Blood of Paradise

Blood of Paradise

by David Corbett

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780812977332
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 03/06/2007
Series: Mortalis Series
Pages: 448
Product dimensions: 5.20(w) x 8.00(h) x 2.25(d)

About the Author

Before becoming a novelist,David Corbett (b. 1953) spent fifteen years as an investigator for the San Francisco private detective agency Palladino & Sutherland, working on several high-profile cases.

Read an Excerpt

Whatever Became of the Laugh Masters?

It's only those who do nothing that make no mistakes, I suppose.

-Joseph Conrad, An Outcast of the Islands

1

Cocooned in a hammock at Playa El Zonte, Jude launched the siesta hour with a lusty tug from his beer, swaying beneath the thatched roof of a glorieta. Above, the sun was blistering; even the skirring wind off the ocean felt parched and hot. Below, the beach of black volcanic sand with its scatterings of smooth dark stone curled out to the point. He wondered what it would take to know-not suspect or hope or pretend but know-that the woman he spotted, out there on the rocks, was or wasn't the love of his life.

He knew her: Eileen Browning, fellow American. They'd bumped into each other here and there the past month at Santa María Mizata, Playa El Sunzal, most recently on the pier at La Libertad, browsing the fishmonger stalls. There, with the briny tang of ice-tubbed shrimp, mackerel, and boca colorada brewing all around them in the rippling heat, he'd almost convinced himself that Dr. Browning, as she hated to be called, had been coming on to him.

At this particular moment she walked the beach alone, sandals in hand, wearing a polka-dot halter and cutoffs and a wide-brimmed hat, eyes toward the water as she watched a stray dog take a crap in the shallows.

Mark that in your tourist guide, Jude thought, memorizing the spot where the dog crouched and guessing at the current so as to avoid an unpleasant step later. Meanwhile Eileen turned back and resumed her lazy march toward the glorieta, holding her hat atop her head against the scorching wind.

From their previous encounters, Jude had learned she was a marine's daughter turned scholar, down here for postdoctoral work in cultural anthropology. She was cataloging folk crafts-pottery, weaving, embroidery-before they disappeared forever. He liked that about her, the devotion to vanishing things. He liked a lot of things about her, actually. She'd grown up around strong men-raised by wolves, she put it-and was pretty in a smart-girl way, lanky and leggy with strawberry blond hair and gold-rimmed glasses. There were those, he supposed, who might find fault with her large teeth and big boyish hands, her long skinny feet, but he was at that stage when these things seemed the true test of her loveliness-the endearing flaws that made her unique. Her perfection.

As she came closer it became clear she intended to stop and visit, and his heart kicked a little. He roused himself from his torpor, thinking: Comport yourself, soldier.

It was the heart of the dry season, the beginning of Lent. The surf camp was otherwise empty of foreigners, just the two of them. The restaurant and bar remained open, though, for day-trippers like Jude, drop-ins like Eileen.

Entering the thatch shade of the glorieta, she dropped her sandals, removed her hat, and shook out her hair. Her halter was knotted at the neck, revealing bikini tan lines striping over her shoulders to her back. Jude pictured the triangles of white skin around her nipples, then nudged the thought away, not wanting to be unchivalrous.

"We meet again." She perched herself on the nearest table, took out a kerchief and mopped her face and neck, then dusted sand off her shins. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were following me."

Her voice was a raspy alto, one more thing to like. Jude said, "If I was following you, I'd be behind you."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Point taken." Nodding at his beer, she said, "Mind if I . . . ?"

"No. No." He handed it to her and she knocked back a swig. He tried to picture her on campus, earthy babe of the brainy set. The bohemian broad.

"I'm going to want one of these." She handed back his beer and glanced over her shoulder. "Have you eaten yet?"

Behind her, two indígena women worked the kitchen attached to the bar. It was a rustic business: wood roasting pit, propane grill, a sand floor with a hen and several chicks dithering underfoot-plus the briny dog from the shallows earlier, watching as her two pups tumbled together, chasing each other around. The fried corn fragrance of pupusas wafted toward them, mingling with the smoky aroma of a roasting chicken.

"Just." Jude patted his midriff.

"Oh well." She made a lonesome-me face. "I saw the truck when I drove up-it's yours, right?-but there was nobody around. When did you get here?"

"Dawn." The best surfing came at daybreak and late afternoon, when the doldrums smoothed the chop from the ocean, the waves glassy. He'd stayed out longer than usual this morning, though, enjoying the solitude. Gypsies would show up the next few weeks, jamming the lineups. Come the rains, the ocean swelled. So did the crowds. "I was out beyond the break."

"I got here sometime around ten, I think, and-Oh." She took her glasses off. "Excuse me." She started working a speck of sand from her eye, blinking. It took only a second, but in the moment after, sitting there with her glasses in her hand, her face transformed. Unwary eyes. A helpless smile.

