Caribbean High
Excerpts from Caribbean High
Opening:
I woke up bleary eyed, hung over, and wondering just who the hell I was in bed with. Then I moved and my reflection, made doubly heinous by the crack in the bunk-side mirror, moved in sympathy. I moaned and focused one eye on the battered alarm clock, which was shattering the silence with enthusiasm of a kid let loose on a tin drum.
It was eight-thirty on a steamy Caribbean morning. I was fifty years and fourteen hours old.
The schooner Lucky Lady:
The ruse worked and the joyful miscreant was last seen heading west down the English Channel, dressed as Admiral Lord Nelson and accompanied by a motley crew of drunks, vagabonds, and the entire workforce of Portsmouth’s largest and most notorious brothel. And the schooner Lucky Lady—or the Lady, as she is affectionately known throughout the Caribbean, has been getting people into trouble ever since.
Party on the Lucky Lady:
Suddenly the music stopped and she peeled herself off me and stepped back. My eyes took in the shadows of her hardened nipples through the sweat-soaked cotton of her dress. Sparking like some mutant teenage hormone bomb, I fancied the rest of the night would be one of unbridled lust. And I was all for getting started when someone punched me in the back and said, “Hey, you pissed in my fucking dinghy.”
Murder:
Gordon lay with his back against an old rum barrel that doubled as a table. His chin was resting on his chest and, judging by the gash in his neck, it was the only thing holding his head on.
He was naked but for his cream Bermuda shorts which, his tailor would be delighted to know, still held a perfect razor-sharp crease. They also held a good part of his guts, which were hanging from two neat slashes carved across his belly in the shape of a cross.
Pete, Willie and Susie to the rescue:
Pete spun around and bathed me in light.
“There he is, look you, and as naked as the day he was born,” said Willie.
“Oh God, he’s alive …” Susie threw her arms around me and slammed my head against the wall.
“For God’s sake get off,” I roared. “You damn near killed me, and who the hell let you loose with a gun?”
"Sorry, Dick, we didn’t know she had it, but it sure as hell took care of that dead rat,” said Willie, and the two guys started to laugh.
The flickering light made their shadows grotesque, stretching them upwards along the wall and across the ceiling.
“You arseholes,” said Susie.
Strange doings at Mohamed’s house:
I took a deep breath and asked my question.
“We want to talk to Edwin, your diamond expert. Can you tell us where he is?”
Mohamed then did something I never thought he would do: he mimicked my accent. “We want to talk to Edwin,” he sneered, “tell us where he is.” As far as it went the accent wasn’t bad. Then he dropped the pretense. “Same old double act. Popeye and Olive Oyle, Mutt and Jeff, Batman and Robin, Dick and Pete. Why do you want to see Eddie?” He ran the sentences together, the words dripping with scorn.
“You missed out Willie. He could be Bluto,” I said. He looked at me as if I was nuts …
Willie’s revenge:
Willie gradually raised the gun, taking each bullet closer. The range was short, but the eye picked up the line of each tracer. I was counting the rounds and knew the last one in the clip, the thirty-second, would have an exploding head.
Harley Davidsons:
We ran towards the garage and the four-by-fours. Pete got there first and wrenched open the passenger door.
Willie thundered past. “Fuck that, boyo,” he cried, and headed straight for the two Harleys.
I grabbed Pete’s arm. “Willie’s right. It’ll take us three quarters of an hour to get back to the marina by road. If we take the bikes to where we left the Jeep, we can run most of the way along the beach and be there in twenty-five minutes.”
By the time we reached the Softail, Willie had the Fat Boy running and was backing it out of the garage. He revved the engine, bouncing a hellish roar of the walls and polluting the sea air with a thick plume of blue exhaust.
“Who are you riding with, Pete?” I shouted above the din.
Just then, Willie dropped the clutch, lifted the front wheel, and left fifteen feet of burning rubber on the blacktop.
“Didn’t want to ride with that crazy fucker anyway,” said Pete and climbed on behind me.
The sea chase:
The waves were no longer breaking. From trough to crest, they were soaring upwards, forming and reforming into towering peaks.
The bowsprit began to climb. At the edge of the circle of light, a wave lost its translucence and became a solid shape.
We were on the reef.
I punched the air to my right. “Tack,” I screamed, “for God’s sake tack!”
Above is a taste of the action you will find in Caribbean High. There’s plenty more.
I am always available to answer questions about the book and its characters. Contact me through the website and I will get back to you.
