“Shit,” Screech said at last.
“Well put,” Beckett replied, finally looking over at the man. “Very succinct.”
It had been a good two months since the day that Screech had come into Beckett’s hospital room, handing him the note written by then NYPD Sergeant Chase Adams.
The one that had instructed him on what to say to Internal Affairs so that they wouldn’t press charges for the murder of Craig Sloan.
Back then, Screech’s hair had been unkempt and overgrown, like the head of a frayed Q-tip, and he sported a thin, wispy goatee. Now, the man’s hair was closely cropped, almost shaved, and his goatee had grown out somewhat. He was still pale as ever and skinny as all hell, but Screech almost looked like a full-grown adult now.
“You never did tell me what you’re doing here, Screech,” Beckett said. “And while I’m grateful for a wingman, I get the sneaking suspicion that Drake might have had something to do with this.”
Screech sipped his drink, a cocktail that looked as if it were powered by plutonium, before answering.
“No.”
Beckett raised an eyebrow.
“No? Then Chase? Did Chase send you?”
“Wrong again.”
“Really? I’m going to strike out twice in one day? Just tell me what you’re doing here, bud.”
Screech took his time and sipped away at his drink, which drove Beckett up the wall.
How does Drake deal with this guy?
“I’m here on business,” Screech offered at last.
Beckett’s eyebrows migrated up his forehead.
“Business? Since when did private investigators from New York come all the way to the Caribbean on ‘business’? And how the hell did you and Drake afford a place like this?”
Screech shrugged.
“Triple D was commissioned to find a boat and Drake… well, he was otherwise occupied. Wait—not a boat. Drake gets pissed at me for calling it a boat. A yacht. A yacht named B-yacht’ch. Pretty hilarious if you ask me. Anyways, some guy lost his yacht and hired us to go find it for him.”
Beckett ran a hand through his hair again, wondering if Screech was pulling his leg.
B-yacht’ch? Seriously?
If some rich asshole had actually named his yacht ‘B-yacht’ch’, Beckett would have to give him props.
“How about you? How you holding up after—”
Beckett shook his head quickly, stemming the line of questioning before it gathered any steam.
“I’m fine,” he lied, his eyes darting as he spoke. “That stuff with Craig? Craig Sloan? That was just a misunderstanding. A fucked up, wrong place, wrong time, scenario—that’s all. Don’t know why everyone made such a big deal about it.”
The truth was, however, Beckett wasn’t fine, not really.
“But the rock… it was covered with—”
Beckett held up a hand.
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “Just need a little R&R to get my mind off things.”
Apparently satisfied, at least for the time being, Screech nodded and took another sip of his enriched plutonium. Beckett drained the rest of his rum, then signaled to the bartender that he needed a refill. As the bar’s only two remaining patrons, the man was at their table, bottle in hand, in just a few short seconds.
“You know who that girl was?” the bartender asked, hooking a chin in the direction that Chloe had left.
“Yeah—her name’s Chloe,” Beckett said as he took a gulp of his newly filled drink.
The bartender tilted his head to one side.
“No, not her name—I never caught her name. But who she’s with,” he paused for effect. “She’s with Donnie.”
Beckett frowned.
“Yeah, she said that. She also said that she was a model and that she was here with Donnie to take some pictures and whatnot. Has some friends along for the ride. To be honest, it wasn’t really her conversation skills that drew me to her.”
The bartender hesitated and Beckett felt his frustration mount.
“Yes? And? T-t-t-today, junior.”
The bartender’s eyes, which had clouded over, cleared and he shook his head.
“Do you have any idea who Donnie is?”
Beckett looked at Screech and then both of them shrugged.
“Yeah, I can see that you two don’t spend much time here in the islands. My advice? Stay away from her or anyone else involved with Donnie.”
An image of Chloe in her string bikini as she walked away from the table flashed in Beckett’s mind.
“I’ll take that into consideration, weigh it with the positives,” he said. “Anything else I can do for you?”
The bartender frowned.
“That’s it,” he said, making his way back to the bar. “I’d just stay away from her, is all. Just some friendly advice.”
Yeah, Beckett thought. You said that already—probably because you want to keep her all to yourself.
And yet, in the back of his mind, the nagging words of the Internal Affairs goombas echoed.
Stay out of trouble, Beckett. Keep your head low for a while until this whole Craig Sloan thing blows over.
It was sage advice. Only problem was, Beckett always did have a problem listening and playing well with others.
Chapter 3
“I’ll tell you what, Screech,” Beckett began. “You help me with Chloe and her friends, and I’ll help you find your B-Yacht’ch.”
Screech shook the empty glass in his hand and pressed his lips defiantly.
“What? What the hell does that mean?” Beckett demanded.
Screech rattled the ice in his glass again and Beckett finally figured out what the other man wanted. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, but reached out and took Screech’s glass from his hand and made his way over to the bar. Beckett didn’t really need Screech—he knew from the moment that he’d told Chloe that he was a doctor that the deal was pretty much sealed. In his experience, there really was no better panty dropper than being a doctor. He wasn’t sure why that was, but if he had to guess, it likely had some evolutionary roots in the ability to protect or heal or… something like that.
