Mr. Clarinet

"We got involved again in the late eighties. When she got pregnant with Charlie, Gustav thought it was his, the country thought it was Allain's, and I knew it was mine and Josie's. Besides, I've got the results of a paternity test. She was barely sleeping with Gustav by then. She'd managed to limit him to the days when she was ovulating—although she'd lied to him about which days those were, so he was basically too early or too late.

"She had Charlie in Miami. Allain was with her. They're actually very good friends, you know. He helped her get through the early years in that family. As far as he saw it, he and Josie were in the same boat—obviously at opposite ends."

Max let out a deep breath.

"Why are you telling me this now? Why not earlier?"

"Because I'm telling you now. The time and place are right."

"Why didn't you tell Beeson or Medd?"

"Beeson I didn't trust. Medd…I didn't think he was good enough."

"So I meet your standards?"

"Up to a point."

"Thanks," Max mumbled sarcastically, although he agreed with Paul. He wasn't as good as he used to be. Or maybe he'd never been that good in the first place; or maybe he'd just got very lucky for a very long time, because a lot of breakthroughs were little more than that—luck, and the carelessness of the criminals who made it happen.

He put his doubts to one side. He'd go back to them later, sometime.

"What was your relationship with your son like?"

"I used to see Charlie once a week."

"Who chose his name?"

"I had no say in it," Paul said sadly.

Max took advantage of Paul's moment of fragility to clear up something that had been bugging him since his first night in the country.

"What's wrong with Charlie?" he asked.

"He's autistic," Paul replied quietly.

"Is that it?" Max was incredulous.

"It's a big deal to us—and to him." Paul sounded hurt.

"But why the secrecy?"

"Gustav Carver doesn't know. And we didn't know if we could trust you with the information."

"Did Beeson or Medd know?"

"No." Paul shook his head.

"When did you find out he was autistic?"

"We both knew something was wrong, pretty much from the time he started walking. He wasn't communicative like a normal baby."

"How did that make you feel, when you found out? When you were told?"

"We were both shocked and confused at first, but—"

"No, I asked how you felt."

"Bad, at first. Because I knew there were things that I'd never be able to do with my son," Paul said, his voice cracking a touch. "But you know, that's life. It isn't all yours. Charlie's my boy, my son. I love him. That's all there is to it."

"How did you keep all that from Gustav Carver?"

"A lot of luck and a little cunning. He's also not the man he once was. The stroke left him a bit soft in the head. But I'll say this about him. He loves my boy with every ounce of his wretched body. Obviously he doesn't know Charlie isn't his, let alone about the autism—but take it out of that context and watching them together was really quite touching. The old man helped Charlie take his first steps. Josie showed me the video she shot, said it was almost a shame the child wasn't his. She said the kid made him nicer. I don't believe her. If he'd known the truth about my boy he would have beaten his brains out with his bare hands."

"If that's the case, why didn't Francesca—Josie—and Charlie move in with you?"

"Josie didn't want Charlie growing up in an environment like mine. And she's right. Someone will probably punch my clock one day, Mingus. I know that. I wouldn't want the two people I love most in the world getting caught in the crossfire."

"Why don't you quit, walk away?"

"You never quit this life of mine. It quits you."

"That is true," Max agreed. "Why'd you do it in the first place?"

"To get Josie back. I picked the fastest route to the kind of money and power I'd need to take on Carver if I had to. I took a look at how the Haitian military were smuggling Colombian-cartel cocaine in and out of the country and I saw ways it could be improved. That's all I'm going to say."

"Wasn't there another way?"

"To make a billion dollars in twenty years—in Haiti? No."

"Your motive's original—the reason you got started—I'll give you that. Twenty times outta ten all you hear is some wannabe Scarface say, you know, he got into it 'cause of his neighborhood, 'cause he had no opportunity, 'cause his moms never loved his ass as much as her boyfriend did. Peer pressure this, socioeconomic conditions that. Blah-blah-blah. That's all you ever hear. But you—out of everything you could've said, you tell me you turned to drug-dealing for love." Max snickered. "That is some unbelievable shit, Vincent. And you know what is even more unbelievable? I believe you!"

"I'm glad you see the funny side." Vincent fixed Max from the bottom of his sunken stare, the beginnings of a smile on his lips. "I'm putting you back in circulation this evening. When Allain asks where you were, you weren't with me, understood?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Now, let's talk a little more."