Sweet Paradise

by Gene Desrochers

  The evening warmth felt good after being in West L.A., where there was almost always a chill at night, even in summer. Never needing a jacket. Never even needing to sleep inside unless it rained or the mosquitos were bad. Never needing to close my windows. The whisper of crickets floated on the wind from the grassy hillsides. You could get lost in that easy rhythm and never do anything productive again. As the cab passed over the hill, I spotted the sea, shimmering in the faint moonlight. Many days I felt like slipping into the breezy worry-free life so many islanders enjoyed. Waiting tables or selling trinkets to tourists would pay the bills and keep food on the table. Easier and safer. Apparently, not my bag.

  Chapter 23

  The pile of crap Savannah and Pickering had dumped on me littered my desk. The vastness of the information in Kendal’s computer caused my blood pressure to spike. What was I looking for? His personal organizational system made no sense to me. I couldn’t help wondering if Pickering had bogged me down to keep me from solving this thing in under a week just so he wouldn’t have to make good on his bonus offer.

  I started to call him and ask, but realized I was being ridiculous. The family was not giving me anything new. Another angle, that’s what I needed. Then I remembered the picture of the slaves working in the fields. Sugar cane. Rum.

  THE BACON DISTILLERY and warehouse had a tour starting at a little after eleven. I’d purchased a bottle in the gift shop and went along on the tour as they explained the process of distilling and bottling rum. Little plastic key chains in the shape of bottles with the Bacon pirate skull on them were given to each of us. I bought a pint and nicked away at it during the tour, then examined the grounds afterwards. The place had a garden with a patch of sugar cane growing for examination and a woman in a shanty selling hunks of cane if you wanted to suck on them.

  A group of tourists gathered around, grabbing pieces and handing her dollars. There were ten kids and seven adults milling about, touching the cane leaves and tapping on the hard reeds. I thought again of the reed painting from Francine’s room. “If not me, who?” A call to action that had gotten Francine killed. Then I remembered the second half of the quote: “If not now, when?” Indeed.

  “You want a piece?” It was the woman selling the cane. She was holding one out like a baton in a relay race.

  “Sure.”

  I fished a dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to her. The sweet juice bathed my tongue as I gnawed on the bark. All the Caribbean markets sold sugar cane. I had often begged my mother to buy me a piece, and she often complied to shut me up. It back-fired in the end, because I wouldn’t stop stammering on about the toys I wanted or stupid observations about other cars and pedestrians I spotted as we drove home. The sugar rush turned me into a prattler.

  “How long have you worked here?”

  She squinted at me. She had almost no teeth, probably from sucking sugar cane. “I been here since da start.”

  “Since 1969?”

  “Yes sir. Since 1969 when dey open dis place.”

  “What can you tell me about it that is more interesting than the tour?”

  Her eyes twinkled.

  “You want sweet juicy stuff?” Her lips curled in a mischievous smile. “I can smell you been,” she leaned her head back and forward like taking a drink. Out of nowhere she produced a highball glass and wiped it out with a yellow handkerchief. I poured a shot into the glass, took my own taste.

  She sipped the rum. “What you want to know?”

  “Anything you know about this distillery and the rum business. I don’t know, hit me with something interesting. Here.” I handed the remainder of the pint to her. She slipped it under the counter without hesitation.

  “All right. I tell you one t’ing. All them casks in there, they just for show.”

  “There’s no rum in them?” I asked.

  “There’s rum in them. In the real storage. This place was open for tourists, but this ain’t the real operation. Not for making rum. This place for distribute da rum. They put these here mostly for show. They agin’ them, but have much more other places. Mostly here is for shipping and tourists. Gift shop is the money.”

  “Is the rum business not good?”

  “Nah man, I ain’t say that!” She swatted at the air. “What I sayin’ is St. Thomas got all the people.”

  She waved her hand around at the surrounding area. People bustled about.

