Mr. Clarinet

Back in the day, Max Mingus and his partner Joe Liston had liked nothing better than to unwind with a little reefer they got off a snitch dealer called Five Fingers. Five'd feed them certified busts and throw in a few free ounces of Caribbean Queen—a very potent strain of Jamaican grass he used himself.

It was the best shit Max had ever had, way better than the year-old garbage he'd just smoked.

* * *

An hour later, he sat on his bed, staring intently at the wall, vaguely aware of the lurchy feeling in his stomach.

He lay back and closed his eyes.

He thought of Miami.

Home sweet home.

He lived near Hobie Beach, on Key Biscayne, off the Rickenbacker Causeway. On a good evening, he and Sandra used to sit out on the porch and watch downtown Miami in all its hypnotic, neon-lit splendor, the smell of Biscayne Bay wafting in on the cool breeze, fish and boat oil mixed in. No matter how many times they took in the view, it was always different. Manhattan had nothing on his hometown on a good day. They liked to talk about the future then, right then when life was good and promised to get better. To Sandra, the future meant starting a family.

Max should have told her about the vasectomy he'd had a few months before they'd met, but he'd never had the—yeah, he'd never had the balls.

How could he bring children into the world after seeing what was left of the ones he found in his line of work, the ones he had to pick up and reassemble piece by piece? He couldn't. He'd never let his kids out of his sight. He'd lock them up and throw away the key. He'd stop them going to school and playing outside and visiting friends, in case they got snatched. He'd run background checks on all his relatives and in-laws in case they were hiding pedo convictions. What kind of life would that be—for them, for his wife, for him? None at all. Best to forget having a family, best to forget continuing the cycle, best to shut it down completely.

1981: that had been a bad time for him, a shit era. 1981: the year of Solomon Boukman, a gang leader from Little Haiti. 1981: the year of the King of Swords.

* * *

Sandra would have understood, if he'd been honest with her from the start, but when they'd first started dating he was still in his confirmed-bachelor mode, lying to every woman he met, pretending he was a long-term prospect, telling them whatever they wanted to hear so he could fuck them and run. He'd had plenty of opportunities to come clean with her before they got married, but he thought he'd lose her. She came from a big family and loved children.

Now he regretted not reversing the vasectomy when he'd had the chance. He'd thought about it a year into his marriage, when being with Sandra had started changing him for the better and, with it, little by little, changing his attitudes toward starting a family. It would have meant everything to him to still have something of her left behind, even a trace he could love and cherish as he had loved and cherished her.

He thought about their house again.

They had a large kitchen with a counter in the middle. He used to sit there at night, trying to get his head around a case that was keeping him awake. Sometimes Sandra would join him.

He saw her again now, dressed in a T-shirt and slippers, hair pillow-frazzled, a glass of water in one hand, Charlie's headshot in another.

"I think you should take this case, Max," she said, looking across at him, her eyes all puffed up with broken sleep.

"Why?" he heard himself ask.

"Because you got no choice, baby," she said. "It's that or you know what."

He woke up with a start, fully dressed on the bed, staring at the blank ceiling, his mouth dry and tasting of rotted beef.

The room stank of stale reefer, taking him right back to his cell after Velasquez had taken a nightcap hit before saying his prayers in Latin.

Max stood up and staggered over to the desk, twenty jackhammers busting out of his cranium. He was still mildly stoned. He opened the window and the freezing-cold air tore into the room. He took a few deep breaths. The fog in his head retreated.

He decided to take a shower and change his clothes.

* * *

"Mr. Carver? It's Max Mingus."

It was nine a.m. He'd gone to a diner and eaten a big breakfast—four-egg omelet, four pieces of toast, orange juice, and two pots of coffee. He'd thought things through one more time, the pros and cons, the risk factor, the money. Then he'd found a phone booth.

Carver sounded slightly out of breath when he answered, as if he was cooling down from a morning run.

"I'll find your son," Max said.

"That's great news!" Carver almost shouted.

"I'll need the terms and conditions in writing."

"Of course," Carver said. "Come by the club in two hours. I'll have a contract ready."

"OK."

"When will you be able to start?"

"Assuming I can get a flight, I'll be in Haiti on Tuesday."

Chapter 2