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

“What’s your name, son?”

“Herbie, but folks call me Junior on account of my dad having the same name.”

He typed into his phone. “Last name? Spell everything.”

We told him all the basics. I laid out the specifics of the actual arrow shot, but left out the few details about Junior’s family, including his grandmother’s unknown status. Junior added a few more specifics, but also left out his concerns. Eventually, they let us go but insisted that they’d be in touch to follow up on our version of events.

As we headed for the Snack Shack a few blocks away, I asked, “So why don’t you want help from those detectives on your grandma?”

“I don’t know. Just don’t feel right, you know?”

“Two burgers,” I said. “With fries.”

I leaned toward the kitchen and inhaled deeply. The warm aroma of food ushered away the stench of death and decay that had left a foul after-smell in my nose.

When the counter guy didn’t give me a total, I realized he was staring at my bare chest. I’d used my shirt to soak up Kendal’s blood. He pointed above him at a greasy no shoes, no shirt, no service sign. A large metal fan was the only thing keeping it bearable between the island heat and the smoking kitchen only feet away. Hanging above the register were t-shirts with the restaurant’s name for sale. I tugged on a medium and paid the man.

The only beer on the menu was Schlitz and Pabst Blue Ribbon.

“What do you want to drink?”

“I’m vegetarian,” Junior declared.

“Fine by me,” I said. “I’ll eat both burgers. Drink?”

“Perrier.”

“Perrier and a Pabst B-R.” I shelled out my last twenty. “You eat fish?”

He didn’t respond. He was fixated on the spot on his leg. The red spot.

“You want to go wash that off?” I turned to the guy at the counter. “Bathroom?”

He shook his head and pointed to another sign. NO RESTROOMS. I remembered California had some law about restaurants being required to have restrooms. This was not California. I asked for a cup of water and grabbed some napkins. Junior wiped his leg. His hand continued wiping the spot so that his skin had begun turning redder and little wet shreds of napkin stuck to his leg. He jerked when I gently gripped his shoulder.

“I think you got it out,” I said.

Dropping the napkin on the table, he crossed his leg onto the knee of the other leg and leaned over, examining it more closely. There was nothing there.

He took one sip of his Perrier, then picked up another napkin, dipped it in the water cup and resumed rubbing the spot.

We passed the time in silence until our orders were called—he rubbed, I sipped. Scenarios ran through my mind about why someone would want Kendal dead. The main one for me was that he had an arrogant attitude and cared little about the consequences his stories brought to those involved. As I slathered ketchup over my burgers, I couldn’t help thinking this might have turned out for the best as far as Junior’s interests were concerned.

“I work up an appetite whenever the authorities come around.” I shoved the plate of crinkle-cut fries in front of him and dumped some ketchup on the side of the plate. “Bon appetite.”

Did Kendal’s demise have anything to do with Junior, or was this a colossal coincidence? Would I ever get my office back? Mostly, I reminded myself that Kendal wasn’t paying me and Junior might be. I was determined to keep better focus on this case than I had on Roger’s, where I’d gotten distracted repeatedly by a kidnapping Dana and I had stumbled upon during the course of our investigation. The guy whose daughter had been kidnapped had been one of the wealthiest men in the Caribbean, but I hadn’t earned a dime for saving the girl.

After ten minutes his eyes had gained some focus. He seemed present again, but smaller somehow. “So, how you doing with what happened?” I asked between bites. Each mouthful of burger deserved its own fry, then I’d dab my mouth for grains of salt or bread. Four napkins minimum for proper dabbing. I had an unnatural fear of food on my face.

Dipping a fry in the ketchup he ate it slowly, bit by oily potato bit. “I’m still worried about grandma. Somehow feels like this is my fault. The guy comes down to see me and pow, dead. No one else saw the letter or knew about me coming here. The letter didn’t even say which reporter was my contact. Must be a coincidence, right? Couldn’t be me. Right?”

“That’s a very rational attitude, except whenever someone dies in a room with only three people, there’s a decent chance it has to do with at least one of the other people. Rule of threes, as my old man used to say.”

He slurped some tea and belched into his hand. “’Scuse me. Yeah, I guess you could be right. But you and this reporter are both in a dangerous business, right? I mean solving murders and digging up dirt on folks is bound to make some enemies, right?”

The kid did have a point.

“Then again, you were only two feet away from a guy who got aced with an arrow. That doesn’t worry you at all?”

“Two feet might as well be a mile for a pro.”

He was starting to shove fries into his mouth with more enthusiasm, a good sign. Focusing on details and solving the problem always provided a welcome distraction from the emotional reality of death, as did hunger.

I looked up from my plate. “What’s that mean?”

“The arrow. Did you look at the arrow?”

I dropped my burger on top of the fries and wiped my fingers, but didn’t dab, which should tell you something about how much this statement jarred me.

“Nope. It was hard to make out the brand since the damn thing was covered with blood.”

“It was pro grade. Not something some rook goes in for, you know?” His eyes