Diamond in the Rough

by Isobella Crowley

  “Oh, good,” Remy quipped as the man returned to unconsciousness. “I don’t feel very sociable right about now.”

  He returned his thoughts to the question of when he’d last been incarcerated. Most of the times it had happened, it had been while he was blackout drunk or severely high and in the process of doing something so stupid that his sober self wouldn’t have believed such tall tales, anyway.

  That played tricks on one’s memory. A substantial chunk of his life, he now realized, consisted of urban legends that other people knew better than he did and which he had no way to verify. David Remington, mysterious doer of asinine deeds.

  It could not have been all that long since his last stay, though. Judging by the way the officers on guard behaved, this was merely another round of business as usual.

  “Heyyy,” one of the cops exclaimed in the same tone of voice he’d use to greet an old friend he might bump into at the bar, “it really is Dave Remington. Shit, buddy, we were starting to miss you.” With a huge grin, the man stood from his chair and sauntered toward the cell.

  “Hi, yeah,” he responded and hoped he didn’t sound too irritable or too slurred. “I guess it’s good to be back. I mean, as opposed to having my head run over and used to patch up the goddamn avenue or being torn apart by that asshole in the ski mask. You guys saw him, right? And someone saw him jump across the entire street in a single leap, moving faster than a speeding bullet and so forth?”

  The guard, a younger Chicano gentleman, simply laughed. “The officers who picked you up saw something, that’s for sure.”

  “Cool.” Remy coughed again. There was no blood this time so the bleeding hadn’t been internal. If it was, he’d probably be in the hospital rather than jail, anyway. “That means they’re not blind. I greatly respect the NYPD’s non-discriminatory hiring practices, but I have to admit it’s encouraging to know that the guys responsible for finding out who did this have functional powers of vision.”

  The cop laughed again. “See, this is why we kinda like having you here. You make an effort. Most guys merely cuss at us or beg for their mothers or some shit.”

  “I try,” he riposted. “Then again, I might beg for my mother if I actually knew what the hell even happened back there. Are you allowed to tell me that or is there some kind of stupid law against it?”

  The officer took a step or two back and leaned against the wall. “Eh,” he mused. “It looked an awful lot like you got into a drunken-ass, drug-fueled brawl with some crackhead out in the streets. That’s what they’re saying. You, however, have the right to remain silent.”

  “Now why would I do that?” he demanded. “Like you said, I need to make an effort to keep you guys entertained on the job. If I pass out, though, this guy might be able to handle the task.” He gestured to the heavy, snoring form of the dude passed out on the other cot.

  The cop rolled his tongue around in his cheek. “Doubtful. I’m not even sure that guy can talk.”

  Remy glanced at his cellmate. When the man woke up, perhaps he’d get to the bottom of the issue. He looked at his guard. Another cop, a middle-aged black guy, wandered in with two steaming paper cups of coffee.

  “Oh,” the first officer continued and snapped his fingers, “that reminds me. There was some FBI agent called about this case before you woke up. Some chick named Gilmore. She was really vague and wanted to know what the official report was so far, but definitely name-dropped you. Fun times.”

  The second cop uttered a rusty belly-laugh as he set down his dual beverages. “The FBI? Oh, Lord. What the hell did David Remington the Great do this time? Ha!”

  He rubbed his eyes and exhaled slowly as he climbed to his feet. “You know, officers, to be perfectly honest…I have no frickin’ idea.”

  For a brief moment, he reflected on the possibility that this might be bad—the Feds getting involved with things usually was. But he hadn’t really done anything. Disorderly conduct, maybe, and the owner of the car that bumped into him might try to sue him for a new paint job or some shit.

  But he wasn’t too worried. In his experience, he tended to get away with things.

  I’ll be out in no time. I’m not sure how, but I’ll manage.

  The first officer took one of the paper cups of coffee from the second and turned back toward Remy. “Yeah, well,” he stated, “if she wants to come in here and question your ass, there isn’t much we can do about it. So be a good boy if she does, hey?”

  The second man laughed again before he downed half of his coffee in one gulp. “Rolling around in the middle of the street and bouncing off cars. I wish I coulda been there to see that, haha! Oh, Lord, have mercy,”

  Remy smiled, although without much mirth. He was merely a clown to these guys. That, he realized, was what most people saw when they looked at the old him.

  The younger man took his leave and the older black man replaced him as guard. Remy settled into a seated position, rubbed his eyes, and breathed in and out while the last of the booze cleared itself from his system.

