Remo Went Rogue Page 4

  Comfort is now a distant, distant memory for Remo.

  One final, bone-rattling blast sends Lester to the floor. The mysterious, gun-toting hostile Hoodie Man bolts into the night, escaping into the cover of darkness.

  Lester’s body falls, flopping face-to-face with Remo on the floor. Remo tries to find his breath while looking into a dying man’s eyes. Blood begins to slowly roll into pools of deep crimson, engulfing the cheap black and white checkered tile.

  Fear has rendered his legs numb. Breathing is past the point of controlling. Remo fights to stay calm, or as calm as a man can be when his heart is seconds from jumping out through his throat.

  As calm as a man can be staring eye to eye at his future.

  This is the day his life will surely change.

  PART II

  (life = fuck me)

  7

  An hour later and Remo’s face is still plastered in the controlled mental meltdown expression he had on the floor face-to-face with Lester. His mind is a spiraling whirlpool of what the fuck? Realizes he could still be having sex with a gorgeous bartender rather than this…this!

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  What’s going to happen to me?

  Fuck me.

  The place is now swarming with police surveying the area, picking through debris for evidence, working the scene. Not much around to pick or work though. Only things there are a blown out window, a shot to hell Chinese joint and a tatted up ex-con clinging to the rim of life. Lester is carted off by EMS. Words and phrases like, “Not gonna make it,” “Not looking good,” and “Fucked” are thrown around casually.

  Remo sits at a table sipping coffee. Across from him is Detective Harris. There’s a certain amount of uneasiness between them, people with an unfriendly past. A ton of hate bubbles within Harris just beneath the surface. He keeps it there in order to maintain a certain level of professionalism, but it’s very hard to do. He’s held back from beating rapists, murders and others into unrecognizable puddles, but—like a lot of people—Harris can taste the burning fantasy of beating the piss out of Remo.

  Harris is exactly what you’d expect.

  Big.

  Fat.

  Bald.

  Asshole.

  Harris says, “In your line of work, your sense of right and wrong must be like a pretzel. Meet a lot of hefty bags of shit, don’t ya?”

  “Clients,” replies Remo. Speaking is difficult for many reasons at this moment; the fact he really doesn’t want to talk to Harris doesn’t help.

  Harris continues, “This guy Lester, he one of your shit bags?”

  No comment from Remo.

  “He say anything of note?”

  “Yeah, ‘of note’.”

  “Ya know, off the record . . . I don’t like you. At all.”

  Under Remo’s breath, “Painfully aware.”

  “Last April you toasted me pretty good on the stand.”

  Three uniformed cops, along with a few detectives, now stand around. They all stare at Remo like he fucked their sisters then didn’t call. Not lost on Remo, he recalls April clearly. Really he just wants Harris to shut the hell up. Perhaps that guy in the hoodie can come back and shoot Harris—or Remo. At this point it doesn’t matter to him.

  Harris keeps riding his train of thought. “And that disease of a human you set free? The one who killed four more people less than a day later? You recall that little moment, fuckface?”

  Remo redirects. “Can we talk about tonight?”

  “Sorry, excuse me. On the record again.”

  “He said people are coming to kill me.”

  A long, silent beat to go with the long, blank stares from Harris and his fellow officers.

  “You catch that Detective?”

  “Oh, I got it.”

  “Thoughts?”

  Harris delivers his explanation like he was reading the daily lunch specials. “It’s New York. People say shit all the time. I had a homeless guy tell me today that lesbian mutants were planning a global rebellion.”

  Cute, Remo thinks, but he can’t help but consider this may be more of a real threat than the good Detective’s dismissive evaluation.

  “You said this man at the window instructed you to get down?”

  Remo nods.

  “Like he was telling you to get out of the way? As if he was only after Lester?”

  Remo knows where this is going. “Maybe, but—”

  “Doesn’t sound like you were really the target of any violence here. More like Lester was the one in trouble.”

  Nothing from Remo. Why argue with a man who doesn’t care, hates you, and worst of all… is making sense.

