Gutshot Straight with Bonus Excerpt (26 page)

An Excerpt from

Whiplash River
A Novel

By Lou Berney

On Sale July 10, 2012

Chapter 1

T
he view from the veranda was a killer.

A sugar-sand beach, palm trees, the Caribbean glittering beneath a full moon. A wooden pier curved out over the water, with a thatch-covered
palapa
perched at the far end. Straight off a postcard.

Shake had bought the Sunset Breeze more than two years ago. You’d think he wouldn’t even notice the view anymore, but he did. Every single time he stepped onto the veranda of the restaurant,
his
restaurant, that was still his first thought:
Straight off a postcard.

Charles Samuel Bouchon was the name on his birth certificate, but he’d gone by “Shake” since he was nineteen, his first fall for grand theft auto, some twenty-five years ago now. One of the old black cons on the yard had started calling him “Vanilla Milk Shake.” Just an offhand nickname, and not exactly affectionate, but that was a funny thing about life: you never knew what was going to stick.

Shake made his way over to the honeymooners to clear their empty plates. They were young, barely into their twenties, fresh and scrubbed and flushed pink from a day in the sun. Holding hands across the table.

“So how did that lobster treat you?” he asked.

“Oh my God!” the girl said. “It just . . .”

“It rocked!” the kid said.

Already finishing each other’s sentences. Shake pointed it out.

“That’s a good sign,” he said.

“Is it?” the kid said. Earnest.

Shake shrugged. Sure, why not?

The kid dimpled with delight. The girl giggled and squeezed her husband’s hand tight.

“So how long will you be in Belize?” Shake said.

“Not long enough,” the kid said.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” the girl said. “It’s like paradise.”

“It
is
paradise,” the kid said.

“We’re from Buffalo,” she explained.

Shake smiled.

The girl gazed out at the moonlit sea, at the flames of the tiki torches snapping around in the breeze.

“Was it your dream?” the girl asked Shake. “To own your own restaurant? In a place like this?”

“It was,” he said. Though he didn’t mention where the dream had been dreamed. Long nights in the sweat-sour darkness of Block A, staring at the wall while his cellie in the tray above grunted and flopped in his sleep. It had been Shake’s second stretch for grand theft auto, but twenty years down the line, Shake no longer a boy but a professional wheelman of some repute. And determined, once he walked out of the Mule Creek State Correctional Facility, to walk a straight path and never again wobble off it.

Well, that hadn’t worked out exactly as planned. There had been a few wobbles. But now, finally, here Shake was. Palm trees and
palapas
and grilled lobster with a tequila lime sauce that did, if he did say so himself, rock.

“You really have the life,” the kid said with a sigh.

Shake smiled again, tighter this time. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said.

IF SHAKE’S FIRST THOUGHT WHENEVER
he stepped onto the veranda of his restaurant was
Straight off a postcard
, his first thought whenever he pushed through the double doors into the kitchen was usually
Shit.

Tonight the waiter was cursing the prep cook in Spanish, the prep cook was cursing back in English and waving around a boning knife, and the grease trap was on fire.

Business as usual, in other words.

“Armando!” Shake yelled. “Roger!”

They shut up, but neither made a move for the fire extinguisher. Shake grabbed it himself and poured foam on the grease trap. When the flames were dead, he showed the fire extinguisher to Roger, the prep cook.

“Ever seen one of these before?” Shake asked. “Just curious.”

Roger was a scrawny recovering alcoholic from Detroit who spent most of his shift recovering from the alcohol he drank on his breaks. He thought about the question.

“Fire extinguisher?” he said. “Shit. Sure I have. Hit a A-rab with one, one time. 7-Eleven store outside Gary, Indiana. Pissant tried to kick me in the nuts.”

As hard as it was to believe, Roger was the best of the dozen or so prep cooks Shake had hired and fired over the past two years.

