Remo Went Rogue (3 page)

Kids in the 4Runner give bloodcurdling, scared-shitless wails as they haul ass outta of there.Lester lowers the gun, less than satisfied at Ferris giving him the slip. Bobby Balls falls from the car, still hanging in there. God bless him. He’s managed to pull the bag off and is crawling away. Lester casually puts two bullets in him.

His mind drifts back to the second bullet point of his plan.

4

“Asshole?” Mr. Crow barks “Have you listened to one damn thing I’ve said?”

Crow, a dapper, well put-together criminal of means, sits across from Remo Cobb, his high-priced defense attorney.. Not a hair out of place, suit immaculate. Watch costs more than your car.
 

Remo gives the tiniest flash of eye contact. “All ears on this side of the table.”

Not really; he’s preoccupied. He’s attempting to bounce a pill into a half full scotch glass that has been carefully positioned between him and Crow. A fun little game of pharmaceutical quarters. Crow grows more and more annoyed with each bouncing Ritalin.

“If the bitch would have just done things right we wouldn’t be in this spot.”

“Meaning you would have stopped just shy of crushing her windpipe?”

“It got out of hand. She got out of line. I was having . . . a what? A day let’s say. She just … stopped breathing.”

The two men are surrounded by wall-to-wall, leather-bound legal books, polished oak and brass. A private meeting area at the most prestigious
New York
legal firm that ill-gotten gains can buy.
 
Same office Remo was in with that prosecutor, Leslie. People are still getting fucked, but a much different meeting is in progress.

“I did it. Can’t lie. But she pushed me. She pulled a blade for Christ’s sake.”

“Shit.” Remo’s response has nothing to do with Crow’s story. He missed the damn glass again.

Crow grows more annoyed as a pill flies by his face. “My sight went white. Next I know she’s not breathing.”

Remo misses. “Cocksucker.”

“Am I bothering you?” asks Crow.

Remo glances up. Now he’s growing annoyed at his client for interrupting his efforts.

“No?” asks Crow.

Remo is not nearly as well put together as his client. Suit’s a mess. Eyes like red pinholes. He was a good-looking man at one time, now he looks like he’s been on a multiyear bender.

Crow, previously completely focused on his dead hooker dilemma, suddenly realizes this asshole attorney, the one he’s paying a mint for, is not even vaguely paying attention to his plight. And in Crow’s mind, there’s a massive plight, goddamnit.

“You think you can pay attention, you son of a bitch prick cocksucker?”

Remo bounces a pill, landing one with a plop in his glass of Johnnie Walker. Shoots his arms up in the air as if draining a buzzer beater at the Sweet 16, then raises a single finger, stopping the now red-faced Crow before he can lay into him with a blitz of heartfelt profanity. He throws back the booze, along with the swimming pill.

It’s hard to decipher if Remo has more distain for his job, life or Crow. Silence permeates the room. They sit eyeing each other like fighters circling, determining how to dismantle each other. Crow hates that he needs Remo almost as much as Remo hates that he needs Crow. Crow stops himself from blowing up, slips into a smile, deciding to break his lawyer down with a different method. The truth.

“Remo fucking Cobb.”

“Present.”

“Straight outta Cut and Shoot,
Texas
.”

“Great town. You’d do well there.”

“Daddy died in a backroom card game. Mommy . . . nobody knows. You’re a walking, talking hillbilly lullaby.”

With a gulp of scotch Remo replies, “That’s the rumor.
”

“Made a name working small cases around
Texas
. Then you caught the eye of a big swinging dick firm in
New York City
. Got some motorcycle gang off or some shit, right? Must have been hard shedding that dumbass
Texas
accent while chewing up d-bag, Ivy League Jews.” Crow takes a calculated dramatic pause for fun. “Also managed to lose a family along the way.”

The family statement sticks at something in Remo, deep. He shakes it off, pushes it down. Swishes a mouthful of Johnnie Blue while eyeballing Crow, absorbing the relenting, unnecessarily hurtful truth Crow is telling.

“This path of most resistance made you into the man you are today, and that man is a USDA certified, Grade-A, grain-fed asshole.”

Remo’s had enough. “The body gone?”

“The body?”

“The girl. Her body. The shell that carried her soul. Remember? You killed her with your bare hands? Sorry, the one who stopped breathing. I mean, let’s table your unfortunate murder habit and forget the people who might care about these women.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” sneers Crow.

Remo pours another drink.

Crow, slightly offended, “You gonna offer me a drink?”

“You shouldn’t drink.”

“Should you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Can you take care of this or no?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

Pulls at Remo’s gut to say, “I can ease your troubled mind and heal your heavy heart.”

“Fuck you, Remo.” Remo slams the empty glass down. “Much appreciated.”

Every word out of Crow’s mouth was accurate. Why the hell does the truth have to come from a retched human being like that guy? That fucking guy? Remo doesn’t go to a therapist. He should, heaven knows he should, but he doesn’t. Doesn’t see the point, doesn’t believe in it, and, damn it, he’s not going to. However, his inner thoughts and feelings—some may call them demons—seem to come to the surface while talking to these dregs of society.

