Sweet Paradise

by Gene Desrochers

  “Sounds like a prince.”

  The man had the focus of a cat tracking a bird. Every movement noted for improvement later, or maybe so he could justify his coaching position and take credit for her skill.

  Personal trainers and coaches were mostly bullshit. In California these leeches infested public spaces. Bro-dudes seemed to be everywhere, puffing their chests and spouting new-agey crap about positivity from every orifice like they were the fifteenth Dalai Lama. Since they didn’t actually do anything, they constantly justified their existence with trite advice and intense scrutiny.

  “Does she really need a coach?” I asked. “I mean, how complex is shooting an arrow, really? Strategy?”

  I could feel Junior doing his thing, staring at me as that thoughtful stillness engulfed us. Finally, he said, “You don’t respect my sport?”

  “I thought cycling was your sport.”

  “So’s this. Do you play a sport?”

  “Darts.”

  “Darts? Not a sport.”

  “What’s the difference between archery and darts? They’re virtually the same in every way.”

  “Archery is outdoors.”

  “That makes it a sport?” I asked incredulously.

  “Yup. Sometimes you have to track something or move on terrain or even run and shoot. Some people do archery competition while skiing. They ever do that with darts?”

  “Okay, granted. But what’s the difference between target archery like this,” I gestured at the people shooting at round, stationary targets, “and darts? You really think being outside is the distinguishing factor?”

  “Dude, it matters. It definitely hurts darts that the only place it’s played is in a bar, usually by people holding a drink.”

  I had no comeback for that. In fact, I wasn’t even sure why I was arguing at this point since I didn’t think either of them were sports. Well, maybe the one on skis or if you were chasing deer through the brush like Davy Crockett.

  Isabelle had stopped shooting. She and her uncle were engaged in a heated discussion. She flung her bow down and stomped away, her locks whipping back from her face as the wind picked up and some dark clouds rolled in. In the distance, lightning flashed.

  Harold appeared, solo once again. “What you guys finding out?”

  “Nothing,” Junior said sullenly. “Boise’s got the hots for Isabelle.”

  “Where is she?” Harold asked.

  Junior pointed out the main entrance to the driveway beyond. Her uncle picked up the bow and wiped it off. Then he nocked an arrow and shot it, straight and true.

  “The guy’s got great form, even if he is an asshole,” Harold said. “So relaxed, like nothing could shake him.” He nudged me with his elbow. “That’s why competition’s the real test. Guy couldn’t hold his shit together when the pressure was on. See it all the time.”

  “Go challenge him,” I said.

  “Ha! Me?”

  Junior and I waited and stared.

  “That’d be fun to see, uncle.”

  “Yeah, uncle,” I repeated playfully. “Show us how this sport is done.”

  Harold looked around like a wallflower nervous about asking the prettiest girl in the room to dance. He acted so in control, but that was when things were on his terms.

  Suddenly, Junior hollered out, “Hey, Jermaine!” Isabelle’s uncle jerked his head and locked eyes with Junior, who pointed at Harold. “My uncle wants to challenge you. Three shots. Best total from seventy.”

  A jackal’s smirk appeared on Jermaine’s dark face. He hollered back, “How much?”

  Harold didn’t look happy. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “Fifty,” I yelled, joining the fray.

  “Make it one-hundred,” Jermaine retorted.

  “Done. Let’s do it,” Junior said, a jubilant grin breaking across his face.

  Isabelle returned a few minutes later, no doubt after someone informed her of the contest. She marched up to Junior and me.

  “What is your problem? You know my uncle shouldn’t be doing this. He has high blood pressure.”

  “And a temper,” Junior snickered. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”

  “You don’t have to live with him. He hates to lose.”

  She stomped over to her grinning uncle and tapped him pointedly on the shoulder. He was now having fun, she the stone-faced coach.

  As Harold walked by, he threw us an annoyed glance. “I haven’t even shot today. You guys are fucking stupid.”

  Harold asked for twenty practice shots.

  “I don’t think so,” Jermaine intoned. “These,” he looked Junior and me up and down, “boys said you were ready to compete. Let’s do this.”

  “Come on, give him the practice. You’ve been here all day,” I said.

  A flash of anger crossed the thin man’s countenance then vanished. “Fine. No Bacon excuses today.” The smirk reappeared. I could picture the man biting the head off a cat as he feasted on a fresh kill.

  I wandered over to Harold as he finished his last practice shot. “You know, Harold, it would be really great if you busted this guy’s marbles.”

  “Oh, yeah? How come that’s suddenly my job, man?”

  “Look, just relax and shoot like I know you can. You got this guy.” I clapped him on the back.

  Harold pursed his lips like he was ready to say something, then he shook his head and pushed me aside as he took his spot next to Jermaine.

  “What the hell are you guys up to?” Isabelle hissed at me as the men lined up. “Is there something more going on here?”

  “Friendly competition. I like your hair,” I said.

  “My uncle doesn’t need this shit. Boise, you seemed like a nice guy, but you’re just like all of them. No one understands him. He’s socially awkward.”

  “Your uncle competed, right? He trains you to compete. He must have an understanding. What’s so bad?”

  She looked off at the approaching rain clouds. “It’s hard keeping him focused.”

  I was confused. Every time I watched them together, the guy seemed to have laser focus.

  “On what?” I asked.

  “Me,” she said.

