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Overview
When successful and charming rock journalist Mick Sever goes to Jamaica to see the 'next big thing', a reggae/rap band with a flare for hypnotic beats and violent lyrics, he finds that there's more than just sun, sand and music on the island of Jamaica. Danger, lies, sex and murder abound in the tropical paradise.
Led by front man Derrick Lyman, a talented and captivating performer with a radical political message, the band seems set for instant stardom. But then a young girl is savagely murdered at an afterparty celebrating the band's first American concert in Miami. Roland Johnson, the band's security guard is caught, with a knife in his hand at the crime scene. Roland is arrested and charged with murder. For all involved the case is closed - all except Mick Sever.
Sever, a relentless and charming sleuth, isn't convinced that the simple guard is the cold-blooded killer everyone thinks he is. Stories of other murders and violence that follow the band lead Sever to believe there is more to the story than meets the eye. Threatened by the band, the police, and dangerous unknown assailants, Sever with the help of his beautiful and intelligent ex-wife Ginny, is determined to learn the truth.
In the world of music, with double deals, beautiful women and sexy sounds, nothing is as it seems. Set against the exotic backdrops of Florida and Jamaica, this is an edgy, atmospheric, edge-of-your-seat mystery that will keep you guessing right up to the shocking ending.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429971386 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2007 |
| Series: | Mick Sever Series , #1 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 320 |
| File size: | 432 KB |
About the Author
Don Burns is a songwriter, musician, and advertising executive. He and his family live in Ohio and frequent Florida and the Caribbean. Jamaica Blue is his first book.
Read an Excerpt
Jamaica Blue
By DON BRUNS
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2002 Don BrunsAll right reserved.
ISBN: 0312304900
I'm tellin' ya, Mick, this kid is like the second coming of Bob Marley." Bobby Vane waggled his fat index finger at a waitress as he stuffed another shrimp in his mouth. "We got him comin' over here to tour with Brandy this summer, but hell, if it goes good, we might just bolt the Brandy thing and take off on our own." He smiled at the waitress as she walked to the table. "Another Scotch, honey, the Glenlivit or whatever you got, okay?" He waved her away.
A smile played on Mick Sever's face. Bobby Vane always had a new artist, a new recording contract, a new tour to promote. And each one was guaranteed to be bigger than the one before.
"Were you a Marley fan, Mick? Huh? Were ya? Ya know, the kids today, they all got Marley in their CD collections, and hell, the guy died like in 1981, before most of 'em were even a gleam in their old man's eye. So I figure that this guy's gonna just be the hottest thing." He wiped his greasy fingers on the green linen napkin in his lap and scanned the table for any last bites of food he may have missed. "Ya want anything else, Mick? Just name it."
"No, I'm fine."
"Ya know, ya eat like a bird. Like a fuckin' bird. So, watcha think? You get a chance to see Jamaica, the sun, the sand, the honeys, and you get to see his concert."
"What's the name again?"
"Derrick Lyman."Vane put his meaty hand on Sever's and patted it. "Milk, if this isn't the biggest thing since grunge ..."
"Bobby, I was never a real big fan of grunge."
Vane looked at him. "It's reggae and hip-hop. It's like dance hall, rock steady, and ska all wrapped up in one sound and it's just plain hot. I've got a rough mix right here." He reached down to a scuffed brown leather bag and pawed through the contents until he found the jewel case. "Here, this'll give you a little taste of what this guy does. Derrick Lyman and the Laments."
"Laments?"
"Well, we're still working with that. Marley had the Wailing Wailers, and they changed it to just the Wailers. We'll get it right before we go big-time. Right now I want you to see how electrifying this boy is with a crowd. He brings 'em to their feet and never lets 'em sit down, Mick. I'm tellin' ya, you're gonna want to do a story on him. And I'm willing to give you first crack."
"How many writers have turned you down?"
"You hurt me, Mr. Sever. I want you to follow this careen You're a powerful man. People believe what you say. Give me ... give my boy a break. If I'm wrong, you still get a vacation in a tropical paradise."
"I get to spend three days in a Third World country where the white man is not only in the minority, but in many cases not too well liked."
"Come on. Rolling Stone already said they'd pick up the tab. I just gotta get you to do the article." He looked at Sever with his big brown eyes, much like a dog Sever had had in the sixth grade. The dog, Waddles, or something like that, had run away from home and was never seen again.
"All right, Vane, I'll go. We'll see what this Derrick and the Laments is all about. So what do we call this music? Reggae rap?"
"Well, you're the word man. Rasta rap, reggae rap ..."
"So he's Rastafarian?"