“Why he do that?” Armando, the waiter, asked. He was a mestizo from Guatemala, barely five feet tall. Not a drinker, just foul-tempered and forgetful. Exactly the qualities you wanted in a waiter.

“I was robbing him,” Roger said. “And I dropped my screwdriver.”

“Hijo jesu,”
Armando said.
“Pinche idiota.”

“Screw you, greasy little bean-eater!”

Shake felt a headache building, chugging toward him, a freight train ready to flatten him where he stood.

He’d worked in kitchens before. He’d known that running his own restaurant wouldn’t be easy. But he’d never guessed just how unbelievably not easy it would turn out to be.

Fights in the kitchen. Fires in the kitchen. Crooked suppliers and corrupt inspectors. Third-world wiring and fourth-world plumbing. Tropical storms, swine-flu scares, cockroaches the size of lobsters. And, bane of Shake’s existence, the Internet, where a single bad review on TripAdvisor could kill business like a stake through the heart.

Idaba, the hostess, pushed through the doors. A Garifuna woman in her sixties, with a tie-dyed head wrap and big gold nose ring, she was Shake’s only competent employee. She made sure he never forgot it.

She looked around. “Problem?”

Shake studied her, but it was impossible to tell if she was being ironic. She had a hell of a straight face, grave and expressionless, her big block head like something the ancient Mayans had carved out of dark volcanic rock and killed sacrificial goats on.

“Problem?” He kicked fire-extinguisher foam off his shoe and raised his voice because Armando and Roger were still cursing each other. “Why would you think that?”

She might have frowned at him, might not have. Again, impossible to tell.

“The nine o’clock four-top canceled,” she said.

Shake grimaced. That left them with only twelve covers for the night. Eight the night before. That put them deep in the red for the night, the month, the year. Ever since January, when the resort located just up the beach had switched over to an all-inclusive meal plan and sucked up half their business.

They’d been in the red even before then, to be honest.

Running his own restaurant in Belize was by far the most stressful job Shake had ever had. Driving getaway for the Armenian mob, a Humvee full of Salvadoran gangbangers trying to ram you into the Los Angeles River—that, by comparison, was like listening to soft jazz in the tub.

“You want me to comp their dessert?” Idaba said. “The honeymooners?”

“Are we sure they’re really on their honeymoon?” Shake said. “Can we ask for proof?”

Idaba waited. Shake calculated how much the complimentary coconut pie would cost him, how much the chocolate cake, how much if the honeymooners wanted both.

“Fine,” he said finally.

He needed some air, so he grabbed a bus tub full of dead lettuce and rotten mango and carried it out back. Out back was a weedy patch of crushed coral beneath a browning palm, with a Dumpster and a propane tank and a million or so of Roger’s cigarette butts scattered everywhere.

Shake emptied the bus tub into the Dumpster, noticing that the floodlight above the kitchen door had burned out. He remembered he’d just changed the bulb, but before he could do anything useful with that information, a pair of hands grabbed his shoulders. The hands spun Shake around and slammed him so hard against the propane tank that Shake’s teeth clacked together and rust puffed off the tank.

The guy who’d slammed Shake was big, and built, a dark-skinned bruiser in baggy plaid shorts and a Rasta tank top that said one love. Shake recognized him, one of the thugs who hung around the bar that Baby Jesus owned down in San Pedro.

Shake had hoped this was just a random mugging. No such luck.

“Listen,” he said, but instead One Love hit him in the stomach. Shake doubled over and the guy went for his kidneys, two hard chops that dropped Shake to his knees.

“You like that,
guna boi
?” One Love said.

“No,” Shake said.

“Maybe you like another one, then.”

Shake didn’t follow the logic. He turned his body, thinking he might trap a kick to the ribs and bring One Love down.

But the kick didn’t come. Shake looked up. One Love took a step back as a golf cart rolled up. The cart’s shocks creaked as Baby Jesus heaved himself out. He was even bigger than One Love, enormous, like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.

