Zack Chasteen 01 Bahamarama, page 1
part #1 of Zack Chasteen Series
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Phenomenal praise for
Bahamarama
“I was wondering when Bob Morris would finally get around to writing a novel, and it was worth the wait. Bahamarama is sly, smart, cheerfully twisted and very funny. Morris is a natural.”
—Carl Hiaasen,
New York Times bestselling author of Skin Tight
“In Bahamarama, Bob Morris is as tough and fast as Elmore Leonard, writes about the Caribbean as knowledgeably as Jimmy Buffett, and also begins to blaze his own, stylish trail as a gifted novelist. Bahamarama is a can’t-miss hoot.”
—Randy Wayne White,
New York Times bestselling author of Twelve Mile Limit
“Bob Morris, a terrific writer and pure Florida boy, has created a marvelous tale that perfectly captures the nation’s strangest state. Like Florida itself, Bahamarama is wild, weird, unpredictable, populated by exotic denizens—and funny as hell.”
—Dave Barry,
New York Times bestselling author
and Pulitzer Prize winner
“Bob Morris’s Bahamarama is as spicy as a bowl of fresh conch salad. Leading good guy Zack Chasteen tells his own story of a Bahama trauma with a voice so fresh that it makes you want to read this book twice.”
—Jeffrey Cardenas, author of Sea Level
“When it comes to books from the lower latitudes, you sometimes can’t see the forest for the palm trees. No worries with Bahamarama. This book stands out. It’s a fun and engrossing read from an author who expertly knows the lay of the land and the sea.”
—Michael Connelly,
New York Times bestselling author of The Narrows
“[A] hard-boiled, edgy debut novel . . . An array of colorful locals gives the story some much-needed texture, while juicy plotting keeps this impressive page turner simmering. Morris has produced an accomplished first novel with a priceless final scene.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Cinematic . . . Fast-paced . . . Chasteen makes a fine hero, one who lives by his own rules, disdains firearms and takes care of business with guile, strength and help from a mysterious Caribbean Indian who can smell hurricanes coming and conjure up a sleeping potion when necessary . . . A highly enjoyable way to pass an afternoon.”
—The Miami Herald
“Morris captures the islands and local people well . . . Morris has ably woven kidnapping plots, subplots, a promiscuous heiress, a Taino medicine man and even a hurricane together to keep the pages turning . . . A great bullets-and-beaches book to pack on your next trip.”
—Caribbean Travel & Life
“A breezy, energetic debut . . . [S]hould be the start of a long series. Morris’s wry sense of humor, coupled with a bit of cynicism, crisp dialogue and seasoned view of Florida and the Bahamas give an extra punch to Bahamarama”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“A funny, fast-moving crime novel . . . Great fun.”
—Mystery Lovers Bookshop News
“A cast of the most colorful characters ever to step into the warm Bahama sun.”
—Mystery News
“Bahamarama is a fun novel with a satisfying end.”
—The Oregonian
“Bob Morris is a writer distinguished by a quirky sense of humor and a sharply observant eye . . . a satisfyingly complex and fast-moving thriller with some wonderful sidebars on Out Islands life and scenery, and a fine, explosive finale.”
—Islands
“Morris knows how to put some bounce in his writing: His narrator has a fresh, true voice and a lode of comic cynicism . . . This is a series to watch.”
—Booklist
“The plot swerves with each swell caused by an incoming hurricane. Abundant Caribbean descriptions, amazing characters, unremitting wry humor, and a strong protagonist flavor this tempting first novel. Carl Hiaasen, Tim Dorsey, and Randy Wayne White fans will be reserving this one.”
—Library Journal
“One of the more promising comedic mystery debuts in a while.”
—The Flint Journal
Bahamarama
Bob Morris
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
BAHAMARAMA
Copyright © 2004 by Bob Morris.
Excerpt from Jamaica Me Crazy © 2005 by Bob Morris.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2004046780
ISBN: 0-312-99747-7
ISBN 978-0-312-99747-2
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / October 2004
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / October 2005
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Debbie, Bo, and Dash
Acknowledgments
No human beings were killed, maimed, or otherwise abused in the writing of this book. A few people, however, did willingly subject themselves to early versions of the manuscript and were gracious enough to offer their wise suggestions for making it better. Among them: Bill Belleville, Lyn and Gary Shader, Josh Shader, Skellie Morris, Eric Estrin, Donald DeVane, Emily Alice Cambron, Bill Sheaffer, Danny and Nancy Morris, and my mother, Georgiana Morris, who will always be the loveliest lady in Leesburg.
Thanks also to Graham and Elizabeth Barr for letting me hunker down on a regular basis at their home in New Smyrna Beach; Tessa Tilden-Smith for advising me on the curious way in which people from England insist upon speaking and writing the American language; Raul Tonzon for his badass Spanish; Valerie Albury, owner of Dilly Dally, for impromptu Bahamian research; and my highly placed confidential source in the U.S. Secret Service Agency who told me way more than I needed to know about counterfeiting. Yeah, Fred, that’s you.
