Mr. Clarinet

Max shook his head no—not even when he was stoned on the best Colombian or Jamaican grass.

"Like grapes going off—all wrinkled and hollow and sagging, even when you're as young as I was."

"What did he do?" Max asked again.

"Not what you think," she replied, reading his mind through his tone. "Ours may be a primitive religion, but it's not a savage one."

Max nodded.

"When did you last see Dufour?"

"Not since that day. What do you want with him?"

"Part of the investigation."

"And…?"

"Client confidentiality," Max said sharply.

"I see," Chantale snapped. "I've just told you something very personal, something I don't exactly spread around, but you won't tell me—"

"You volunteered that information," Max said and immediately wanted to take it back. It was an asshole thing to say.

"I didn't volunteer anything," Chantale sneered and then softened. "I felt like telling you."

"Why?"

"I just did. You've got that confessional quality about you. The kind that listens without judging."

"Probably cop conditioning," Max said. She was wrong about him: he always judged. But she was flirting with him—nothing overt, everything tentative and ambiguous, nothing she couldn't deny and dismiss as wishful thinking on his part. Sandra had started out the same way, fed him enough to suspect she was interested in him, but kept him guessing until she was sure of him. He wondered what she would have made of Chantale, if they would have gotten along. He wondered if she would have approved of Chantale as a successor. Then he dismissed the thoughts.

"OK, Chantale. I'll tell you this much. Charlie Carver was visiting Filius Dufour every week for six months before he vanished. He was due there the day he was snatched."

"Well let's go talk to him," Chantale said, starting up the engine.

Chapter 21

THE RUE BOYER had once been a gated community of exclusive gingerbread houses set behind coconut palms and hibiscus plants. Papa Doc had moved his cronies there during his reign, while Baby Doc had converted two of the houses into exclusive brothels he'd filled with $500-an-hour blond hookers from L.A. to entertain the Colombian cartel heads who were in and out of the country to oversee their drug distribution and wash the profits in the national banks. The cronies and whores had fled with the Doc regime and the masses had claimed the road as theirs, first looting the houses down to the floorboards, then squatting in the shells, where they remained to this day.

Max couldn't understand why Dufour had chosen to stay behind. The street was a dump, as bad as he'd seen in any ghetto or bottom-of-the-ladder trailer park.

They drove through the remains of the gate—an iron frame, tilting back away from the road, one corner bent all the way down, pointing at the ground, ruptured hinges bent and twisted into the shape of malign butterflies, needles for antennae and razors for wings. The road was the usual obstacle course of potholes, craters, bumps, and gulleys, while the houses—once glorious and elegant three-story structures—hung back from view, dark and shadowy symmetrical blurs, stripped of all features, corroded by their sudden influx of poverty, fit only for the wrecking ball. They were now home to small villages of people—old and very young, dressed almost identically in rags that barely preserved their dignity and sometimes differentiated their gender. They all followed the passing car as one, a flock of blank and hollowed stares clustering around the windows.

Dufour lived in the very last house on the road that turned out to be a cul-de-sac. His house was completely different from the rest. It was a dull pink, with a blue frill running along the tops and bottoms of its balconies, and the shutters—all closed—were a bright white. Green grass covered the front yard, and a rock-and-plant-lined path led up to the porch steps.

A group of maybe a dozen children were playing in the road. They all stopped what they were doing, and watched Max and Chantale get out of the car.

Max heard a whistle behind him. He saw a young boy sprint across the grass and disappear around the side of the house.

As they started walking toward the path, the children in the road came together in a tight group and barred their way. They all had rocks in their hands.

Unlike all the other kids he'd seen in the streets, these were dressed in proper clothes and shoes, and they looked healthy and clean. They couldn't have been more than eight, but their faces were hard with experience and wisdom beyond their years. Max tried to smile disarmingly at a girl with bows in her hair, but she gave him a ferocious stare.

Chantale tried talking to them, but no one answered or moved. Grips tightened on the rocks and young bodies tensed and shook with aggression. Max looked at the ground and saw they had plenty of ammunition if they needed it. The road was a quarry.

He took Chantale's arm and moved her back a few steps.

Suddenly they heard a whistle from the house. The boy ran back shouting. Chantale let out a sigh of relief. The children dropped the rocks and went back to their game.

Chapter 22

A TEENAGE GIRL with a warm smile and braces on her teeth opened the door and let them in. She motioned for them to wait in the yellow-and-green-tiled foyer while she ran up an imposing flight of wide, carpeted stairs that led to the first-floor landing.

The house was initially pleasantly cool after the baking heat of the outdoors, but once they were acclimated, the cool turned out to have a chilly edge. Chantale rubbed her arms to warm herself up.

Although there was a skylight that illuminated the foyer, Max noticed an absence of any lights—electrical or otherwise—and there were no switches of any kind on the walls. He could barely make out anything farther than five feet in front of him. The darkness teemed all about them, almost solid, practically alive, waiting at the edges of the light, ready to pounce on their spot as soon as they left it.

Max noticed a large oil painting on the wall—two Hispanic-looking men with thin, near-ossified faces stood behind a pretty, dark-skinned woman. They were all dressed in Civil War–era clothes, the men resembling Mississippi gamblers in their black frock coats and gray pinstriped trousers, the woman in an orange dress with a white, ruffled collar and a parasol in her hand.

"Are any of those guys Doofoor?" Max asked Chantale, who was studying the portrait quite intently.

"Both," she whispered.

"Has he got a twin brother?"

"Not that I've heard."

The girl reappeared at the top of the stairs and beckoned them up.

As they climbed the stairs, Max noticed that the walls were hung with framed photographs, some black-and-white, some dated, some sepia-toned, all of them hard to properly discern in the light that seemed to get dimmer the farther away they got from the floor, despite their relative nearness to the skylight. One photograph in particular caught Max's eye—a bespectacled black man in a white coat talking to a group of children sitting outdoors.