Nick Stone: Mr. Clarinet

Charlie ignored them all. He had his forehead pressed to the window and spent the whole drive staring at the parched landscape whizzing by in a wiry, sandy blur. He was dressed in new jeans, a blue T-shirt, and sneakers. Max noticed how long his legs were. He'd take after his father. He'd be a tall man.

Francesca stroked her boy's shoulder and back with long, soft caresses. From time to time, as she spoke, she'd glance at him and let her eyes rest on him. The smile never left her face.

Max would be flying out in a UN plane bound for Miami International. Once there, he'd be escorted out, bypassing customs. He suddenly thought Vincent would ask him to carry drugs through for him, but just as suddenly as the thought entered his mind, the voice of sober reason cut it in two: Paul would hardly need a mule when he had the UN.

They drove through a side entrance, away from the main terminal, which took him onto the patched runway where a military green DC-10 was parked. The passenger door was open and steps had been wheeled up to it. The runway was otherwise empty.

"Am I the only cargo?" Max asked.

"No. You're the only passenger," Paul corrected him, shutting off the engine. They sat together, looking at the plane.

"What about Chantale?"

"I've let her go. She'll be leaving for Miami in a few hours."

"Gustav Carver, Codada, Eloise Krolak? What's happened to them?"

"What do you think?" Paul said, his face impassive. "The world has to balance, wrongs have to be righted. You know how it is."

Max nodded. He did.

"What are you going to do with yourself, back in Miami?" Paul asked.

"I've got things to balance in my world, things to make right," Max said.

"Well, Gaspйsie got away." Paul stared at Max from the bottom of his sunken sockets. "And, of course, Allain Carver's on the run too. Want the job?"

"No." Max shook his head. "You know, Vincent, you should let it go. It's worked out good for the three of you. You both got Charlie back-safe and sound. You've all got each other. You should be thankful. Most of the time it doesn't end that way."

Paul made no comment, just stared out at the runway.

"What about you?" Max asked. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm thinking of changing the way I do a few things." Paul looked back at his family and smiled.

"Well, the Carver empire's all yours now," said Max. "Pity the old fucker didn't live to see that."

"Do you believe in God, Max?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Then Gustav is seeing all of this happen-from his house in hell."

They both laughed as one. Francesca didn't join in. Charlie kept staring out of the window.

They all got out of the car.

Two jeeploads of Paul's bodyguards, which had been following them on the way to the airport, pulled up nearby. Paul walked over to them, leaving Max alone with Francesca and Charlie.

Max realized that he hadn't spoken to Francesca since that night she'd come to see him in his house. He guessed now that Vincent Paul had dropped her off there right before he'd saved his life in the street.

"And what about you?" he asked her.

"What about me?"

"Is this it? Are you gonna stay here?"

"Why not? It's home. For better and for worse." She laughed and put her hands loosely around Charlie's shoulders. Then a shadow crossed her face. "Will you say anything? About me?"

"Don't worry about that," Max said.

He looked at Charlie. Charlie looked back at him, his eyes focusing on Max's chin. Max crouched down to get to eye level with him.

"So long Charlie Carver," Max said.

"Say bye-bye to Max," Francesca said, waving Charlie's hand.

Max smiled at him.

Charlie smiled back.

"Be safe." Max ruffled Charlie's hair. Charlie immediately put his hands up and rearranged it the way it had been.

Francesca hugged him and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you, Max."

Max walked over toward the plane, where Paul stood watching two of his men, each carrying a heavy army kitbag up the passenger steps.

"Is that what I think it is?" Max asked Paul.

"No," Paul said. "Wouldn't dream of it. That is for you, though."

"What is it?"

"Twenty million dollars-ten on behalf of the Thodores for the safe return of Claudette, and the rest is from us for bringing Charlie back."

Max was stunned.

"The reason you initially came here was for money. The reason you came back was for our son-and for that they can't ever print enough money."

"I don't know what to say," Max said finally.

"Say au revoir."

"Au revwoar."

"Au revoir, mon ami."

They shook hands.

Paul turned and went back to where Francesca and Charlie were standing.

Max climbed the passenger steps. When he reached the top, he turned around and waved at the three of them once more. Then he homed in on Charlie and waved just to him. The boy raised his arm slightly but then changed his mind and let it drop.

Max looked out at Haiti one last time-low-lying mountains, low-hanging sky, bone-dry landscape, sparse vegetation. He wished it well, the very best. He didn't think he'd ever see it again. A lot of him hoped he never would.

TWENTY MILLION DOLLARS in $100 bills.

He couldn't resist it. He had to look.

He took out a stack of bills. He split the paper band containing them and they spilled on the floor.

He was still too numb to react. He'd never ever seen this kind of money before, not even on a drug bust.

He slipped a couple of hundreds into his wallet and scooped the rest up and put it away in the bag. He checked the other one.

More money-and a white envelope with his name on it.

He opened it.

It was a Polaroid. He barely recognized it-the where and when it had been taken; then he remembered the last time he was in La Coupole: the photographer's flash.

He was standing staring straight at the camera, rum glass in hand, looking tired and drunk. One of the two whores who'd accosted him was standing close to his left, the other was mostly out of the frame.

In her place, pointing a gun at his head, with a huge smile on his face was Solomon Boukman.

Max turned the photograph over. YOU GIVE ME REASON TO LIVE was written on the back in Boukman's unique capitals, same as the note they'd found in his prison cell.

Max's heart began to race.

He remembered how he'd been surprised to find the trigger guard of his holster undone. He looked at the photograph again. Boukman was holding his Beretta to his head. He could have pulled the trigger. Why didn't he?

A chill swept through Max, right then. His insides turned ice-cold. There was a note from Paul inside the envelope:

Max-We found this in the villa you were staying in. On the pillow. He got away from us. I didn't tell you then, because of what was happening. We're looking for him. Don't worry. He won't get away again. Be safe. VP No you won't. You won't get him, thought Max. You should've killed him when you had the chance.

Max looked back at the photograph and studied Boukman's face.

They'd meet again, he knew it-not tomorrow, not even soon, but sometime down the line. It was inevitable, the way some things simply are. They had unfinished business.

Christmas Eve.

Max walked out of Miami airport and found a cab. He put the bags in the back and got in.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

Max hadn't given his next move any thought. He considered going back to the Radisson Kendall again, maybe for a week, to get his head together and a few things straight.

Then he thought better of it.

"Home," Max said, giving the driver the address of his house in Key Biscayne. "Take me home."