Jude marveled at that sometimes-the way a woman changed when all she'd done was remove a scarf, an earring. Her glasses. Maybe it was his little fetish, but he doubted that. He suspected the French even had a word for it.

"Anyhoo," the glasses went back on, "I got here hungry, then just decided to take a long walk down the beach before lunch."

Looking for me, Jude suspected. Hoped. Pretended.

"Now I'm famished." Instead of heading off to order food, though, she picked up her hat and started fanning herself with it. Wisecracking eyes, a rag-doll smile. "I didn't figure you for the type, by the way." She nodded at his board. "Given the work you do."

Suddenly, the air between them felt charged. "Figure me for what type?"

"You know." She affected dope-eyed hipdom and a blasted voice. "Jude McDude."

"Oh. Right. Me all over."

She nudged him with her foot. "I'm teasing." A new smile, half-impish, half-contrite. "My dad surfs. Big-time. So I'll grant you there isn't a type. And if an old leatherneck like Pop can hang with the waterheads, I don't see why a bodyguard can't."

He cringed. Bodyguard. It called to mind steroids for breakfast and cream corn for brains, all stuffed in a bad suit. But he guessed that if he reminded her the term of art was "executive protection specialist"-EP for short-it would hardly redeem her opinion of what he did. Or of him.

His cell phone trilled inside his ruck.

"I'll let you grab that," she said, getting up.

"No, it's okay." He reached down, pulled the phone out, and read the number on the digital display. He didn't recognize it. And he'd just begun his furlough, ten days off after twenty on, his usual work schedule. He was on his own time and didn't want intrusions. Especially now. "I can let it go."

"It's okay. I'll just grab some lunch and a cold one." She shot him another mischievous smile. "Let you deal with the captains of industry."

It's a wrong number, he wanted to say, but she was already ambling off. Jude stared at her back, exposed by her halter and crisscrossed with its misfit tan lines, and doubted he'd ever hated his cell phone more-at which point the ringer chirped again, the same numerals reappeared. He picked up simply to cut short the bother: "¿Quién es?"

It took a second for the voice on the other end to emerge from the static. "Hello? Yeah. Hello, Jude? . . . My name's Bill. I was a friend of your dad's."

Ten years collapsed at the sound of the voice. And yet, in a way, Jude had been expecting this call. There were rumors.

The voice said: "Bill Malvasio. Not sure you remember me."

"Of course I remember."

"Kinda outta the blue, I realize."

"No. I mean, yeah, but it's not that. I was just . . ." His voice trailed away. The static of the phone connection swelled then ebbed, a sound like sandpaper against skin. "I was just talking to somebody else. The shift, from that to this. To you, I mean. I dunno. Just sudden."

Jude had spent a good part of his boyhood watching his dad and Bill Malvasio head off together-cop weddings, cop funerals, drinking parties, poker marathons, or just another shift in the Eighteenth District. To call them best friends missed the thing by half. Malvasio was like family, but not the kind the women wanted around-more like a black sheep uncle, the fun uncle, the one with the wily mean streak. Jude hated admitting it, but he'd competed most of his life against Wild Bill, vying for his father's respect. And despised not Malvasio but himself for that.

"Listen, Jude. I realize this is a little late but, about your dad's passing, I'm sorry. Ray was still young."

Jude wrestled with a number of things to say, none of them particularly astute. His dad had drowned on Rend Lake-accident or suicide, no one knew for sure. A bad end to a lot of bad business.

"Proud man, your father. None of us were what they made us out to be. Certainly not Ray. I've got some stories in that regard, if you'd like to hear them."

Jude sat up in the hammock finally. Planting his feet in the rocky sand, he checked the incoming number again. Sure enough, Malvasio was in-country. "Run that by me again."

"We could get together. I mean, if you're up for it."

"When do you mean?"

"Now, you want."

Jude felt stunned by the offer, but refusing was out of the question. Hear a few stories about my dad? Sure. Add a few more collectibles to the museum of bullshit. But it wasn't just that. There were about a thousand questions he wanted to ask, starting with: "If you don't mind my asking, how'd you get my cell number?"

"I've got friends down here," Malvasio said. "If I didn't, I couldn't survive."

Jude was still sitting there, holding his phone, when Eileen walked back, a plate of chicken with pupusas and curtido de repollo in one hand, two cold beers in the other.

"Get whatever it was sorted out?" She sat down in the same spot as before, handing him one of the beers. Wiggling her hips to settle in, she set her plate in her lap and picked up a chicken thigh.

"I have to go," he told her.

Almost imperceptibly, her face fell. Then, recovering: "Anything wrong?"

"No, no. Just . . . an old family friend." Not knowing what to do with the beer, he just sat there, holding it like he was trying to figure it out. "He's over on the Costa del Sol. Wants to get together." It seemed unwise to say more.

"He's down here on vacation?"

