Mr. Clarinet

Chapter 29

WHAT PASSED FOR nightlife in Pétionville was in full swing when he drove down the main road leading to the market square. A few bars and restaurants had opened their doors wide out onto the sidewalk and lit up their painted signs to show they were ready for business. There was barely anyone there.

Max needed a drink and a little company around him to redress the balance, a little brightness and banality to chase away the shadowy aftershocks he was feeling in his gut and running up and down his veins. It had been years since he'd seen someone die, not since he'd shot those kids. They'd deserved it too, but that didn't make it any easier to absorb and move on from. A little dying always stayed with you. He was glad it wasn't as hard to deal with now as it was then, when he'd had more to live and care for. He'd watched cops gun down criminals and criminals murder cops. And then there were all those people he'd killed himself—in the line of duty, and a step or two over it. He didn't know how many—he couldn't bring himself to count—but he remembered all their faces, their expressions, those who'd begged for their lives, those who'd told him to go fuck himself, those who prayed, the one who'd forgiven him, the one who'd wanted his hand held, the one who'd blown his last breath in his face and the way it had smelled of fried gunpowder and bubblegum. His boss, Eldon Burns, had kept a tally of all the people he'd taken down, but then he was morbid that way, and he liked numbers. He kept his old Smith & Wesson .38 Special service revolver as a paperweight on his desk. There was a notch on the butt for every kill. Max had counted sixteen.

He passed La Coupole and spotted Huxley standing in the doorway talking to three streetkids. He parked the car and went over to the bar.

"Good to see you again, Max," Huxley said warmly as they pumped hands. The boys he'd been talking to shied away a little, the smaller hiding behind the taller of the trio.

Huxley said something to them. The taller boy babbled something back, talking fast and excitedly, a hoarse catch in his throat, making the sound of a flock of singing sparrows hitting a tin roof. He pointed to Max with his fingers and eyes, stabbing in his direction with both.

"What's he saying?" Max asked, guessing the boy'd been among his prospective attackers.

"He says to tell you he's sorry for the other night," Huxley said, frowning with incomprehension. Max looked at the kid. He had a small head where very little hair grew, and tiny eyes that shone like onyx buttons. The child seemed more fearful than apologetic. "He says he didn't know who you were."

"Who does he think I am?"

Huxley asked him. Max heard Vincent Paul's name in the ensuing babble.

"He says you're Paul's friend."

"His friend? I ain't—"

The boy interrupted him with another rush of words.

"He says Paul warned them to look out for you around here," Huxley translated, looking impressed. "You meet him?"

Max didn't answer.

"Ask the boy when he last saw him?"

"Yesterday," Huxley said. "Wanna grab a drink and fill me in?"

* * *

Huxley laughed when Max told him about what had happened after they'd last met.

"All you had to do was treat the kid with a little respect, just said no, firmly. He would've left you alone. They don't persist," Huxley explained. "Being rude to someone who's born with nothing to lose isn't wise—and being rude to them in their own country, on their own streets, is pretty fuckin' stupid, Max. You're lucky Vincent Paul came along when he did."

The bar was nearly empty and no music was playing. In the courtyard outside, however, was a large group of Americans. They sounded like Midwesterners, straw-sucking cowpokes out on the weekend. He heard the rifles being dry-fired and magazines being slapped into place.

Max was on his third straight Barbancourt. The measures were more than generous. The booze was starting to work its charms again, loosen him up.

"So, how was Shitty City? You went there today, right?" Huxley asked, lighting a cigarette. Max shot him a suspicious look.

"C'mon, Max. You smell like a skunk hit you." Huxley laughed. "You know how everyone here can tell a riot's coming? 'Cause the air smells like you—the smell of the Shitty City. When all the people come out of Cité Soleil and head for Port-au-Prince to bring down the government, the clouds turn their noses up, the wind blows in the opposite direction, and birds fall out of the sky. I know that smell. You can't fool me, Mingus. I'm Haitian."

Max realized he was still wearing his throwaway boots, caked to the toecaps in Cité Soleil muck.

"Sorry 'bout that."

"Don't worry. You find anything out there?" Huxley asked.

"Not much," Max said. He wasn't going to tell him what he'd witnessed. "Just some kind of relief operation—Vincent Paul's charity work."