Mr. Clarinet

They followed the path around to a half-empty parking lot. A steady stream of people were entering and exiting the bank through a revolving door.

As they got out, Max saw the Merc parked a few spaces behind them. Max glanced over, long enough to take in the scene and break it down, but not long enough for someone to notice him staring. Four men got out—heavy Hispanic types. They walked around to the open hatch.

Max had seen all he needed to. He knew what would come next, even before they overtook him and Chantale on the way to the bank, run-walking two very heavy suitcases apiece toward the entrance.

"Special customers?" Max asked.

"Money doesn't know where it came from. And neither do my employers," she said without a hint of embarrassment or surprise or worry, like she'd had to deal with this sort of remark before—or been trained to deal with it.

Max said nothing. He expected plenty of drug money had gone through the Banque Populaire. Since the early eighties, at least ten to fifteen percent of the world's cocaine was being distributed via Haiti and most of the major players in the South American cartels had built up strong links with the country, many using it as a place to lie low for a year or two. He was sure the Carvers never actively solicited drug business—Gustav was way too shrewd an operator for that—but they didn't refuse the custom when it came knocking, either.

Max had wanted to start his investigation at the bank, on the Carvers' home turf. It was the way he'd always worked, from the client outwards: the more he knew about the people who were paying him, the more he knew how their enemies thought; he saw what they hated and coveted and wanted to take away and destroy. He'd first establish motive, then he'd throw a net around the likely suspects and haul it in. He'd eliminate them one by one until he found the culprit.

They followed the case-carriers through the doors. The inside was predictably magnificent, a cross between an aircraft hangar and a corporate mausoleum where dead CEOs might be laid to rest under brass plaques embedded in the ground for future generations to ignore and tread on. The frescoed ceiling was almost a hundred feet high, suspended by huge, dark granite Delphic pillars. The fresco depicted a light blue sky with fluffy clouds, and God's hands opening up and showering down all of the world's major paper currencies, from dollars to rubles to francs to yen to pounds to pesetas. The Haitian gourde was conspicuous by its absence.

The counters were at the far end of the bank. There were at least thirty of them, separated into numbered cubicles, built of granite and bulletproof glass. Max noticed how well dressed all the customers were, as if they'd all made a special trip to the clothes store and hairdresser before they came to do their business. He guessed that having a bank account in Haiti gave you a certain social status, made you part of an exclusive circle, and the whole ritual of withdrawing and investing money was the social equivalent of taking communion and giving to the collection on a Sunday.

The men with the cases were ushered through a door to the right of the counters. Two security guards stood by the door, pump-action shotguns draped casually across their arms.

The center of the highly polished dark granite floor was inlaid with the national flag, which took up half the total space. Max walked around it, studying it: two horizontal bands, dark blue on top of red, with a crest depicting a palm tree flanked by cannons, flagpoles, and bayonet-fitted muskets. A blue-and-red cap dressed the top of the tree, while L'UNION FAIT LA FORCE was written on a scroll at the bottom.

"It used to look a lot better, when it was the Duvalier flag, black and red instead of blue. It meant business. The flag was changed back to its original colors ten years ago, so the floor had to be redone too," Chantale said as she watched Max walking around it, taking in its detail. "It's a very French flag. The colors—the blue and the red—were basically the French tricolor with the white symbolizing the white man torn out. The slogan and the weapons all symbolize the country's struggle for freedom through unity and violent revolution."

"A warrior nation," Max said.

"Once," Chantale replied sourly. "We don't fight anymore. We just roll over and take it."

"Max!" Allain Carver called out as he crossed the floor toward them. A few heads—all female well-to-doers lining up for service—turned and stayed turned, eyes focused on him as he crossed the floor briskly, heels clicking, hands extended a little in front of him, as if anticipating a catch.

They shook hands.

"Welcome!" Carver said. Warmish smile, suit crisp and well-fitting, hair plastered back; he was in control once more, lord and master.

Max looked around the bank again, wondering how much of it had been built from drug money.