Sweet Paradise

by Gene Desrochers

  “I was with your father today at the distillery.”

  “Oh, right, the investigator.”

  When she said this, Alicia Keys turned from speaking to an older man and eyed me with her sultry, half-closed lids.

  “What do you mean ‘investigator?’” she asked. Her red and black dress spun around her full hips in a wide arc, making her even more angelic. She looked to be about twenty-five.

  “I’m a private eye,” I said, extending my hand. “You have a lovely voice.” I sounded like an idiot, but forced myself on. This was only the second woman I’d taken real notice of since Evelyn passed. Eventually I needed to get back out there.

  Yarey laughed. “Yeah, it looks like it’s her voice you like.”

  I blushed, and the singer patted my cheek. “You are cute for an investigator. You sure the criminals are gonna take you seriously with your baby face?”

  “You’ve got a point there,” I said. “Not much I can do about that. I’d like to think underestimating me would be an advantage.”

  “You could get in a knife fight and hope for a gash across the bow here.” She ran a long fingernail along my left cheek. An electric jolt shot through me. She pulled away, her perfect lips parting. “Sorry, it’s just, being an investigator must be exciting and dangerous.”

  “Being a singer entails some excitement, right?”

  “It has its moments, like this. But most days it’s standing alone in a room practicing notes, drinking honey and tea, and making sure I stay healthy.” She squinched up her nose and leaned close. “I had to quit smoking entirely. You believe that shit?”

  “You don’t have to do anything, do you?”

  She laughed. “No, I don’t.” she said. “You have a light?” She pulled a menthol cigarette out of her purse.

  “Hang on.” Spotting a woman behind her smoking, I procured her lighter.

  “Thank you,” she sighed through a stream of smoke.

  Junior and Yarey continued to talk. I vaguely remembered that my real purpose was to pump Yarey for information, but I couldn’t tear myself away from this beautiful woman, who in some shocking plot development bothered to speak to me.

  Holding up the program, I found her photo and a brief description of her training and other performances. It seemed she preferred jazz and hip-hop to gospel. Her name was Anna Lynn.

  “Yeah, but a good singer doesn’t pigeon-hole herself, right? I’ll bet you investigate more than one type of crime.”

  “Is Anna Lynn your stage name?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she giggled, sipping on a plastic glass of Chardonnay.

  “This is nice,” I said, referring to the refreshments and cheese plates. “Do they always do this?”

  “Are you kidding? This cheap-ass place normally does nothing, but my manager’s trying to class up the joint when I perform. My latest contract demands that some kind of beverages and food, not in a bag, be served following any performance. That’s how you build a following. See that brother with the iPad?”

  She pointed through the crowd at a forty-something-year-old mustachioed man shaking hands with a white couple. The woman wore a black sequined gown, the man a tux.

  “Those two are some of the richest art patrons in the islands. They actually know a lot about the history of jazz and gospel. Getting them on board could launch me into orbit.”

  “Do you write?” I asked.

  “Both lyrics and music. I play the piano.”

  “Another Alicia Keys, huh?”

  She rolled her eyes and nudged Yarey. “He just went there.”

  Yarey laughed. “I hope you didn’t just compare this unique flower to that singer with all those Grammys.”

  “What? You mean you dislike being compared to beautiful people who are extraordinarily successful. My apologies.”

  “How’d you like to be called Tom Selleck all day long?”

  “I like Magnum, P.I. That’s a worthy comparison.”

  She pushed her hand into my face. “Uh-huh. Believe you me, it gets old. It’s like your better-looking, more successful sister who always overshadows you. No can do, my brother. You can make it up by getting me another glass.” She turned her wineglass-shaped cup upside down

  Her manager wandered over.

  “This guy’s an investigator,” she said, taking the drink and patting her manager on his muscled shoulder. The guy’s mustache and hair were perfectly groomed. He bowed slightly and shook my hand with a wide grin.

  “My pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Oba. You have a great look, brother. I like the hat. What do you drive?”

  “I’m not much of a car guy.”

  “Ah yes. Keeping it simple. I like this.”

  He sounded like he hailed from a West African nation. His accent flowed with a natural cadence that loosely resembled the Queen’s English.

  “You're Anna’s manager?” I asked.

  “I’m that, and more.” He leaned over and gave her a thick kiss. Anna didn’t kiss back with much enthusiasm.

  “What did I tell you, Oba?”

  “Yes, yes, my queen. No public displays, I understand, but when you look so ravishing, how can I resist?” He grinned again and her demeanor relaxed.

  “I want to be taken seriously as an artist, which means we must be ... ”

  He turned to me and asked, “Artists are passionate, no?”

  She walked away, typing something into her phone.

  “I’m not sure my opinion carries much weight,” I said.

  He bowed again and said, “A pleasure again, Mr. Montague.” He kissed Yarey on her hand. “And you, Miss Yarey.”

  When he was out of earshot, Yarey said to Junior and me, “That guy’s such a tease. You have to watch him. And, he’s not discerning, if you get my drift.”

  Junior looked lost, so I said, “He likes men and women.”

  “Oh. Riiiight,” Junior intoned.

