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Helpless in Paradise
Helpless in Paradise
Helpless in Paradise
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Helpless in Paradise

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Zeke Hunter, a down-on-his-luck Philadelphia lawyer, gets mixed up with a gang of murderous thugs while on a business trip to Mexico. But with the help of his girlfriend, a powerful bodybuilder with a gentle heart, Zeke fights back.

"T.L. Peters' way of writing is wonderful."
Kyanara

"There's no question that Peters is a master wordsmith." Gerry B's Book Reviews

LanguageEnglish
PublisherT.L. Peters
Release dateMar 13, 2011
ISBN9781458188762
Helpless in Paradise
Author

T.L. Peters

"There's no question that Peters is a master wordsmith." Gerry B's Book Reviews About the author: T.L. Peters is an ex-lawyer who enjoys playing the violin and giving his dog long walks in the woods. In between, he writes novels.

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    Helpless in Paradise - T.L. Peters

    Chapter 1

    Grunting amiably Zeke Hunter turned toward the window seat where his boss Lucinda Mann, all six feet two inches of malevolent bone and gristle, was pounding out hasty revisions on her laptop to some pricey legal document. It was for the Mexican client they were flying to Cancun to meet, part of some complicated real estate deal Lucinda had told him about just before they took off. He suspected that the deal was crooked. Tax lawyers like Zeke typically do their financial scheming in the back office well out of view. Rainmakers like Lucinda were the ones out front schmoozing the clients and grabbing the glory. Only when things turned especially dicey did Zeke get to tag along.

    Zeke's unkempt sandy hair, pug nose, chunky jowls, and the brown Sears suit exquisitely water-stained and frayed around the cuffs, lent the thirty year old an engagingly discombobulated quality seldom observed at the austere Philadelphia law firm of Short and Gray. Despite his informal ways Zeke was uncomfortable kissing up to partners, especially some junior ball-buster like Lucinda. But he had heard that she liked pliable male associates and thought he'd give team work at least a half hearted try. He would be up for partner himself in a few years. Although his prospects weren't good, a lamentable happenstance which he ascribed not to any failings of his own but to the mean arbitrariness of office politics, he hadn't quite given up altogether.

    Drudge work is my specialty, Zeke said, grinning meekly at her and in the process displaying a healthy set of teeth, though the bottom incisors were noticeably out of line and slightly yellowed at the base. Let me give you a hand with that.

    I don't feel like having to go back and correct your mistakes, Lucinda snarled, not even bothering to look at him. She gave her resplendent black mane an imperious shake before wedging her squarish backside even more firmly into the hard gray seat. When I want your help, I'll ask for it.

    Zeke tried to stare impassively into empty space, but he doubted whether his unruly facial muscles had opted to conform to his brain's docile instructions. He remembered his friend Josh telling him about a lawyer at some other firm who had actually had the guts to take Lucinda out on a date. The next day the guy's face looked as if it had been massaged by a brick. Zeke didn't doubt that Lucinda could handle herself, not that he had anything against strong women. His own girlfriend proved that, but more about Delores later. Zeke, however, preferred some curves amid the muscle, not the exclusively hard angles and taut lines that Lucinda's face and body offered up to any man brave enough to tangle with her.

    At least now that his friendly overture had been rebuffed he could be his normal uncooperative self. He had been around long enough to know when a partner could be counted on to give him a lousy evaluation no matter how well he did his job, and Lucinda seemed even more unfair than most. After letting out an heretical belch, just to show that he still had some spunk in him, he spotted the tattered edge of an old newspaper peeking from the narrow pouch on the back of the next seat. Yawning, he yanked it out and flipped through the wrinkled pages until he came to an article of sufficient resonance and eccentricity that he deemed its contents worthy of sharing. He chuckled expectantly as he began to read in a loud and raspy voice so obnoxious as to match even hers.

    Some smuggler was nabbed yesterday with packets of cocaine surgically stitched into the lining of his stomach. He died when one of the packets leaked. Too bad for him. The powder was so pure that it had a street value of over a million dollars.

    Lucinda suddenly halted her incessant pecking at the keyboard, as if she were contemplating some higher purpose. Zeke even detected an anxious glance in his general direction, more than enough incentive for the irreverent grunt to continue the tease.

    Maybe I could offer up my services as a drug mule while we're in Cancun. I have a feeling that I could use some transitional career planning.

    Zeke had decided that it might be amusing to get a rise out of her. Lucinda, probably out of spite, quickly resuscitated her usual professional distemper, the granite face morphing into an annoyed frown. He shrugged off her testiness and resignedly folded up the newspaper. He decided to snooze through the rest of the flight. He succeeded too until a bony jab to his rib cage roused him. A quick glance at the patchwork of angry veins poking up along the base of Lucinda's neck suggested that he better not gripe. Even after years slaving away in the dreary nether world of a big law firm, Zeke still had enough pride to want to avoid public humiliation at the hands of a woman, no matter how much she could bench press.

