Sweet Paradise Gene Desrochers (classic novels TXT) 📖

her keys out of her cavernous straw purse. “Same shit, different rock. Pick one, the U.S., Korea, St. Thomas, or Tortola. Corrupt politicians. They’ve got some British thing called a Deputy Premier, who does something, I’m not sure what. The ass has been taking bribes and gave himself some crazy salary.”

It was one of those oppressive, tropical days with no breeze. The sun cooked me like a roasted chicken in a bad suit. At some point, a nice linen outfit in beige would do better than the stifling charcoal grey bag I currently wore.

At a no-name bar, evidently a favorite amongst reporters, we jostled through the front door. Pickering ignored us as he patted shoulders and exchanged somber nods. Soft calypso music hummed over the festivities. The smell of rum and sweet syrup permeated the bar area as we sidled up.

“What it be?” asked the bartender.

We got drinks, I with the usual Guinness, and Dana had vodka on the rocks. Two other reporters came over and hugged Dana, then acknowledged me politely.

I’d never officially met either, but they had the look: eager and haggard. Reporters always needed another story or were cursing the deadline for the current one. A world of pressure that in recent years had become more convoluted by the proliferation of free news. Pickering made it over to us.

“So, Boise, what do you have?”

I filled him in on my notions about the family and my reparations findings. In short, I suspected everyone and trusted no one, except Junior. He didn’t set off my radar.

“Reparations.” He gave Dana and me a sideways glance. “The two of you know anything about that? It was a pet project of Kendal’s.”

Walter Pickering was calling into question whether two people, who did not appear to be of African heritage, living in a nation full of citizens of African descent, should be the ones on a case about reparations for slavery. Dana was white and my quadroon heritage not obvious enough for the optics. If your blackness wasn’t self-evident, then you might as well not be black. He had a point, but optics weren’t everything.

“Boise, Dana’s back because I want her on this. She’s my most relentless and you’re not moving fast enough for my tastes. Dana, you need to kick this into high gear. Whatever it takes. I want every goddamn detail about Kendal, and I want a clean copy in a week.”

“Walter ... ” I started to protest, but he cut me off.

“I’m not done. The Tortola matter can wait, right?”

Dana gave a non-committal nod. “Whatever you want, Walter.” Even the feisty Dana could see her boss was in no mood for push-back on finding Kendal’s killer.

I understood, I really did. I’d already been down this road on our last Marvel Team-Up, and I didn’t intend to be split like a coconut again.

“No, not whatever you want, Walter.”

Walter’s face rotated toward me as he did a slow burn. “What? How dare you!”

“No, Walter, you know I usually do what you all want, even though I don’t work for the News. In fact, I pay for advertising in your paper, so far from being on your payroll, I’m a bonafide customer. I have a client who hired me to solve Francine Bacon’s murder.”

My big mouth. I’d never excelled at keeping things under wraps. I took a deep breath and jabbed a finger at each reporter. “That’s not for print. Shit.”

For a moment we all stood like points on a triangle, the sounds of steel drums from the overhead stereo system intensifying the tension. Suddenly, Dana burst into laughter. Walter and I tried to contain it, but we couldn’t. Laughter burst from each of us in spits and starts. Some of the others stared.

As we gripped our knees and caught our breath, Walter excused himself. Clinked glasses sounded. He gave his usual politically correct speech about the great career and even greater integrity of Kendal. He thanked Kendal’s wife, Savannah, for being there. She graciously accepted his words through a veil of grief.

When he finished, Walter walked the widow to the exit. She apparently had had enough for one night. I turned to Dana, who looked puzzled as she watched Walter hug, then usher Savannah Kendal into a cab.

“What is it?” I asked.

She kept watching them. “I’m not sure,” she said haltingly. Her squinty gaze followed Walter back to his staked-out spot at the bar, where he went back to conversing with the associate editor whose name always escaped me.

Dana swallowed her vodka and doubled back for more. Three drinks later, she called her belle, an aging debutante from an island family who owned a thriving crystal shop called Little Switzerland, as well as tracts of commercial real estate throughout the Caribbean. Annie was a stretched-out Dane with perfect, chrome-white skin. Sometimes, I wondered how people like her and Hillary Bacon didn’t liquify south of the Tropic of Cancer.

Annie and Dana were alternately fondling each other and kissing while Walter continued down the same road to intoxication Dana was travelling today. I acted the prude, suckling my second pint fearfully.

The afternoon eased into night. Dana kept on with Annie and Walter’s eyes turned a shade of devil red. A steel-drum band was setting up on the tiny stage.

Walter wandered over, sloshing a bit of his drink en route.

“Do you know what they call a steel drum musician?” Walter asked. He had a habit of quizzing you on inane facts when he drank.

Dana and I looked at each other, then at Annie. No one had a clue.

“Pianists,” Walter said triumphantly.

“They call them the same as piano players? That doesn’t seem right,” Dana said, raising her eyebrows.

“You sure they aren’t percussionists?” I asked.

Walter threw an annoyed, tired stare at each of us in turn, then said, “Not pianists. That’s not what I said, Dana. You got to pay better attention to details, Dana. And you,” He pointed at me with a slightly bent finger. “‘Percussionist’ is a general term, Boise. I’m being spec-sif-ic. Pannists. They’re