I am lucky to have an awesome agent, Joe Veltre, of the Artists Literary Group. Without his enthusiasm and good counsel this book would still be residing solely in my laptop. Likewise, I am indebted to Marc Resnick, my editor at St. Martin’s Press, for his astute skills and gentle tweakings.
While there is indeed a Harbour Island, and the world is a better place because of it, the Harbour Island mentioned herein is pure fabrication, as are all the people on these pages. That much said, LaVaughn Percentie does make the world’s best conch salad, and you should never hold back on the hot sauce.
1
The way it works at Baypoint Federal Country Club for Way-ward Males, guys sometimes throw a going-away party for their buddies who are checking out, and invite the D.O.’s to join in. Everyone acts all chummy, guzzling Dom, firing up the Cohibas, playing Texas hold ’em for real hard-on money, and letting the good times roll.
It’s not like that at most prisons. At most prisons the guards lord it over inmates, treat them like scum, sweeten their lousy state-tit paychecks by muling in merchandise. Skin magazines and dope, those are the major franchises at the low-rent lockups, with cell phones grabbing a chunk of the action—a year contract paid in advance and a flat two hundred and fifty dollars going to the D.O. who sets it up on the outside. Then the D.O. goes home to his double-wide trailer and his Dish Network TV, feeling smug and in control, thinking his tiny little life beats anything the cons can ever hope to have.
But things are different at Federal Prison Camp/Baypoint, where the alumni ranks are swollen with premium-grade white-collar criminals, including, at last count, two former U.S. congressmen, a past president of the Florida Senate, and enough fallen financiers to staff an M.B.A. program in advanced corporate swindling. At Baypoint, the D.O.’s lack leverage. They’re just chambermaids with too much testosterone. Because it’s not like they can build any equity by catering to inmate cravings. Whole different crowd. Baypointers enjoyed the good life before they got caught and fully intend to start enjoying it again the moment they get out. There’s nothing they really need, and even if there were, they wouldn’t obligate themselves to the hired help.
So what you have at Baypoint is the D.O.’s being serious suck-ups and gofers and actually thinking that once the Mr. Bigs get back into circulation they will look kindly upon the cheerful detention officer who used to bring fresh towels and fix the leaky toilet. Maybe find a place for him in their organization. Like that ever happens.
No one threw me a bubbly send-off. No slaps on the back, no thirty-dollar cigars. And the D.O. escorting me through all the graduation-day rigamarole—a pork loaf name of Fairbanks—was definitely not playing brownnose. Mainly because he and all the other guards thought they had me figured—just a
I had made all the stops, collected my exit papers, and Fairbanks was ushering me into Building A, the “transition lobby,” with its fake leather furniture, and ficus trees dropping leaves in every corner. Two other D.O.’s were manning a counter by the last set of doors between me and the great wide open. They traded talk with Fairbanks as we walked up, making me stand there a minute, then two, playing their D.O. mind games. One of them was this black dude named Williams and the other was this pimply young white guy didn’t look like he could have been more than two years out of high school. Probably brandnew on the job, still developing his style, paying close attention to the older guys and mirroring the way they did it.
Williams finally glanced sideways at me and grumbled, “Put your bags on the counter, Chasteen.”
“No bags,” I said.
Which got me the full turn-around from Williams. He raised up from his swivel chair and looked me over.
“Mean to tell me you’re leaving here and you ain’t got nothing?”
“Just my good looks.”
“Shit, then you really are traveling light, Chasteen. Let’s see your papers.”
I gave them to him. Williams ran them one by one over a green-light scanner, the pimply kid taking them and sticking them in a see-through plastic pouch that also contained my driver’s license, birth certificate, and passport.
“You’re supposed to ask me first,” I said to the kid.
“Ask you what?”
“Do I want paper or plastic . . .”
The kid was glaring now, only his glaring skills were still pretty lame. I kept looking at him until he looked away.
Williams jerked his head toward the doors.
“Chariot’s waiting, Chasteen.”
I looked outside. A hundred yards away, beyond a Bahia grass lawn turning brown against the sun and a ten-foot chain-link fence topped with concertina wire, sat a big black SUV. One of those Cadillac Escalades it looked like—the only vehicle in the visitors’ parking lot.
“You sure that’s here for me?”
“Guy driving it asked for you,” said Williams. “Figured he was here to pick you up.”
“A guy?”
“Yeah,” said Williams. “Two of ’em, as a matter of fact.”
Fairbanks said, “They your boyfriends, Chasteen?”
I let it slide. I was trying to figure out who was sitting inside the Escalade. I wasn’t expecting two guys to pick me up. I was expecting Barbara. She was the beautiful someone. Just thinking about her gave me . . .
