Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📕

a mock salute, which made the older fellow grin. From what I could see the private street serviced three houses, of which the Bacons’ was the last. We passed another gated driveway bordered by hedgerows. Up a hill I could make out a Mediterranean style roof surrounded by coconut trees.

“You’d be surprised,” I muttered. “You taken a good look at humanity lately? Not brimming with intellectual curiosity.”

Without slowing, he whipped around a bend, crowding the middle. Another car swerved around us, laying into the horn. The man threw his finger out the window. Harold smiled and waved.

“That’s Jerrimy. He’s always angry because his parents spelled his name weird. We had classes together up in New England.”

“You attended boarding school like Junior?”

At the next intersection, a blue Toyota Rav-4 was parked in a dirt spot on the shoulder. A fat white guy with questionable facial hygiene had a paper open on the steering wheel. He didn’t look up as we flew by.

“It’s a Bacon family tradition. Man, I was so pissed I told mama I’m never leaving again unless it’s to visit another island. No snow. Endless summer. That’s my motto.” His tan face lit up and it was like I could see waves foaming in his eyes. “You surf?”

“Used to, out Hull Bay. In L.A. it’s territorial and you need a wetsuit. I also smelled funny when I got out.”

He stuck out his tongue and wrinkled his nose. “Wetsuits suck, but if you gotta. Where you headed?”

“The West Indian Manner.”

“In town?”

“Yup. East of downtown near ... ”

“I know the place. It’s almost as big as our house.”

We drove in silence for a few minutes. Dusk overtook us. He eventually flicked on the headlights. Traffic was light.

“You believe this traffic,” he said as we halted at a stoplight with four cars in front of us. “What a hassle.”

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye as I pictured nine p.m. in L.A. on a capillary having more cars per block than we’d seen in eight minutes of driving. He punched me in the arm.

“I’m messing with you, man. You mentioned L.A. so I figured I’d complain about this piddly shit! The look on your face when you were contemplating how anyone could think this was bad. These are the little moments I live for.” He pouted his mouth and broke into a silly British accent. “Now, I know you’re dying to ask some more questions about me lost mum, so out with it, dear boy.”

“Well, I was asking about her reading habits,” I said. “Do you recall her reading anything ground-breaking lately?”

“Ground-breaking. Hmmm. Breaking ground you say? Hmmm.” He was still having fun with me.

We swerved around another bend. To keep from leaning into him, I gripped the door handle and someone honked. Nothing much seemed to phase Harold.

“You want we should swing by your office? The cops probably left everything open.”

I hadn’t even considered that. “Yeah, great idea,” I said.

As we passed through Havensight, a small sign you could barely read said “Daily News” with an arrow pointing right. “This is it coming up,” I said. Harold flung the wheel and cut off an on-coming auto.

“You have a way with other drivers,” I said. My stomach did a somersault.

My office door was indeed wide open. Darkness had settled in and street lights illuminated the parking lot. A few reporter’s cars remained, but otherwise the place was deserted.

My door looked like a three-year-old had spent the afternoon finger painting on it. Kendal’s blood splatter had dried on the lower right below the doorknob.

“Is that?” Harold pointed at the blood.

I nodded with a shudder.

The bloody arrowhead flashed in my memory. Morbidly, I thought of the bottle of champagne used to christen a ship. Kendal had christened my office.

I limboed under the police tape and surveyed the inside. Nothing missing. Thank God for small favors. For what it was worth, I locked the door.

“Getting back to your mom’s reading,” I said once we were back on the road. We passed Island Pharmacy, and I remembered my short supply of floss and the need for Kleenex in my office. I asked Harold to stop. He pointed at the “CLOSED” sign. I had gotten used to late-night pharmacies in L.A. In St. Thomas it seemed everything except bars closed by six or whenever they felt like it.

When growing up here, my father had no trouble spending his lunch hour, breakfast hour, and dinner hour sauced, all the while holding down a job. The islands were full of functional drunks like Terry Montague.

“Hey man, I’ve been thinking, maybe we ought to rummage through her room. She didn’t tell me much about that stuff but lately she was on about something, like all these years of shutting us out was for our own good. There were more, I dunno, varieties of people milling about. I mean, there’s always someone who she had business with, but these seemed more like social-activist types or something. Younger. I figured it was some charity she was starting and she’d tell me about it when she was ready.”

“Varieties of people?” I asked as Harold flashed his high beams at an oncoming car whose lights were blinding us.

He opened his fingers then dropped them back on the wheel as he shifted. “I dunno. More, you know, islanders. Locals.”

“People of African descent?” I said.

He looked at me then back at the road. “Good way to put it. I hate the word black. Hate the word white too. Never seen anyone who’s white or black, you know?” I waited for him to continue. “Just, I dunno, mama got friendlier with our workers lately. More respectful, you know? Not that she was disrespectful, but like they were more equals than before.” He paused, perhaps waiting for me to say something that made it okay. When I said nothing, he went on. “I know, it’s fucked up.”

The man had a bit of white guilt, as he should. I pointed to Wet Willy’s, a bar