Screech turned his attention to the four desks arranged in a half circle towards the back of the room.
“There are no offices. This is an… what do you call it? An open concept style space. We’ve got a desk at the front for a secretary—which, before you say it, we don’t have yet—then we have seating space for clients—which we also don’t have yet—and the other desks are for us. It's supposed to invoke trust with our future clients.”
Hanna looked over at him.
“Where’d you read that, Cosmo?”
“Teen Beat,” Screech shot back.
“Well, what about more, uh, sensitive matters? Also, where can we drink and fuck?” Hanna asked.
Screech looked away, his cheeks turning red.
“There's a broom closet for that,” he grumbled.
“So, which one’s mine?” Leroy nearly shouted, his excitement lifting the entire attitude of the room.
Screech shrugged.
“Whichever one you want.”
Leroy didn't hesitate; he ran to the glass desk on the far right. Then he plopped himself down in the chair, spun around once, and then embraced his computer monitor.
“This is… amazing.”
Screech chuckled.
He was proud of where they’d come from, even given the tumultuous route they’d taken.
“Yeah, it is amazing. Too amazing. How can we afford all this?” Hanna asked.
Screech had expected some incredulity, but cynicism had been Drake’s department, not Hanna’s. He smiled meekly.
“Let's just say that Triple D made some shrewd investments along the way. I will emphasize, though, that if we want to keep this space, we’re gonna need to acquire some clients, ASAP.”
“I’ll do anything so long as we don’t have to go back to the shithole we came from,” Leroy admitted.
“Touché,” Hanna said, as she made her way over to one of the other desks and took a seat.
Screech selected his desk but couldn't help looking over at the last one.
The empty one.
The one that belonged to Drake.
He sighed.
“Your computer login is your name, the password is our initials, just like on the door,” Screech informed the others.
They all spent the better part of ten minutes mucking about on their computers before boredom eventually set in.
“Well? What the hell do we do now?” Hanna asked.
Screech made a face. He’d done a lot for Triple D and he'd been there since the very beginning. And while he'd gone way above and beyond just computer duties, one thing he hadn’t participated in was client recruitment. They just sort of… fell into their lap.
Or, more accurately, into Drake’s lap.
“Well?”
Screech shrugged.
“Now we just wait for—” There was a sudden knock on the door and Screech leaned backward in surprise. The tightly coiled springs in his brand-new chair flung him back upright so quickly that he nearly knocked the monitor off his desk. “—a client,” he said softly.
Chapter 16
There was a strange smell to the room. Not a particularly bad smell, but a bitterness that was difficult to describe. What made it worse, however, was that Drake couldn't tell exactly where it was coming from. As the maître d’ had promised, the sheets were clean, and the rest of the villa was pristine.
And yet that smell…
Drake’s eyes lingered on the expertly made bed, and he wondered if one day he might be able to take the maître d' up on his offer, if it indeed was a serious one.
If one day he would be able to just lay his head down and rest, for once.
Without dreams.
He shook his head and then slowly made his way to the shower and turned on the hot water, deliberately avoiding his reflection in the mirror. When the water temp hit scalding, he stripped down and stepped inside.
Even though he hadn’t glanced in the mirror, as he washed the grime from his body, Drake couldn’t help but notice the wounds that peppered his flesh.
There was a dark blue stain across his right side as if his liver was desperately trying to force its way through his translucent skin. There was his injured shoulder, the scar from the bullet in his calf. Drake even pushed his tongue into the space in his lower gum where his tooth had once taken up residence.
Yeah, I really could sleep for a year.
After he’d finished washing off a layer of dirt, and maybe even a layer of skin, Drake dried himself off and slipped back into his clean underwear. He debated going to the front desk and asking if he could have his clothes washed but thought better of it.
The captain had given him an hour, and he didn’t doubt that he would push off with or without Drake. As he left the villa, he took one final look back, and pictured Beckett staying here.
Beckett, who had helped the maître d’ deal with some unruly guests.
They’d been friends for nearly a decade, and Drake had thought that he knew the man well, better than most, perhaps. But recently, ever since Craig Sloan, the man had changed. He was—
Drake shook his head to clear his thoughts and closed the door behind him.
He hurried back to the reception hall and tossed the keys to the maître d’.
“Mr. Drake, I hope you've enjoyed the facilities,” the man said with a smile.
“I did, thank you,” Drake grumbled. He was about to turn and leave, when a thought occurred to him.
“Is there something else I can help you with?”
Drake rooted through his bag and eventually pulled out a worn photograph.
“Maybe,” he said, passing the photo over to the man. “When’s the last time you saw this boat?”
The maître d’s eyes flicked down to the black and white image of B-Yacht’ch and his smile faltered. But when he looked back up at Drake, his face looked exactly as it had before: pleasant and welcoming.
“The last time I saw this yacht, your friend the doctor was on it. He was heading back to New York, I believe.”
Drake wasn't the best at telling when people were lying—case in point Jasmine’s deception—but he was getting better at it.
