THE RUE BOYER had once been a gated community of exclusive gingerbread houses set behind coconut palms and hibiscus plants. Papa Doc had moved his cronies there during his reign, while Baby Doc had converted two of the houses into exclusive brothels he’d filled with $500-an-hour blond hookers from L.A. to entertain the Colombian cartel heads who were in and out of the country to oversee their drug distribution and wash the profits in the national banks. The cronies and whores had fled with the Doc regime and the masses had claimed the road as theirs, first looting the houses down to the floorboards, then squatting in the shells, where they remained to this day.
Max couldn’t understand why Dufour had chosen to stay behind. The street was a dump, as bad as he’d seen in any ghetto or bottom-of-the-ladder trailer park.
They drove through the remains of the gate—an iron frame, tilting back away from the road, one corner bent all the way down, pointing at the ground, ruptured hinges bent and twisted into the shape of malign butterflies, needles for antennae and razors for wings. The road was the usual obstacle course of potholes, craters, bumps, and gulleys, while the houses—once glorious and elegant three-story structures—hung back from view, dark and shadowy symmetrical blurs, stripped of all features, corroded by their sudden influx of poverty, fit only for the wrecking ball. They were now home to small villages of people—old and very young, dressed almost identically in rags that barely preserved their dignity and sometimes differentiated their gender. They all followed the passing car as one, a flock of blank and hollowed stares clustering around the windows.
Dufour lived in the very last house on the road that turned out to be a cul-de-sac. His house was completely different from the rest. It was a dull pink, with a blue frill running along the tops and bottoms of its balconies, and the shutters—all closed—were a bright white. Green grass covered the front yard, and a rock-and-plant-lined path led up to the porch steps.
A group of maybe a dozen children were playing in the road. They all stopped what they were doing, and watched Max and Chantale get out of the car.
Max heard a whistle behind him. He saw a young boy sprint across the grass and disappear around the side of the house.
As they started walking toward the path, the children in the road came together in a tight group and barred their way. They all had rocks in their hands.
Unlike all the other kids he’d seen in the streets, these were dressed in proper clothes and shoes, and they looked healthy and clean. They couldn’t have been more than eight, but their faces were hard with experience and wisdom beyond their years. Max tried to smile disarmingly at a girl with bows in her hair, but she gave him a ferocious stare.
Chantale tried talking to them, but no one answered or moved. Grips tightened on the rocks and young bodies tensed and shook with aggression. Max looked at the ground and saw they had plenty of ammunition if they needed it. The road was a quarry.
He took Chantale’s arm and moved her back a few steps.
Suddenly they heard a whistle from the house. The boy ran back shouting. Chantale let out a sigh of relief. The children dropped the rocks and went back to their game.