Nick Stone - Mr. Clarinet

"Some of those kids looked no more than six years old," Max said.

"Yeah? You know what? I've had a freshly born baby stolen from right under its mother's nose, because that was what one of my clients desired. It cost him two million dollars and bought me a lifetime's influence. It was worth it."

Carver was raging on whiskey fumes, but this wasn't the drunk bragging of a man who didn't give a fuck until the hangover kicked in. He would have said the same thing and had the same attitude in identical circumstances if he'd been sober. He meant every word he said.

The maid reappeared, replaced the whiskey tumbler and ashtray, and quickly left with the used ones.

"What's the matter, Mingus? You look ill. This too much for you to handle?" Carver sneered, slapping the armrest. "What were you expecting-a mea culpa? FROM ME?!!? FUCK THAT!"

Max doubted the old man really understood his predicament. Decades of having everything his own way had blinded him to the obvious and the certain. He'd never faced someone he couldn't bribe, corrupt, or destroy. Nothing had stood in his way that he hadn't bulldozed or bought out. Right now, he was probably thinking that all of his pedophile clients would come to his aid, that the pervert cavalry would come riding over the hill to rescue him. Maybe he was thinking of bribing Max out of taking him in. Or maybe he had something else up his sleeve, some trapdoor that would suddenly open beneath his feet and drop him to freedom.

From outside the room Max heard a short cry and the sound of breaking glass. He looked at the doorway and saw nothing.

"But you're a father yourself…" Max began.

"That never stopped anyone and you know it!" Carver snapped. "What do you take me for? I'm a professional: I keep an emotional distance from everything I do. It allows me to perform unpleasant tasks with impunity."

"So you admit that what you've been doing is-"

"Unpleasant? Of course it is! I hate the people I deal with. I despise them."

"But you've done business with them for-"

"Close to forty years, yes. You know why? I have no conscience. I eradicated that from my way of thinking a long time ago. Having a conscience is an overrated pastime." Carver edged closer to him. "I may hate them, but I understand pedophiles. Not what they do-that's not for me. But who they are, where they're coming from. They're all the same. They never change: they're all ashamed of what they do, of what they like, of what they are. And most of all they're all terrified of being found out."

"And you exploited that?"

"Absolutely!" Carver exclaimed, clapping his big hands together for emphasis. "I'm a businessman, Mingus, an entrepreneur. I saw a market with a potentially loyal customer base and plenty of repeat trade."

"You also saw people you could blackmail…"

"I never 'blackmailed' anyone, as you put it. I've never had to threaten a single one of my clients into opening doors for me."

"Because they already know the score?"

"Exactly. These are people who move in higher planes. People whose reputations are everything. I've never abused our relationship, never asked for more than, maybe, two favors from any one person in all the time I've known them."

"And these 'favors'?" Max asked. "What did they give you? Trade monopolies? Access to confidential U.S. government files?"

Carver shook his head, smirking.

"Contacts."

"More pedophiles? Ones on even higher planes?"

"Absolutely! You know the theory that you're only six people away from any one person? When you have the esoteric interests my clients do, Mr. Mingus, you're more like two people away."

"Everybody knows everybody else?"

"Yes. To a degree. I don't deal with any everybody."

"Only the ones you can get something out of?"

"I'm a businessman, not a charity worker. There has to be something in it for me. Risk versus reward." Carver reached for another cigarette. "How do you think we got to you, in prison? All those calls? Did you ever think of that?"

"I guessed you had juice."

"Joose!" Carver erupted in laughter, mimicking Max's accent. "Joose, you call it? Ha, ha! You damn Yankee Doodlers and your slang! Sure I've got joose, Mingus! I've got the whole fucking orchard-and the pickers and the pressers and the damn packagers! How about a prominent East Coast senator who's very good friends with someone on the damn Attica board? How's that for joose?"

Carver lit his cigarette.

"Why me?" Max asked.

"You were-in your prime-one of the best private detectives in the country, if not the best, if your ratio of solved-to-unsolved cases was anything to go by. Friends of mine sung your praises till they were blue in the face. You even came damn close to uncovering us once or twice in your earlier career. Damn close. Do you know that? I was suitably impressed."

"When?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out." Carver smiled as he blew pale-blue tusks of smoke through his nose. "How did you find out about me? Who broke? Who cracked? Who betrayed me?"

Max didn't reply.

"Oh come on Mingus! Tell me! What does it fucking matter?"

Max shook his head.

Carver's face dropped to an ungainly angry heap somewhere past his nose. His eyes narrowed to slits and blazed behind them.

"I order you to tell me the name!" he yelled, grabbing his cane from the back of the chair and pushing himself up.

"Sit down, Carver!" Max shot up from his chair, snatched the cane, and pushed the old man roughly back on his seat. Carver looked at him, surprised and afraid. Then he glanced at the cigarette burning in his ashtray and crushed it out.

"You're outnumbered here." He leered up at Max. "You could beat me to death with that"-he nodded at the cane-"but you wouldn't get out of here alive."

"I'm not here to kill you," Max said, glancing over his shoulder, expecting to see the maid coming for the ashtray and maybe others with her, rushing to their master's defense. There was no one there.

He dropped the cane on the couch and sat down.

Then heavy footsteps entered the room. Max turned around and saw two of Paul's men standing near the entrance. He held his hand up for them to stay put.

Carver saw them and snorted contemptuously.

"Looks like the odds just changed," Max said.

"Not really," Carver said.

"Your servants? You got them from Noah's Ark, didn't you?"

"Of course."

"They weren't good enough for your 'clients'?"

"That's right."

"They were lucky."

"Really? You call their life 'lucky'?"

"Yeah. They didn't spend their childhood getting raped."

Carver gave him a long look, scrutiny that gradually turned to amusement.

"How long have you been here, Mingus, in this country? Three, four weeks? Do you know why people have children here? The poor, the masses? It's not for the same cutesy reasons you have them back in America: you know, because you want to-most of the time.

"The poor don't plan to start families here. It just happens. They just breed. That's all there is to it. They fuck, they multiply. They're human amoebas. And when the babies are old enough to walk their parents put them to work, doing what they do. Most of the people in this country are born on their knees-born slaves, born to serve, no better off than their pathetic ancestors."

Carver paused for breath and another cigarette.

"You see-what I do, what I've done-I've given these kids a life they couldn't possibly hope to have, a life that their dumb, illiterate, no-hoper parents couldn't even have dreamed about because they weren't born with the brains big enough. Not all of them suffer. I've educated almost all the ones I couldn't sell, and all those who made the grade I've given jobs to. A lot of them have gone on to do very well for themselves. Do you know what I've helped create here? Something we didn't have before-a middle class. Not rich, not poor, but in the middle, with aspirations to do better. I've helped this country become that little bit more normal, that little bit more Western, in line with other places.