  “Don’t they have sugar production in other places? Puerto Rico, St. Kitts. That’s what the website says.”

  “Sugar. Ha. Don’t know what happenin’ there. Don’t know. Rum good. Who care where you get sugar? It all the same. No?”

  “This seems like hard work,” I said. “Do you pick the cane and cut.”

  “Yeah, I do it. This my sugar patch.”

  A machete stuck out of a chopping block that had a couple reeds of sugar cane laid out, ready for the next customer.

  “But you can’t cut da cane too early or it dry out,” she said. “All this fresh dis morning.” She dipped a hunk of the cane into her rum and sucked it off. “Like celery in a Bloody Mary, mi son.”

  A man walked from behind the sugar cane patch. He had a neatly trimmed beard and wore a black shirt with Bacon Rum printed on the breast pocket. The woman dropped her glass into the large trash can along with the piece of cane.

  “Florence, what have I told you about drinking the rum?”

  “What rum, sir?”

  He reached into the garbage can and fished out the glass. He sniffed it. “This rum. Florence, if I report this, it will be your third infraction. Do you realize what that means?”

  Her head bowed in shame. “Yes sir, I do. Would you like I should pack up me t’ings now?”

  “The rum belonged to me,” I said.

  The man turned to me slowly, a pained grin on his face. “And you are?”

  “A tourist. I was on the tour and bought a pint. I insisted Florence have a drink with me and she was just obliging. The customer is always right, right?”

  He looked back and forth at each of us. Florence did not raise her head. I stared straight ahead, still gnawing away on my piece of cane.

  “Florence. Did he pay for that cane?”

  She nodded solemnly.

  “I wonder, what compelled you to share your rum with this woman, sir?”

  “Common courtesy and the desire not to drink alone, sir. I was very keen to try your spiced rum as this was my first visit to the distillery, and this fine woman agreed to drink with me. Is that really so bad?”

  He steepled his fingers in front of his lips, then said, “Very well. Seeing as you were complying with a customer’s wishes. Florence, please go back to work. I see some more customers approaching. Remember, I’m watching you.”

  Her head bobbed quickly up and down. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”

  “Good, good. Now, sir, may I walk you around a bit? I mean, you appear to be very interested in our rum.”

  He was pigeon-toed but had an athletic build. The man worked out.

  “Oh terribly,” I said. “Are you the manager?”

  “Yes, you could say that. Foreman, manager, whatever you wish to call the person in charge of the day-to-day operations of this facility. What brought you here?”

  “An interest in your rum, but also, I’m assisting Junior in an inquiry.”

  He stopped in front of a discarded barrel someone had propped up. A sign was posted on the barrel: Rain Water.

  “Do you mean, Herbert Bacon, Junior? Francine’s grandson?”

  “Yes, him. And his brother Harold.”

  “Now I’m curious. Is there something you need from us here at the distillery?”

  “To be honest ... ” I paused.

  “Gilroy,” he filled in his name.

  “Gilroy. I’m at an impasse. You know about Francine, right?”

  “Terrible news. It’s why I
wore my black shirt all week. She was a fine woman. Don’t know what we’ll do without her.”

  “Was she hands-on here?”

  “You know, Mister?”

  “Montague. Boise Montague.”

  “Yes, Mr. Montague. Do you mind if I see some identification?”

  I showed him my license. He pulled out a cell phone and made a call. He stepped to the side while reading my name off the license to someone. I presumed either Junior or Harold. After a minute of whispered exchanges, he returned my license and ended the call with a, “Thank you.”

  “Harold confirmed you work for them. I hope you understand, I must ... ”

  “Please, Mr. Gilroy, no need. I completely understand.”

  “Francine Bacon was very active in all areas of her business enterprises. She believed in this business and the people working here. I am trying to uphold her standards, hence the strict policies you saw me enforcing on Florence.”

  “Sure, sure, I get it. No drinking on the job. Makes sense, but kind of ironic, wouldn’t you say?” I laughed.

