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

me of a cartel boss’ estate in Colombia or Mexico I’d once seen photographed for an architectural magazine. In the distance, a section of grass was fenced and marked as a tennis court. Two barren net posts stood guard outside the doubles alleys.

“So, my little man tells me he wants you to find mama. You up for that? I mean ... ” He nodded toward the French doors behind us. “ ... we ain’t exactly the Swiss Family Robinson. You sure you want in on this fiasco?”

Harold started a second cigarette. Mine smoldered in a ridiculous green ashtray on their marble coffee table. He offered me another. I waved him off.

I nudged Junior. “It doesn’t sound like your family is much for your theory. Not your dad and aunt, anyway.” I addressed Harold. “What do you think? Could she be missing, or were you just saying that to get a rise out of them?”

He pointed the business end of the cigarette at me. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

“No.”

“Cool. Cool. Yeah, well, I don’t really believe she’s missing, but who cares? I’m happy to help my nephew out with his beliefs. All the better if it pisses them off. So what, you came here to ask for an investigative bankroll?”

“Yeah, Uncle Harold, I was praying you’d indulge me on this seeing as I’m really concerned about her and she’s your mother. I mean, what if I’m right?”

“Yeah, kid, or maybe you wanted an excuse to ditch school.”

“Man, you know I like school.”

“Yeah, I know, that’s why I’m inclined to say fuck it and pay this man for his services.”

“Really?” Junior’s eyes lit up. “You’d do that?”

Harold nodded and his nephew hugged him. I felt like hugging both of them; I had a paying gig.

“I see you have an archery range over there,” I said.

“You shoot?” Harold asked.

“No ... well, once at a camp.” Something small and brown scurried across the open field. “Was that a rabbit?”

“Yeah, when we were kids, we had a pair of rabbits get loose. That saying about multiplying like bunnies is for real.” Harold sniggered. “What say, champ? Should we show him the ropes?”

“Sure,” said Junior.

We made our way over to the range where a small shed housed the equipment. Harold brought out a complicated device that resembled a bow.

“Funny looking, huh? These things have gotten pretty high-tech. When I competed, they were much more like this.”

From the back of the shed, he brought out a bow painted army camouflage and sporting a more traditional look, but made of some high-tech alloy.

“I use this for hunting, not competition.”

He let me hold it.

“Wanna try?” He winked at Junior. “What about you? Been practicing?”

Junior shrugged. “More into biking lately, but I go shoot sometimes. I’m gonna get some water.”

Once Junior was gone, Harold dropped his cigarette on the ground. He pulled a quiver out of the shed, and we positioned ourselves next to a painted brick marked with a white “20.”

“Dude, archery one-oh-one. You put your hand here. Nock the arrow here.” He hadn’t given me an arrow yet, probably a good idea. You don’t give a loaded gun to a child. “No, like this, man.” After adjusting my hand, he pointed at the multi-colored target. “This is a pretty rookie distance, but if you don’t shoot it’ll be tough enough.”

“It seems plenty far enough to embarrass me,” I muttered.

My left arm had some bend in the elbow. He straightened it. “Extend your bow arm.” He tapped under my right elbow. “Elbow up. Level. Good.” He handed me an arrow. I nocked it. “Turn more sideways, like this.” He demonstrated. “Nice, except, ah never mind. Let ‘er rip.”

I pulled back, trying to control my breathing as I’d learned to do when shooting. The arrow flew, hit the edge of the target and careened off into the grass.

Harold pursed his lips and rubbed his hands together. “You almost hit the target.”

I held the bow out to him. “Let me watch you.”

A grin spread across his tanned features. He appeared ruddier and more rugged-looking than his siblings. He gripped the bow with practiced ease, shook his right hand like it was a wet rag, set the arrow, and released. The arrow hit between the first and second gold ring.

“Too much weed today.”

“What do you mean? That’s amazing.”

“It’s all right.”

“I hear you’re an Olympian,” I said.

As he picked up the stuff and dropped it back into the shed, he said, “Why would Junior be telling you about my archery exploits?”

“We had an archery-centered discussion at lunch today.”

Harold sighed. “I’ll bite.”

“A reporter Junior was going to speak with got shot with a hunting arrow in front of us through the open door of my office.” I patted my chest. “He’s dead.”

His expression remained passive, almost strangely so.

“The blood on his leg?” Harold said.

“Actually, he wiped off the other guy’s blood hours ago, but he won’t stop messing with the spot where it was.”

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Does Herbie know?”

I shook my head.

“Yeah, probably for the best, dude. He won’t enjoy hearing that his son was in a room where someone was killed. Might make him more inclined to refuse your assistance. This got anything to do with mama ghosting us?”

“No idea,” I said. “I’ve been a part of this game for an action-packed couple hours. All I know is a man’s dead and your nephew’s conviction that his grandma’s missing. Why don’t any of you believe him?”

Junior exited the house with a determined gait and crossed the grass, holding a glass of water.

“What’s up, kid?” asked Harold.

He pouted and kicked at a rock. It tumbled toward the target. “Dad’s being a dick.”

Harold nodded. I could see he wanted to agree, but he held his tongue.

“What’d he say?” I asked.

“He complained about wasting tuition money since we lose fifty-percent of this semester’s money if I drop out now. He also bitched about the cost of airline tickets. Like just ‘cause he’s afraid to leave this rock, I should never do anything?”

“Hey man, your dad’s, like,