Mr. Clarinet

They followed the case-carriers through the doors. The inside was predictably magnificent, a cross between an aircraft hangar and a corporate mausoleum where dead CEOs might be laid to rest under brass plaques embedded in the ground for future generations to ignore and tread on. The frescoed ceiling was almost a hundred feet high, suspended by huge, dark granite Delphic pillars. The fresco depicted a light blue sky with fluffy clouds, and God's hands opening up and showering down all of the world's major paper currencies, from dollars to rubles to francs to yen to pounds to pesetas. The Haitian gourde was conspicuous by its absence.

The counters were at the far end of the bank. There were at least thirty of them, separated into numbered cubicles, built of granite and bulletproof glass. Max noticed how well dressed all the customers were, as if they'd all made a special trip to the clothes store and hairdresser before they came to do their business. He guessed that having a bank account in Haiti gave you a certain social status, made you part of an exclusive circle, and the whole ritual of withdrawing and investing money was the social equivalent of taking communion and giving to the collection on a Sunday.

The men with the cases were ushered through a door to the right of the counters. Two security guards stood by the door, pump-action shotguns draped casually across their arms.

The center of the highly polished dark granite floor was inlaid with the national flag, which took up half the total space. Max walked around it, studying it: two horizontal bands, dark blue on top of red, with a crest depicting a palm tree flanked by cannons, flagpoles, and bayonet-fitted muskets. A blue-and-red cap dressed the top of the tree, while L'UNION FAIT LA FORCE was written on a scroll at the bottom.

"It used to look a lot better, when it was the Duvalier flag, black and red instead of blue. It meant business. The flag was changed back to its original colors ten years ago, so the floor had to be redone too," Chantale said as she watched Max walking around it, taking in its detail. "It's a very French flag. The colors—the blue and the red—were basically the French tricolor with the white symbolizing the white man torn out. The slogan and the weapons all symbolize the country's struggle for freedom through unity and violent revolution."

"A warrior nation," Max said.

"Once," Chantale replied sourly. "We don't fight anymore. We just roll over and take it."

"Max!" Allain Carver called out as he crossed the floor toward them. A few heads—all female well-to-doers lining up for service—turned and stayed turned, eyes focused on him as he crossed the floor briskly, heels clicking, hands extended a little in front of him, as if anticipating a catch.

They shook hands.

"Welcome!" Carver said. Warmish smile, suit crisp and well-fitting, hair plastered back; he was in control once more, lord and master.

Max looked around the bank again, wondering how much of it had been built from drug money.

"I'd love to give you a guided tour," Carver apologized, "but I'm going to be tied up with customers all day. Our head of security—Mr. Codada—will show you around."

He took them back the way he'd come, ushering them through a guarded door and into a cool and long, blue-carpeted corridor that ended, some way down, at an elevator.

They stopped outside the only office in the corridor. Carver rapped twice on the door before opening it brusquely, as if hoping to catch the inhabitant off-guard, in the middle of something embarrassing or forbidden.

Mr. Codada was on the phone, one foot on his desk, laughing loudly and making the tassels on his patent-leather loafers rattle in time with his outbursts of mirth. He looked over his shoulder at the three of them, waved vaguely, and carried on his conversation without changing his posture.

The office was spacious, with one wall dominated by a framed painting of a modern white building overlooking a waterfall, and another traditional painting—also framed—of a street party outside a church. His desk was bare, apart from the telephone, a blotter, and some small, black, wooden figurines.

Codada said, "A bientôt ma chérie," blew a couple of kisses into the receiver, and hung up. He spun his chair around to face his new guests.

Without moving from his spot near the door, Carver talked to him brusquely in Kreyol, motioning to Max with his head as he spoke his name. Codada nodded without saying a word, his face a mixture of professional seriousness and leftover jollity. Max understood the dynamic right away. Codada was Gustav's man and didn't take Allain at all seriously.

Next, Carver addressed Chantale, far more gently, smiling, before turning on the surface charm a little more as he took his leave of Max.

"Enjoy your tour," he said. "We'll talk later."

Maurice Codada stood up and walked around his desk.

Codada air-kissed Chantale on both cheeks and pumped her arms warmly. She introduced him to Max.

"Bienvenu ŕ la Banque Populaire d'Haďti, Monsieur Mainguss," Codada gushed, bowing his head and showing Max an odd-looking freckled, pink, bald spot on his crown, before taking Max's hands and also shaking them vigorously. Although he was a slender little man, shorter and narrower than Max, his grip was strong. Chantale explained that she would have to translate, as Codada didn't speak English.

Codada took them back outside to the main entrance and immediately started showing them around the bank, running a rapid-fire commentary in Kreyol, which seemed to rattle out of his mouth like telex script, as he walked them across the floor.

Chantale packaged up his verbal geysers into one-liners: "The pillars come from Italy"—"The floors too"—"The Haitian flag"—"The counters come from Italy"—"The staff do not, ha, ha, ha."

Codada moved about the line of customers, shaking hands, slapping shoulders, air-kissing the ladies, working the crowd with the gusto of a politician campaigning for office. He even picked up a baby and kissed it.

Codada resembled a lion made up as a circus clown—a cartoon character looking for a comic strip. He had a flat, broad nose, round ginger afro, and redhead's naturally pale complexion pocked with a heavy spray of freckles. His lips were red—the lower one rimmed purple—and permanently moist from where he darted the pink tip of his tongue all around them like a praying mantis chasing and missing a fleet-footed bug. His stare was hooded, roasted-coffee-bean irises peering out from under eyelids crisscrossed with a spaghetti junction of fine veins and arteries.

Max thought Codada lacked virtually every personality trait needed for working in security. People who worked those jobs were introverted, secretive, and above all discreet; they said little, saw everything, thought and moved quick. Codada was the opposite. He liked people or liked their attention. Security personnel blended into the crowd but thought everyone in it a potential threat. Even his clothes were wrong—white duck pants, a navy blue blazer, and a maroon-and-white cravat. Security staff favored dull tones or uniforms, while Codada could have passed himself off as a maître d' on some gay cruise liner.

They took a mirrored elevator up to the next floor, the business division. Codada stood to the left of the door so he could get the full three-dimensional view of Chantale his position allowed. Max had thought he was gay, but Codada spent all of the few seconds the ride lasted tracing the outline of Chantale's bust with his gaze, slurping up the detail. Just before they reached the floor, he must have felt the intensity of Max's stare, because he looked straight at him, then flicked the briefest look at Chantale's bosom, and then went back to Max and nodded to him very slightly, letting him know they'd broached common ground. Chantale didn't seem to notice.