Should I just lie on the couch while taking these client meetings?

Remo knows the truth of his life. He’s lived the history. Which is precisely why he drinks and pops those pills.

Fucking duh.

Not a supernatural mystery of the universe.

He’s no Bigfoot.

Unfortunately, substance abuse doesn’t make past memories or present truths or lifelong demons disappear. It might later on in life, but even if Remo makes it to old age and can’t remember the past, who gives a shit? It’s today that’s rough for him. The here and now is a fucking mess. Besides, if his current behavior can shave those later shitty years off his life, so be it.

Remo knows his life. Doesn’t necessarily hate it. Doesn’t exactly love it either. It is what it is. That’s what people say when they can’t, or don’t want to, explain a fact of life, right?

All this fuels the synaptic fireworks that are Remo’s mental state as he stumbles through the city, in and out of crowds, hours blurring until he finds himself at
Gramercy
Park
. He watches kids playing at a crazy pace, an army of youth without a care in the world. Dogs being chased and giving chase in return. Moms and nannies keep a watchful eye. A safe distance away, a distance where he can’t be seen, Remo sits, still dressed in his pricey, mussed up suit which hangs on him like a hanger made of old bones.

He pulls a small pair of binoculars from his coat pocket. He keeps them there, just in case. He begins spying on the children.
 
Actually, he’s spying on one child and mother in particular. The three-year-old boy is Sean, his beautiful mother, Anna.

Remo’s not a perv. He is a lot of unsavory things, but pervert isn’t on the list. Well, not the kind who goes to the park to look at little boys. Jesus, how fucked up is the world when you have to explain that in order to clear the air?

It is what it is.
 

Remo knows Anna and Sean. Cares about Anna and Sean.

Anna picks Sean up, spinning him around. Happiness doesn’t begin to cover it.

Remo watches on for a moment. It’s hard to make out his purpose. He sets down the binoculars. Shades of sadness and rising ripples of regret hit him. He wishes he were with them.

No time for that shit—that thinking, feeling shit you hear so much about. Remo sparks a one hitter looking for some clarity, letting the smoke roll into his lungs and back out.
Flushing
out his system.

A mother with her newborn bundle of joy pushes an all-terrain jogging stroller near Remo. He’s now all but spread-eagle in the grass. She stops, giving him more than a hint of disapproval. What is wrong with this city? She moves closer to get his attention, thinking her mere look of distain will somehow shame this disgusting man into submission.

Remo rolls over, notices her and her look.

“Go fuck yourself, lady.”

Remo falls into his apartment, flipping on the lights exposing a magnificent two bedroom in a Murray Hill high-rise. Most would kill half, or all, their family to live here—the best of everything, with a jaw-dropping view of the city. The space is big, filled with many expensive things, yet feels empty, deeply hollow.

The silence is deafening.
 

He checks the fridge. Nothing but three variations of mustard, some fancy imported beer and a pizza box.

Turns on the TV. Flips around. All dog shit.

Checks the fridge again. Hasn’t changed.

He slips on some headphones, plays some old Violent Femmes. He loves music, even more when he’s completely ripshit-hammered.

Uncorks a bottle of wine.

Pours a glass.

Pops a pill.

Drinks.

Tries to sing.

Tries to dance.

Sucks at both.
 
Catches a glance of his rhythmic ineptitude in the mirror. “Jesus.”

Grabs his keys, exiting as quickly as he can.

Remo’s destination is a hipster bar if ever there was one.
 
Wall Street masters of the universe, young law firm royalty and generic d-bags of all shapes and sizes mingle in the elite watering hole. Men and women trolling for a hook-up.
 
Remo cuts through with drunken grace, with purpose. His target is clear.

At a far end of the room is the quintessential hot bartender. Her name escapes Remo at the moment. Late twenties,
Old World
gorgeous with new world tits. She works magic, slinging sauce in every direction—a blur of booze and mind-bending sex appeal. Men kneel and worship at her feet. She knows it. It’s what keeps her in business, and business is good. Her focus is unbreakable until she spots her man. Her present love, her way out of an hourly wage.

Her meal ticket.

She stops everything and lights up of the sight of Remo. “Hey baby.”

There’s some sexual history here. Everyone sees it. Pisses off the army of hard dicks hoping to be the one she’ll pick. She never does—most hot bartenders don’t—but it doesn’t stop the boys from playing the lottery. Got to be in it to win it, and somebody has to win…right?

She leans over the bar, putting her hands on Remo’s face while laying on a sloppy kiss that would strike down mortal men. Breasts saying hello. A twenty-two-year-old bond trader may have passed out. Remo knows they’re all watching him. He loves that they’re watching. He loves her. Well, not her. Loves her chest. Of course he does, it helps to fill the pit a bit. It won’t last. Like eating Chinese food or sniffing glue. All good for a while, but doesn’t stay with you long.