"Hell, isn't everyone in Jamaica? He sprinkles the songs with some of that philosophy mumbo jumbo. Worked for Marley. It'll work for Derrick." Vane grabbed the Scotch as the waitress set it down and he took a gulp, pounding the glass back onto the table. "Here's to a new superstar. Here's to reggae rap." He raised the glass.
Sever picked up his water glass, glanced around at the other tables to be sure no one was staring, then softly clinked his glass with Vane's. "Bobby, no promises. If I don't like the kid or his music, that's the way the story will read."
"I know, I know. I'm not worried. The kid will bowl you over. We got a hit here, Mick, and you're gonna thank me for steering you in his direction." He finished his Scotch, pushed his corpulent body back from the table, and gave Sever a huge grin. "Damn, life is good! Life is good!"
Mountains of moss green disappeared beneath them as the plane skirted the heights by what seemed only several hundred feet. Forests of palm trees dotted the hills, and the lush green valleys, deep and wide, spread out in all directions.
"Fucking beautiful country, eh?" Bobby Vane spread his thick arms out, almost touching both sides of the Cessna. Sever nodded. The view was breathtaking. He wasn't a fan of flying in jumbo jets, much less of the private two- and three-seaters, but the scenery was beyond description at this low altitude. The entire view would have been lost in a commercial jet.
Five days had raced by as Sever canceled several meetings, obligations, and two book sighings. The latest book on the murder of rock star Job Jobiah was topping the charts, and his publisher wasn't happy about the lost opportunities. His book was front-page news and Mick Sever was the hottest literary property in the country. Still, there were new worlds to conquer, and Jamaica was one of them.
The small plane swooped down into the valley, then climbed the hillside, almost brushing the thick foliage of green and orange.
"Derrick?" Sever said the word as if to question its authenticity.
"Derrick," Bobby Vane repeated.
"Derek and the Dominoes was Eric Clapton's group, and Clapton made a hit out of Bob Marley's 'I Shot the Sheriff.' Any coincidence?"
"Far as I know, Derrick Lyman is his real name. If it has a little of Mr. Marley's mystique to it, then so be it. Ya gotta go with the story, Mick. Once you hear this guy and his band, well, they'll knock you out. The product is what it's all about. You said that yourself in that article you did for Spin a couple of years ago. Shit, who cares if they make up a name or a background? If the product is good, then it's solid."
As the plane reached the top of the hill, it leveled out, then started its descent to Montego Bay. Sever reviewed his notes. Jamaica, population 2.5 million, "discovered" in the late fifteenth century by Christopher Columbus and now populated primarily by people of African descent.
"The venue ain't exactly Madison Square Garden. I mean, this is a poor country, and they haven't got all the amenities, if ya know what I mean." Vane handed Sever a small poster advertising the concert for that evening. A dark, blurred picture of six people standing shoulder to shoulder appeared on the white card. It would have been impossible to identify any of them. Faded red lettering announced the band, appearing oceanside at the Round Hill Beach. "Should be a sellout by the time we land. Derrick will be waitin' for us about now. We'll get a car to take us there and you can do the interview before the concert. Gotta tell him. Reggae rap! He'll love it."
"But there's no recording contract yet?"
"You heard the rough mix? You tell me if they won't be beatin' down the doors. Shit, Island Records will be movin' in on this kid so fast. They'll be there tonight."
Sever closed his eyes for a moment as the small aircraft banked and the sharp turn over the crystal blue water put them directly above Montego Bay. The plane descended rapidly, and the wheels hit the ground with a bounce.
Bright sunlight glared off the tarmac and Sever put his sunglasses on. Everything looked hot, waves of shimmering heat causing distortions of distant views. They walked from the small Cessna to a waiting car. Sever looked over his shoulder to see an attendant struggling with their four bags, his soiled white short-sleeved shirt clinging damply to his glistening black skin. Sever dropped back and took his travel bag and laptop from the young man. The luggage handler smiled, teeth gleaming.
"Thank you, mon. This load be mighty heavy."
Vane stood impatiently by the small Toyota, glancing at his watch. Sever swung the smooth leather bag into the open trunk. The bag was a miracle: attractive, functional, and loaded with room. He carried his sport coat, trousers, a couple of shirts, underwear, his toiletries, and everything else he needed in the main compartment. The outside pockets were for passport, airline tickets, notebooks, pens, calculators, and an assortment of books that he was reading. Traveling was a way of life, and the bag was an important part of that life.
Vane waited until the attendant forced his three bags into the mink, then he climbed in the passenger seat of the white car. Sever sat in the back, his long legs cramped from the tight quarters. He felt the familiar twinge in his left knee and massaged it as the car gathered speed.