    After three hours of wending through long, folded up lines of smelly vacationers at the Cancun airport, the unlikely pair hailed a rusted cab and headed for the hotel. It was an all-inclusive resort owned by their client and just happened to have two extra rooms for the week, nonadjoining ones too. Zeke was happy about that.

    The meetings don't start for a few days, Lucinda barked as they got out of the cab. Meanwhile we have plenty of work to do.

    Animated now by the worthy purpose of his own amusement, Zeke hurriedly retrieved his room key and charged the elevator. It was an open air lobby with plenty of bars and other amusements, and he was determined to have some fun. Lucinda could do little more than fume as her colleague cheerily ascended in the glass walled compartment.

    Zeke had assigned himself three tasks during his brief stay in the tropics, swim in the ocean, check out the girls and get drunk, all of which he efficiently accomplished by the wee hours of the following morning. When the meetings finally commenced mid-week the young lawyer had recovered sufficient mental capacity to devise a crafty tax dodge for the enrichment of their morose dark-eyed client.

    He was a stocky building contractor in his forties whom everybody, even Lucinda, insisted on addressing as the padrino, or the Godfather in easy translation. Zeke gave little thought to the odd nickname. Pretentious eccentricity was a longstanding hallmark of Short and Gray's upper crust clientele. Maybe the guy really was some sort of gangster. It hardly made much difference to Zeke. He had skirted the tax law for shady clients many times before and would doubtless do so many times again.

    The meetings wrapped up early and to Zeke's surprise Lucinda instructed him to take a few days off before returning to the States. She said that he'd done such a good job that he deserved a break. He should have known better than to take her words at face value, but he was so happy to get out of work that he jumped at the chance. Wishing to avoid any possibility that she might change her mind, Zeke promptly ordered a limo for a nocturnal visit to one of the many dance clubs bunched in neon splendor along the center of the luxurious beach road. Zeke was so pumped up that he didn't see the two bulky thugs clamor into a banged up Chevy nearby, nor did he spot them disembark minutes later as he entered the disco. Yet his attention became suitably focused later in the evening when the louts cornered him in the men's room with the apparent purpose of cramming his head down a rather smelly commode.

    Zeke wasn't very muscular, but he was bulky and thick legged enough to acquit himself surprisingly well for a milksop tax lawyer. He thrashed and punched and kicked so wildly that he began drawing copious streams of blood from his assailants. The frightened attorney had nearly escaped when suddenly he felt a biting pinch on the back of his neck followed instantly by dazed unconsciousness. After watching her two hundred pound colleague crumple affably to the beer soaked floor, Lucinda disengaged her sharp fingertips from Zeke's trachea. She then ordered the disheveled thugs to haul him out to a waiting car.

    If anybody objects, say you're taking him to the hospital, Lucinda snorted.

    No one objected, and in about an hour Zeke's inert frame was being carted into a makeshift operating room walled off behind a large and quite thick glass window. Inside, doctors armed with cameras and video monitors were impatiently waiting to insert their shiny instruments through rubber tubes into Zeke's abdomen. Instead of green scrubs the surgeons and nurses were wearing bulky white outfits roughly akin to space suits and which covered every inch of their bodies, all except for their hands which were encased in tightly fitting vinyl gloves. Not an inch of their skin was exposed.

    Safely behind the glass barrier Lucinda sauntered over to the padrino, who until that moment had been viewing the proceedings with serenity. His manner abruptly soured when Miss Mann appeared on his radar screen. He apparently didn't like Lucinda any better than she liked him. But this was the harsh world of 2011, certainly not an era for sentiment to get in the way of business.

    The padrino knew three things about Lucinda. She was smart, competent and loved money more than anything else. As long he could count on those qualities, he trusted her about as much as he trusted anybody. Trust, however, wasn't even a part of Lucinda's working vocabulary. All she cared about was that she had leveraged the padrino and his lucrative account into full partnership at Short and Gray. Now that she had set her sights on becoming the firm's partner in charge, it didn't seem to her like the time to fiddle with their relationship.

    He's a loner, right? the padrino snarled at his eager counsel. Both parents dead, no brothers and sisters, no relatives to speak of? You double-checked all that, right?

    Lucinda nodded grimly and then felt the need to amplify on Zeke's modest social situation. Lucinda always wanted everyone to know that she was the smartest person in the room.

    He dates a girl occasionally, sort of a nut case, a combination body builder and wrestler. He just has one other friend, a guy at the firm by the name of Josh Brighton, a real wimp, scared of his own shadow.