  Harris, an annoying gleam in his eye, offers to help. “If, of course, you feel uncomfortable or threatened in any way I can have some of my best men keep a watchful eye over you.” Remo looks to the galley of armed lawmen who despise everything about him. Harris leans in. “Off the record . . . they hate you too.”

  No shit.

  Outside the eatery the sun is starting to rise. Through the blown-out window people are watching real-life crime TV. They can’t help but watch as Remo has his little love chat with Detective Harris. Across the street a small crowd has gathered to gawk and rubberneck at the crime scene. Early morning fun for those coming off the graveyard shift, and even better for those still drunk from last call.

  Nestled among the crowd of onlookers is the man in the hoodie. The man with the .357 who shot Lester all to hell. He’s lost the glasses, the hoodie and the beard, now looks like his true self: a frail, coked-up, weasel of man who wears a crooked smile and has crazy eyes.

  Eyes that are locked on Remo like he was dinner.

  This would be Chicken Wing.

  8

  Chicken Wing.

  A.K.A. the youngest Mashburn brother.

  At the tender age of 23, Chicken Wing is clearly the most dangerous of a dangerous bunch. He carries a seemingly endless surplus of nervous energy, fueled with a mix of angst and narcotic-enriched psychosis. By any normal standard, an unemployable disaster of a human who operates without remorse, reason or the vaguest sense of right and wrong. Of course the Mashburn family business has a much different set of standards.

  The ‘Chicken Wing’ handle was lovingly given to him by his brothers. When he was a kid, his scrawny frame produced arms that resembled—you got it—chicken wings. He can’t remember which one saddled him with the name, but it stuck. Nicknames, a lot like herpes, don’t leave you . . . ever. He’s older now, but still a skinny guy and his muscle mass has not grown enough for his brothers to change the name. Only Chicken Wing’s anger and violent tendencies have grown.

  His cell rings. He knows who it is without looking. Chicken Wing steps away into a nearby alley. “Yo.” A familiar voice crackles on the other side of the call.

  A family voice.

  “You on him?” asks Ferris.

  Just as Lester had said, Ferris is alive and well and standing in the middle of a suburban home that looks like it was ripped out of a Pottery Barn catalogue. Every knickknack has a story. He plays with a wooden rooster as he talks to his fucked up brother on a prepaid cell. He smiles, thinking how Chicken Wing would giggle hysterically about Ferris playing with a cock.

  “On him? Surely am. Haven’t seen any money—”

  “He’s not going to walk around with three million and change. Probably has it in several safe spots around town.”

  Ferris walks into a warmly decorated living room. He’s lived through problems with Chicken Wing, problems that arose from his little brother failing to follow the simplest of orders. Not because the kid is stupid, but because he’s an impulsive little nut bag. Ferris knows he has to be very clear with his little brother. Says, “Hear this now. You stay on him. Lester lost his shit today. He took out half the crew.”

  Chicken Wing grows a big, knowing grin. “Just saw Lester. Put a bucket of bullets in him.”

  “When?” Ferris closes his eyes, freez
ing off this new info. What the fuck did he do? What the FUCK did he do?

  “Just now. He was talking to Remo and—”

  “Remo? What did he say to him?” Ferris is about to jump out of his skin, mind flipping through worst-case scenarios.

  Chicken Wing scenarios.

  “How the fuck should I know?” Chicken replies, beginning to simmer toward a boil because of his big brother’s big brother tone.

  “Chicken Wing, we talked about control. Remember our talk? Do not—”

  “Yeah, I know, Ferris. I saw Lester having dinner with Remo. Didn’t look like a good thing so I took care of it.”

  Ferris recognizes the defensive spike in his brother’s tone, registers it, and pulls it back a level or two trying to sooth the conversational tone. “And you were right . . . this time. But we can’t go reckless with something like this.”

  His efforts are not working.

  At all.

  Chicken Wing’s agitation multiplies with every word. “I heard you, for fuck’s sake. You always fucking . . . you worry about your own goddamn chores.” Chicken Wing considers throwing the burner phone against the brick wall, but hangs up instead.