"Like I told you, we're goin' to the Round Hill Hotel and Villas. We rented a little villa there for Derrick and the boys. And Marna."
"Marna?"
"She sings sometimes, plays tambourine, and washes their shirts. Kinda like a housemother to the Laments. Anyway, this place has an outdoor arena, and that's where the concert is. This is a nice place, Mick. Paul McCartney, he stays here, and the Kennedys. Lots of high rollers."
Sever wiped the perspiration from his forehead. His deep blue cotton shirt was damp, and his khakis were in danger of losing any crease they might have once had. The car swung around partially paved roads, throwing loose stones into the dirt ditches on either side, and the town fell behind them. As they approached the Villas, he could see the gleaming white homes, all trimmed with forest green, and nestled with hibiscus and bougainvillea. The scene was straight out of a Cary Grant movie.
Derrick and the Laments were housed in the seventh villa and were gathered in the back, around the crystal clear swimming pool. Barefoot and shirtless, they casually lay back in chaise lounge chairs, all five of them dressed in cutoffs. Sever breathed deeply, the smell of tropical flowers and ganja thick in the air.
"Mick, this is the band." Two of them nodded in acknowledgment. Vane pointed to the nearest chain "This is James, our drummer." James took a drag on a joint and gave Sever a faint smile. He held the smoke in for a moment then slowly let it escape into the pungent air. "James is the newest member of our little group, and over here is Ricky. Rick is our very talented keyboard player." Rick stood up, flashing Sever a bright smile and offering him his hand. "It's good to meet you, mon."
They shook hands and the young man walked to the small service bar and poured himself a glass of what appeared to be orange juice. "Sudahd, over there," Vane pointed to a short young man, a Zapata-style mustache covering his lips, "he plays guitar. Man, does he play guitar. And here we have Flame. Flame plays a mean bass."
Flame smiled. "Hey, man. Whassup?" A light cocoa shade of skin, and from just three words Sever had the feeling the kid would feel right at home in the United States' hip-hop community.
"And finally, Mick Sever, meet Derrick. Derrick, this is Mick Sever."
The black singer glanced up with heavy green eyes, slowly stood up from his lounge chair, and waited for Sever to make the first move. Sever took two steps toward him and shook his hand. The musician was tall, maybe 6'3", and thin as a rail. His hair hung shoulder-length in dreadlocks. The hint of a mustache colored his lip and his stoic, level gaze surprised Sever. He'd expected a more animated response. Musicians were usually only too glad to meet him, and until he had either praised or panned their work, they wanted to be his best friend. After Vane's buildup, Sever had expected a friendlier tone.
"So, Bobby thinks you're going to be the next Bob Marley." Sever brushed his damp hair from his forehead.
"There be nobody gonna be Bob Marley. Not Ziggy, his kid, not nobody. I be the next Derrick. Marley was who he was. I'm now." His thick Jamaican accent seemed punctuated with icy tones. Derrick glanced over his shoulder at the four young, bare-chested men gathered behind him. James and Sudahd were both sucking on a reefer, but all four were watching intently. He returned his gaze to Sever. The deep green eyes were hypnotizing, like emeralds in a pool of white.
"I listened to the CD." Sever found himself avoiding the gaze, glancing around for his bag and his notebook. "I like most of it. It's got some traditional themes, but it's fresh. And you've got some very powerful lyrics. I would say they were powerful ... and somewhat disturbing." He sat down on a padded lawn chair and waited for the singer to sit too. Instead, Derrick walked to a small service bar and poured himself a glass of water. He returned and sat down, squeezing a lime into the drink and glaring at Sever.
Vane watched nervously, approaching Sever as he started writing. "How about a drink, Mick? We've got it all right here."
Sever ignored him. "Derrick, did we get off on the wrong foot here? I made a change in my plans so I could come over here and see your show. Bobby's gone to great lengths to make this thing a success, and you act like you wish we'd just go away."
Derrick was silent. He studied Sever, holding his eyes. He took another sip of water and spoke. "Bobby done okay by us. But let me tell you one thing, mon. White man is no friend of Rasta. The white man is sometimes a necessary evil, and that is all he will ever be. To throw off his oppression, to break free of his tyranny; that's what I am about."
Sever smiled. "I don't mean to be rude, but isn't this kind of old?"
"It may be old for you, but nothing changes. It is new to every black baby born. It's truth I speak. My song is for the black man and woman. Yet I need a white man to open my doors? This is not the Rasta way."
Vane poured himself a whiskey and Coke and walked over to the young singer. He put his big hand on the man's shoulder.
Continue...
Excerpted from Jamaica Blue by DON BRUNS Copyright © 2002 by Don Bruns
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.