    It's perfect then, and the padrino waved a crooked finger at Lucinda's mannish chest. You just make sure that Hunter gets to that conference on time. We'll take care of the rest.

    Lucinda focused on the vial of white powder just then being solemnly delivered to the operating table by one of the space-suited physicians. The powder was quickly transferred through a maze of tubing to a tiny glass capsule packaged in vinyl. The capsule was then inserted through a narrow incision into Zeke's abdominal cavity.

    The entire procedure was visible on the overhead monitor. As Lucinda observed the packet being stitched into the lining of Zeke's stomach, for the first time in her career she entertained doubts about the wisdom of her client's plans. Meanwhile the padrino was nodding confidently. It was his way of asserting leadership even in small things.

    A tiny explosive, to be detonated electronically by one of my men, is also being inserted into Hunter's stomach, the padrino explained, his straggly black mustache twitching a little at the ends as he talked. The anthrax spores, once released by the blast, will spread through the conference hall quickly, yet it might be days before a correct diagnosis is made. Our contacts within the Mexican police have been instructed to tip off the FBI that Hunter was spotted in the company of Arab terrorists here in Cancun. The trail has been constructed so as to lead directly to the Middle East. All the uproar over terrorism should take the heat off our humble operations for quite some time.

    As the padrino cackled with satisfaction Lucinda's already rutted face hardened into something resembling flint, but without the spark.

    What if Hunter gets sick and can't go to the conference? she inquired uneasily. What if something else goes wrong that we haven't thought of? This could turn into a real disaster for us.

    That's the goal, isn't it? the padrino replied smugly as he examined a speck of lint clinging beneath his fingernail. And what's the risk really? The conference begins just two days after you return to Philadelphia. Hunter could live for weeks with that anthrax poison in his belly, so long as it doesn't leak out. That's the reason for the glass container. We've thought of everything.

    Lucinda considered rolling her eyes, but the padrino's fierce countenance dissuaded her.

    Won't Hunter realize that he's undergone some sort of surgery? He's not that stupid.

    It's laparoscopic surgery, the padrino shrugged, flicking the lint into the air and watching it float calmly to the floor. A minimally invasive procedure. The incision will hardly be visible. He'll be told that any discomfort is due to the mugging.

    The padrino quickly retrieved from his pants pocket a small black device resembling a computer mouse with a narrow digital screen on top. He fingered it lovingly.

    It's a Global Positioning Receiver, he said, grinning. We've already planted a microchip under Hunter's skin so that my man in the States can determine Hunter's location at all times. That's how we will know precisely when to detonate the explosive inside Hunter's belly.

    An experienced attorney, Lucinda knew how to ask simple minded questions in a grave and weighty fashion. It was a skill responsible as much as anything else for her rapid rise in the law.

    Who is your man in the States anyway? Anybody I know?

    His code name is the Norwegian, the padrino answered dryly as he repocketed the gadget. He'll get in touch with you if he feels the need. Otherwise, just keep a close eye on Hunter. And tell that drone Goldman not to get so antsy. We'll need cool heads on your end.Lucinda instantly felt much better upon hearing the padrino's deprecatory reference to her boss and managing partner Leonard Goldman. She then joined him in watching the surgeons briskly close the narrow incision on Hunter's side.

    Unbeknownst to either of them, Jake Silverstone, a burned out, crew cutted FBI Agent currently on the back side of an undistinguished career, was just then getting comfortably drunk a few miles away in a dive near the bleak fishing district of Cancun where tourists seldom venture. He was celebrating. After years of solitary and much maligned effort, he had finally solved the puzzle of how the padrino's cartel had been so successful in smuggling drugs into the voracious markets of the eastern United States. On a tip Silverstone had been at the disco and witnessed the fake mugging of the young attorney. He recognized the agile Miss Mann from her many high profile cases back in Philly. But instead of making a quick arrest Silverstone consulted in more detail with the tipster. The informant advised Silverstone where Hunter was being taken and why. Sincerity has its limits though, and because the mole was unaware of the anthrax plot he had naturally assumed that the surgery was for the customary purpose of implanting cocaine.

    Now that it was clear to Silverstone that the illustrious law firm of Short and Gray was a prime distributor of illegal narcotics for the padrino's gang, it would be easy for him to obtain court approval for the appropriate wiretaps and amass the evidence necessary for a rash of media grabbing indictments. But why rush to judgment, the Agent brooded in his meandering and officious way. He knew the intricacies of the drug trade as well as anybody, from the vast coca fields of Bolivia to the processing facilities in Columbia to the smuggling routes through Mexico and into the United States. He was familiar with the players too, not only the head honchos like the padrino, but more importantly the little nuts-and-bolts guys vital to any successful international crime ring.