And when the maître d’s pupils dilated, and his hand had a slight tremor to it when he handed the photo back, Drake knew that this man wasn’t telling the truth.
“Hmm,” Drake said, pressing his lips together tightly. He was about to add more when he heard the sound of a horn blaring in the distance.
“Mr. Drake, I'm afraid that your ship is leaving soon.”
Drake jammed the photograph back into his pocket.
“Yeah, I think my time here is up,” he said, turning toward the door. “Thanks for the shower.”
“Oh, you're very welcome, Drake. And I really do hope that I see you again someday. Perhaps on your return voyage, you would be interested in staying longer and really taking advantage of the wonderful amenities we have here at the Virgin Gorda?”
“Yeah, maybe…”
…if there is a return voyage.
Chapter 17
“Annnnnd our first client is a non-paying one,” Hanna muttered under her breath.
Screech shook his head and opened the door wide. The man who barged into DSLH looked older than he remembered, and his demeanor was off. After what they’d done, after putting Raul in handcuffs and Ken Smith fleeing and the subsequent fallout, he expected him to be cheery, happy, grateful, even.
Instead, the man looked miserable.
“Gee, come on in, Sgt. Yasiv,” Screech said, closing the door behind the man.
Yasiv’s eyes were low when he entered, but when he found himself bathed in bright, incandescent lighting, he raised his head, the expression on his face transitioned from dejected to confused. When he noticed Leroy and Hanna staring at him, his confusion only grew.
“Nice place you got here,” he said at last. His voice had rough edges to it, as if he were suffering from laryngitis.
“Thanks,” Screech replied
with a nod. “To what do we owe the honor?”
Yasiv looked around nervously, his eyes deliberately falling first on Hanna, then Leroy.
“Is there somewhere private we can talk?”
Now it was Screech’s turn to glance around. His first instinct was to recommend the broom closet—it was actually a small office, but Hanna didn’t need to know that—but eventually, he found himself shaking his head. Drake may have had his secret wheeling and dealings at Triple D, but Drake wasn’t around, and this wasn’t Triple D.
It was Screech’s capital that funded the place, and they were all equal partners now.
“Whatever you want to say to me, you can say in front of Leroy and Hanna.”
His authoritative tone surprised even himself, but he also felt a tinge of pride deep down in his gut. Screech wasn’t sure how long Drake was going to be away, and he’d be the first one to admit that he had reservations about taking the helm. Equal partners or not, somebody had to steer the ship, and given his experience—paltry as it was—that responsibility fell squarely on his shoulders.
And this seemed like a positive step for him—for all of them.
Yasiv frowned.
“Okay, okay—if you want it that way, fine. I’ve come here to discuss two things. The first is Drake.”
Just mentioning the man’s name seemed to suck the air out of the room.
“What about him?” Screech asked, eyes narrowing. “Like I told the goon squad when they questioned me, I don’t know where he went after the incident at Ken Smith’s condo. I don’t—”
Yasiv shook his head.
“Yeah, I know, I know. It’s not about where he is now, it’s about what’s going to happen when he comes back.”
“What do you mean?”
The air returned into the room, only now it was thick with tension.
Yasiv looked down.
“I’m doing the best I can here, I just want you to know that. Drake’s a friend to me.”
Screech felt his temperature start to rise.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded.
Yasiv’s eyes snapped up.
“I’m talking about keeping him out of jail. I’m doing the best I can.”
“What? What do you mean you’re ‘doing the best you can?’ Drake was the one who brought in the evidence that forced Ken to abandon his post as mayor and flee the city. He’s the one who helped you get the indictments against Raul and Palmer and all those other high-ranking police officers the talking heads on the news are always jibber-jabbering about. And yet he’s still facing jail time?”
Sgt. Yasiv pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and brought it to his lips. Before he could light up, however, Screech stepped forward.
“There's no smoking in here,” he snapped. His face had gotten hot, and Screech could feel his temper getting away from him.
He’s a friend, Screech reminded himself. He’s also a good person to have on your side. Keep it together.
“Sorry,” Yasiv grumbled, tucking the smoke behind his ear. “It’s just his fucking luck.”
Screech’s upper lip curled.
“What's just his luck? Drake got those men, Yasiv. He should be a hero, he should—”
“Hero might be a stretch, but he is a good man, Screech, I’ll give you that. There were one-hundred and twenty-two indictments passed down due to Ken Smith’s fallout, but guess who just happened to be squeaky clean? Guess who wasn’t included in those indictments?”
“Kramer,” Screech replied instinctively.
Yasiv nodded.
“Yeah, Officer Kramer. I've done everything to try to convince him and the DA to lessen the charges, or even drop them entirely, but, man, Kramer is still so sour about what happened to Cuthbert. He won’t budge. Stubborn as a fucking mule, that guy.”
Screech was incredulous.
“You can’t be serious; it wasn't even Drake who hit the guy. It was…” Screech let his sentence trail off. There was no point throwing Mandy under the bus and, besides, given what he knew about Kramer and Drake’s relationship, he doubted the truth would make any difference.
