Mr. Clarinet

urban legend, a spook story parents tell their kids: be good or Tonton Clarinette will come for you. He's like the Pied Piper, hypnotizing children with his music and stealing them away forever.'

'Do they say Tonton Clarinet took Charlie?'

'Yes, of course. When we were putting up the posters the street people would come up and say: 'You'll never find that child?Tonton Clarinette's got him?just like he's been taking our children.''

Max nodded as he thought of Claudine Thodore.

'See that over there?' Chantale said, pointing to a shabby-looking street of stunted buildings with fading signs painted on their roofs and walls. People were jumping out of a dump truck that had just parked itself in the middle of the road. 'That was once the red-light district. Lots of gay bars and brothels and clubs. Really wild carefree place. Every night was party night here. People may not have had much but they knew how to have fun. Now you can't even drive through here at night, unless you're in a military vehicle.'

'What happened to the bars?'

'Jean-Claude closed them all down when AIDS hit in 1983. Most of the rich American gays who used to come here for dirty weekends stayed away because your media said Haiti was the birthplace of the disease. Jean-Claude rounded up all the gays too.'

'Did he send them to La Gonave?'

'No. No one knows what happened to them.'

'In other words they were killed?'

'Probably. No one's sure. No one followed it up?not publicly anyway. Didn't want to start any whispering. Homosexuality's a big no-no here. They call gays massissi and lesbians madivine in Kreyol. There's a saying now: 'There are no gays in Haiti: they're all married with children.' It's a secret society,' Chantale said. 'But Jean-Claude was known to be bisexual for a time. I think it was all the coke he was doing, and the fact that he'd screwed every woman he wanted in Haiti. He was supposed to have had this high-society boyfriend, Rene Sylvestre. Big fat guy, drove around in a gold-plated Rolls-Royce and wore dresses.'

'Sounds like Liberace.'

'They called him 'Le Mighty Real'?after that gay disco singer.'

'As in 'You Make Me Feel Mighty Real'?'

'You know it?'

'Sure do. I have the twelve-inch in my attic.'

'You?!!?' Chantale laughed.

'Yeah.'

'For real?'

'Yeah. What's the big deal? I'm the original Tony Manero. 'You Make Me Feel Mighty Real'?that's my song!'

'I can't see it.' She laughed her laugh again.

'Look a little closer,' Max said.

'We'll see.'

Chapter 17

THEY DROVE DOWN Boulevard Harry Truman, a wide, palm tree?lined, and surprisingly smooth stretch of road that ran alongside the coast. To the left, Max could see a tanker and a warship on the horizon, while ahead of him, some distance away, he could make out the port, with its rusted and half-sunk ships clogging up the waters. A procession of blue-helmeted UN troops passed them by, heading along on the other side of the road.

The Banque Populaire d'Hadti, the Carver family's business nucleus, was an imposing, cream-colored cube that might have been better suited for a library or a courthouse. It vaguely reminded Max of pictures he'd seen of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris.

The bank was set back from the road, built on top of a gentle slope, and surrounded by an expanse of lush green grass. A sandstone wall ran around the building, topped with bright pink and white flowers half-hiding stiletto spikes and razor wire. A high metal gate stood between the bank and the street. Two armed guards sat on either side of it. One of them spoke into a radio when Chantale drew up, and the gate opened back from the inside.

'This is the special entrance,' Chantale said as they drove in and started up a short path that split the surrounding grass into two squares. 'Only the family, certain staff, and special customers are allowed to use it.'

'Which are you?' Max asked, noticing a silver Mercedes SUV with tinted windows following them in.

They followed the path around to a half-empty parking lot. A steady stream of people were entering and exiting the bank through a revolving door.

As they got out, Max saw the Merc parked a few spaces behind them. Max glanced over, long enough to take in the scene and break it down, but not long enough for someone to notice him staring. Four men got out?heavy Hispanic types. They walked around to the open hatch.

Max had seen all he needed to. He knew what would come next, even before they overtook him and Chantale on the way to the bank, run-walking two very heavy suitcases apiece toward the entrance.

'Special customers?' Max asked.

'Money doesn't know where it came from. And neither do my employers,' she said without a hint of embarrassment or surprise or worry, like she'd had to deal with this sort of remark before?or been trained to deal with it.

Max said nothing. He expected plenty of drug money had gone through the Banque Populaire. Since the early eighties, at least ten to fifteen percent of the world's cocaine was being distributed via Haiti and most of the major players in the South American cartels had built up strong links with the country, many using it as a place to lie low for a year or two. He was sure the Carvers never actively solicited drug business?Gustav was way too shrewd an operator for that?but they didn't refuse the custom when it came knocking, either.

Max had wanted to start his investigation at the bank, on the Carvers' home turf. It was the way he'd always worked, from the client outwards: the more he knew about the people who were paying him, the more he knew how their enemies thought; he saw what they hated and coveted and wanted to take away and destroy. He'd first establish motive, then he'd throw a net around the likely suspects and haul it in. He'd eliminate them one by one until he found the culprit.

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,