Bahamarama

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Overview

Two years in a Florida federal prison on bogus charges has made former Miami Dolphins strong safety Zack Chasteen stir-crazy. The first step toward getting his life back together is meeting up with his beautiful magazine-mogul girlfriend, Barbara, on Harbour Island in the Bahamas. But making it out of Florida proves to be more trouble than a gator with a toothache - and even deadlier. Zack barely leaves the state alive before he discovers Barbara has been kidnapped and her ex-lover, a fashion photographer, ...
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Overview

Two years in a Florida federal prison on bogus charges has made former Miami Dolphins strong safety Zack Chasteen stir-crazy. The first step toward getting his life back together is meeting up with his beautiful magazine-mogul girlfriend, Barbara, on Harbour Island in the Bahamas. But making it out of Florida proves to be more trouble than a gator with a toothache - and even deadlier. Zack barely leaves the state alive before he discovers Barbara has been kidnapped and her ex-lover, a fashion photographer, murdered. A gang of Cuban thugs is on his tail, a nymphet named Tiffani is in his bed, and he's about to lose his idyllic family homestead, a place that has been home to generations of Chasteens. Once again, trouble has come knocking on Zack's door...with a sledgehammer. But this time he's fighting back, with the help of a Royal Bahamanian police superintendent, his trusted mystical Taino Indian friend, Boggy, and a cast of the most colorful characters ever to step into the warm Bahamas sun.
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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
As Morris's hard-boiled, edgy debut novel opens, former Miami Dolphins linebacker Zachary Chasteen is being released after serving almost two years in a Florida penitentiary on trumped-up charges. Zack longs to be reunited with Barbara Pickering, his velvet-voiced lover, who is busy in the Bahamas shooting a spread for the magazine she owns. He gets ditched mid-journey by the limo driver she's sent ahead to fetch him and is suddenly on his own, penniless and without ID. Zack hitches a ride to his childhood home, but once there, he's ambushed by the violent lackeys of Victor Ortiz, the man who framed him years before. Zack manages a narrow escape, but is faced with even more trouble. Barbara's ex-fiance, Brice, is found murdered, and she's been kidnapped with a hefty ransom on her head. Police inspector (and former football player) Lynfield Pederson and Zack put their heads together as Hurricane Curt barrels toward them. After the limo driver who originally deserted Zack is identified as a well-known deadly criminal and the probable source of all things bad, Zack gets a lucky break and speeds off to a bat-filled sea cave to confront his nemesis at the novel's bullet-ridden climax. 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. Agent, Joe Veltre. Regional author tour. (Oct. 20) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Released after an undeserved prison term, ex-football star and commercial boat owner Zack Chastain finds himself the object of a "search and destroy" mission by the man responsible, one Victor Ortiz. Hired thugs follow Zack across Florida to the Bahamas hotel where his travel magazine- owning ladylove awaits. Someone kidnaps the ladylove, however, and Zack, his Taino Indian buddy, and the local police inspector all think the culprit is Ortiz. But look again: 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. Former Orlando Sentinel Morris lives in Winter Park, FL. [See Mystery Prepub, LJ 6/1/04.] Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Still another Florida columnist jumps ship for the beguiling waters of the seriocomic thriller. Whether or not they've been set up for the time they've done, not many guys emerge from the Federal Prison Camp at Bayport with Zack Chasteen's prospects: a chauffeured ride courtesy of his well-heeled girlfriend, Tropics publisher Barbara Pickering, to the nearest airport, a jet to the Bahamas, some quality time watching a fashion shoot, and happily every after. But Zack's pipe dream doesn't come off quite as planned. His limo driver isn't comely Barbara but lug Chip Willis, who normally handles security for Ruby Booby's topless club; he's soon stranded without his belongings; he learns that Barbara's hired her ex-fiancee, photographer Bryce Gannon, to finish the shoot; and when he finally sneaks onto Harbour Island without his passport, he gets no closer to Barbara than a sighting through binoculars before she's reported kidnapped along with Lord Frederickson Downey, a ga-ga family friend whose entourage sets new records for suspicious behavior. Teaming with his old Taino Indian sidekick Boggy and local police inspector Lynfield Pederson, whose behavior is equally suspicious, Zack battles recalcitrant witnesses, enforced idleness, the obligatory hurricane, and a tendency to explain himself a bit too fully. Despite blurbs from Carl Hiaasen and Dave Barry, Morris's conscientiously plotted debut, stalwart rather than satirical or funny, is more like the studly adventures of James W. Hall's Dick Thorn or Randy Wayne White's Doc Ford. Agent: Joe Veltre/Carlisle & Company
Booklist

"The memorable characters, wry humor, and distinctive Florida and Bahama settings will appeal to Carl Hiaasen fans."

