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

to him now, it all seemed so logical and yes, what a realist would do. So I asked why he didn’t do what a realist might do next. “Why not run?”

“Gertrude. They’ll take it out on my daughter if I don’t do something about it. I done lost everybody else in my life to this curse I got, I’m not losing my daughter. ‘Sides, I’m too old to go trying to hide from these bloodhounds. Do I look like James Bond?” He spit again. “I’ll figure something out. Always do.”

“What will you tell her about what happened here?”

He turned back one last time. “I’ll tell her the truth for a change. It’s what she wanted all along, for Junior to know, but she still loves Herbie despite everything. She never felt it was right to tell him herself. This way, everyone got what they wanted. Everyone ‘cept me. That cursed secret was my meal ticket. Now I gotta deal with my shit.”

“We all do eventually. Don’t they have Gamblers Anonymous?”

“I’m not a joiner.” He shook my hand and headed into the terminal. “If you’re ever in Decatur, look me up. I dig your style, Boise.”

Chapter 35

Ispent the next couple days on lockdown in my room, drinking and eating and watching bad soap operas since the cable television was on the fritz again. Somehow those people’s disturbed lives made me feel better about this ordeal.

I needed to venture forth and collect my investigation fees. Rent and bills would soon be due.

My phone had been silent except for Leber calling to get answers to questions for his report. I texted back my observations on our adventure, then stole back under the covers.

The Virgin Islands Archery Championship finals were coming up. There was little doubt that Isabelle LaGrange would easily qualify, so I decided to skip the early rounds. I needed to make a stop to see someone who’d been on my mind all week. Yarelle Antsy might not like seeing me, but I couldn’t get her off my mind.

I timed my arrival at the Bacon Distillery for noon, thinking she’d take a break for lunch. She was at her station, stopping the bottles, a small, pained expression on her face. At the top of the stairs, the lights in Gilroy’s office were dark, waiting for the next occupant. For now, they mourned his death, too.

I’d rehearsed this encounter. As soon as she punched out, I made my way over.

“Hi.”

“Boise. Oh gosh, Boise.”

To my shock, she hugged me, like a friend, warm and close.

“I’ve been wanting to call you or come by or ... ” She shook her bent head. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry about my father.”

What she really meant, and I could see it on her face and feel it in my chest like a deep cut, was “I don’t know what to feel.”

“Are you hungry?” was all I could think to ask.

Her demeanor brightened. We were both happy to avoid the subject of Gilroy Antsy. She chimed, “I am, a little. Actually, I wasn’t, but now that you are here, I feel a pang for the first time all week. Is that weird?”

“Want to have lunch with me? My treat.”

We ate together at a chicken fry joint a few blocks away in a lime green building. We continued to shun the subject of her dead father. The man wanted to give her a better financial life. He wanted security. He wanted his dream. And he killed for it.

“My next singing gig is in three weeks. I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

“Why not?” I asked.

Her eyes cast down again, searching the empty plate for answers. I wondered then if she even knew the questions. “I guess because of what happened. I can see you’re thinking about it. Isabelle says to go back to the tasks at hand, so I’ve been trying to rehearse and work. I’ve worked overtime all week. Then I go to Anna’s to rehearse, then we go out drinking. But my voice. It feels like my vocal cords are going to snap. Like they’re pulled to the thinnest point.” She dropped her hands into her lap. “I don’t know. It makes no sense.”

“It makes sense. My voice cracks when I’m tired and depressed.”

“You depressed? You always seem in control.”

That was a laugh. “Thanks, but of course that’s not true.”

“So what? How do I get it back?”

“Your voice will come back when you’ve healed is my guess.”

“I didn’t even like him,” she said, a tear running down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away with a napkin. “He’s dead, but mostly I wasn’t crazy about him as a friend. He had good dad qualities. He wanted all the right things for me, but it had to be his way. He was hard. A hard, driven man.” She nodded, a picture in her mind to which only she could bear witness. “Sometimes, he ran over me.”

Sounds from the kitchen and the street carried us out the door into the tropical heat. A man behind the counter—he seemed to know Yarey—waved while punching something into the cash register.

The knot in my stomach grew as we got closer to separating. This was the time. We were alone and we’d just had some kind of psuedo-date I’d orchestrated by showing up unannounced at lunchtime.

“So, uh, Yarey, I know this might be a bad time and if you don’t want to you don’t have to, but, uh, would you want to go see the archery tournament on Saturday?”

“’Course, silly! Everyone’s going to that.”

“Everyone?”

“Yeah, to support Isabelle. You’re gonna sit with us, right?”

“Right. Yes. I’ll be there.”

“Great.”

We had arrived at the punch clock in the distillery.

Chapter 36

My bed was scattered with discarded masses of clothing. “Masses” might be a strong word since I only owned a little clothing, but what I owned was on the bed, all discarded as unworthy. Everything felt either overdressed, the one suit and shirt, or