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

Throwing a faint nod toward the house, I asked, “So, what’s he on about?”

“Who, Junior? Every few months since he turned fifteen he goes on a kick about learning the business, but what he doesn’t realize is that none of us really know the business. Mama saw to that. Herbie’s at the rum distillery a lot, but from what I understand he’s more of a figurehead. Throws social events, runs the charitable arm.” He aimed quickly, pulled the string back till his hand touched the corner of his mouth and released. The arrow whizzed and plunked in the gold area next to two others he’d shot earlier. He held the bow out. “You try again, but keep talking. We need to make it look good, since old Herbie is eyeing us right now.” I started to turn, but Harold stopped me. “Don’t look, man!”

While I studied the smooth surface of the composite bow, I asked, “So none of you know anything?”

“Nope. Well, Herbie’s been snooping. Digging up financial info I think. It’s a privately held corporation, so there’s no official filings, but online there’s always speculation. Mama doesn’t bring much home, she keeps her important documents at her office. The way I understand it, we make rum and have some small interests in molasses and cane sugar, but not much at this point. Mostly, the fields have been bought by larger guys. I think cane is making some kind of comeback lately because it’s healthier than corn syrup.”

I nocked the arrow and aimed. I was scared to touch my face with the string, but pulled it so close the little hairs from the string tickled my lip. “Which is where?”

“Nisky Center is one place, and she has an office at the distillery, as well.”

Nisky Center had cropped up in my last investigation involving the daughter of the billionaire owner of major real estate developers, Payne and Wedgefield. Their offices were also there.

“Can we get in?” I asked.

He pressed my hand against my face. “You need to actually touch skin. Also, relax your grip on the string. Two fingers below and one on top, like this.” He moved my fingers then tapped the back of my hand. “See, too tense. Relax.”

I slid the arrow forward and shook my hand out, then gripped the string again.

Harold pushed up on my arm. “Elbow up.”

He stepped back and nodded. I aimed low as he’d told me. The arrow flew, a faint hissing sound and a satisfying plunk. Blue.

Harold clapped me on the back. “Not bad.”

“You need to find a way into her office,” I said.

“Not sure that’s possible. She’s got security, and it’s completely stand alone.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s not officially the company office. It’s really her own private office in a separate part of the building. The company has a whole floor...hey, man, it doesn’t matter. What I’m saying is the woman had some kind of paranoia. She didn’t tell anyone much of the gory details about the rum and sugar cane business. Herbie wants in, more to see how much money we have coming than that he gives a shit about the actual day-to-day business. Me, I like liming although if I got to, I’ll go to work. Hillary, well, she’s definitely not the laboring kind.”

“Isn’t Francine getting pretty old? Doesn’t she need someone who knows the business to take over?”

“I think that’s what has them worried,” he said, pointing at the now deserted French doors.

Patting my pocket, I said, “What about this article?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Hey, man, read the thing. I’m more into doing than reading. You research and let me know what we oughta do next. Cool? Aren’t you the detective guy in this organization?”

I couldn’t argue with that. I needed to start acting like I knew what the hell I was doing. The only problem was, what little I knew about the sugar business suggested you could be dead before you made it.

“All right, I’m heading home to do some light reading. I’ll also run some searches on the company and your mother.”

“That’ll be a blast. I’m gonna keep shooting. Later, dude.” He picked up the bow and shot another bullseye.

When I got by the koi pond, I looked down at the fish, all swimming in close proximity I imagined Harold standing over the clear water, his arrow aimed at one of those beautiful, clueless creatures. How easy it would be for him, from any distance.

Chapter 9

Back at the guesthouse , on the veranda I munched on carry-out pizza and sipped lemonade. A vague need to guzzle Guinness in the late afternoon had dominated my end-of-the-day thoughts over the last week. Budgetary constraints in the country of Boise demanded the villagers accept lemonade or water as the new national beverage. The sugar would keep me from falling asleep, but it did not fill my belly like a stout.

The article from Francine’s room was about slavery. Anti-slavery. Not a subject I expected to find in the trunk of an octogenarian leader of a sugar cane empire going back generations. I was no historian, but it was a safe bet that a white family in the Caribbean making rum and sugar for more than two-hundred years had made much of their fortune on the backs of West Africans.

The article detailed the damage done to Africans forcibly taken from their homelands in Ghana, Angola, and Nigeria, then brought to colonial islands like St. Thomas, St. Croix, and Jamaica. Far more slaves had been transported to the Caribbean and other outlying colonies than to the United States. Jamaica alone accounted for over 1.2 million captured slaves, according to the stats cited in the article.

Islands were brutal, isolated places, which was why England and other wealthy countries had a hard time getting anyone to move here. Among slaves brought to the Caribbean, mortality was high and human reproduction low. In the United States, slaves had better working conditions, lived longer, and reproduced, so fewer needed to be