  With that, she went into the shop and plopped down on a cushioned chair to pout. I could see her through the plate-glass windows. The jackal had stolen the peacock’s limelight.

  An angry yell brought me back around to the match.

  “What! What did you say?” It was Jermaine.

  “Not feelin’ it, man. We’re not doing this.” Harold had his bow and arrows stowed. He was walking in my direction.

  “You get back here this instant!” Jermaine was talking to Harold like he was an obnoxious teen. Harold ignored him and kept walking. “Bacon!”

  As Harold approached my position, he smirked at me, then whispered, “You wanted him off his game.”

  Jermaine threw down his bow and started toward us. I stepped between them.

  “Jermaine, is it? I’m Boise.” I stuck out my hand. “Pleased to ... ”

  He shoved me aside. The man was stronger than he looked. Harold was about to open 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 yo
u 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 nice. Can we stop talking about my father?”

  Four more beers. Darts and pool. Irene played pool like a fish swims. At five dollars a game, my wallet was taking more of a hit than I could afford. I asked if I could get it back playing darts, she said no chance. She remembered how good I was, even as a kid, and wanted no part of that. When hanging out in a bar there were only a few things for a kid to do: play darts, play pool, or play one of the video games. My parents wouldn’t spend money on video games and I was too short to play pool, so darts occupied hours of my time every day.

  She offered me a ride home. I slurred my acceptance. Irene didn’t go in for perfume. She didn’t need it. Her scent was a combination of strawberries and sage. She’d always smelled like that. Her sitting on the edge of my bed reading a Hardy Boys book aloud as I dozed off. I’d peek out under my drooping eyelids at her brown cheeks and the swell of her breasts. In my dreams we kissed lightly, like I’d seen in censored movies shot through a filter.

  “Aye, Boise! We here.”

  The West Indian Manner loomed over us from the top of the hill. The black fence, spiked with arrow-like tips flashed me back to Kendal’s bleeding chest. The romance was dead and I was fading fast.

  As I stumbled out of her car, she said something indecipherable. Gripping the railing, I pulled myself up the first set of stairs, then I lost my verve, but I held myself steady until her taillights disappeared at the end of the street. At the base of the first palm tree in the yard, I passed out.

  Chapter 29

  Ahard slap shot me out of my stupor. It was still dark. Two people had me by the arms. Fingernails dug into the fleshy skin above my elbow as they led me down The Manner’s steps and shoved me into the back of an idling car. My head bumped the edge of the roof on the way in, adding to my already considerable alcohol-headache.

  One of them got into the backseat with me, ramming me to one side.

  “Wha ... ” I muttered.

  “Shut up!” my seat-mate growled. I tugged feebly at the door-release, but the child-lock was engaged.

  A hand gripped my hair hard and pinned my cheek against the glass of the car’s window.

  “Ow!” I moaned.

  My mouth tasted horrible. I hadn’t brushed my teeth for almost twenty-four hours. They probably weren’t going give me any floss no matter how nicely I asked.

  “I say ‘shut up’ or you get some of dis.” The whites of Jermaine’s eyes glowed at me in the semi-darkenss.

  Three inches from my eye he held my raven-colored can of pepper spray. He loosened his grip slightly, and I nodded. It wasn’t a gun, but if you’ve ever had a dose of pepper spray in your eyes, you’d understand my compliance. It wouldn’t kill you, but you’d wish you were dead for a while.

  He let go and slid to the other side of the seat. The d
river glared at me in the rearview mirror for a moment before returning his eyes to the road. Gilroy Antsy.

  Outside the windshield the vegetation trembled in the mounting gusts of wind. Stars beamed down from the clear sky, but the wind acted as if a storm were brewing.

  The man next to me was exactly who you’d expect. Jermaine the Jackal. So many questions. I couldn’t help it. My mouth sometimes had a mind of its own.

  “You killed Francine?”

  No hesitation. Jermaine sprayed me, directly in the face. I squealed. The sound reverberated, bouncing around the car. My breath hitched in and out as burning, stinging, searing pain racked me. My eyes watered. I clawed the seat. I wanted to rip the skin off my face and scoop out my eyes. Anything to make it stop. Curled into the fetal position, I slipped to the floor behind the driver’s seat and moaned.

  “I told ya to shut up!” Jermaine hissed. “Now you in pain, little man. Why we can’t just kill he?”

  “I told you why. Stop asking to kill everyone. This why we in this mess! Because you got to kill.”

  “You shut your mouth!” Jermaine leaned forward.

  “I’m driving the car, you want to crash? Keep cool, man. Cool.”

  Through the tears and pain, I heard the seat groan as Jermaine reclined and sighed. The acidic stinging wouldn’t stop. I keened and keened, praying for relief. Jermaine pulled me up onto the seat and pried my quaking hands away from my face.

  He laughed and laughed and laughed. Every time I moaned or whimpered, he laughed, his rancid breath bathing my face. After an eternity, the agony went from ten to eight. Tears flowed still, but I was able to bring my attention to bear on the situation. No way to open my eyes. They teared relentlessly. These men hadn’t nabbed me for a bachelor party at Frenchman’s Reef.

  “Where’re you taking me?” I snorted. My question probably wasn’t decipherable outside my head. Mucus dribbled down my chin. I hacked phlegm. As the pain diminished, exhaustion took its place.

  “What you say? What’s he saying?” Gilroy seemed genuinely interested.

  “I dunno.” Jermaine leaned close to my ear and yelled, “What?”