Mr. Clarinet

"I-I-I don't understand."

"You don't understand what? The question? Or what you're doing here?"

"Vye are you asking me dis?"

"Because I'm the one asking the questions and you're the one answering them. They're simple questions, captain. I'm not exactly asking you to divulge military secrets."

Paul was all business, his tone pointed but even, without emotion. If he was following the sort of interrogation procedure Max thought he was, his calm, no-nonsense manner was the prelude to an explosion. Joe had been brilliant at that—used his bulk to intimidate and terrify the suspect, and then confused them by coming over all reasonable and quiet and to the point—"Look, just tell me what I want to know and I'll see what kind of deal I can cut you with the DA"—and then, if it wasn't working or the scumbag was a particularly sick fuck, or Joe was just having a bad day—KA-FUCKING-BOOM!—he'd backhand them to the floor.

"Answer my question. Please."

"Ve are here to keep de peace."

Max heard the first tremor in the captain's voice.

"To 'keep the peace'?" Paul repeated. "Are you doing that?"

"Vat is dis about?"

"Answer my question. Are you doing your job? Are you keeping the peace?"

"Yes, I—I dink so."

"Why?"

"Dere is no civil var here. De people are not fighting."

"True. For now," Paul looked at the other seven soldiers, all standing at ease. "Would you say your job—this 'keeping the peace' you think you're doing so well—would you say an aspect of it would involve protecting the Haitian people?"

"Pro-protecting?"

"Yes, protecting. You know, preventing harm from coming to them. Do you understand?"

Now there was a hint of venom in Paul's voice.

"Yes."

"Well, then? Are you doing your job here?"

"I-I-I dink so."

"You think so? You think so?"

The captain nodded. Paul glared at him. The captain averted his eyes. His composure was cracking.

"So then, tell me, captain. Do you think 'protecting the Haitian people' does or does not include raping women—actually, no—let me be more specific. Do you think, Captain Saggar, that 'protecting the Haitian people' involves raping and beating up teenage girls?"

Saggar said nothing. His lips were trembling, his whole face quaking.

"Well?" Paul asked, leaning in close.

No reply.

"ANSWER MY DAMN QUESTION!" Paul roared and everyone, including Paul's own troops, jumped. Max felt the voice in his gut, like deep speaker bass.

"I-I-I—"

"Aie-Aie-Aie," Paul mimicked in a faggot voice. "Are your feet on fire, captain? No? Well, answer me."

"N-n-n-no it does not, but—but—but—"

Paul held his hand up for silence and Saggar flinched.

"Now you know what this is about—"

"Sorry!" the captain blurted.

"What?"

"Ve said ve vere sorry. Ve wrote letter."

"What—this?" Paul took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and read it out loud. "Dear Mr. Le Fen—that's that man over there by the jeep, red shirt, that's him—I am writing to apologize on behalf of both my men and the United Nations Peacekeeping Force for the regrettable incident involving your daughter and some men under my command. We will endeavor to make sure this kind of incident is not repeated. Yours sincerely, Captain Ramesh Saggar."

Paul slowly folded the letter and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Do you know that ninety percent of the Haitian population is illiterate? Did you know that, captain?"

"N-n-no."

"No? Do you also know that English isn't the first language here?"

"Yes."

"It's actually the third language, if you like. But ninety-nine percent of the people don't speak English. And Mr. Le Fen is one of the majority. So what good's a LETTER WRITTEN IN ENGLISH going to do?—HEH? More to the point—what good's a LOUSY LETTER going to do to Verité Le Fen? Do you know who that is, captain?"

Saggar didn't answer.

Paul called to the group and held his arm out. A girl came over, limping badly. She faced Saggar. They were the same height, although the girl was in an unnatural slouch. Max couldn't see her face, but judging from the captain's expression, she must have been in real bad shape.

Max looked over to the soldiers. One—a skinny bald man with a thick mustache—was shaking.

"Do you recognize her, captain?"

"I'm velly sorry," Saggar said to her. "Vat ve did to you vas bad."

"As I explained, captain, she can't understand you."

"P-p-please translate."

Paul told the girl. She whispered into Paul's ear. Paul looked at Saggar.

"Vat did she say?"

"'Languette maman ou'—literally, your mother's clit. Figuratively, 'Fuck you.'"

"Vat—vat are you going to do to us?"

Paul reached into his breast pocket again. He pulled out something small, and handed it to Saggar, who looked at it, his expression stunned, then disbelieving, then confused. It was a photograph.

"Vere—vere did you get this?"

"In your office."

"But—but—"

"Nice-looking girls. What are their names?"

Saggar looked at the picture and started to sob.

"Their names, captain?"

"If—if you—if you hurt any of uz dere vill be velly much trouble for you."

Paul beckoned the last man on the row to come over. He positioned him opposite Saggar, took a few steps back, drew his pistol, and shot the man through the temple. The soldier's body crumpled into a heap on the ground, blood geysering out of the hole in his head. Saggar cried out.

Paul holstered his pistol, walked over, and kicked the body to one side.

"What are your daughters' names, captain?"

"M-m-m-meena and Ssss-su-su-sunita."

"Meena?" Paul pointing to the picture. "The eldest? The one with the hairband?"