If only they knew I spend most of my days elbow deep in corpse entrails.
Beckett could imagine how a conversation at a bar much like this one might proceed should he be so brazenly honest.
Oh, so you’re a doctor?
Yep.
*Panties off*
So, what do you do all day?
Oh, you know, cut people open, root around in their organs. Try to find out what rare and horrible disease killed them.
*Chastity belt on*
That’s nice. I have to go now.
Wait—I haven’t told you about the gunshot victims! People who are burned alive! Infanticide! Choking, drowning, stabbings!
Beckett shook his head.
Who am I kidding? They’re just in it for the money.
He waved at the bartender, trying to get his attention. The truth was, while Beckett might not need Screech, he didn’t feel like being alone right now, either.
The bartender made his way over, a smile on his face.
“What’s your name?” he asked, realizing that despite their previous interactions, he still didn’t know what to call the man. Bartender felt too informal, given how much time Beckett expected to spend in his presence over the next week or so.
“Kevin,” the bartender offered, taking the two glasses from Beckett.
“Well, nice to meet you, Kevin. I’m Beckett. And that there—” he pointed to Screech who was staring at the sea, his back to them, “—is Screech.”
“Pleasure to meet you guys,” Kevin said, pouring Beckett more rum. “Does he want a refill, too?”
“Yeah, get him one of those plutonium drinks. Let’s get him right fucked—maybe then he’ll be less annoying.”
The bartender chuckled, and as he turned to prep the drink, Beckett’s attention remained focused on Screech.
The story of
the search for a missing yacht, especially one with a name as unique and absurd as B-Yacht’ch, was too ridiculous to be made up, and yet Beckett still wasn’t convinced that at least part of the reason Screech was here was to keep his eye on him.
And that meant that Drake thought he still wasn’t right after what had happened.
I’m fine, he thought. What’d I tell Screech? R&R. That’s all I need—R&R.
The bartender returned with the drinks and Beckett slipped a twenty from his shorts and laid it on the bar. Kevin looked at the bill for a moment, and Beckett, thinking that maybe this was a European thing in which tips were an insult, put his hand on it and was tempted to pull it back.
“What? Tips not allowed?”
“No,” Kevin said. “They’re allowed, but if you give me a twenty for every drink or two I make, you’re going to go home broke.”
Beckett shrugged.
“Fine. Not a tip then. Consider it a… reward.”
Now it was Kevin’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
“A reward? For what?”
Beckett smiled.
“For introducing me to the young lady, Chloe,” Beckett tapped his temple. “For getting me laid, Kevin. That’s what for. C’mon now.”
Kevin’s face suddenly changed.
“I didn’t introduce you and I told you—”
Beckett rolled his eyes.
He didn’t like this Kevin; he liked the other Kevin. The one that wasn’t afraid of a little friendly, good-natured banter.
This Kevin was nearly as annoying as Screech.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you told me, Donnie Brasco, or whatever.”
Beckett had meant the comment as a joke, an attempt to steer their conversation back into less serious waters, but Kevin was having none of it. The man's eyes, previously bright and wide in the afternoon sun, were suddenly two piss holes in the snow.
"Beckett," the man began in a low voice, casting a furtive glance around the bar to make sure that no one else was within earshot. "Donnie DiMarco is no joke. Look, I really think you should—"
Kevin was quickly killing his buzz.
"I'll tell you what," Beckett said, taking the drinks and stepping away from the bar. "Why don’t we just let Chloe decide who she wants to sleep with? Hmm? That seems like the thing to do in this day and age, wouldn’t you agree?"
Before Kevin could reply, Beckett turned his back on the bartender and walked over to Screech.
"You find your boat yet?"
Screech shook his head and took his drink from Beckett.
"No, not yet," he replied. Beckett was mildly aware of the fact that his own words were slightly slurred, but Screech? The man had seemingly lost the subtle art of including spaces in his sentences.
Ah, fuck it. I’m on vacation, after all. And so is he.
Beckett clinked glassed with Screech.
“Cheers,” he said.
Screech paused for a moment, a confused expression on his face.
“What? What the fuck did I do now?”
“Cheers… do you know why we cheers?”
Beckett shrugged.
“An excuse to drink big gulps?”
Screech shook his head.
“No… it’s from a long time ago when powerful families would try to settle their differences by marrying a son from one family with the daughter from another.”
Beckett had to concentrate hard to make out what ‘Spaceless’ Screech was saying.
“And?”
“And they’re all worried that the other family was going to poison their drinks. So, they would ‘cheers’ and swap some of the liquid in their glass with the other family, just to make sure it was safe to drink.”
Beckett let this sink in for a moment.
“Wow. Fucking cheery lot at this resort,” he said at last. “Listen, I’m not drinking any of your diabetic cocktail, I’ll tell you that much. And the only person I want to swap fluids with is Chloe, so keep your half-chub in your shorts, cowboy.”