  Congratulates himself for his maturity.

  Ferris pockets his phone, walks into the living room and takes a seat on the couch. Clearly he’s not happy with his little brother. He can’t help but blame himself a bit for putting Chicken Wing is a position of potential failure. Then again, the kid has to grow up sometime. Can’t keep mothering the motherfucker. Mutters to himself something about that dumbass little shit fucking up everything.

  His self-contained conversation is interrupted by a muffled yelp from the corner of the room. Ferris turns, putts a finger to his lips and waves a cold no-no finger toward a woman balled up on the floor.

  A bound, gagged and terrified woman.

  When she hand-picked all these knickknacks for her dream house she never thought life would end up like this. While she carefully scoured countless thrift stores, poured over catalogues and searched online, she never thought she was decorating her own tomb.

  Her lips quiver, fighting to obey her home invader’s—she didn’t catch his name—request for quiet.

  Ferris turns on the TV, putting his feet up as he opens a bag of Baked Lays. Baked Lays? Just buy the fucking real ones. Unbelievable. He turns up the volume, ignoring the cries from the woman in the corner.

  A picture of a glowing couple rests on a corner table, the woman on the floor during a much happier time. In the picture she’s wrapped in her husband’s.

  Her eyes lock on the picture. She thinks that if only her broad-shouldered, strong, courageous husband were here none of this would be happening. Frank would kill this fucking asshole. This fucking asshole who’s eating their Baked Lays and putting his feet up on their brand new Hyde turned-leg coffee table…oh, this fucking asshole.

  What she doesn’t know,couldn’t possibly know, is that her husband is actually painfully aware of what’s going on. He’s not happy about it, but he knows nonetheless.

  He knows because her husband, her Frank in the picture, is the same Frank as . . .

  9

  The broad-shouldered, strong, courageous prison guard stands monitoring the island yard.

  Rikers Island to be exact.

  Unlike in the happy picture with his wife, Frank’s face is wrapped in worry. Smile gone. Beyond tense. The thought of Ferris Mashburn spending some quality time in his home, with his wife . . .

  He scans the yard filled with convicts of all makes and models. It’s a criminal soup of races, tats and mental twist-ties. Frank zeroes in on one inmate in particular, walking a hard line toward Dutch Mashburn.

  Dutch stands alone, watching an inmate basketball game. Whites against blacks. Sure, it’s all about race and does nothing to sooth ethnic tensions, but it does make keeping track of who’s on whose team very easy.

  Dutch, older than Ferris and considerably older than Chicken Wing, is the undisputed ruler of the Mashburns, the crew and, now, Frank and his wife.

  In short, Dutch = Scary Dude.

  He was born with the glow of filthy, nasty intelligence, and has the look of a man who would gut your family and then post it as an anatomy lecture on YouTube.

  Frank moves closer to Dutch, trying to have an inconspicuous conversation while they watch the nearby game. Struggles to find a tough, strong tone as he speaks. “The bus is set. They’re moving some of the more violent inmates to another facility.”

  A tough and strong tone means little to nothing when talking to Dutch. All he gives in return is his standard, ghastly disposition.

  Frank continues, “I got myself scheduled to work the bus. That means you need to find a way on it.” He pulls out a crude, prison-made knife, or shiv to those in the suburbs, slipping it discreetly to Dutch.

  “Only inmates get hurt. No guards, right?” asks Frank.

  Dutch still offers nothing. Frank hates having to act like customer service to this bastard. He knows the situation, sure, but he has his limits, and he’s just about pushed to the edge of his. He looks at Dutch, raises his voice to a harder tone. “Listen, you piece of shit. If that monster of yours hurts my wife in any way . . .”

  Dutch’s face doesn’t even attempt to alter expression. His heartbeat rests comfortably, as if he were lying on a raft drifting in a pool in Vegas. Dutch was threatened, beaten, shot and stabbed—all before he could he could drive a car. Not too long after that, Dutch was the one delivering the threats and beat downs. He’s shot more people than the LA and Detroit PDs combined. Butchered more poor bastards than Jason Voorhees. Not a whole helluva lotshakes Dutch’s tree. Certainly not some prison yard bull who Dutch has by the balls.

