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

“No,” I said, afraid what road this led down. Patience Daniel-san, I thought. Show patience with drunk lizard or all you catch is tail.

“It’s a bill introduced by Representative John Conyers in the House of Representatives to sturdy, er, study reparations for slavery and discrimination in our colonizers.”

“Colonizers? You mean the U.S.?”

He slapped the bar. “Yes, goddamn it, the U.S.!” A couple in the booth behind Pickering, who were hunched together whispering in each other’s ears, turned and glowered at us.

“It’s a bar,” I said, “not a library.”

It was late and after only a beer and a half, my buzz was strong. This side of Pickering could be fun. As if to accentuate his irreverent attitude, he loosened his black tie and unbuttoned the top of his stiff shirt. The man looked like a Mormon on his mission to spread the gospel.

My second pint was suddenly on its last sip. My boozing was gaining steam. Seeing Pickering was getting low on gas, I ordered another round. I, feeling a mite peckish, ordered extra-spicy chicken wings for two to be brought over. Pickering probably needed food in his gut soon or I’d be cleaning up a mess. Some people couldn’t handle the business of drinking. Pickering appeared to be one of them.

“There was a lot, lot in that computer of Kendal’s. Thank heavens for the ravishing Ms. Kendal. Don’t you think she’s ravishing?”

“Walter, let’s stick to the content of Kendal’s computer.”

Pickering resumed. “So, Conyers does this every year. Stubborn as a Taurus, and you know what?” I waited. “Nothing! Nothing happens. They won’t even vote on the damn thing. It wallows. The bill doesn’t even ask for reparations, it just asks to study reparations. Would you pasty white guys merely check it out and see if there’s any merit? That’s all he’s asking. You believe that? All those old, supposedly reformed and open-minded congressmen afraid to even study it.”

My worry that I’d have to convince Pickering to eat some of the wings dissipated when I placed them between us, and we jointly set upon them like wildcats. The blue-cheese dressing was exceptional, as was the spiciness of the wings. I went to get another ramekin as Pickering mindlessly double-dipped in the first one. A small glob of white dressing clung to his chin for over two minutes. A photo to prove the guy wasn’t always immaculate would have been nice, but I resisted the urge.

“Did Kendal have something to do with H.R. Forty?”

Pickering sniggered. “No. Boise, Boise, Boise! He and the Bacon woman were old family friends, according to Savannah. Kendal had some affinity for reparations. Like a hobby. He was a student of the topic. Must have gone to her with numbers and tragedies.” He waved a dismissive hand at me. “You got to know what I mean.”

A bit of spice caught in my throat, and I swallowed hard. My eyes watered. Pickering crunched on a bit of ice from the water I’d brought back as a mandatory beverage with spicy wings.

“He convinced her to make reparations to the descendants of the Bacon Family’s slaves. They calculated a fair amount and located the people. They found around twenty-eight who live here, a couple in Barbados where their original plantation operated, and the rest scattered around.” He ripped into another wing, exclaiming, “Spicy!”

Chapter 21

There it was. Pickering refused to entrust Kendal’s computer to me, but in true investigative fashion, he’d pieced together the story. It was Kendal who’d convinced Francine to do the right thing and hand over the bulk of her fortune to descendents of former slaves, plus form a permanent fund to help anyone else who came forward later through an endowment. The family was abandoned at sea. Strong motive for offing their matriarch.

Problem was, killing Francine didn’t fix the reparation issue. In fact, you could argue that the heirs should do anything and everything to keep her breathing. This would give them more time to convince her to change her bequests. Her demise actually benefited the Bacon Group most immediately.

“So, what does that leave for the Bacon family?” I asked.

Pickering laughed again. A giggly drunk. “I gave the trust instrument to a lawyer, who says they get to live in the house till they pass. Something called a life estate. The children each get $1.5 million in a trust with Kendal, Miguela Salas, and someone named Camilla as trustees.”

“Well, that’s not too shabby ... the money I mean, not what happened to Kendal.”

He squinted at me like a father assessing his daughter’s new hipster boyfriend. “You daft? If you’d expected to each get twenty to thirty mill and wound up with one-point-five, you’d think that was shabby.”

True. To me, one-point-five million was a dream. To the Bacons, a nightmare.

“What about Junior? Does he get anything? Wasn’t he the favorite?”

“The grandson stands with a trust fund of ten million.”

Nineteen-years-old with ten million in the bank. Most would be lucky to see one or two million earned over the course of a lifetime.

Pickering excused himself to use the bathroom. When he returned, I could smell that he’d thrown up. His eyes were milky. So much for spicy chicken wings saving the day.

“You okay?”

He shoved aside the last Cutty Sark, only half-drunk, and downed a mouthful of water.

I pressed on although Pickering appeared ready to be poured into bed. “The kid gets the most. Guess he really was her favorite. What about the people in the Bacon Group?”

“What about them?”

“Have they been notified they stand to inherit a small fortune?”

Pickering’s eyes blinked shut, then popped open again. He looked at me, absent recognition, then his eyes swam back into focus.

“Yes, they know. It was part of the story Kendal was working on. He interviewed members of the group for genuine reactions. I think he got a kick out of seeing the joy he expected it would bring struggling people who’d never