Screech chuckled and turned his attention back to the ocean. Beckett followed the man’s gaze and brought his glass of rum to his lips. Just before swallowing, however, he cast a glance over his shoulder to the bar.
Kevin was gone, but the twenty-dollar bill still flapped in the wind.
Fuck it, he thought with a shrug and then swallowed the rest of his rum in one gulp. I’m going to have a good time despite everyone trying to bring me down.
Chapter 4
The alcohol hit Screech hard. It had been a tumultuous few weeks, and the level of stress he’d experienced was not in line with what he expected when taking the job as a computer analyst for a private investigation firm. Especially not one run by an ex-NYPD detective.
Of course, he never really had any interest in taking the job in the first place. No, Screech was quite happy toiling along making apps that generated just enough income to scrape by.
It was his stupid fucking brother. Three years his elder, but with less than half of his maturity, Larry Thompson could not, for the worthless life of him, stay out of trouble. And when it came to drug offenses, the District Attorney was not just open but eager to make a deal, to move up the chain of command, so to speak.
Provided you had something to offer in return, that is.
And Larry Thompson only had the shirt on his back, a filthy sweat-stained t-shirt, no less, to his name.
No dice, no deal.
Given his brother’s past, Screech hadn’t been surprised to get a call informing him of Larry’s newest transgression. What had caught him off guard, however, was the DA implying with all the subtlety of an elephant hopped up on PCP that Screech might be able to help.
Me? What can I do?
The proposition had been as bizarre as it was confusing: interview for a very specific job and get it.
That job had been as a computer analyst with Triple D Investigations.
Screech had been skeptical, but had had little choice in the matter. Besides, steady income never hurt anyone, did it?
But one Screech wasn’t, was naive, and when shortly after getting the job an impish man who only went by ‘Raul’ came knocking, he knew that getting the job was only the first act in a much larger play.
Yet, never in his wildest dreams did Screech imagine that taking the job would have led him here: to a semi-private island in the Caribbean, sipping cocktails in the warm afternoon sun.
Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that he would become so involved in murder and death and everything else that seemed to follow Damien Drake around like a plague.
And the worst part? The worst part was that he really liked the man. Sure, Drake could do with an injection of humor, a heavy dose of jocularity, perhaps, but they had a pretty good Bonnie and Clyde routine going on.
He liked Beckett enough, too. In fact, before all of this shit had gone down, Screech had, for once in his life, found that he fit in, in a strange sort of way.
He felt like he belonged.
But after witnessing what Beckett had done to Craig Sloan…
A shudder coursed through Screech and he took a sip of his syrupy cocktail.
He should have never followed Drake and Beckett to the burning building.
He should have never snapped those photographs of Beckett with the bloody rock clutched in tensed fingers.
As haunting as those images were, Screech thought that he could overlook them all, chalk the event up to adrenaline and sheer emotion from what they had all been through at the hands of a demented ex-pathology resident.
But no matter how hard he tried to forget, something had lodged in Screech’s brain, a parasite that simply refused to relinquish its deadly hold.
Beckett’s eyes.
Screech had seen Beckett’s eyes, and the vacuity therein—sheer and utter blankness after committing the worst act a human could—terrified him.
Just focus on the job, he chided himself as he stared out over the great expanse that was the North Atlantic Oc
ean. Find the damn B-Yacht’ch first, then go from there. One step at a time.
Screech took another sip of his drink and then rubbed his eyes. It was only mid-afternoon, but to him, it felt like midnight.
“Go get some rest,” Beckett said, startling Screech out of his head. He had completely forgotten that the man was standing beside him.
“Wwwwha’?”
“I said, go get some sleep,” Beckett repeated. “I need you as my wingman tonight.”
The last thing Screech felt like doing was partying, especially given the ominous warning from the bartender, but it didn’t look like he was going to get out of this one.
Roped in again…
“Alrrrrright,” he said reluctantly, setting his half-finished drink down on an empty table. “Wwwhat djyou think ‘bout meeting for dinner ‘round sssseven?”
Beckett slapped him on the back.
“That’s more like it. Go get some rest, something tells me we’re going to have one hell of a night.”
Chapter 5
Beckett’s assertion that Screech should get some sleep was also self-serving: he too was rundown. He watched Screech stagger toward the main reception building, and when he was out of sight, Beckett made his way toward his villa.
The interior of the hexagonal, wood and straw villa was musty smelling, and the first thing Beckett did after entering was open the large window above the kitchenette. Taking a deep breath of the briny air, he closed his eyes and allowed the afternoon sun to wash over his face.
Beckett stayed this way for several moments before his hand slipped on the counter and he realized that he must have dozed off.
Get some rest, Beckett. Recharge for tonight, he instructed himself.
The villa itself was designed to sleep six—or twelve, depending on #sharing—and Beckett decided that he would sleep in a new bed every night.
Hopefully with a new companion, as well. A new companion sporting a string bikini that could double as dental floss.
Hey, there’s an idea…
But for now, he simply selected the nearest room and stepped inside.
Bitter End Page 2