Mr. Clarinet

Max noticed a tall Christmas tree in the corner of the room, not too far from Judith Carver's portrait. It had fiberoptic lights hidden among the branches, which morphed continuously into shades of red, purple, and blue before stopping at a steady all-white and then repeating the color changes. The rest of the tree was decorated with twinkling gold and silver streamers, hanging baubles, and a golden star at the top. It was surprising to find something so tacky in Carver's tasteful surroundings.

Gustav seemed to read Max's thoughts.

"That's for the servants. Those damn lights fascinate them, simpletons that they are. One night of the year I let them use the room. I buy presents for them and their children and they go and find them. Do you like Christmas, Max?"

"I'm not sure anymore, Mr. Carver," Max said quietly.

"I hate it. It's when I lost Judith."

Max stayed silent—not out of awkwardness but because nothing in him was moving in the old man's favor.

Gustav looked at him curiously, brow tensing, eyes narrowing and crinkling at the corners, a hostile wariness about his expression. Max met his gaze with a blank look, giving nothing away except his indifference.

"How's about a drink?" Carver insisted rather than offered. He wafted his cane over the armchairs and sofas. "Let's sit."

He sunk into the armchair one haunch at a time, his bones creaking and popping with the strain. Max didn't offer to help him.

Gustav clapped his hands and barked for a servant. A black-and-white-uniformed maid stepped out from the darkness surrounding the doorway, where she had probably been standing the entire time. Max had neither seen nor sensed her until she appeared. Carver asked for a whiskey.

Max sat close to the armchair.

Carver leaned across to the coffee table and picked up a silver box filled with unfiltered cigarettes. He took one out, put the box back, and picked up a smoked-glass ashtray with a silver lighter inside it. He lit up, took a deep drag, and held on to the smoke for a few seconds before letting it out slowly.

"From the Dominican Republic, these," Carver said, holding up the cigarette. "They used to make them here. Hand-rolled. There was a shop in Port-au-Prince run by two women—ex-nuns. Tiny place called Le Tabac. All they did all day was sit in the window and roll cigarettes. I watched them once for about an hour. I just sat in the back of my car and observed them at it. Pure concentration, pure dedication. Such craft, such skill. Customers would come in all the time and interrupt them to buy a couple of cigarettes. One would serve while the other carried on. Me? I'd buy two hundred. The amazing thing is that all of those cigarettes were identical. You couldn't tell them apart. Amazing. Such precision, dedication. You know, I used to make all my employees sit outside the shop to watch those ladies work—to teach them to adopt virtues like diligence and attention to detail in their work for me.

"Those cigarettes were wonderful. A deep, rich, and very satisfying smoke. The best I've ever had, I think. These aren't too bad, but there's nothing like the original."

"What happened to the shop?" Max asked out of politeness rather than interest. He had to cough and clear his throat to make his voice heard—not that there was a blockage. He was getting nervous, dark energy coursing through him, muscles tightening, his heart pumping ever harder and louder.

"Oh, one of them got Parkinson's disease and couldn't work anymore, and the other closed up the shop to look after her. Or so I heard."

"At least it wasn't cancer."

"They didn't smoke." Carver laughed as the maid reappeared with a bottle of whiskey, water, ice, and two glasses on a tray. "I always drink and smoke at this time of year. Damn the doctors! What about you? Care to indulge?"

Max said no with a shake of his head.

"But you will join me for a drink?"

An order, not an offer: Max nodded and tried a smile, but the insincerity made his lips coagulate into a crumpled pout. Carver shot him another curious look, this one laced with suspicion.

The maid deflected attention off him by pouring the drinks. Carver took his whiskey neat. Max took it with ice and water almost to the brim. When she was gone, they clinked glasses and toasted each other's health, the coming year, and a happy conclusion to Max's investigation. Max pretended to take a sip.

He'd sat at home trying to work out the best way to tell Carver that he was taking him in. He'd contemplated just walking in and confronting him with what he knew and then marching him out to his car. But he'd nixed that, because he wasn't a cop.