“I know, I know,” Yasiv said softly. “But that doesn't change the fact that he threw Kramer into a fucking shipping container. Like I said, I’m still trying to work Kramer, but right now the best I can do is to pressure the DA for the shortest jail time. Just a—”
Screech suddenly lost the battle with his temper.
“Jail time? Jail time? Drake's gonna get jail time? You can't be serious. He’ll be killed in there.”
Yasiv sighed but offered nothing in terms of a response.
“What a fucking joke,” Hanna said, speaking up for the first time.
Yasiv suddenly leveled his eyes at the woman, anger creeping onto his features.
“I'm doing the best I fucking can. Don’t forget that I managed to keep your ass out of prison for helping that psychopath Marcus Slasinsky escape, which, by the way, the only reason isn’t bigger news is because of what happened with the mayor. Don’t forget that.”
Hanna looked like she was about to say something, shoot back a snide remark, perhaps, but for once she managed to keep her mouth shut.
Screech took a deep breath and his anger started to recede.
“Okay, okay. We’re all friends here. Just keep working on Kramer, do whatever you can to get him to drop the charges.”
“That's what I'm doing. But the man still blames Drake for what happened to Clay Cuthbert. Even after everything that’s happened, he still blames Drake.”
Screech cocked his head to one side as he thought about this for a moment. A few years back, he might have thought this ridiculous, that there was just something wrong with Kramer. But his recent exposure to death had taught him a few things about how survivors dealt with the guilt of remaining behind.
Kramer was still hurting, and he wanted someone to pay for his pain. He couldn’t parlay these emotions onto the real people responsible—like the Church of Liberation, Ray Reynolds, or Ken Smith—because they were either dead or missing; they were ghosts. The man needed his pain and anger to be rooted in a real person, someone who still had something to lose.
And that person was Damien Drake.
Screech’s eyes drifted to his desk drawer where he’d put a bottle of Johnny Blue for Drake when—or if—the man returned. The gesture had been meant as a joke, a throwback reminder of where they used to work, but he was surprised to realize that it was now calling his name.
He shook his head.
“Okay, okay… you said you came here for two reasons. Please tell me that you started with the bad news. I don’t know how much more of this shit I can take.”
Chapter 18
The next time Drake awoke, the fishing vessel had just touched down. Only they hadn’t landed in a busy port as he expected, but some sort of dilapidated dock that was nestled away from prying eyes.
I should have expected as much, he thought as he made his way topside.
When he saw the extent of the vegetation—the portion of the dock attached to land was so overgrown that it was nearly impassable without a cutlass—Drake could only shake his head.
His hope was to get started on foot immediately, start his search for Ken, but, clearly, he hadn’t thought this through.
What else is new?
He held out hope that this was just another pit stop, but when he spotted the captain tying up the vessel while chain-smoking cigarettes, he knew that this wasn’t the case.
“One-way ticket,” the man said when their eyes met, confirming Drake’s suspicion.
Drake nodded and watched as the Colombians quickly and silently dispersed into the jungle. They disappeared so quickly that he wondered for a moment if they weren’t the el phantasmo and not him.
With a heavy sigh, he stared at the jungle before him.
As usual, he hadn't thought through the finer points of the plan; only big, grandiose ideas for Damien Drake.
Find
Ken and find out what happened to Dane, he reminded himself. In and out. That’s it.
“Fuck,” Drake grumbled as he stepped onto the dock.
“I'm heading back to the island to refuel,” the captain said absently as he lit another cigarette with the butt of the first. It was a simple, ambiguous statement, but the man’s meaning was clear.
Despite the captain’s claim that the ten grand was for a one-way voyage, if he wanted to, Drake could join him for some R and R.
He could just abandon this fool’s errand and go back to the stunning island.
But Drake didn't give up. That was his blessing and his curse.
It was his vice and his virtue.
“Can't,” Drake said as he passed the captain. “There's something I have to do.”
The man nodded.
“I'm usually here every other week, stay about an hour or so. If you’ve got the money, I'll take you back.”
Drake acknowledged the comment, then stepped over several rotting boards as he made his way to shore. He’d just reached a gnarly looking bush with thorns the size of his baby finger when he heard someone shout.
“Wait up! Hey! El phantasmo, wait up!”
Drake turned to see the man on the boat who’d handed him the liquor hurrying toward him.
“My name’s Drake—I don’t care much for el phantasmo,” he said when the man, who was several inches shorter and about twenty pounds lighter than himself, reached his side.
The man blinked at him several times and then held out his hand. It was an awkward introduction given that they'd already met, but Drake went along with it.
“Diego,” the man said. They shook hands, then stared at one another for several more seconds. Then, without prompting, Diego turned and pointed to an area of brush off to the right.
“Come, we go dis way.”
Before Drake could reply, Diego was off, moving seamlessly over the rotten dock. Like with the other Colombians, as soon as the man stepped into the brush, the foliage seemed to close behind him like some sort of organic door.
Drug Lord- Part II Page 5