  He forced a thin smile. “Of course, but we do serious work here and people drinking can be dangerous, even if it is our business. Wouldn’t you agree.”

  “Yes, yes. Safety first. Can you tell me what kind of wood you use for these barrels to age the rum and give it such a great flavor?”

  A huge grin burst from his face. “Ah, my area of expertise. Our spiced rum is aged a minimum of three years in oak barrels.”

  We now stood inside a storage area that was not part of the tour. I tapped gently on one of the barrels. “Three years seems short. I mean higher quality whiskey ages ten, even twenty years, right?”

  “It is the minimum. Aging happens faster in the tropics, so we cannot age as long as they do in places like Tennessee or Kentucky or Scotland.”

  “The heat?”

  “Evaporation or what the Brits call The Angel’s Share. While those producers lose two or three percent annually, we are bound to lose up to eleven percent. We cannot afford for all the product to evaporate.”

  “How long have you worked for the Bacons?”

  “A long time. My family has worked for them since the eighteenth century.”

  At this point, my antenna rose like a shirtless wrestler’s nipples in a blizzard. I wasn’t sure how to ask this question delicately so I let it tumble out, my inhibitions lowered by the rum I’d imbibed.

  “Were your ancestors slaves?”

  Ahead of me he had been walking, the rubber soles of his black shoes lightly echoing in the large space. He stopped. A monstrous silence reigned as if all the workers, tourists, even Florence, had frozen in place in anticipation of Gilroy’s reaction to my incendiary inquiry.

  The wedding band on his left hand glinted, catching some unseen source of light. Somewhere a compressor hissed. The sweet smell of liquor and wood permeated everything. What did Gilroy’s wife think every night when he came home smelling of booze? Did she accept this as his job? Why would anyone keep working for someone who had enslaved his family? I didn’t quite have the nerve to ask that question.

  “I’m sorry, but what is your name again?”

  Had he really forgotten my name after viewing my driver’s license and asking Harold about me?

  “Boise Montague. Did I say something wrong?”

  “It’s a delicate subject.”

  “Slavery or your family?” I asked.

  He continued down the passage, passing cask after cask until we came to another area where the bottling took place. There were barrels set on their sides and tapped. A woman filled the bottles by hand and placed them on a conveyor belt that sent them along and sealed the caps.

  “Here is where our spiced and select dark rums are bottled by hand, as the label states.” He pointed at the bottom of one of the bottles that had just come off the conveyor and was being placed in a cardboard box by another woman. This woman wore a mask over her face.

  “Why the mask?” I whispered.

  “She has a cold. That’s why she’s not pouring today. We don’t want any contamination. Bottles are already sealed at this point, so we’re safe. She needs the hours, right, Yarey?”

  “Hello, Dad.”

  “This is your daughter?”

  “Yes. The next generation. We are proud of our association with this fine distillery and getting prouder all the time. We built this place.” He raised his hands like a preacher in his pulpit on Sunday morning. Light filtered through a ventilation opening high above. “I want to keep it going for the future. I am teaching Yarey each of the jobs so someday she can oversee things.”

  “Oversee,” I muttered. “Interesting term.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing, nothing. You never answered me, Gilroy. May I call you Roy?”

  “No, you may not. I don’t like that moniker.”

  Touchy. This guy was going along, but I wasn’t sure why at this point.

  “Are you receiving reparations from the Bacons?”

  We were now headed upstairs to his office. “Before we go any further with this interrogation, I have a phone call to return. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “No problem here. Do you have a vending machine?”

  He directed me to a room with cheap cafeteria-style tables and three machines. Peanut butter crackers and a bag of Cheetos, the cornerstone of any nutritious meal. Back in the office, Gilroy was finishing up his call. The place smelled like a banana factory, but I saw no fruit anywhere.