    It would be a shame, Silverstone speculated as he shook his glass of whiskey, to let all that expertise go to waste in pointless court proceedings. As soon as one gang of crooks was locked away, another would spring up like weeds to take its place. Why not put himself in a position to profit from the changing guard?

    Silverstone reached no conclusion that evening. He would simply bide his time, and of course keep a close eye on the young Mr. Hunter and his surgically altered abdominal cavity. Lucinda and her firm's pompous leader Leonard Goldman would also be worth watching.

    Do you want another drink, Señor? the pudgy bartender asked.

    Why not? Silverstone smiled cockily.

    Chapter 2

    Zeke awoke slowly in a comfortable hospital room in Cancun. His last memory was of the debilitating neck squeeze administered by person or persons unknown. To make matters worse Lucinda was hovering over him as if she really cared, smiling as brightly as she was physically capable.

    You should have seen the other guys, Zeke groaned back to consciousness.

    Good thing for you the Mexican police happened by, Lucinda prevaricated casually, smoothing out her tight black skirt and then settling suggestively onto the corner of the bed. How do you feel by the way?

    Zeke was already compiling a mental inventory of his ailments, which at that point consisted of a severe headache, a mild case of nausea and some bruises and cuts. He quickly ascribed Lucinda's apparent concern for his well being to worries that he might seek a quick payoff by suing the firm for his injuries. It was an unlikely cause of action, but in the present environment of runaway jury verdicts a prudent employer could never be too careful.

    I'll live, he reported feebly.

    The doctor will give you some pain pills and then you're free to go, she said, frowning.

    The sooner, the better, Zeke grunted and then lifted the flimsy gown to examine a small welt in his side. Lucinda was quick to elucidate.

    You must have gotten scratched during the fight. It's nothing to worry about though. Doesn't even require stitches.

    Satisfied that he wasn't too banged up, Zeke began considering more pedestrian matters.

    I don't have a clue who jumped me. It must have been a robbery. Did they get anything?

    Lucinda gruffly tossed his crumpled wallet onto the bedside table. He snapped it up and peered inside.

    Still has your money and credit cards, she advised calmly.

    Disinclined to trust Lucinda about anything, Zeke canvassed his financial belongings, all of which were swiftly accounted for. The tension easing somewhat, he began to talk more freely than he was accustomed to in Lucinda's harsh presence.

    Good thing I put up such a fight. I guess I'll need to talk to the police now. I just wish I'd spotted the guy who snuck up behind me. Maybe I could have fought him off too.

    Never one to allow a subordinate male to get too cocky, Lucinda leaned over him and squeezed his mouth between her thumb and forefinger, as though he were a little boy. Zeke struggled for a few seconds to break loose, but the grip tightened considerably and he decided to submit. He could have fought harder but didn't see the point. Lucinda had a heaviness about her that was almost suffocating.

    What's all this silly business about going to the police? she cooed, pushing out her dry lips at him. There's no need for that. We've already smoothed it over with the locals. After all, you don't need the hassle of hanging around here for some piddling assault case. You've got more important things to do back at the office.

    Gradually she released his mouth. Then she straightened her broad bony shoulders and leaned backwards a few inches, eyeing him closely for any sign of dissent.

    When do we leave? Zeke mumbled.

    Lucinda threw back her head and laughed.

    C'mon big boy, she intoned, her voice hoarse and manly now, let's get out of here, and then she turned and walked slowly out of the room.

    Zeke had never seen Lucinda's hips sway so suggestively. No use encouraging her, he thought and quickly dressed. A few hours later he was enjoying a restful flight back to Philadelphia with all the amenities of first class. A few times Lucinda asked him how he was feeling, which unnerved him slightly, but the questions seemed professional, almost clinical, and he shrugged them off.

    As the long flight neared an end Zeke's spirits improved and he actually began to look forward to going into the office. His aim was not to resume toiling in the shadows of course, but to narrate his recent adventures to all who would listen. The oppressed denizens of the law library were generally a willing audience for any palliative to relieve the daily tedium, and a good story about a mugging in Mexico ought to assure him celebrity status for at least a few days. He knew that it was a fairly pathetic aspiration, but what else did he have to look forward to, unless perhaps seeing Delores? But she would no doubt be working late as usual.

    Lucinda scampered past him as soon as the exit door opened. Zeke was in a hurry now too and didn't even bother to stop by his modest house to change clothes before heading downtown. The offices of Short and Gray were housed near City Hall in an ancient five story building adorned with stone gargoyles around the windows. An appropriate exterior for any prestigious law firm, Zeke had long thought. Finding the law library populated by only a sparse assortment of senior partners, who could never be trusted to appreciate even the most entertaining tale, Zeke chose to drop in on his old pal Josh Brighton.

    Josh, as usual, was heroically striving to stay awake behind his cluttered desk. A constant griper and general malcontent, which were the main

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