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

leading away from the nest and over the branches like veins. Beneath the hardened wood-dust covering, thousands marched in orderly fashion, devouring the beautiful tree molecule by molecule. I poked it again. The nest was hard. Durable. Termites were not easy to kill.

Jabbing the stick deep into the nest, I left it protruding like an appendage and headed for my new office.

Terry Montague often said bad things waited around every corner in life. He was a tough man to have as a father and often wrong about a great many things, but about this he had a point. Nothing had happened for a couple months, which meant I was overdue. Perhaps I’d developed a feeling, or perhaps I was being naturally cautious because of the dangerous business I’d chosen to pursue. Either way, precautions needed to be taken.

On the advice of my reporter pal, Dana Goode, I’d rented office space in the same building occupied by the newspaper she worked for, The Daily News. They took up the entire top floor of the building. I had a ground-floor view. Dana was a splendid negotiator, and she’d bargained the landlord down to a rate I could stomach. She had a way of getting her way.

Although I rented space in the building, we were not officially linked. I did advertise in the paper, and had even wound up working with Dana on my last case. She’d been helpful. She’d also nearly gotten me killed—repeatedly. Friends can’t be perfect. In the end, I’d hung out my shingle. This was my second week in my new office as a private investigator desperately seeking clients.

I rapped on the thin, fake wood. “You see what I’m talking about, Randy?” I said as my office door rattled like an open shutter in a hurricane. “If I hit it any harder, it’d crack like an egg. Not entirely secure, wouldn’t you agree?”

Randy shifted from sole to sole, eyeing the door like it was a cooked chicken and he couldn’t decide where to start cutting. “Yeah, I hear you, Boise.” He nodded. “But this here door be new. Like they done replace it before you sign the leases. I done asked them, and they ain’t puttin’ another door in this frame.”

Brand new piece of crap. A lot of new stuff sucked these days. Designed to be replaced in short order. Planned obsolescence had taken over every corner of the world. I’d be dealing with island riff-raff. Some half-assed door wasn’t gonna keep them from robbing me or busting in after I’d pissed them off. If I wanted to make a living, I needed a known place of business. Which meant bad guys and good guys would both know where to find me. This door made me nervous.

With my index finger I traced a frame in the air that outlined the door. “Tell you what, if they replace the door, I paint it for free.”

Randy chuckled. “Sorry, brodda. They ain’t paintin’ the door eidda.” He turned and waddled up the stairs to the second floor.

“Yeah, sorry I asked,” I muttered under my breath.

With the flat of my palm I smacked the door again. It shuddered.

My office faced the parking lot and a weed-infested traffic circle. The lock wasn’t even a deadbolt, just a shiny, faux brass knob suitable for the bathroom inside a house.

After shelling out money for the security deposit, some used furniture, and the rent, my savings account wasn’t worth much more than Christina’s tinder-box house. My accommodations at The Manner and the rent on this new office would be covered for another two, maybe three months, then I’d be out on my rass.

The deserted parking lot baked in the hot West Indian sun. My curls swayed in the breeze from my ceiling fan as a drop of perspiration trickled down my sideburn. No clients, no prospects. Story of my life.

The door. Something needed to be done about this door. The sandpaper-brown finish didn’t engender confidence, or even a second glance. I hadn’t moved back to St. Thomas to live the same boring brown and gray life I’d had as a law firm investigator in Los Angeles. The economy here didn’t hum, there were no grand museums displaying works of staggering genius, and the only plays were poorly done local fare. What St. Thomas had was color and natural wonder, and a soothingly warm sea. And a bunch of crazy residents. Like I said, people here craved anonymity and it wasn’t because they were nice and normal. Many, many of them were running and hiding. Such people had trouble staying out of trouble.

My ad in The Daily News hadn’t done squat for business either. Sure, it had only been running for a week, but all I could afford was three weeks. Walter Pickering, the president of the newspaper, claimed that all the publicity the paper had provided me by covering the murder of Roger Black and the kidnapping of Celia Jarl was more than enough. No more free advertising for Boise Montague. Pickering was so cheap his shiny, brown scalp squeaked. It cost me time and money to solve those crimes and the stories had no doubt contributed to increased circulation for the paper.

The other doors on my floor were all the same sandpaper-brown, sporting the same cheap lock. I wasn’t being discriminated against. My door was the newest one. My proximity to the three steps that led up to the first-floor landing gave me great visibility. Be grateful. Nah, I’d complain some more the first chance I got.

THE PAINT WAS TOO DAMNED expensive. Everything in these stores was too damned expensive. Various brands, types, and colors populated the shelves. Much of the selection needed to be mixed to get any colors besides the boring variations on brown, gray, and white. All of that added up to more than I wanted to spend.

Hidden in the back corner of The Paint Depot was a discount shelf of criminally off-beat tones in mostly brilliant pastels that