Sweet Paradise Gene Desrochers (classic novels TXT) 📖

older man and eyed me with her sultry, half-closed lids.

“What do you mean ‘investigator?’” she asked. Her red and black dress spun around her full hips in a wide arc, making her even more angelic. She looked to be about twenty-five.

“I’m a private eye,” I said, extending my hand. “You have a lovely voice.” I sounded like an idiot, but forced myself on. This was only the second woman I’d taken real notice of since Evelyn passed. Eventually I needed to get back out there.

Yarey laughed. “Yeah, it looks like it’s her voice you like.”

I blushed, and the singer patted my cheek. “You are cute for an investigator. You sure the criminals are gonna take you seriously with your baby face?”

“You’ve got a point there,” I said. “Not much I can do about that. I’d like to think underestimating me would be an advantage.”

“You could get in a knife fight and hope for a gash across the bow here.” She ran a long fingernail along my left cheek. An electric jolt shot through me. She pulled away, her perfect lips parting. “Sorry, it’s just, being an investigator must be exciting and dangerous.”

“Being a singer entails some excitement, right?”

“It has its moments, like this. But most days it’s standing alone in a room practicing notes, drinking honey and tea, and making sure I stay healthy.” She squinched up her nose and leaned close. “I had to quit smoking entirely. You believe that shit?”

“You don’t have to do anything, do you?”

She laughed. “No, I don’t.” she said. “You have a light?” She pulled a menthol cigarette out of her purse.

“Hang on.” Spotting a woman behind her smoking, I procured her lighter.

“Thank you,” she sighed through a stream of smoke.

Junior and Yarey continued to talk. I vaguely remembered that my real purpose was to pump Yarey for information, but I couldn’t tear myself away from this beautiful woman, who in some shocking plot development bothered to speak to me.

Holding up the program, I found her photo and a brief description of her training and other performances. It seemed she preferred jazz and hip-hop to gospel. Her name was Anna Lynn.

“Yeah, but a good singer doesn’t pigeon-hole herself, right? I’ll bet you investigate more than one type of crime.”

“Is Anna Lynn your stage name?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she giggled, sipping on a plastic glass of Chardonnay.

“This is nice,” I said, referring to the refreshments and cheese plates. “Do they always do this?”

“Are you kidding? This cheap-ass place normally does nothing, but my manager’s trying to class up the joint when I perform. My latest contract demands that some kind of beverages and food, not in a bag, be served following any performance. That’s how you build a following. See that brother with the iPad?”

She pointed through the crowd at a forty-something-year-old mustachioed man shaking hands with a white couple. The woman wore a black sequined gown, the man a tux.

“Those two are some of the richest art patrons in the islands. They actually know a lot about the history of jazz and gospel. Getting them on board could launch me into orbit.”

“Do you write?” I asked.

“Both lyrics and music. I play the piano.”

“Another Alicia Keys, huh?”

She rolled her eyes and nudged Yarey. “He just went there.”

Yarey laughed. “I hope you didn’t just compare this unique flower to that singer with all those Grammys.”

“What? You mean you dislike being compared to beautiful people who are extraordinarily successful. My apologies.”

“How’d you like to be called Tom Selleck all day long?”

“I like Magnum, P.I. That’s a worthy comparison.”

She pushed her hand into my face. “Uh-huh. Believe you me, it gets old. It’s like your better-looking, more successful sister who always overshadows you. No can do, my brother. You can make it up by getting me another glass.” She turned her wineglass-shaped cup upside down

Her manager wandered over.

“This guy’s an investigator,” she said, taking the drink and patting her manager on his muscled shoulder. The guy’s mustache and hair were perfectly groomed. He bowed slightly and shook my hand with a wide grin.

“My pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Oba. You have a great look, brother. I like the hat. What do you drive?”

“I’m not much of a car guy.”

“Ah yes. Keeping it simple. I like this.”

He sounded like he hailed from a West African nation. His accent flowed with a natural cadence that loosely resembled the Queen’s English.

“You're Anna’s manager?” I asked.

“I’m that, and more.” He leaned over and gave her a thick kiss. Anna didn’t kiss back with much enthusiasm.

“What did I tell you, Oba?”

“Yes, yes, my queen. No public displays, I understand, but when you look so ravishing, how can I resist?” He grinned again and her demeanor relaxed.

“I want to be taken seriously as an artist, which means we must be ... ”

He turned to me and asked, “Artists are passionate, no?”

She walked away, typing something into her phone.

“I’m not sure my opinion carries much weight,” I said.

He bowed again and said, “A pleasure again, Mr. Montague.” He kissed Yarey on her hand. “And you, Miss Yarey.”

When he was out of earshot, Yarey said to Junior and me, “That guy’s such a tease. You have to watch him. And, he’s not discerning, if you get my drift.”

Junior looked lost, so I said, “He likes men and women.”

“Oh. Riiiight,” Junior intoned.

“He’s okay with either, both, or trans too.”

I turned back to her. “He likes trans? What about non-binary?”

Yarey snapped her fingers. “Look at the big brain on Boise! You down with the modern sexuality.”

“I lived in L.A.”

She nodded as if this explained everything.

“Where?”

“The westside, a little south of Santa Monica.”

She continued nodding. “Very cool. Why are you here?”

I explained briefly my reasons for returning, mainly the death of Evelyn and how I was from St. Thomas. I left out salient details that might scare a young lady upon meeting me for the first time, like the fact that the sheriff in LA County was on the verge of arresting me for interfering in an