—Booklist

From the Publisher

"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

"When it comes to books from the lower latitudes, you sometimes can't see the forest of the palm tree. 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

"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

"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." —Caribbean Travel & Life

"A breezy, energetic debut . . . should be the start of a long series. Morris' 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." —MLB 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." —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' 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

"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

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780786273898
  • Publisher: Gale Group
  • Publication date: 3/23/2005
  • Series: Zack Chasteen Series , #1
  • Edition description: Large Print
  • Pages: 486
  • Product dimensions: 5.92 (w) x 8.74 (h) x 1.03 (d)

Meet the Author

Bob Morris

BOB MORRIS is well known throughout Florida and the Southeast through his work in newspapers, magazines, and television. A former columnist for the Orlando Sentinel, Fort Myers News-Press and The New York Times regional newspapers. Morris served as editor of AQUA, Caribbean Travel & Life, and Gulfshore Life magazines. His work regularly appears in National Geographic Traveler, Islands, The Robb Report, Men’s Fitness, Bon Appetit and other publications. He lives in Winter Park, Florida.

Visit Bob Morris at: www.bobmorris.net

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Read an Excerpt

1

The way it works at Baypoint Federal Country Club for Wayward Males, guys sometimes throw their buddies who are checking out a going-away party, 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 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 go-fers 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 brown-nose. Mainly because he and all the other guards thought they had me figured—-just an aging jock, a bottom-feeder among the Baypoint elite, someone who'd pissed away what little he'd had, and wound up at Baypoint instead of a lowlier joint where he belonged only because he had charmed someone with a little clout. That she was a beautiful someone ticked them off even more.

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 brand new 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 visitor's 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..."

Copyright 2004 by Bob Morris

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Table of Contents

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First Chapter

1

The way it works at Baypoint Federal Country Club for Wayward Males, guys sometimes throw their buddies who are checking out a going-away party, 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 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 hiredhelp.

So what you have at Baypoint is the D.O.'s being serious suck-ups and go-fers 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 brown-nose. Mainly because he and all the other guards thought they had me figured---just an aging jock, a bottom-feeder among the Baypoint elite, someone who'd pissed away what little he'd had, and wound up at Baypoint instead of a lowlier joint where he belonged only because he had charmed someone with a little clout. That she was a beautiful someone ticked them off even more.

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 brand new 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 visitor's 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..."


Copyright 2004 by Bob Morris
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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 11 )
Rating Distribution

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Sort by: Showing all of 11 Customer Reviews
  • Posted May 2, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    First Zack Chasteen Novel

    This is a good beach read or summer read and the first book in an engaging series of Florida based mysteries featuring former football pro and felon Zack Chasteen.

    Morris' style is somewhere between the manic approach of Hiaasen, Barry and Dorsey and the more serious approach of Randy Wayne White and James W Hall. Perhaps the closest comparison is the Florida novels of Elmore Leonard and that's not a bad neighborhood to reside in.

    Zack Chasteen and his right-hand man Boggy are well drawn and amusing characters. Zack's significant other Barbara is a little less three-dimensional and seems too good to be true, but her dialog and characterization ring true. The story line involving the kidnap of Barbara at an island resort is compelling with several twists and it makes for a fast and enjoyable read.

    For those who like the ample Florida mystery genre this is a good choice, as are other books I have read in this series.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 22, 2014

    Part 6

    I lifted my head as jack entered the room. "Hello reba. Ive got good news." I took a step back. This wasnt going to be good. Jack opened his hand to show me a black t-shirt and blue jeans my height. I shook my head. "Not again...." Jack put them on his bed. Along with another bar of that shrinking carmal."Thats right. Coal will be joining you." I sneered and grabed the bars. "You wouldnt...." but i knew he was going to. With that he set off to school. <p> After school, jack shoved coal in and locked the door. I sat still as he had told me before he left. Coal spat out the gag and cu<_>ssed at the door. "Let me go you dir<_>ty bit<_>ch!!" He then turned and spotted the carmal. He sat on the bed and picked it up. "Well....better then nothing." And with that he swolloed the carmal. I looked at the floor. I should've warned him. I watched as he picked up the four inch cloths and snorted. Setting it down, he layed down and sighed. Here was my chance. "Coal!!! Over here!!" I grabed the bars of my cage. Coal spotted me. "Reba? How did you...." he stared. "..get so small?" That that moment he started to shrink. Coal gasped and fell into his pants. Grabing his tiny clothes jack set, he put them on and got up. "Reba help!!" <p> jack came in smileing and picked him up. He carried the squirming coltin to my cage and poped him inside. Locking it again. "You two have fun now. I have to do homework." With that he sat at the desk and began to write. Coal looked at me. I looked at coal. I knew we were both thinking the same thing. <p>What now? <p> to be continued......

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
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