“Shake! My friend!” Baby Jesus held his arms wide. His face was round and smooth and alarmingly—for a guy that big, in his late thirties—cherubic.

Shake climbed unsteadily to his feet. “Friends,” he pointed out, “don’t punch friends in the kidneys.”

Baby Jesus chuckled and wagged a finger at Shake. “Friends pay back the money that they borrow.”

“Plus the point and a half a week, don’t forget.”

“Oh! Such onerous terms! Baby Jesus is such a bad man, yes?”

Baby Jesus arched his eyebrows and looked over at One Love, who nodded in agreement. Because yes, Baby Jesus—who ran the dope trade on Ambergris Caye and controlled a key leg of the lucrative cocaine distribution route between Lima and the Florida Keys—was in fact a bad man. Very.

Baby Jesus frowned at One Love and said something sharp in Kriol. One Love caught the drift and stopped nodding. He shook his head. “No!”

“No!” Baby Jesus said. “Of course not, Baby Jesus is not a bad man!” He wagged his finger again at Shake. “Tell me, Shake, who else would help you buy your restaurant? Who else would loan the necessary funds to—I am being honest here—a person of such dubious character and past transgression?”

Good question. Another one was why Shake, who should have known better, had borrowed money from a Central American drug lord known for shooting his rivals, breaking down their bodies like raw chicken for the fryer, and dumping the pieces at a place on the reef called Shark Ray Alley.

“Baby Jesus is who!” Baby Jesus said.

All Shake could say in his own defense was that he’d been at a difficult point in his life when he borrowed the money from Baby Jesus. When Shake found the restaurant for sale on Ambergris Caye, he’d recognized it as a miracle, a gift, a once-in-a-lifetime chance to slam the book shut on his past.

Unfortunately, the most recent chapter of that book had left Shake stone-cold broke, and Baby Jesus was right. Who else would have loaned Shake that kind of money?

“You know what?” Shake said. “I was just about to say ‘Baby Jesus.’ I was this close.”

Baby Jesus rocked back on his heels, a parade balloon tugging on the guide wires, and surveyed the restaurant. “Business is good?” he said.

“Couldn’t be better,” Shake said.

Baby Jesus gave him a sweetly cherubic smile.

“I was barely a week late,” Shake said. “First time in almost two years.”

“Exactly,” Baby Jesus said. “That is why we snip the problem in the bud. Yes? Snip, snip, snip!”

He brought two big fingers close to Shake’s face and worked them like scissors. Shake made the mistake of watching the fingers and not One Love, who stepped up and hammered him with a blind-side roundhouse to the jaw. Shake hit the ground again.

When his vision cleared, Baby Jesus was crouched next to him.

“Next month’s payment will be on time, yes?” Baby Jesus said.

Shake nodded.

“Excellent.” Baby Jesus gave him a friendly pat on the cheek. “And you have learned your lesson?”

Shake remembered what the honeymoon girl had asked him earlier, if now he had the life he’d always dreamed of. He nodded again, but when he tried to speak, his jaw was still numb from the punch.

“What’s that you say?” Baby Jesus said. “What is the lesson you have learned?”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Shake said.

Chapter 2

S
hake’s flat above the restaurant faced east, toward the sea, so he never bothered with an alarm clock. The light came slanting in early, spreading like it had been dropped and spilled on the polished ironwood floor. When the dogs that guarded the bar next door woke up and started barking at the seabirds, Shake was already out of bed, sliding on his flip-flops.

He walked down to the end of the pier and put on a pair of swim goggles. You never knew what you might see out here in the crystal-blue water. Huge schools of tiny silver fish, swirling like snowflakes. A spotted ray banking and swooning. Shake stood for a second to let the sun warm him up, and then dove in.

Back in the States, Shake had taken long drives to relax. An empty stretch of country two-lane, the soothing sizzle of rubber on asphalt, a Flatlanders song blasting from the deck. But Ambergris Caye was an island only twenty miles long and half a mile wide. Almost everyone got around by bike or boat or golf cart. So now when Shake wanted to forget his troubles, he had to hit the water.

