Nick Stone - Mr. Clarinet

"And as for those I sold. Well, do you know how some of them end up, Mingus? The clever ones, the tough ones, the survivors? When they get old enough, they wise up and they play their sugar daddies like big fat pianos. They end up wealthy, set for life. Most of them go on to lead perfectly normal lives in civilized countries-new names, new identities-the past just a bad blurry memory-if that.

"You think of me as evil, I know, but I have given thousands of people honor, dignity, money, and a home. I've given them someone they can respect when they look in the mirror. Hell-I gave them the damn mirror too. In short, Mr. Mingus, I've given them life!"

"You're not God, Carver."

"Oh no? Well then, I'm the next best thing in a place like this-a white man with money!" he thundered. "Servitude and kowtowing to the white man is in this country's DNA."

"I beg to differ, Mr. Carver," Max said. "I don't know too much about this place, true. But from what I can see, it's been royally fucked over by people like you-you rich folk with your big houses and servants to wipe your asses. Take, take, take-never give a damn thing back. You're not helping anyone but yourself, Mr. Carver. Your charity's just a lie you tell people like me to make us look the other way."

"You're sounding just like Vincent Paul. How much is he paying you?"

"He's not paying me anything," Max said.

Carver held his eyes for a short moment and looked away, tightening his paw into a fist.

Max looked at the open cigarette box, and a mad craving suddenly leaped out of nowhere and jumped on his shoulders. He suddenly wanted a smoke, something to do with his hands, something to take the edge off what he was sitting through. Then he spied his glass of diluted whiskey and considered for a while downing that, but he shook off the temptation.

"I knew about little Charlie, you know," Carver said without turning to Max, addressing the bookshelves instead. "I knew the first time I saw him. I knew that he wasn't mine. She tried to keep it from me. But I knew. I knew he wasn't mine."

"How?" Max asked. He hadn't expected this.

"Not completely mine," Carver continued in the same tone, as if he hadn't heard Max's question. "Autism. It's a possessive illness. It keeps a little of the person for itself and never ever relinquishes what it has."

"How did you know?"

"Oh, different things," Carver said. "Behavioral patterns not quite right. I know about children, remember?"

Max reached into his pocket and took out the envelope Paul's men had given him. He slipped out the two photocopied sheets of paper that were inside and handed it to the old man.

Then he stood up and stepped away.

Gustav opened the sheets of paper and looked at the first. He blinked and snuffled. He looked a little closer, his mouth half-opening in a bemused grin, but still heavy with sadness. He shuffled the pages-first, second, second, first-scrutinizing each. Then he held a page in each hand and looked from one to the other, back and forth, his eyes growing tinier and tinier as they disappeared behind ever more finely slitted lids. The loose folds of drooping flesh on his face began to shake, going bright red at the edges, starting around his jaw, moving up to under his eyes. He stiffened and took a deep breath.

And then he looked right at Max and screwed up the pages in his hands, chewing down the paper with his fingers. When he dropped them on the floor, they were crushed and compressed into tiny pellets.

When Max had opened the envelope, he'd found copies of the results of the paternity test proving Vincent Paul was Charlie Carver's father.

Carver slumped back in his chair, his complexion ashen, his eyes vacant, the fight gone out of him, a monument brought crashing down to earth. If he hadn't heard what he had from the old man's lips, Max might have felt sorry for him.

They remained there in silence, one in front of the other, for a very long and slow-moving moment. Gustav Carver's eyes were pointed right at him, but their stare weightless and empty, like a dead man's.

"What do you mean to do with me, Mingus?" Carver asked, his voice sucked clean of its authority and thunder, little more than a rattle in his throat.

"Take you in."

"Take me in?" Carver frowned. "Take me in where? There are no jails here."

"Vincent Paul wants to talk to you."

"Talk to me!" Carver laughed. "He wants to kill me, Mingus! Besides, I won't say a word to that…that peasant!"

"Suit yourself Mr. Carver." Max took the cuffs off his belt.

"Wait a moment." He raised his voice. "Can I have one last drink and cigarette before you do that?"

"Go ahead," Max said.

Carver poured out another large whiskey and lit one of his unfiltered cigarettes.

Max sat back down in his place.

"Mr. Carver? One thing I can't understand is, with all your contacts, how come you never took Vincent Paul out?"

"Because I'm the only person who could. Everyone would have known it was me. There would have been a civil war," he explained.

He drew on his cigarette and sipped his drink.

"I never did like filters. Killed the taste." Carver blew on the orange tip and laughed. "Do you think they've got cigarettes in hell, Mingus?"

"I wouldn't know, Mr. Carver. I don't smoke."

"Think you can do a little something for me?" Carver asked.

"What?"

"Let me walk out of my house? On my own? Not between those…goons." He flicked his eyes at the men by the doorway.

"Yeah, but I'll have to cuff you. Precaution."

Carver finished smoking and drinking and offered Max his wrists for the cuffs. Max made him stand up, turn around, and put his hands behind his back. He groaned as the cuffs locked on tight.

"Let's go." Max started leading him out toward the door, holding him tight because Carver was staggering and limping heavily.

They hadn't gone five paces before Carver stopped.

"Max, please, not like this," he slurred, gasping booze and stale tobacco in Max's face. "I have a pistol in my office. A revolver. Let me finish it myself. You can empty the chamber, leave me the one bullet. I'm an old man. I don't have long."

"Mr. Carver. You stole hundreds of children and ruined not just their lives, but their families' lives too. Most of all, you stole their souls. You destroyed them. You took their futures. There isn't a punishment enough for you."

"You self-righteous little prick," Carver spat at him. "A cold-blooded killer lecturing me on morality, you-"

"You done now?" Max interrupted him.

Carver dropped his gaze. Max started dragging him toward the door. Paul's men came forward. Carver stumbled along for a few steps and then stopped again.

"I want to say good-bye to Judith."

"Who?"

"Judith-my wife. Let me look at her painting just one more time. It was such a good painting, so lifelike, so much like her," Carver said, his voice breaking.

"It's not her. She's dead. And you're sure to see her soon."

"What if I don't? What if there's nothing? Just one more look, please, Mingus."

Max thought of Sandra and relented. He waved the men back and took him to the portrait.

He propped the old man up as Carver gazed up at the picture of his wife and mumbled to her in a mix of French and English.

Max looked at the Hall of Fame-the mantelpiece and all the framed photographs of the Carvers pressing flesh with the great and the good. He wondered if he'd find any of those famous names in the records.

Carver stopped his babbling and leered at Max.

"None of them are clients, don't worry," he slurred. "But they're no more than two people away. Remember that. Two people."

"OK, let's go." Max took Gustav's arm.

"Get your hands off me!" Carver jerked himself roughly out of Max's grip and tried to step back, but he lost his already precarious balance and fell heavily to the floor, landing on his back, his cuffed wrists taking the brunt of his weight.