  “He’s okay with either, both, or trans too.”

  I turned back to her. “He likes trans? What about non-binary?”

  Yarey snapped her fingers. “Look at the big brain on Boise! You down with the modern sexuality.”

  “I lived in L.A.”

  She nodded as if this explained everything.

  “Where?”

  “The westside, a little south of Santa Monica.”

  She continued nodding. “Very cool. Why are you here?”

  I explained briefly my reasons for returning, mainly the death of Evelyn and how I was from St. Thomas. I left out salient details that might scare a young lady upon meeting me for the first time, like the fact that the sheriff in LA County was on the verge of arresting me for interfering in an official investigation.

  I continued, “I guess to get away from the craziness. I don’t know. Run back home?”

  “St. Thomas makes you feel safe?” she questioned with raised eyebrows.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “There’s a lot of death here. A lot of crime. Not enough work or opportunity.”

  “For a crime-fighter like myself, it’s perfect, right?”

  This made her smile, and what a smile it was. Gentle as the tide on a warm summer night at Magen’s Bay. Perhaps I’d overlooked Yarey’s understated beauty.

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “Me. I’m boring,” Yarey said. “From this rock, and I still here.”

  “Don’t insult my home,” I said. She laughed. The theater crowd had dwindled. “Didn’t your dad come?”

  Her face plunged. “Could we not talk about him?”

  “Sure, sure,” I said. “You sounded great.” Too late. She had that far-away look people got when thinking about loss. In her case, she had lost her father’s pride. He didn’t even come in faux solidarity, just to show he cared. Being right was more important to Gilroy Antsy than showing his daughter h
e loved her.

  Junior patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. She stared down at the floor for a moment, then said, “I’m going to go change.”

  “Yarey ... ,” Junior intoned.

  She waved him off and headed backstage. Still looking at her phone, Anna soon followed. When they came out twenty minutes later, Anna scolded us.

  “Wha’d you idiots have to ask about that man for? Which of you fools asked?”

  I sheepishly raised my hand. Right then, Yarey skipped out and exclaimed, “So, where we going?”

  “Hey, Yarey, I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it!” She rubbed her nose. “Let’s go, I’m ready for some real music and dancing.”

  We piled into Oba’s SUV and he zipped through the streets with practiced ease. We arrived at Mojo’s, a surf shack and nightclub not far from my office in the Port of Sale Mall. The place was already going strong, Calypso music bouncing off the walls as ladies ground their hips suggestively around drooling men in shorts holding Corona bottles aloft like mistletoe.

  Oba insisted on buying the first round and I elected to have whatever Anna recommended. In short order I was gulping down a rum punch, heavy on the guava juice. Not typically a keen dancer, after two large glasses even my hips loosened and we all gyrated. Everyone except Junior. Not even Yarey’s pleas could get him out of his chair. He sipped his drink and excused himself outside. When he returned, he stunk like a skunk and Anna asked if he had any more. They ventured back out. I followed, mostly to keep an eye on Junior, which Yarey insisted was sweet.

  “He could use a big brother,” she announced to Oba, who spread his patented grin.

  Junior was stretched out on a thick stone wall, watching a chubby guy in a bowling shirt and flip-flops, argue with his cauliflower-armed wife about whether he was sober enough to drive. Anna lounged behind him, contemplating the dark storefronts of the mall. Somehow, she managed to look elegant smoking a joint on a stone wall outside a divey surf bar.

  Yarey trailed me out. She refused a toke. I decided to stick with my rum buzz as well, but settled down next to Anna to enjoy the earthy smell of the weed. Yarey giggled at something Anna whispered. I asked what was so funny.

  “Nothing. She just said something about my dad having a stick up his ass like a scarecrow, but you know what?” She paused, then said, “Of course you don’t know, silly, how could you! I’ve never seen a scarecrow. Least ways not for reals. Aren’t they in corn fields in Kansas?”

  “I suppose they could be anywhere you want to scare birds away from messing with crops.” I pointed at the joint. “Probably good for keeping pests away from marijuana crops too.”

  She laughed. “You call yourself a detective. What would birds want with weed? You don’t eat it.”

  I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself for questioning my detective credentials, but she was right, birds didn’t eat weed. A piece of advice from my estranged uncle when I was eleven: don’t insult a beautiful woman until after she sleeps with you. He was a church-goer.

  Anna continued to stare at the buildings, a sobering expression playing on her face while Junior people-watched the crowd milling about the entrance. The place was packed for a Wednesday.

  “Is tonight some kind of ladies’ night?”

  “Nah,” Anna said. “Just locals started coming here after eight a couple years now. Shit, this is quiet.”

  An island breeze swept through, drying the light, yet constant film of moisture on my skin. The hairs on my arms prickled, and I knew it was time.

  “Yarey, can I ask you about your dad?”

  Anna piped up. “Shit man, you’re killing my buzz.” With that she got up and went back inside. Junior rolled over and gazed at the sky. Even in this well-lit parking lot, you could see more stars here than in the darkest recesses of Los Angeles. That was one of many things I’d taken for granted when I lived here, the immense natural beauty, real darkness, and genuine, almost noisy silence. The kind of silence that made you believe you were hearing the last remnants of the Big Bang.