Put it this way: Baypoint might be the Ritz-Carlton of prisons, but the top brass cuts no slack when it comes to conjugal visits. You have to be married. To each other. No license, no nooky. And no amount of bribery could change that. I’d tried.
One year, nine months, and twenty-three days. That’s how long it had been. One short stretch for a monk, one giant gulch for my kind.
I grabbed the plastic pouch that held my papers and turned toward the door.
Fairbanks said, “We’ll leave the porch light on for ya, Chasteen. So you can find your way back.”
“That’s sweet, Fairbanks. I’ll leave the porch light on for you, too.”
“What for?”
“So you’ll know where to deliver my pizza.”
The doors jolted open, and I left the three of them standing there, Williams saying, “Smart-ass walking . . .”
2
It was one of those August days in Florida that doesn’t so much suck the air out of your lungs as it does jam it down your throat. Not even 9 A.M. and already everything felt heavy. Dragonflies buzzed up from the lawn as I walked past, then said to hell with it, folded their wings, and spiraled back down. Mockingbirds perched atop the fence, but not one of them could work up even the faintest song. The sun was on its way to glory.
Halfway to the gate I was lathered in sweat, my white shirt sticking to my back, little rivulets of eau-de-me running down the legs of my jeans. It was too hot to be wearing jeans, but it was all I had. I’d buy some new duds—the Chasteen summer collection—as soon as I got the chance.
As I approached the gate, I kept my eyes on the black Escalade. It definitely wasn’t part of the plan. Barbara was supposed to be there, driving her sweet little haul-ass 450 SL convertible, a 1979, with 117,000 miles on it and just getting primed. She called it “Yellow Bird.”
“Like the song,” she had explained when I asked her why she named it that.
“Dumb song,” I told her.
“I happen to like it.”
“You ever tried eating breakfast with a bunch of bananaquits hanging around?”
“Bananaquits?”
“Those yellow birds they sing about. You eat breakfast down in the islands and they come out of nowhere. They hop . . .
“Oh, those, they’re adorable.”
“. . . they hop on the table, pick at your bread, dab at the butter. Swat them away and they just come back stronger, crap on the tablecloth. That’s a yellow bird.”
“Well,” said Barbara, “it’s a pretty song.”
In three years of knowing each other that was the closest we’d ever come to an argument. Of course, we’d only had a few months together before I got sent up, so maybe if things had been different, maybe if we’d lived together and knew too much about each other, we’d have fought like hell, and split up. But I didn’t think so. Neither one of us was quite sure where the whole thing between us was heading, but we were enjoying the ride. Or had been until a run of bad luck—not to mention considerable double-crossing—landed me at Baypoint.
So now Barbara and I were going to spend a few days wending our way down to Key West, just taking our time. That’s why I couldn’t figure out what the Escalade was doing there.
I stood at the gate, waiting for it to open. Nothing happened. The D.O.’s were making me squirm, milking the last drops of authority. I was hoping they came out curdled.
The Escalade had its motor running. The a.c. belts were whining, straining to cool off whoever was inside. The windows were tinted as dark as the law allows, maybe darker. I couldn’t make out who was sitting behind them.
Thirty seconds went by. Then a minute. The gate stayed shut. I was getting prickly around the neck, ready to be moving. Finally, Williams’s voice came over a speaker mounted on the fence: “Three steps back, Chasteen.”
I moved back; the gate whirred open. I stepped out onto the asphalt parking lot; the gate whirred shut behind me.
No one got out of the Escalade. I looked beyond it, down the two-lane road that led to the main highway. I could see for at least a half mile, until the road curved and disappeared behind pine trees. I was ready to be on that road, ready to see Barbara. The road was empty, no cars headed our way. The heat was rising off it and making the distance look liquid, almost molten, like a painting that was melting, like the whole scene was turning into something else right before my eyes.
I looked back at the Escalade. The driver’s window went down. The man at the wheel was thirty-five, maybe. It was hard to tell, but he looked younger than me. He was smoking a cigarette. He took a long draw and flicked ashes out the window, studying me. There was someone sitting up front beside him, but I couldn’t make out much more than a shape. It was a pretty big shape. It was slumping so it wouldn’t scrape its skull on the headliner.
The driver wore a black T-shirt made out of some shiny synthetic material that was supposed to look more expensive than it really was. He had a thin mustache that wormed across his lip and down to his chin and turned into a skinny goatee. Skinniest goatee I’d ever laid eyes on. He probably had to stand in front of the mirror every morning and pluck it to get it to behave like that. Maybe he took it to goatee obedience school. Maybe he trotted it out at goatee shows. Maybe it had won trophies. His hair was long and black, and pulled back in a ponytail. It was slick and greasy, like he put something on it to make it look that way. Or maybe he hadn’t shampooed since the first Bush was in office. I was guessing he put something on it. He seemed like the kind of guy who worked hard on the way he looked. All I knew was, I’d never seen him before.
