Something's Wrong in Paradise

By Arnie Greenberg

is a work of fiction, set in The Cayman Islands.
It concerns a diabolical plot by the government of Guatemala to steal the lists of people from around the world who deposited money (often illicitly) in Cayman banks, as a shield against payment of taxes.

Tom Shaw, a private investigator from Detroit, goes to Grand Cayman to transfer money, on behalf of Lisa Brewster, whose wealthy husband had been kidnapped in Guatemala. Tom and Robin, a local lady, and her friends, become involved in stopping a bizarre plot by an unusual group of very sadistic people.
They are gangsters, robbers, thieves, liars, pirates, or PICAROONS.
You will learn something of a beautiful group of islands and, in the end, be surprised as never before

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481717205

Arnie Greenberg

Arnie Greenberg is a retired professor from Montreal. He taught at Vanier College for 25 years. He also wrote, and helped produce scores of children’s television programs for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, including Reach for The Top. He has written plays about Hemingway, Gertrude Stein and Pablo Picasso, as well as a law text and nine novels. He lectured in France, Italy and the United States on ‘Paris in The Twenties’. He now lives in Vancouver, Canada, with a view of the Rockies and the Pacific Ocean

Book preview

Something’s

Wrong

in

Paradise

The Last Picaroon

Arnie Greenberg

US%26UKLogoB%26Wnew.ai

AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2013 by Arnie Greenberg. All rights reserved.

Cover picture by Bev Banks

No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic. Or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or be any information storage retrieval system without written permission by the publisher except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

All people depicted are fictional. Any similarity to anyone living or dead is coincidental or agreed to by that person.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/18/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1719-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1720-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013903131

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Comments welcome at [e-mail]

CONTENTS

Introduction

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

To Paradise

Chapter 5

Hibiscus

Chapter 6

Dusk

Chapter 7

Hog Sty Bay

Chapter 8

Stingray

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Seven Mile Beach

Chapter 11

Ginips

Chapter 12

Cocoplum

Chapter 13

Sting Ray City

Part 2

Paradise

Chapter 14

Sea Grapes

Chapter 15

Lemons

Chapter 16

Yellow mouth

Chapter 17

Breadfruit

Chapter 18

Achee

Chapter 19

Moray Eels

Chapter 20

Shrimp

Chapter 21

To Hell and back

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Australian Pines

Chapter 24

Seashells

Chapter 25

Ports of Call

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Southside

Chapter 28

Lime tree Bay

Chapter 29

Part 3

Pirates & Picaroons

Chapter 30

Botanical Gardens

Chapter 31

Turtle Releases

Chapter 32

Pedro’s Castle

Chapter 33

Flight

Chapter 34

Free at last

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Los Tortugas

Part 4

Closing In

Chapter 37

Blue baggers

Chapter 38

Shipwrecks

Chapter 39

Parrot fish

Chapter 40

Hog Sty Bay

Chapter 41

Sunset

Chapter 42

Australian pines

Chapter 43

Crew Road

Chapter 44

White sand

Chapter 45

Gone fishing

Chapter 46

The chase

Chapter 47

A shot in the night

Chapter 48

A new day

Chapter 49

At last

After thought

There’s something wrong in Paradise

Now someone’s got to pay the price.

I’m sorry sir, I can’t be nice.

There’s something wrong in Paradise.

Kid Creole and the Coconuts

I am no longer that which I have been.

Byron

Pic-a-roon n. 1 a rogue, thief, or brigand. 2 a pirate or corsair.-v.i 3. to act or operate as a pirate or brigand. (Sp picaroon, aug. of picaro rogue)

Dedicated with love to my sister, Beverly

. . . out of sight only because of distance . . .

Special thanks to Naomi (Nan) Wolfe for her expert help in proof reading, correcting and offering advice.

Introduction

It will be obvious, as you read what lies ahead, that the story is not only fictional but takes place in the 1970’s. What I describe is Grand Cayman as it was when I first saw it. I have been there many times since, but might not have recognized many parts of it had I not returned recently. If you were to return after a long period, you would see many changes, not only because of the passing of time but the result of the hurricanes that have hit the island since. The loss of trees as well as buildings and the modern construction both in Georgetown and along Seven Mile Beach has taken something from the island’s natural beauty.

But good government and a rebirth of vacation travelers have allowed the construction of new roads, museums and hotels as well as futuristic condos.

The computer age had not fully arrived on the island in those years. This underscores why the story could not take place today.

I have written this as though it really happened but was hushed up by governments and the press. So in a sense, through my imagination, I am telling a public but fictitious story for the first time.

The politics between the United States, Canada and Guatemala were not ideal at that time. Many North Americans, and British business tycoons, and even politicians had used the Cayman Banks to safely conceal large sums of money. So a blackmail plot by certain Guatemalans under their dictator, Rios Montt, would benefit this Central American country since they might obtain proof of foreign investment or secret cash deposits in Cayman banks, even if it had to be done by illegal means. This ‘black money’ might amount to millions of dollars and the only way to get the names of the depositors might be through the bank records. Probable? No! Possible? Perhaps.

So bear with me. There is action ahead . . . because as the Jamaican singers said . . . Something was seriously wrong in Paradise, and someone had to pay the price.

PART 1

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Chapter 1

Leon was a man of habit.

