Mr. Clarinet

He got to the front of the crowd and moved down until he had a clear view of the carousel. It wasn't working, and looked like it hadn't in years. Its chrome sides were held together by rivets, many burst or half-bursting, leaving sharp, ragged corners twisting outwards prohibitively. The conveyor belt, once black rubber, was mostly worn down to the steel plates, bar odd areas where scraps of its original rubber coating stubbornly clung to it, like fossilized chewing gum. The plates themselves had long warped out of any clear geometric shape.

The carousel was the highlight of an area with high, grubby-white walls, a dark marble floor, and wide, rickety-looking fans that barely stirred the air or relieved the accumulated heat, as much as they threatened to come crashing down and decapitate the people below.

When Max looked closer, he realized that the conveyor belt was in fact moving and luggage was coming around, although its progress was so intensely slow, the cases were appearing at a surreptitious creep, inch by inch, a moment at a time.

There were a lot more people standing around the carousel than had been on his flight. The majority of them had come to steal the luggage. Max quickly began to sort the legitimate passengers out from the thieves. The thieves snatched at each and every case that came within reach. The real owners would then try to grab or wrestle their property back. The thieves would put up a struggle for a while, then give up and push their way back to the carousel to try their luck with more luggage. It was a free-for-all. There was no airport security around.

Max decided he wasn't going to start off his stay in Haiti by punching someone out—no matter how justified his actions. He pushed his way through the crowd until he was as close as possible to where the cases emerged.

His black Samsonite came out after an eternity. He got his hands on it and crudely pushed his way through the throng.

Once out and away from the mass, Max noticed the chicken again. Its master had fastened a noose-shaped lead around its neck and was tugging the bird away toward the exit.

"Mr. Mingus?" a woman asked behind him.

Max turned around. He noticed her mouth first—wide, plump lips, white teeth.

"I'm Chantale Duplaix. Mr. Carver sent me to collect you," she said, holding out her hand.

"Hello, I'm Max," he said, shaking her hand, which was small and delicate-looking, but her skin was hard and rough and she packed a tight grip.

Chantale was very beautiful and Max couldn't help smiling. Light brown skin with a few freckles about her nose and cheeks, large honey-brown eyes, and straight, shoulder-length black hair. She was slightly shorter than he, in her heels. She wore a dark blue, knee-length skirt and a loose short-sleeved blouse, with the top button undone over a thin gold chain. She looked to be in her midtwenties.

"Sorry about the trouble you had with your bag. We were going to come help you, but you did OK," she said.

"Don't you people have security here?" Max said.

"We did. But you people took our guns away," she said, her eyes darkening, voice toughening. Max could imagine her losing her temper and flattening all before her.

"Your army disarmed us," Chantale explained. "What they failed to realize is that the only authority Haitians respect is an armed authority."

Max didn't know what to say. He didn't know enough about the political situation to counter and comment, but he knew vast proportions of the outside world hated America for meddling in other countries. He knew then how hard the job ahead would be, if Chantale was meant to be on his side.

"But never mind about that," Chantale said, flashing him a bright-white smile. There was, he noticed, a small, oval beauty mark to the right of her mouth, right on the demarcation line between her face and her bottom lip. "Welcome to Haiti."

Max bowed his head, hoping the gesture didn't come over as sarcastic. He promoted Chantale to late-twenties. There was maturity and self-control in her, a certain smooth diplomacy that only comes from experience.

She led him through customs—two tables where everyone was being made to open their bags for inspection. All along there had been two tall men standing in the background, watching. Mustaches, sunglasses, and distinct gun-bulges on their sides, under their overhanging shirts. They followed Max.

Chantale smiled at the customs officials, who smiled back and waved her through, stares following her until she was out of range. Max couldn't help himself. He checked her out from behind. He saw what they did and let out a silent whistle. Broad shoulders, straight back, elegant neck. Slender ankles, very athletic curves to her calves: she looked after herself—running, no doubt, and working out with weights. Her ass was perfect—high, pert, round, and firm.