Usually his morning swim did relax him. This morning, though, no matter how hard he worked, he couldn’t shake Baby Jesus. Who seemed to backstroke right along beside Shake, smiling sweetly, snip-snipping his big fingers like scissors.

Shake figured, best case, that he had two or three months for business to pick up. If it didn’t, if he couldn’t keep up his payments, Baby Jesus would take over the restaurant. He would take over Shake.

Shake picked up the pace and swam till he could barely lift his arms above his head. Finally, exhausted, he rolled onto his back and let the current carry him back down toward his pier.

When he climbed out of the water, Idaba was on the beach, supervising the little Kriol boy who raked up the sea grass. If the little boy missed a spot, Idaba would snap her fingers, loud, and make him go back and get it.

Shake dried off and walked over. Idaba handed him a cup of coffee.

“I’m gonna take the boat into town later,” Shake said. “We need anything you know about?”

“Mangoes,” she said.

“All right,”

“Good ones.”

“You sure? I was gonna hunt around till I found some bad ones.”

She looked at him. The boy almost grinned, Shake saw it building, but Idaba snapped her fingers at him and the little boy scooted off down the beach.

“You know what you need?” she asked Shake.

He sat down on the sand with his coffee and watched the waves smack and foam against the reef, half a mile offshore.

“What do I need?” he said.

“You need a woman.”

He glanced over at her. “What?”

“How long it’s been?” she said. “Since you have a woman in your bed?”

“Well,” he said. He took a sip of coffee and pretended to muse. “I guess if you’re offering . . .”

She snapped her fingers so close to his head that it made his ear ring.

“Be serious for one minute,” she said.

“What I need,” Shake said, “I need a prep cook knows how to prep or cook. Either way, it’s an improvement. I need a roof that doesn’t leak and wiring I don’t have to say a Hail Mary every time I flip a light switch. I need TripAdvisor to delete that dipshit’s review, the one said my conch ceviche was undercooked.”

“A woman in your bed. That’s the only way to fix when your heart been broken.”

“I need to go back in time and kick my own dumb ass for borrowing money from Baby Jesus.”

He turned to look at her.

“Who says I’ve got a broken heart?”

“You don’t think I see?” She snorted. “I see it the first time I meet you.”

“That wasn’t a broken heart. That was a rough ferry ride from the mainland and a plate of bad huevos rancheros.”

“Be serious. When a woman break your heart, you need to find a new woman. It’s no good, a man all by himself.”

That sounded like lyrics from a reggae song, but Shake knew better than to say so.

Idaba snapped her fingers again anyway, right next to his ear, like a gunshot going off.

“Hey!” he said. “What was that for?”

She was like one of those old nuns he’d known as a kid, growing up in New Orleans, who could read your mind like a book.

“You think I don’t see?” she said.

She took his empty cup and headed back up to the restaurant. Shake stretched his legs out. It was true that he’d been suffering from more than bad huevos rancheros when he first arrived on Ambergris Caye. But that was two years ago. If his heart had been broken then, that didn’t mean it was broken now. He no longer felt a stab of pain, for example, every time he thought about Gina. Every time he thought he smelled her shampoo on the pillow next to him. Every time he stepped onto the veranda of the restaurant and imagined how much she’d love the killer view.

Not every time.

He tried to remember how long it had been since he’d had a woman in his bed. Six months? He had opportunities. He was a decent-looking guy, he took care of himself, he owned a restaurant on the beach of a tropical island. A lot of the women he met were on vacation, far from home, ready to live and let loose.

But he could never work up much enthusiasm for it—a one-night stand with some divorced recovery-room nurse, too much makeup and a fresh dolphin tattoo on her ankle, she and her girlfriends three sheets to the wind and flying back to Louisville in the morning.