Happy reading
Opening:
I woke up bleary eyed, hung over, and wondering just who the hell I was in bed with. Then I moved and my reflection, made doubly heinous by the crack in the bunk-side mirror, moved in sympathy. I moaned and focused one eye on the battered alarm clock, which was shattering the silence with enthusiasm of a kid let loose on a tin drum.
It was eight-thirty on a steamy Caribbean morning. I was fifty years and fourteen hours old.
The schooner Lucky Lady:
The ruse worked and the joyful miscreant was last seen heading west down the English Channel, dressed as Admiral Lord Nelson and accompanied by a motley crew of drunks, vagabonds, and the entire workforce of Portsmouth’s largest and most notorious brothel. And the schooner Lucky Lady—or the Lady, as she is affectionately known throughout the Caribbean, has been getting people into trouble ever since.
Party on the Lucky Lady:
Suddenly the music stopped and she peeled herself off me and stepped back. My eyes took in the shadows of her hardened nipples through the sweat-soaked cotton of her dress. Sparking like some mutant teenage hormone bomb, I fancied the rest of the night would be one of unbridled lust. And I was all for getting started when someone punched me in the back and said, “Hey, you pissed in my fucking dinghy.”
Murder:
Gordon lay with his back against an old rum barrel that doubled as a table. His chin was resting on his chest and, judging by the gash in his neck, it was the only thing holding his head on.
He was naked but for his cream Bermuda shorts which, his tailor would be delighted to know, still held a perfect razor-sharp crease. They also held a good part of his guts, which were hanging from two neat slashes carved across his belly in the shape of a cross.
Pete, Willie and Susie to the rescue:
Pete spun around and bathed me in light.
“There he is, look you, and as naked as the day he was born,” said Willie.
“Oh God, he’s alive …” Susie threw her arms around me and slammed my head against the wall.
“For God’s sake get off,” I roared. “You damn near killed me, and who the hell let you loose with a gun?”
"Sorry, Dick, we didn’t know she had it, but it sure as hell took care of that dead rat,” said Willie, and the two guys started to laugh.
The flickering light made their shadows grotesque, stretching them upwards along the wall and across the ceiling.
“You arseholes,” said Susie.
Strange doings at Mohamed’s house:
I took a deep breath and asked my question.
“We want to talk to Edwin, your diamond expert. Can you tell us where he is?”
Mohamed then did something I never thought he would do: he mimicked my accent. “We want to talk to Edwin,” he sneered, “tell us where he is.” As far as it went the accent wasn’t bad. Then he dropped the pretense. “Same old double act. Popeye and Olive Oyle, Mutt and Jeff, Batman and Robin, Dick and Pete. Why do you want to see Eddie?” He ran the sentences together, the words dripping with scorn.
“You missed out Willie. He could be Bluto,” I said. He looked at me as if I was nuts …
Willie’s revenge:
Willie gradually raised the gun, taking each bullet closer. The range was short, but the eye picked up the line of each tracer. I was counting the rounds and knew the last one in the clip, the thirty-second, would have an exploding head.
Harley Davidsons:
We ran towards the garage and the four-by-fours. Pete got there first and wrenched open the passenger door.
Willie thundered past. “Fuck that, boyo,” he cried, and headed straight for the two Harleys.
I grabbed Pete’s arm. “Willie’s right. It’ll take us three quarters of an hour to get back to the marina by road. If we take the bikes to where we left the Jeep, we can run most of the way along the beach and be there in twenty-five minutes.”
By the time we reached the Softail, Willie had the Fat Boy running and was backing it out of the garage. He revved the engine, bouncing a hellish roar of the walls and polluting the sea air with a thick plume of blue exhaust.
“Who are you riding with, Pete?” I shouted above the din.
Just then, Willie dropped the clutch, lifted the front wheel, and left fifteen feet of burning rubber on the blacktop.
“Didn’t want to ride with that crazy fucker anyway,” said Pete and climbed on behind me.
The sea chase:
The waves were no longer breaking. From trough to crest, they were soaring upwards, forming and reforming into towering peaks.
The bowsprit began to climb. At the edge of the circle of light, a wave lost its translucence and became a solid shape.
We were on the reef.
I punched the air to my right. “Tack,” I screamed, “for God’s sake tack!”
Above is a taste of the action you will find in Caribbean High. There’s plenty more.
I am always available to answer questions about the book and its characters. Contact me through the website and I will get back to you.
Happy reading
Caribbean High book trailer
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Content copyright 2009-2012 Gary E. Brown. All rights reserved