Dead Girl Beach by Mike Sullivan Page B

Parry tramped down the beach toward the outboard, still cursing, and Bram had seen him go off somewhere into the night.
    He’d seen all of it. While the women huddled in the shadows of the fire, he made his move. Bent over in a military crouch and staying low, he crept from the forest down toward the edge of the lagoon. Then, he doubled back and came up the beach behind them with the flames of the roaring fire concealing his approach. It was a move he’d learned from commando training years ago, and like the good ex-soldier that he was, he executed it to perfection.
    Guzzling water a second time, Beckers saw Greta Langer’s quick, abrupt movement. “Don’t make big surprise.” He swung around. He leveled the gun on her and threatened to pull the trigger.
    Greta held a hand up. “Back off, fat boy.”
    She seemed unafraid of the gun. Instead, she went into the front pocket of her denim cutoffs. She brought out Marlboros in a crushproof, metal box. “Cigarette,” she said dragging one out and torching the end with her Bic lighter. “I need one.”
    When she offered him one, he said,” Don’t fuck around, lady. I need to know one thing. You tell me one thing honestly, and then I let you go.”
    Greta looked at Suma and then back at him. “What’s that?” she sneered. A stream of smoke curled back over her shoulder.
    Suma watched them, hunched over, her body shaking.
    Beckers moved the Tomcat closer to Greta. “Don’t play game. You know.”
    â€œNo, I don’t know. Enlighten me.”
    â€œYou know about lottery money. It was owed to my client but given by mistake to your husband, Parry Langer. You know the money I talk about? I am here to collect it now, yah.”
    Greta gave him a repulsive look and stepped back away from the gun. Suma sat up straight on the mat, watching them, stone silent.
    â€œI don’t know anything about any lottery money,” Greta said. “What do I look like, a fortune cookie?”
    â€œFunny.” Beckers waved the gun. “That money should have gone to my client instead of Parry Langer.”
    â€œYeah, you said that already.” Greta looked straight at him. “If it’s that important, take it up with Parry Langer.”
    She hit a high note on Parry Langer in a sly attempt to ridicule the stilted Belgian. “How long before he comes back?” Beckers ignored her chuckle. “I can’t wait all night.”
    Â â€œYou know Parry. It could be a half-hour or into next week. That’s just the way he is.”
    â€œYah, Yah. Then, we wait.”
    The Belgian wanted coffee. Greta got him a can of Diet Coke out of the cooler, instead.
    â€œHere.” She handed it over. “Looks like you need to keep your weight down.”
    Beckers swung his eyes onto the girl silent for a long time on the blanket.
    â€œShe always like this with the smart mouth?” he asked Suma. Suma kept quiet.
    Greta’s eyes leveled on her.
    â€œTell him no she’s not,” Greta said. She squatted down and sat on the mat next to Suma. “Tell him she only acts like this when a faggot creeps up on her with a gun.”
    Furious, Beckers waved her to her feet. On the way up, Greta grabbed a handful of sand and tossed it into his eyes. Then, she kicked him in the testicles. Beckers sank to his knees, and the gun went flying out of his hands. Greta picked it up and pulled the trigger—two, three, four times.
    She stitched a red Christmas tree pattern across Beckers’s chest and watched him go over onto his back. The porkpie hat spun off his bald head and blew back into the shadows beyond the fire. The gun still in her hand, Greta glanced across at Suma, shouting, “Come on. We gotta get this pile of shit out of here.”

Chapter Eighteen
    Suma moved over to the edge of the mat, dazed and not believing what she saw or heard. Greta was ordering her to help get rid of