Dead Girl Beach by Mike Sullivan Page A

for their money. A bad mistake. Maybe Arun agonized over his decision as he forked over the money—exactly the 200k he owed—to Parry Langer, his part-time drinking buddy and “friend” whom he’d almost come to trust.
    Still left unpaid was the huge debt he owed Bennie Zee. A bad mistake. Maybe? Arun mused, but he’d never been mistaken for being the sharpest tool in the box, and his life—cluttered with booze, drugs, and gambling debts—was racing downhill, out of control and faster than a car without brakes.
    â€œYou didn’t.”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œOh, Arun.”
    A few days before, Lawan had shrugged and tried to make sense of it.
    â€œYou had the money…all that money…and you gave it to Parry Langer, that creepy child molester?”
    â€œI did. I did. I did.” Arun whined. “Parry’s not a child molester, either. He just has…um…you know…”
    Lawan stood in the bedroom beside Arun’s bed, stopped, and caught her breath.
    â€œYou call this guy your friend.”
    â€œYes,” Arun said sheepishly through a pair of glazed eyes.
    The half pint of bourbon on his bed stand was empty, the bottle tipped over. The Mekong label glowed brightly on the bottle’s brown, frosted glass. Arun went to get up but sank down in the bed, looking hung-over and exhausted.
    Lawan had brought over a bowl of rice topped with a tangy, spicy Thai sauce laced with pineapple and bits of chicken. He ate the meal and tossed the bowl on the floor beside the bed. The room was cluttered with piles of unwashed clothes, cigarettes in overturned ashtrays, and dime novels—he liked to read when he wasn’t gambling and losing all his money. A desk lamp lay crushed in a corner. One crumpled, smelly, unwashed sock draped over the porcelain base. A box of condoms, a T-shirt embossed with a fiery dragon, and one cigarette stained with lipstick from one of Arun’s late night escorts lay scattered across the floor.
    â€œGawd! This place is a pig pen, Arun.” Lawan bellowed in his ear. “How can you live like this?”
    Lawan had a large, black lawn bag. She bent over, bobbing up and down as she picked up clothes. There was a broom and dustbin outside in a wall closet. She came back in, swept up the room, took the bin back outside, and emptied it in a garbage can at the side of the cabin. When she came back inside, Arun tried to get up out of bed. He was in his underwear—a pair of sky blue briefs with a bulge in the middle. Lawan looked at him disgustedly and continued to clean up the room. A few minutes later, Arun got up, went down the hall, and took a shower.
    â€œI have something to show you,” he said to Lawan when he returned wrapped in a towel, his dark hair glistening with water. He opened the top drawer of the bed stand and brought out a 9 millimeter Smith & Wesson.
    â€œNice, huh?” he asked proudly, showing her the gun with a glitter in his tired, bloodshot eyes. “It’s for protection. I’m taking lessons at the firing range.”
    Lawan stared at the gun in shock and disbelief. “What are you going to do…shoot somebody?”
    â€œIf I have to,” he said.
    * * * *
    Arun waited until four o’clock. The lotto vendor usually arrived late in the afternoon, making his rounds on his bicycle. At 4:15 p.m., Suma, who’d overslept again, raced around the cabin in a panic while slamming drawers, getting dressed, and putting on makeup. She slammed the front door on her way outside, late for work as usual.
    Meanwhile, Arun kept his eyes on the street, looking out for the lotto vendor. At 4:30 p.m., he saw two vehicles pass by in front of the cabin—a delivery van with wide, black tires and a wheat-colored Camry. The van came by five minutes before the Camry and then nothing. The street was as empty as a movie lot at midnight. No vendor in sight. Arun decided to walk out to the