  “Harold says I should tell you whatever you want to know.” He took a swig from a gold flask, then capped it and dropped it back in a desk drawer. Next, he pulled an e-cigarette out of his shirt pocket and puffed away. The vapor smelled of banana. He blew the smoke directly toward me. No regard. Passive-aggressive. All right.

  I’d go along to get along, but I couldn’t help a tone of annoyance entering my voice. “Yeah, so what about your ancestors and the reparations I asked about?”

  He sighed and pondered the mess of papers tacked to a corkboard. To the left was a large window that looked down on the floor below where the workers milled about; ants on an anthill. A laminated card specifying workers’ rights and the current year’s minimum hourly wage was tacked to the wall adjacent to the corkboard. One of those motivational posters showing a breaking wave hung above his desk.

  On the opposite wall, behind me, was a giant canvas of what appeared to be an original painting. A landscape of a plantation. In the center bottom of the vast, green expanse of sugar cane stood a white woman wearing a sun hat tied around her chin. Next to her a black man, no doubt a slave, shirtless in pants held up with rope. He on bended knee holding something, perhaps a piece of sugar cane, up to her as an offering. While the background of the painting gave one a sense of oneness with nature, like the feeling from William Wordsworth, the foreground snatched that away, forcing you to face the grim reality of human relations. I suspect that was not the painter’s intent, but there it was.

  Some of the articles I’d happened across while researching the years of slavery in the Caribbean alluded to this idealized world that the wealthy landowners tried to propagate through art and literature of the mid-1800s when abolitionists attacked with fervor the sale and torturous nature of the slave trade in gory detail through leaflets and other propaganda. Eventually, the public outcry back in France, England, and other European nations could no longer be ignored.

  “Yes, I come from slaves. I do not enjoy discussing this with people outside those close to me. My tribe as it were. What are you, Polynesian?”

  Here we go again. “No, I’m white and African.”

  He threw me a skeptical look, then continued. “Fine. Yes, I’m from slaves, but my family was always keen to maintain their pride and quickly rose out of that life once given a chance. It was difficult as those of African heritage were always kept down by the Europeans, but int
elligence eventually won out and we rose to managerial positions. We have passed along our knowledge. I am lucky my offspring wish to continue to learn what turned out to be the family business. It was destiny. A long, slow bend to justice. I intend to own my own distillery. Rum from the Caribe region will always be sought after and small distilleries are becoming more and more fashionable with the wealthy tech-savvy crowd. I have already been doing small batches in my yard and selling much to Silicon Beach.”

  Silicon Beach was a region along the coast of West Los Angeles that had grown in recent years into a smaller version of Silicon Valley. Many wealthy, young men and women with technology backgrounds had moved there, frequented the watering holes and had so much disposable income, even with the sky-rocketing housing costs, they could spend freely on luxury items like craft beers and aged cheeses from around the world. Spirits would apparently join the fray.

  “Sounds like you have a conflict of interest here,” I said.

  “No,” he said with a smirk. “I am insignificant when compared to the commercial prowess of Bacon Rum. See, what Francine and the Bacon family have are deep pockets. I have no such luxury. My business loses money every month and probably will for years. It is for my children and grandchildren, so they have access to the means of production. So they do not have to rely on others for work. That is my dream.”

  A dream can get you into trouble. He had a determined look. The face of a man on a mission to better his station. Sometimes, the cost could be one’s soul.

  “You still haven’t answered my other question. Are you part of the reparations that Francine Bacon decided to pay on behalf of her family?”

  “Yes, I was interviewed by a reporter about my family history.”

  “Was his name Adirondack Kendal?”

  “Yes. Kendal. I told him that Francine Bacon knew my family history in the business. Mr. Bacon made sure everyone knew the deal, especially when he was dying. He wanted to make sure nothing happened to our position in the company.”

  “You are referring to Francine’s husband, Dominic Bacon?” I had read about him in the notes from Kendal, as well as in some of my research online. “Sounds like you miss him?”