Bob Morris_Zack Chasteen 02
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Authors: Jamaica Me Dead
Tags: #Thrillers, #Fiction, #General
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PRAISE FOR BOB MORRIS AND HIS MYSTERIES
Jamica Me Dead
“[A] zany sophomore effort. . . .The tropical backdrop and Zack’s wisecracking commentary make for another crackling whodunit for Morris.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Good-natured . . . the Jamaica background the biggest plus.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
“A year-round summer read . . . thanks to smart, polished prose; an affable narrator; swift, straightforward plotting in bite-sized chapters; and fun, exotic setting.”
—
Booklist
“The splash that Morris made with last year’s Edgar-nominated
Bahamarama
becomes a tidal surge with his highly entertaining second novel. Briskly paced . . . Morris joins the ranks of Florida authors such as James O. Born and Claire Matturro whose second novel is even stronger than the first.”
—
South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“
Bahamarama
is no fluke. While Morris can’t be called the Carl Hiaasen of South Florida—there already is one—he comes closest to what fans of comedic mysteries are looking for when they hear that comparison.”
—
Flint Journal
“A bumpy, tightly-wound ride, with enough cliff-hangers and red herrings to satisfy even the most jaded mystery buff.”
—
Sarasota Herald-Tribune
“Great characterizations, a thorough knowledge of his locales, plus an easy-breezy style that’s hard to resist make Bob Morris’s
Jamaica Me Dead
another must-read. A new mystery series that’s smart, funny, and slightly off-kilter.”
—
Bookloons
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
“Bob Morris, a terrific writer and 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
“Chasteen makes a fine hero, one who lives by his own rules . . . a highly enjoyable way to pass an afternoon.”
—
Miami Herald
“Morris captures the islands and local people well . . . a great bullets-and-beaches book to pack on your next trip.”
—
Caribbean Travel & Life
“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
ALSO BY BOB MORRIS
Bahamarama
AVAILABLE FROM
ST. MARTIN’S/MINOTAUR
PAPERBACKS
Me
Dead
BOB MORRIS
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
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.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
JAMAICA ME DEAD
Copyright © 2005 by Bob Morris.
Excerpt from
Bermuda Schwartz
© 2006 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: 2005051257
ISBN: 0-312-99748-5
EAN: 9780312-99748-9
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / October 2005
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / October 2006
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 . . .
AGAIN AND ALWAYS
Jamica
Me
Dead
It was the first game of the season at Florida Field, and in typical fashion the Gators had scheduled something less than a fearsome opponent. This year it was the University of Tulsa. Midway through the second quarter the score was already twenty-seven us, zip for the Golden Hurricanes.
Reality would come home to roost in two weeks when we faced off against Tennessee, but for now the future appeared glorious, and the only thing in life that even mildly concerned me was why a football team from Oklahoma would call itself the Golden Hurricanes.
I turned to Barbara Pickering and said: “Don’t you think they ought to call themselves something more geographically appropriate? Like the Golden Cow Patties?”
It got laughs from the people sitting around us.
“Or the Golden Tumbleweeds,” said a woman to my left.
Barbara looked up from her book.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Did you say something?”
It was Barbara’s first time at Florida Field. In fact, it was her first time at a football game. I was trying hard not to be offended by the fact she had not only brought along a book—
A House for Mr. Biswas,
by V. S. Naipaul—she was actually reading it. I had never seen anyone reading a book at a football game.
A man sitting in front of us turned to Barbara.
“Honey,” he said. “Please tell me that’s a book about football.”
“Well, actually, it’s about the Hindu community in Trinidad and how this poor downtrodden man, Mr. Biswas, so badly wants a house of his very own, yet—”
I gave Barbara a nudge. She stopped.
“You’ll have to forgive her,” I told the man in front of us. “Barbara’s British.”
Barbara gave the guy a smile so stunning that his ears turned red. I could relate. I do the same thing whenever she smiles at me.
I reached under my seat and found the pint flask of Mount Gay that I had smuggled into the stadium. I poured a healthy dollop into my cup. Then I pulled a wedge of lime from the plastic baggie in my pants pocket and squeezed it into the rum.
The man in front of us turned around again. Mainly because I had succeeded in squirting the back of his neck with lime juice.
“You’ll have to forgive him,” Barbara told the man. “Zack has scurvy.”
Moments later, the Gators scored. I stood to cheer with the rest of the crowd. Barbara took the opportunity to stretch and yawn and work out the kinks. She glanced at the scoreboard.
“Oh my, only two minutes left,” she said. “Perhaps we should go now and beat the crowd.”
“That’s just until halftime.”
“Meaning . . .”
“Meaning, with TV time-outs and the Gators’ passing game, I’d say we can look forward to at least another two hours of this. Good thing the relative humidity is 187 percent. That way it will seem like a whole lot longer.”
She faked a smile. Even her fake smiles are pretty damn stunning.
Just then I heard someone yell: “Yo, Zack!”
Monk DeVane was standing in the aisle, waving for us to join him.
“Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet,” I told Barbara.
“An old college friend?”
“Yeah, we go way back.”
Barbara put her book on her seat and we began edging our way toward the aisle.
Monk DeVane had been my roommate when we played for the Gators. Like me, he had knocked around in the pros a few years before getting hurt and calling it quits. He opened a car dealership, but it went belly-up. So he tried selling real estate and tried selling boats and tried selling himself on the idea that he could stay married. Last I heard there had been three wives, but I had lost track on exactly what he was doing to make a living.
Monk’s real name was Donald, but one Saturday night on a bye weekend during my freshman year, when I had gone home for a visit, Coach Rowlin decided to conduct a curfew check at Yon Hall. He caught Monk in bed with not one but two comely representatives of Alpha Delta Pi.