Shake called over the little Kriol boy with the rake and told him there were some homemade cinnamon rolls in the pantry, and to make sure he took a few home for his family.

“Thank you, Mr. Shake,” the little boy said. Shake guessed he was about seven or eight years old, skin almost the color of the ironwood floor in Shake’s apartment.

“I think she can read minds,” Shake said. “Idaba.”

The little boy shrugged, as if to say,
Of course she can, don’t be foolish.
And then he went running up to the kitchen to get his rolls.

SHAKE TOOK THE BOAT INTO
town, an eighteen-foot Wahoo that had come with the restaurant. The old Mercury outboard broke down on a fairly regular basis—usually when Shake had some expensive grouper sitting on ice—but today he made it to the municipal wharf without incident.

He tied up and walked to the market. A lot of visitors were underwhelmed by San Pedro, the only town on Ambergris Caye. Three streets, a few restaurants and bars, a layer of white sandy grit covering everything. Shake liked it. San Pedro felt like a real place to him, life going on, not like some of the other places he’d been to in the Caribbean. In San Pedro there were plenty of tourist traps selling T-shirts and scuba trips, but also places where you could buy plastic buckets or used bicycle parts or old romance novels written in Spanish. You could get your hair cut by a guy who worked out of his garage.

Shake located the fisherman he liked to use. The snapper looked good, so Shake took that and some lobster, some conch. The fisherman was about to make a run up to the northern resorts and agreed to drop off the fish on his way.

When the Garifuna ladies with the fruit carts saw Shake coming, they started clucking and cooing. In their brightly colored head wraps and skirts, they were like a flock of naughty tropical birds.

“Shake!”

“Come taste my fruit, boy!”

“Taste how sweet!”

“Shake, what’s shaking?”

That last one always cracked them up. It never got old.

Shake bought mangoes and papayas. On second thought he also bought some plantains, thinking he might fry them up with the snapper tonight. He felt good about that until he remembered they had only seven reservations on the books for tonight, and not much hope of any walk-ins.

Shake paid for the plantains and walked over to his buddy Pijua’s joint. It was early for lunch, but Shake hadn’t eaten breakfast and Pijua turned out the best food on the island, probably the best in Central America.

Pijua’s daughter sat him at a table inside, by the window, with a view of the marina. Shake tried not to guess what kind of phenomenal walk-in business Pijua did. He was shouting distance from the wharf, from all the bars, a quick golf-cart ride from the fancy resorts south of town. To get to Shake’s restaurant from town, you had to take a taxi boat or the island ferry. Twenty minutes each way, minimum.

“Perfect spot,” the guy who’d sold Shake his restaurant had assured him. “Quiet, romantic, secluded.” Then the guy was on a flight home to Orange County before the ink on the deed was dry. Shake supposed that should have given him pause.

Pijua delivered Shake’s pulled-pork empanadas and sat down across from him. Shake took a bite.

“What’s a guy gotta do,” Shake said, “to get the recipe for these?”

Pijua laughed. “Grow up in my mama’s kitchen. Have her whack you on the head with a wooden spoon every time you fuck up.”

Shake took another bite. “Small price to pay.”

Pijua’s real name was Manuel. He had been born in the Cayo highlands, on the border between Belize and Guatemala. Up there they had a little river shrimp that people called a
pijua.
A delicacy, hard to find and hard to catch. When Pijua was six or seven years old, it became his goal in life to catch one of those shrimp. When he finally caught one, he was so excited he ran through town yelling, “
Pijua! Pijua!”
That’s what he’d been called ever since, Pijua, shrimp, the guy a head taller than Shake and built like a truck.

Shake glanced around the restaurant. There wasn’t an empty table and it was barely eleven-thirty. Pijua read him.

“Give it time, amigo,” he said. “Your food’s good. Took me three, four years, my first place, before it really got going.”

“Is that all?” Shake said.

Pijua put his palms up, conceding the point. “Everybody I know,” he said, “I always send them up your way.”