They always sat down to dinner at eight P.M. They ate in silence as they had done for most of the twenty-two years of their marriage. Leon Brewster was generally a quiet man; some said he was sullen. He spoke only when necessary, but when he spoke, people generally listened. At Continental Paper he was known as The Blister. People sprouted blisters from running errands trying to please their fair but demanding CEO. Generally he was liked, but he was not loved. He called the shots, as they say, both at work and at home. He was respected as a man who got the job done. Con-Pap had turned a substantial profit, as did Leon and the shareholders. Lisa, his wife, respected him too, but secretly she wished he were more open, more demonstrative, and more romantic. But she had little to complain about. They were always more than comfortable, and while Guatemala was not her idea of an ideal place to settle, there were occasional trips to Miami and twice-yearly treks to Ann Arbor, Michigan, their home.

It was late December, but it hardly looked like Christmas in sunny Central America. Only a sailboat with its colored lights strung in a Christmas tree design reminded Lisa of a season of glowing warmth back home. She dreamed of soft, fluffy snow, carol singers, sleigh bells and ski weekends. Here, that was only a dream as the thermometer hit 80 degrees in Guatemala City. Michigan was far away in distance and in spirit. The Brewsters had been away a long time; too long, she felt. In Guatemala, Christmas came and went silently, especially in 1980. The only reminders were a few post cards or Christmas cards from relatives back home and a pseudo-Christmas party insisted on by Leon and attended dutifully by bonus seeking minor administrators for whom Christmas meant very little. Only a small wreath on their penthouse apartment door declared to staff and strangers the Brewster’s seasonal sentiments of peace and goodwill.

The stereo played Vivaldi as the couple enjoyed a quiet dinner of Chicken Kiev, asparagus tips, cherries jubilee, coffee and Cognac. There was always the meal-ending Cognac, one of Leon’s quiet vices. A good Cuban cigar and early to bed was the usual Sunday agenda. But it was not to be a usual Sunday at the Brewster’s that Sunday night.

The unexpected visitors arrived at 8:45. There was a gentle knock on the door. Leon rose, folded his napkin, and excused himself. Lisa hardly looked up, continuing to eat in silence. At the door, two well-dressed men confronted Mr. B, as some people called him.

Senor Brewster, said the taller man, I am Captain Gomez of Central Security. May we talk to you for a moment on a matter of some urgency? Gomez flashed an I.D. that Leon merely glanced at.

Of course, Captain. Won’t you come in? This way.

On the way to the library, Lisa called, What is it, dear? Your coffee is getting cold."

It’s OK. Leon replied. I won’t be long. This way, gentlemen.

The two men followed Leon into the book-filled room. After a few minutes they emerged together. The men waited near the door as Leon returned to the dining room. He approached Lisa.

Sorry dear, but I must go to the plant for a while. It’s just some minor problem. Nothing serious. I should be about an hour.

But Leon, dear, it’s Sunday night. We’re in the middle of dinner. Can’t it wait until morning?

I’m afraid not, he replied. Get the Cognac ready. I’ll be back soon. We’ll have a night-cap when I return.

He came behind her and with both hands on her shoulders; he gently kissed the top of her head. She didn’t turn, but smiled and touched his hand.

Very well, she sighed, but try not to be too long. She continued eating.

An hour at the outside, Leon replied as he turned to leave. He followed Captain Gomez and the shorter man to the door. There was a deep solid thud as the door closed. Well-made buildings made that particular sound.

Lisa looked at her watch. It was almost 9PM. She would wait for Leon to return.

He would not.

Chapter 2

It was only 640 air miles from Guatemala City to Grand Cayman Island and Georgetown, its capital. News travels quickly even in a remote holiday haven, but it is not always a cause to stir. By 9AM Tuesday, Junior Avery, broadcasting on Radio-Cayman, included a brief item about the disappearance of Con-Pap’s senior executive in Guatemala. While foul play was suspected, Avery said there was little to go on since kidnapping company executives was unheard of in the Caribbean area. While there might be political motives, he suggested that the whole ordeal would probably be solved in a day or two.

Almost in the same breath, Avery continued with the local cricket scores. His voice showed more enthusiasm now since cricket was closer to most islanders’ hearts than international politics. Besides, there had been an upset when Bi-Rite, having 130 all-out faced Greenies, the team touted to take it all, came up short at 105. The two teams would meet again on the following Saturday at the Smith Road oval.

The soft-spoken Avery continued with birthday greetings for Mrs. Grace Ebanks of Little Cayman from cousins Martha and Ewell.

After Avery signed off, the Reverend Rafe Johnson introduced the children from 3C’s Elementary School who filled the airwaves with a selection of Christmas Carols. By 9:15, only a few people on Cayman Island would remember the item about the disappearance of Con-Pap’s senior executive, but those few had good reason to remember.

I remember well the day I first saw my Paradise. It can be found 200 miles due south of Bahia de Cochinos or, as we know it, Cuba’s Bay of Pigs. It lies in the Greater Antilles (in the Caribbean), an area that boasts exotic pleasure spots with French, and Spanish, Dutch or Mayan names. Here, gentle, off-shore winds whisper through giant tilting Australian pines, across natural coral beaches, and through tiny hamlets. My Paradise is a grouping of three small islands North West of Jamaica, Today we call