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

the door. Jermaine grabbed his hand and spun him around. He punched Harold in the face. Blood exploded from Harold’s nose and lip as he stumbled into the door.

Isabelle burst from the lounge area, yelling, “Stop! What are you doing?” She bent over and cradled Harold.

Without hesitation Jermaine yanked Isabelle to her feet and dragged her toward the parking lot. We needed to follow. Someone gave Harold a wad of paper towels. Junior and I lifted him and hustled to Harold’s car. I hopped in the driver’s seat just as Jermaine and Isabelle peeled out in a cloud of dust.

“Shit, shit, shit! Get the plate!” I yelled.

“Can’t see. Too much dust.” Junior protested.

From the backseat we could hear Harold’s low moans.

“Do you have Advil in this car?” I asked.

No answer.

“Harold! Advil?”

“Yeah,” he whined. “Glove ... ”

Junior popped the glove box, found Advil and gave it to Harold as I motored down the gravel road.

“Do you know where that asshole lives? Anything?”

The Rav-4 groaned as I smashed the accelerator. After almost careening into a small palm heavy with earthy coconuts, I righted the car.

Harold moaned something.

“What?” I asked.

“East.”

I headed east. Before long, we caught up with them as they slowed briefly, then blew through a red light on Bovoni Road adjacent to a housing development. A car honked a long blare before moving cautiously through the intersection. I swerved around and blew the light. The bleat of a siren, then red and blue flashers filled my rearview mirror. From the side of the road, I watched helplessly as Jermaine sped away, up an incline and out of sight.

“You don’t have a local driver’s license and your California license is expired!” Junior said.

“I been busy,” I said as I stared at the enormous ticket I’d just gotten. “Why’d he nail us and not them?”

“’Cause, that’s how it works.”

We returned to the Bacon pad. Harold snored on the couch, a gel ice pack mounted on his face. Junior and I slouched outside to smoke a joint. Did I want to involve Junior further in this mess, or leave him blissfully ignorant? Knowledge about murder could be dangerous. I’d previously endangered Elias when investigating Roger’s death. I didn’t want that on my conscience. Someone else needed to know what I knew, but Junior couldn’t be my confidant.

Excusing myself, I composed a text to Dana outlining my suspicions about Jermaine and Gilroy in the deaths of Adirondack Kendal and Francine Bacon. This, too, was risky. Dana liked to stick her nose in where it didn’t belong, and she wasn’t especially keen about keeping things silent. She also had a personal interest in both Kendal and her boss.

It was getting late, my chance for a bonus from Pickering dwindling, the weekend about to begin. I didn’t know much about Jermaine and couldn’t waste time there. My best move now: go smoke out a suspect. The problem: I could get my ass killed if I pushed the man too far. Killers didn’t mind killing to keep their kills secret.

On the way to the distillery, where I hoped to find Gilroy, I stopped at Backstreet Pizza, had three slices and a Pabst to wash it down. My pants stretched against my thighs and the button dug into my lower gut. Evelyn’s voice rang in my head. “Boise, you keep eating like that ... ” After Evelyn died, my mother picked up the refrain. Playing darts didn’t qualify as exercise and even if it did, I knew deep down what science kept confirming: weight loss depended more on diet.

As these thoughts pinballed through my brain, I made a radical decision. No crusts. That had to account for at least a hundred calories. While there, I glanced in back, but Tony and Little Nicky were nowhere to be seen. Gina was in a salty mood, so I let it be. These jokers had connections on the seedy side of the island. They’d helped me find a kidnapped girl several months ago.

Walking down Backstreet, I kept the crusts wrapped in a napkin and when I got to Market Square, there was Jeff, the mongrel I’d befriended the day Dana and I had met in March. He trotted up, breaking away from the shade of a concrete vendor table littered with fresh veggies. A clump of dried mud clung to his golden coat. I scraped it out as he nuzzled my hand for the crusts. He preferred hand-fed small pieces. He would just stare at the chunks if I dropped them on the pavement. Picky for a homeless dog.

He gave my hand one last lick, nuzzling every bit of pizza oil, before trotting back to his shady spot. The woman whose table it was waved and yelled, “All right!” a favorite greeting among locals.

The pizza made me sleepy. I craved more beer. I made my way to The Normandie where Irene served me a Guinness perfect as the sunset. The asshole who hated my father made another comment.

Irene came to my defense. “Shut up, Norman! He’s a paying customer. If you ain’t notice, I need dem.”

Norman shot back, “I’m a payin’ customer too. Doesn’t change the fact that this guy’s pops was a prick.”

I downed half the pint, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, got off my stool and stalked over to Norman.

“So, you didn’t like Terry, huh?”

He looked up at me, his eyes yellowed, stubble sticking to his face like miniscule grains of rice. We had a short staring contest, then he turned back to his drink and cigarette. I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Me, neither.”

Our solidarity shut Norman up from that day forward, at least about my old man. He was still prone to engaging in ill-tempered conversation with anyone who happened to be in the vicinity, however, he resisted badgering me.

Irene poured the surly Irishman another round of cheap whiskey. Upon returning, she asked, “What you say to him?”

“Nothing worth mentioning.”

“I don’t like hearing he talk bad about Terry. I like your father.”

“That’s