  Which is why Dutch doesn’t even give the courtesy of eye contact as he simply replies, “What?”

  Frank’s blood boils, working him into a lather as he attempts to retort. Dutch cuts him off. “Was that your big plan? Raising your voice?”

  Frank stands down.

  “We have a deal, sweet-ass. You do what you want to do and we won’t.” They lock eyes. Frank has no choice but to trust him. The whole time, Dutch never loses concentration on the basketball court.

  “Now, please. I need to go get violent for a moment,” says Dutch, whistling as he strolls toward the court. He cuts through the game without pause, forcing the players to alter their movements. He strolls to the center of the court, the mean, high-intensity game in full swing.

  Dutch couldn’t care less.

  He parts the players like the Red Sea, bringing the game to screeching halt. The players surround him. Black and white alike, they’ve found a common enemy. A mountain of muscle steps up, itching to throw down a ton of unpleasantness. Any reason to unleash pain on someone is an excellent reason. He towers over Dutch. Mountain snarls, “The fuck, Dutch?” The players crowding around are dying to tear this old guy apart.

  Other guards start to take notice.

  Dutch, calm as Hindu cows, gives a disarming crack of a smile before ripping the shiv across the Mountain’s neck. So fast, so clean it doesn’t even bleed at first. It starts to spit slowly, then gushes like water from a dam burst. The Mountain grabs his neck, blood rushing through his thick fingers. Shock and disbelief are stuck in his eyes as his life spills out onto the court.

  Dutch spins, a devil’s holiday, jamming the crude weapon into anyone unfortunate enough to be around him. Inmates fall back, bleed, drop.

  Cutting.

  Plunging.

  Ripping.

  Multiple stab wounds for each. Sounds of thick flaps puncturing skin followed by the stomach-turning tearing from the blade’s exit. Dutch moves like a man possessed, lightning fast, an impressive, beautiful blur of violence.

  He releases an inhuman, hollow wail, face expressionless. An atypical outburst for a man like Dutch. He usually conserves his vocal cords, only using them as necessary, but in this situation he feels it’s just the right finishing touch.

&
nbsp; The right amount of violent crazy to get him on that bus.

  Frank gives it a standing eight count before rushing over to join the other guards as they swarm the scene. They push their way through the crowd, stepping over, and sometimes on, wounded, dying inmates. The group pins Dutch to the court with hands and knees, fat sausage fingers.

  Dutch’s eyes flare, the pleasure he’s drinking in, the excitement, permeates his very bones. Veins pop on his forehead, an insane smile spreads. The ecstasy of the moment, this is what Dutch lives for.

  Violence,

  Death with a purpose.

  His purpose.

  Dutch doing what Dutch does best.

  10

  The morning sun illuminates the stainless steel fixtures, polished hardwood floors, and high-end upgrades in Remo’s apartment. Showroom quality living fit for a king.

  Remo staggers through the front door looking like he’s been hit by a truck then dragged for miles. The events of the previous day have taken their toll. His keys get tossed in one direction and his shoes fly in another as he storms through the living room in route to the bar.

  He pulls his tie free, dumping it into a silk lump on the hardwood. Gulps some Johnnie—sweet, sweet nectar make the bad man go away—while trying to pull himself. Thinks, Who lives like this? I gotta get my life in order. This is no way for a man to live. Need to start exercising, eating better, be kinder to animals . . . perhaps people.

  Fuck people.

  Grabs a banana, pours a fresh scotch.

  It’s a start.

  An envelope slips under the door.

  Remo stops cold. His cheeks balloon with Johnnie like a drunk chipmunk.

  Remo eyes it, his heart revving, pushing the needle deep in the red. Sets down his scotch and gingerly moves toward the door. Pokes his head out into the hallway, then allows the rest of his body to follow.

  Empty.

  Nothing.

  Nobody.