Mr. Clarinet

The horror of what he'd seen on those tapes danced dervish-like in his head.

Before he'd shot the three kids who'd tortured Manuela he'd felt an endless hollowness in his stomach; a feeling of nothing making any difference ever again, of everything just getting worse and worse until today's sickest crime became tomorrow's cat-scratch. Then he remembered what he was doing there, why he'd taken the case, why he'd devoted almost two years of his life to solving it. Manuela had smiled at him. Just the once. It was when they were on the beach—he, Sandra, and Manuela. He was setting up the parasol and deck chairs. A black and white couple had strolled by hand-in-hand, and the woman had told them how cute their child was. She was pregnant. Max had looked at Sandra and Manuela sitting there together, and at that moment, for the first time, he'd wanted a family. Manuela might have read his mind because she caught his eye, looked right into him, and smiled.

He'd thought of her and only her as he'd shot her killers. The last of them—Cyrus Newbury—hadn't gone quietly. He'd screamed and cried, pleaded for his life, recited half-remembered prayers and hymns. Max had let him beg himself weak, beg until he lost his voice. Then he blew Newbury away.

The rum had a calming effect on him. It smothered his troubles, floated them away to someplace where nothing really mattered for a while. It was good stuff, sweet painkiller.

A couple of whores in straight black wigs sidled over to him and sandwiched him, smiling. They were near-identical twins. Max shook his head and looked away. One of the girls whispered something in his ear. He didn't understand what she was saying, the music muffled her words to all but the sharpest sounds. When he shrugged his shoulders and pulled an I-don't-understand expression, she laughed and pointed to somewhere in the middle of the crowd. Max looked over at the clump of moving bodies—jeans, sneakers, T-shirts, beach shirts, tank tops—not seeing what he was meant to see. Then a camera flash went off. A few of the dancers were surprised and turned around to look for the source of the flash, then went back to their moves.

Max searched for the photographer from where he was, but he didn't see anyone. The girls walked away. He stepped down on the dance floor and picked his way through the crowd to where the flash had come from. He asked the nearest dancers if they'd seen the photographer. They said no; like he, they'd only seen the light.

Max went back inside the bar to look for the girls. They were talking to two marines. Max went up to them and was going to ask about the flash, but when he looked at them, he realized that they weren't the two girls who'd accosted him. He mumbled an apology and continued looking around the bar, but he never saw them. He asked the barman, but the barman just shrugged. He checked the bathroom area: no one. He went outside and looked up and down; the streets were deserted.

He had a few more drinks inside. He got talking to a Sergeant Alejandro Diaz, a Miami resident. Diaz was sure Max was CIA. Max played him along for quiet laughs, neither confirming nor quelling the sarge's suspicions. They talked about Miami and how much they both missed the place. Diaz told him many of the places Max referred to—clubs, restaurants, record stores, dance halls—were long gone.

Max went off home at around three a.m., reaching his gate twenty minutes later.

He went to the living room, took off his gun holster, and slumped down on the chair.

He considered getting up and completing the journey to bed, but he couldn't be bothered. It was too far.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Chapter 57

THE NEXT DAY he got a call from Allain, who wanted to see him that afternoon.

* * *

Allain was pale—waxy-looking, with a slight bluey tinge to his ghostly skin. A rash of stubble had advanced across the lower half of his face, and there were deep shadows under his eyes, spreading to the start of his cheeks. Max could tell he'd slept in his clothes. He was wearing his jacket to conceal a badly crumpled shirt, whose collar was crushed and whose cuffs he hadn't bothered to roll down. His tie was on crookedly, his top button undone. He'd combed his hair back but was running low on brilliantine; clumps of hair were already starting to pull away from the main, leaning off to the side and pointing in different directions. It was as if someone had taken the old Allain, the first one Max had met, and gone over him with a wire scrubber: he was still recognizably all there, but much of the gloss had come off.

They were in a meeting room on the top floor, sitting on opposite sides of a round table. They had a great view of the sea through the smoky-gray glass. Max thought there was water in the carafe in front of them, but when he poured himself a glass, alcohol fumes wafted out. Max tasted it. Neat vodka. Allain was almost through the glass he'd poured himself. It was three in the afternoon.