She bit into the greasy crackling skin of the chicken. He caught himself staring at her mouth.

"Not exactly," he said.

--

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Blood of Paradise 4.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 6 reviews.
harstan More than 1 year ago
In El Salvador, American Jude McManus works as an executive protection specialist, currently keeping safe the captains of industry at a local bottling plant. Jude is approached by former Chicago Police Officer Bill Malvasio. Bill was a partner of Jude¿s late father at the CPD before they and a third cop Phil Strock were caught stealing from a drug dealer. Whereas dad drowned in Rend Lake after his disgrace, Wild Bill fled to El Salvatore.---------------------- The surviving two ¿Laugh masters¿ as the trio called themselves back then, Bill and Phil want to hire Jude. He agrees to come home and accept the job offer. However, not only has his dad¿s legacy come back to haunt Jude, but he finds himself caught in the middle of international corruption at the highest levels of business and governments.---------------- BLOOD OF PARADISE is a fascinating thriller that never truly decides between being a political exposé or an action-packed suspense. David Corbett makes a strong case that the Bush democratization of Iraq has a precedent not in Nam but in El Salvatore, which the American supported side won the 1980s civil war but two decades later is a model of democracy at its worst with abject poverty flourishing, corruption the normal way to run government and do business, and violent crime at stratospheric levels. Those who believe the Bush experiment affirms the Reagan experiment that you cannot transport democracy from without will enjoy this interesting tale those who prefer an action-packed thriller regardless of political preference will want to pass.-------------- Harriet Klausner
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RLoughran More than 1 year ago
A really good, solid, enthralling book. Graham Greene-esque. I heard David Corbett speak at a California Writers' Club (Redwood Chapter) meeting and bought this book. I will seek out and read his other stuff as well. Great job, I'm looking forward to more David Corbett.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
Inspired by the eloquent, yet deeply disturbing Greek tragedies of long ago, Blood of Paradise, is a dark novel, penned by one of today¿s most passionate writers. David Corbett¿s third novel, shines an unflinching and unapologetic light into the backrooms and back-alleys, corporate boardrooms and finally, the lofty and corrupt offices of the politicians sworn to serve and protect. Whether defined or haunted by, his late father¿s choices, Jude McManus left Chicago and joined the Army. He now provides protection services for high profile executives in El Salvador. Assigned to guard Axel Odelberg, an American hydrologist, hired to evaluate the effects a proposed bottling plant expansion may have on local water supplies. The powers that be expect a ¿rubber stamp report¿, and will go to any lengths to ensure both favorable findings and total silence. A brilliant liar and master manipulator, Bill Malvasio knew Jude McManus was an easy target. Exploiting his father¿s memory and using their friendship as a base, Malvasio spun a story filled with half truths. He explained to Jude that an old warrant prevented him from returning to the US. He asked Jude to escort the ex-cop, Phil Strock (the third member of his father¿s disgraced trio) back to El Salvador. While not entirely certain of Malvasio¿s intentions, Jude agrees. However, he soon realizes all is not what it seems, as he finds himself in the eye of life-threatening storm fueled by greed and maintained through violence. The true extent of the danger slowly becomes apparent as the Salvadoran mob flexes its¿ muscle, ordering the murder of a female villager that complained her well was destroyed by the water project. Soon thereafter, an infant is kidnapped to guarantee her mother¿s silence. The characters are flawed, three dimensional and absolutely believable. Throughout the novel recognizing good and evil becomes more difficult, as the reader begins to question their own moral assumptions and attitudes. The plot and subplots work well together and often propel each other forward. Intricately layered and complicated, Corbett revs up the suspense and the stakes as the novel hurtles toward the conclusion. With a practiced eye for detail, Corbett¿s thoughts on the modern predicament are as insightful as they are chilling. Acknowledging the complexity of the politics and the difficult decisions being made by politicians, lends a realism to the novel, making it almost impossible to discern the line between fact and fiction. He weaves a myriad of seemingly disparate situations in the world - gang activity, terrorism, US foreign policy, corruption, murder, - into a seamless story that ties everything together. Exceptionally well written, with haunting depictions that capture both the beauty and the despair of a land and its people, which no longer seem so foreign or distant. Powerful, shocking and thought provoking, Blood of Paradise is a challenging read that I would recommend to all who enjoy serious thrillers. For interested readers, Corbett included a dossier at the end of the book, describing the political atmosphere of El Salvador. Happy Reading! RJ McGill 3Rs-Real Reader Reviews Personal Note: A dense and complex read, I often found myself returning to previous chapters to clarify the various aspects linking the characters. (A character list was an absolute necessity.) Also, I was frustrated by the use of undefined and obscure Spanish words that could not be interpreted by the surrounding text. Dark and disturbing, David Corbett¿s passion is both refreshing and moving, so much so, I immediately checked out his 2003 release, ¿Done for a Dime¿ from my local library.