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Authors: Jamaica Me Dead

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Bob Morris_Zack Chasteen 02

BOOK: Bob Morris_Zack Chasteen 02
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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

Jamica
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

Contents

Title

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

FOR DEBBIE . . .
AGAIN AND ALWAYS

Jamica
Me
Dead

1

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.

BOOK: Bob Morris_Zack Chasteen 02
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