposit.'" Vincent laughed bitterly. "Josie had two miscarriages, a stillbirth, a daughter who only lived for six months, but no son.