  “What about him?” Yarey asked.

  “Did Junior tell you what I’m up to?”

  “I know a little. I mean you don’t have to be a genius to know when an investigator is helping a family after someone died suspiciously.”

  “Bingo. Your dad said you and he were both part of the reparations package Francine put together.”

  “Yes, far as I know we are.”

  “Has he given you instruction on your share?”

  “If you’re asking whether he has designs on my money, I think he wants me to invest it in his distillery and stay in that business. Is that what you mean?” She looked confused and unsure how much to tell me.

  “Listen, Yarey, I’m not trying to pry into your finances, but I need information on people who were financially involved with Francine because that’s always a potential conflict with the victim and might lead me to the killer.”

  “How can you be sure she was murdered? I heard she drowned.”

  “You think it was just an accident?”

  “Isn’t it possible?” she posited.

  Junior listened, then chimed in. “Yarey, you can help Boise. I hired him to figure this out. If he’s asking, it’s to find out what happened, even if it was an accident. How’d she get out to the water and drown? I’d like to know, and so would Harold.”

  She snorted softly. “Funny you don’t mention your father or aunt.”

  Junior looked at me, his bloodshot eyes drooping under the weight of the THC. “Guess I’m not sure they really care. They’re interested in moving on. Taking care of themselves.”

  “My dad wants me to learn the distillery business so I can take over someday and build this empire he imagines. Always on about the means of production, whatever that is. I read Cliffnotes on Marx. Still don’t get it. But, he’s probably right, I should just stick with what our family knows. I’ve learned a lot and understand the process all right. I’ve worked there since I was eighteen.”

  “You can work at a distillery at eighteen?”

  “Sure, you just can’t drink any of it. Least not out in the open.”

  “Sounds like you would do it because it’s the smart thing, but what do you want?”

  She opened her mouth and released a gentle note, like a finch flitting out of a golden cage.

  “I could make a record. Move to a city. Get started.” She hung her head a little. “But, that’s not smart. It’s a pipe dream. The odds are astronomical.”

  “Astronomical. Like the stars,” Junior said wistfully as he blew smoke into the night. “Me, sometimes I think I’d like to be part of the darkness between the stars. You know, just disappear from all of it.”

  The smoke dissipated while I looked into the darkness between the stars and considered whether I’d ever had a fantasy career that lit me up the way Yarey was lit by her dream of being a singer. My path had been much more practical and survivalist. If my parents had given more practical guidance—really any guidance, perhaps I’d feel differently. My father yelled at me mostly in a drunken rage and my mother maintained an iron demeanor of passive resistance to all of life’s minor tortures. We existed in a permanent state of crisis until he died and she flitted off to be free of his anger, yet ruled by it.

  Freedom was my dream, and now I was living it. I’d left my mother behind by coming back here. She hated the islands and had sworn never to return. When I came back, she cursed me under her breath, like a woman curses her child’s killer as she watches him hanged on the gallows.

  “It is astronomical. Dreams are like that. High risk, high reward investments,” I said.

  I wanted to continue and tell her something you’d hear at a commencement address about setting the world on fire with your passion. That nothing could stop a will that’s true. Like an arrow. But none of that came to me and if it did, I didn’t really believe it anymore.
/>   “Your father has big plans for that money and for your family.”

  “He’s been like this the last few years. He got it in his head to strike out and create one of the dynasties like the Vanderbilts or Rockefellers. You know that story about shirt-sleeves to shirt-sleeves in three generations?”

  “No,” I said.

  “It’s some kind of saying about families who inherit wealth lose it all because the kids are spoiled. Dad was obsessed with that idea. He wanted to build it and for me to grow it. He loves to say, ‘that’s what it takes, Yarelle.’”

  “How was his relationship with Francine?”

  “He was devoted to her, but mostly to suck knowledge from her. The Bacons amassed wealth. Not Rockefeller wealth, but they did well. Dad didn’t like how they did it with slavery. He respected what she was trying to do to repair damages.”

  “You mean the reparations.”

  “Yes, those. But there was something else.”

  Junior leaned up on his elbow and offered her the joint. She tugged and puffed, then handed it back.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “He didn’t trust kindness. I don’t know how else to say it. He thinks people are untrustworthy and kindness is a disguise to get something or use you.”

  “That’s a dark position,” Junior said. “I don’t think my grandma was like that.”

  “I don’t know about that, but she was trying anyway. She didn’t have to do anything,” I said. I looked back at Yarey. “Right?”

  “I want to sing, that’s what I know. I also know that your grandfather wasn’t such a great guy. He was all about holding on to that wealth for the family. Your grandmother was giving it away and rich people don’t stay rich giving it away. It went against everything your grandfather believed.”

  Anna reappeared from inside and took a drag from Junior’s joint.

  As she handed it back, Junior said, “My grandmother was her own person. That’s what it means. But that doesn’t mean she was right.”

  “Maybe she died for being so ... ” I couldn’t think of how to say it. “ ... I don’t know ... herself?”

  A pearl-colored Mercedes pulled up in front of us. The passenger door shoved open and there was Gilroy.