Mr. Clarinet

"Is this constipation of yours a very recent thing? Allain told me, not a few days ago, that you were onto something—close to a breakthrough?" Carver's voice had an undertow of contempt about it now. He crushed out his cigarette and put the ashtray on the table. A maid came almost immediately and replaced the ashtray with an identical, clean one.

"I was onto something," Max confirmed.

"And?"

"It wasn't what I was expecting."

Gustav studied Max's face, looked it over as though he'd seen something about it he hadn't seen before; then he smiled very slightly.

"You will find my grandson. I know you will." He slung back his drink.

Max thought of three possible responses to that—witty, sarcastic, and bubble-bursting confrontational. He used none; merely smiled and lowered his eyes to make Carver think he was flattered.

"Are you all right?" Carver asked, scrutinizing him. "You don't seem yourself."

"What self would that be?" Max asked, only it wasn't a question, it was a statement.

"The man who was here last. The one I admired—the gung-ho shitkicker, John Wayne–Mingus. Sure you're not coming down with something? You haven't been with one of the local whores, have you? Open those legs and you'll find an encyclopedia of venereal disease." Carver chuckled, missing what was happening right next to him. Max had taken his gloves off. The interrogation was about to start.

Max shook his head.

"So what's the matter with you, eh?" Carver swiftly leaned over, clapped Max hard on the back, and laughed. "You haven't even touched your damn drink!"

Max stared hard at Carver, who stopped laughing. He was still smiling but it was only wrinkles and teeth; all merriment had fled his face.

"It's Vincent Paul, isn't it?" Gustav sat back. "You've spoken to him. He told you things about me, didn't he?"

Max didn't reply, didn't let it rattle him. He just carried on giving Gustav his spotlight beams, his face a mask of indifference.

"I'm sure he told you some terrible things about me. Terrible things. The sort that would make you question what you're doing working for me—'monster' that I am. But you have to bear in mind that Vincent Paul hates me—and a man who hates that hard is always going to work overtime to justify that hatred and—especially—to convert others to his way of thinking." Carver chuckled but he didn't meet Max's eye. He leaned over the table and took another cigarette out of the box. He tapped either end on his palm before putting it in his mouth and lighting it. "You, of all people, I'm sure don't need that pointed out to him."

"He didn't take Charlie," Max said.

"Oh what utter blasted rubbish!" Carver thundered, making a fist of his cigarette hand.

"He was there the day Charlie was kidnapped, but he wasn't the kidnapper," Max insisted, raising his voice but staying calm.

"What is the matter with you, Mingus?" Carver said, wheezing a little. "I tell you it's him."

"And I tell you, quite clearly, it isn't him. He didn't do it. Kidnapping children isn't his style, Mr. Carver," Max said pointedly.

"But he's a drug dealer."

"Drug baron, actually," Max corrected.

"What's the difference—do they live a year longer?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"So what did he say to you, Vincent Paul?"

"Many things, Mr. Carver. Many many things."

"Such as…?" Carver threw his arms open in mock invitation. "Did he tell you what I did to his father?"

"Yeah. You ruined his career, and—"

"I didn't 'ruin his career.' The poor sap was going out of business anyway. I just put him out of his misery."

"You destroyed their estate. You didn't have to do that."

"They owed me money. I collected. All's fair in love and war, Mr. Mingus. And business is war—and I love it."

Carver laughed acidly. He poured himself more whiskey.

"How did you feel, after the Paul sob story?"

"I could understand why he would hate you, Mr. Carver," Max answered. "I could even sympathize with someone like him, in a place like this, where you're only as powerful as you make yourself, and that old-school eye-for-eye-and-tooth-for-tooth revenge is the only way you get even.

"And I understand how someone like you, who knows the true meaning of hatred and hating, would see the point of view of someone like Vincent Paul—a man who hates another man because of some bad stuff one did to the other. You wouldn't have it any other way, Mr. Carver. Because for you, there is no other way. Hatred begets hatred and you're all right with that. Suits you fine."

"So you think I'm a 'monster'? Join the club!"

"I wouldn't call you a monster, Mr. Carver. You're just a man. Most men are good, some are bad—and then some are real bad, Mr. Carver," Max said, keeping his voice low but clear, his eyes two blade points.

Carver sighed, downed his whiskey, and dropped his cigarette in the glass, where it fizzled out in the residue.

"I know what you do," Max said quietly.

"I don't follow," Carver responded, puzzled.