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

continuing coverage. They’ve got television here, too. Something to do with Jarl. It might involve the governor.”

“Ours?”

“No, silly, the one here in Tortola. Anyway, this story’s good, but nothing’s as good as murder. I hear you’ve got the killers.”

“Yeah, we got ‘em. Problem is there’s no trial. One killed his partner and then a cop killed him.”

“Which cop?”

“Leber. You know him?”

“Yup. A bit unconventional. I like him.” I could hear Dana grinning through the phone, her own teenaged giddiness. My cell phone buzzed from a bowl of rice in the corner.

“Gotta go, Dana.”

“When can we do this? Pickering wants a story.”

“You’re doing it by phone?”

“Yup.”

We arranged a time later in the day after I got some shut eye. I had already spent hours giving the cops my story and helping Leber fill out paperwork. He had helped it move along, but a fuller statement was in the offing. She said Pickering wouldn’t like it. I told her to call Leber in the meantime and to let Pickering know that Gilroy and Jermaine were the ones who ransacked Savannah’s house looking for Kendal’s notes. She said she’d tell him.

By the time I hung up, I’d missed the cell call. Sleep first, call back later.

It turned out my ordeal was enough for Pickering to bring Dana back to interview me in person, as well as to work on some other story cooking here in St. Thomas.

“It’s not a big deal,” Dana grumbled. “Tortola’s twenty miles away. There’s a bridge in Louisiana that’s longer. Besides, you’re worth it.”

The Greenhouse was quiet, as the brunch crowd had already deserted and, for whatever reason, the televisions were on the fritz, so no football to entice people into drinking in the middle of their Sunday afternoon. Dana had selected a table in the far corner, away from prying ears.

“Love you, too,” I said, giving her a hug.

“You hug me like I’m a guy. Why is that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s how I hug.”

“No, I’ve seen you hug other women without the pat on the back and the closed fist between.” She proceeded to demonstrate, puffing out her chest and deepening her voice. “Hey, dude Dana, what’s up? Hug. Hug. Pat. Pat.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “I do that. It’s my way.”

“Uh huh. Well, just ‘cause I’m a lesbo doesn’t give you permission to treat me like a dude. I’m fem.”

“Hmmm ... ” I extended my hand and made the kinda-not-really gesture.

“The point is, I’m a woman, so hug me like a woman. Now, here’s your beer. Start talking.”

“Did you order a burger, too?” I said hopefully.

“With fries. Bloody as hell, all the fixings. Anything else, Sugar Ray?”

She licked tomato juice off her top lip after taking a sip of her Bloody Mary. I always worried about the celery stalk going up my nose with those drinks.

“I want more free ads for bringing Pickering another paper-selling story.” Dana just stared, so I back-tracked. “Nope. Perfect, right down to you nagging me. Did we get married?”

“You are so much a part of the patriarchy.” She glanced at her watch. “Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks. What happened?”

She tapped record on her phone. I relayed my tale, leaving out anything I deemed irrelevant or embarrassing to my clients. She got what counted, the abduction and my escape ala Leber. It would read like an action-adventure. I also omitted that I was passed out when they snatched me. Instead I said they’d grabbed me as I was walking up to The Manner and knocked me out.

“You have a concussion?”

“Don’t know,” I answered, licking some Guinness foam off my upper lip.

“Get it checked.”

“Doc said I’m fine. Pepper spray has no lasting effects.”

“Doesn’t Leber have a partner?”

“Yeah, Barnes. I got the feeling Barnes is a nine-to-fiver. Leber, he’s a lifer.”

“A man after my own heart,” Dana said.

The waitress bopped over and swept away my empty plate. I ordered my fourth beer. Dana put a stop to things after two Bloody Marys.

“That’s it, huh?” She pursed her lips and hit stop on the recording. She typed something into her phone, then gave me a serious look. “Boise, I’m worried about you. You really don’t look good.”

I shifted in my seat. She had this nasty habit of pop-analyzing my psyche out of nowhere on occasions when I was in no mood for it.

“Ouch.”

“Don’t give me that. You don’t really care about your appearance, or you wouldn’t have on that sweat stained tank-top and flip flops.”

“Jesus, Dana, what’s with the harsh judgments?”

“I’m worried about the way you’re conducting yourself.”

“I didn’t ask for you to intervene. I’m doing fine. Yes, I’m a little burned out. I got careless.”

“You left a couple things out of that story you just told me.”

I shook my head. The hot needle was rising. Who was Dana to start patronizing me? When we’d first met, she slathered some bullshit pop psychology on me about Evelyn dying and my depression.

“I have clients to protect.”

“Not what I’m talking about. I understand if you protect sources and clients. What I don’t understand is exactly how those thugs kidnapped you. That part doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

She stared at me. I squirmed, a beetle under a magnifying glass on a sunny day. My beer tasted good and cold. Not cold enough, but I remained pinned to my seat. Heave-ho.

“Power-drinking another beer isn’t going to scare me off.” She waited. “Neither is the silent treatment. Boise, talk to me. Where’s your head? Is it Evelyn? What about that flyer I gave you?”

My eyelids drooped. Sleeping in this chair in this bar on this island seemed like a lovely idea. Out on the waterfront, a wave crashed on the breakwater then receded, leaving only an oily slick on the gray, shell-laced concrete. I stood shakily. My shorts puckered to the back of my legs.

“You got this?” I asked.

“’Course, it’s on me. Your payment was the story.” She smiled, trying to emotionally backtrack. “Boise, you know I’m your friend, right?”

“I’ll see you later,