Mr. Clarinet

"Amen to that," said Max. "Listen, I need some information on someone. Is that going to be a problem?"

"Nope. I can do it right here, right now. Got the database right in front of me."

"How so?" asked Max, incredulous.

"Whole thing's online now," Joe said. "I do my brain work at home these days. The workplace is just for keepin' tabs on the little juniors, hobnobbin' with the brass and gettin' away from the family every now and again. Things've moved on a lot since you went away Max. Technology's like rust—never sleeps, always movin' forward, slowly takin' over what we're too lazy to do…. Anyway, this search you want done could take time, dependin' on how many eyes are on the system right now."

"I've got time if you have, Joe. You may need to cross-reference with the Interpol database."

"Shoot."

"First name Vincent, last name Paul. Both spelled the way they sound."

"He Haitian?"

"Yes."

Max heard Joe's fingers typing in the information, music in the background, turned low. Bruce Springsteen's voice over spare acoustic guitar. He wondered if Gustav's Sinatra CD was still in the street.

"Max? Nada on the nationwide database, but there's a Vincent Paul on Interpol. Low priority. Listed as an MP—missing person. Brits want him. Scotland Yard."

Joe tapped some more.

"Picture here too. Mean-looking bastard—like Isaac Hayes on a really bad day. Big motherfucker too. They've got his height down here as six-nine and change. Probably straight seven in shoes. Go-liath baby! There's a lot of cross-referencing I've got to do here…. There's a known associate come up. No ID yet. Machine's slow…. Listen, this could take another hour, and I've got to see to the kids. I'll put this thing on auto-search-and-select. The minute I got it I'll call you. What's your number?"

Max gave it to him.

"But I'd better call you, Joe. I don't know when I'll be back here."

"OK."

"If I need it, can you run some forensics tests?"

"Depends what it is you're looking for."

"DNA, blood-typing, fingerprint cross-referencing?"

"That's OK. Small stuff. Just don't be sending no whole body over—or a chicken."

"I'll try not to." Max laughed.

"How's it goin' out there?" Joe asked.

"Early days," Max said.

"If you walk away now the only thing you lose is money. Remember that, brother," Joe said.

Max had forgotten how well Joe knew him. Joe had heard the doubt in his voice. Max thought of telling him about the kids outside La Coupole, but he thought it best not to mention it, let it go, sink through his memories. If he kept it uppermost in his mind, it would cloud his vision, mess with his perceptions. Keep the channel clear.

"I'll remember that, Joe, don't worry."

Max heard the music—Bruce flailing away on acoustic guitar, piping notes through a harmonica like Bob Dylan on steroids. He guessed Joe was at his happiest now, at moments like these, listening to his music, right in the bosom of his beloved family. Joe would always have someone around who cared about him and would care for him. Max wanted to stay there a little longer, listening to Joe's life, listening to the sounds of warmth and tenderness, his home, its parts as fragile as a newborn baby's.

Part 3

Chapter 16

"MAX, YOU STINK," Chantale told him and laughed her dirty laugh.

She was right. Although he'd showered and brushed his teeth, the scent of a night of neat booze was a hard one to shake off in a hot climate. The rum he'd been drinking fairly steadily up until a few hours ago was evaporating through his pores and reeking up the inside of the Land Cruiser, sweet and stale and acrid, candy boiling in vinegar.

"Sorry," he said and looked through the window at the landscape passing them by in a brown, yellow, and sometimes green blur as they headed down the winding road to Port-au-Prince.

"No offense meant." She smiled.

"None taken. I like people who speak their minds. It usually means they mean what they say—saves trying to figure them out."

Chantale smelled great—a fresh, sharp yet delicate citrus fragrance hummed about her and insulated her from his odor. She was dressed for the day, in a short-sleeved turquoise blouse, faded blue jeans, and desert boots. Her hair was scraped back in a short ponytail. Sunglasses, a pen, and a small notebook poked out of her blouse pocket. She hadn't just come to drive around. She'd come to work with him, whether he liked it or not.