Shake knew it. “I appreciate it.”

“Even though they come back and say, ‘Why you can’t do lobster like that, man?’ ”

“Now you’re just bullshitting me,” Shake said. “Which I appreciate as well.”

Pijua let Shake eat for a minute.

“At least you didn’t borrow no money from Baby Jesus,” Pijua said. Watching Shake as he said it.

“Is that what you heard?” Shake said.

“Because you don’t want to borrow no money from Baby Jesus.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.” Which was true.

Pijua let it drop. His daughter hollered at him from across the room.

“Shit, man,” Pijua told Shake. “Like I said, your food’s good. Stick it out, you’ll see. The wind turns around.”

“The wind turns around.”

Pijua slapped him on the shoulder and headed back to his kitchen.

ON HIS WAY OUT, SHAKE
passed a woman seated on the outdoor deck. At a table by herself, going over the menu. She was in her late thirties or early forties, somewhere around there, and pretty. The paperback book next to her purse was one Shake had read when he first moved to Belize.

He walked past her, made it down the wooden steps to the street, and then stopped. He sighed. It was like he could feel Idaba watching him, with that carved-rock expression of hers that he could never interpret.

He turned around and climbed back up the wooden steps. What the hell.

“Hi,” he said.

The woman glanced up from her menu. Shake decided that maybe her face was more interesting than pretty. Or maybe interestingly pretty. Her eyes were dark with a vaguely exotic tilt, like there was an Asian branch of her family tree. But she also had the rosy cheeks of a Minnesota farm girl and a square, all-American jaw.

“Not interested,” she said. “Thanks.”

Her bluntness took him by surprise. And then after a second he remembered the plastic bag of fruit he was holding.

Shake smiled. “I’m not selling anything.”

“Awesome. ’Cause I’m not buying.”

She smiled back at him, a helluva smile, like the sun sliding out from behind a cloud and lighting up the sky. Shake stood there like an idiot until Pijua’s daughter rescued him by coming out to take the woman’s order.

“Try the pulled-pork empanadas,” Shake said, finding his footing again. “You won’t be sorry.”

“The fish tacos, please,” the woman said. But when Pijua’s daughter started to write the order down, the woman said, “Wait.”

Pijua’s daughter gave Shake a wink and headed back inside.

“My name’s Shake,” he told the woman. “I know you were just dying to know that, be honest.”

The woman considered. She was wearing a UC Santa Cruz T-shirt and khaki cargo shorts that showed off a nice pair of legs.

“Evelyn,” she said. “Shake?”

“A nickname.”

“I hope so.”

She hadn’t asked him to sit down, but she hadn’t asked him to leave either. Well, not in so many words. Shake decided to stay until she told him to leave, in so many words. He nodded at the paperback by her purse.

“So where do you stand on the scarlet macaw?” he said.

The book was a true story about the fight over a rare kind of bird. The government of Belize wanted to lower the cost of electricity by building a dam on a river where the scarlet macaws lived. Don’t worry, the government said, the birds will be fine. A group of environmentalists called bullshit on that and said the scarlet macaws would not be fine. They suggested that eco-tourists would pay a lot of money to go watch the scarlet macaws, if the government would just be smart about it.

“Definitely pro-macaw,” the woman said. “But don’t ruin the ending for me.”

The way she said it, the corner of her mouth turned up, Shake could tell she’d seen enough of the world to know how the story ended. The government built the dam, some government ministers made a whole lot of money, electricity prices went up, not down. And the scarlet macaws in Belize had disappeared.

“If you want to have dinner tonight,” Shake said, and then stopped when he realized how that sounded.

“Most people do,” she said. “I feel like I’m pretty conventional in that way.”

“What I mean,” Shake said, smiling again, “I mean I own a restaurant. I do the cooking there. If you’re looking for a completely unbiased recommendation.”

“I see.”

“The Sunset Breeze. It’s up north a little bit. You can take a taxi boat.”