  He turned to the guard. “Hey, man, do you know what time it is?” Since beginning work at the agency, he’d grown overly conscious of whether the sun was up or not at any given time.

  The man glanced at a wall clock which was slightly out of the detainee’s range of sight. “Oh, it looks like it’s juuuust about six o’clock. You’ve been here damn near all day. Do you want your phone call? Your public defender ought to show up tomorrow, I think.”

  “Eh,” he responded, “I’ll give it another hour.” He somehow suspected that news of his apprehension and incarceration would have spread quickly.

  Half an hour passed.

  Remy’s guts curdled when he noticed that, by now, the weird guy across from him was on the verge of regaining consciousness. And with business hours mostly over, he was seriously looking at the prospect of spending the night there.

  “So,” he said to the guard, “what’s that guy in for, anyway?” He gestured to his cellmate.

  The middle-aged officer looked up from the fishing magazine he’d been reading and peered over the tops of his glasses. “Oh,” he began and blew air between his lips, “birds of a feather, I guess.” He waved his hand vaguely.

  He nodded. “Drunk tank. Disorderly conduct and other such bullshit offenses. Got it. Hopefully, he didn’t try to shove some other individual into oncoming traffic.”

  The guard lifted the magazine back over his face. “I can check the report if you really want me to.” His tone suggested that he would have to be very insistent to get him to follow through.

  “Oh, no, ha.” He chortled. “That’s fine.”

  He looked at the man across from him on the opposite bench. His cellmate was a big, slobby, heavy guy in an oversized coat, not in good shape but probably strong, with unkempt hair and stubble that was on the verge of becoming a proper beard. He smelled like cheap vodka, Swisher Sweets, and dirt sealed to the skin by a layer of dried sweat. His eyes fluttered open.

  First, he uttered a long, grunting sigh and rubbed his eyes. Then, he glared. “You lookin’ at something, pal?”

  “Not at all,” he answered. “Merely staring into space. I forgot you were there since you were sleeping, you know.”

  He struggled into a seated position. “That’s cute. Are we in jail?”

  Remy spread his hands. “Where else? It’s so warm and safe here. I, for one, am comforted to know that the people of this city are concerned enough with our fate to provide us with such an excellent facility.”

  The guy coughed and spat on the floor. “What are you, a fuckin’ college professor? Who bought you that suit?”

  Before he could concoct some smartass answer—which, he later admitted, might make the situation worse—a door opened and two pairs of footsteps entered. One sounded like it belonged to a small, light person.

  A cop barked, “David Remington! Someone to see you.”

  Remy sighed. He estimated it was about 6:40 now, meaning there was st
ill twenty minutes until he would have broken down and demanded his phone call.

  “About time,” he commented.

  The heavier pair of feet turned, left, and closed the door while the lighter pair approached the cell. The guard set his magazine down and stood to observe.

  Taylor wore a rather stylish black velvet jacket and had sequestered her hands in its pockets. She stood and looked at him as though perched atop a mountain to watch all the little ant-sized humans scurrying by below.

  He waved a hand toward her in a highly exaggerated manner. “Hi, Taylor.”

  “Remington.” Her voice was flat. “Are you all right? Poor dear. Actually having to pay the consequences for your actions.” She shook her head a little while her dark gaze remained fixed on him.

  His abdomen tightened. What she’d said might mean that she was only there to scold or even mock him and planned to leave him there to rot—at least for however many days it would take for him to see a judge and have this minor-ass case dismissed.

  “Wellllll,” he drawled with an overstated tone of casual arrogance, “I seem to recall that my taking time off and having a night out on the town was your idea.”

  The faint shadow of a sharp little smile passed over her face. “Which is why I’ll bail you out. This one time. You’re far more useful to me free from the penal system but not free in the slightest from your debt to me for saving your ass.”

  The grungy gentleman on the opposite bench burst out in snorted laughter. “Haha, who is this? Your mom? Is she single?”

  Remy adjusted his tie at his throat and pointedly ignored the man and his charming commentary. “Thanks,” he stated and looked at Taylor.

  The officer chuckled in a slightly nasty way as he fished through his keys and opened the cell. “It’s good to know someone out there still cares about him. For all the times he’s been arrested, this is the longest stretch he’s ever spent in jail. Almost a full day. I was kinda expecting to see his family by now.”

  Taylor stood unmoving with her hands still pocketed and looked at Remy with an expression that was mostly her usual resting face—cool, aloof, neutral, and almost unreadable. But he could read a trace of something else.

  Sardonic amusement, he decided. On some level, she found this really goddamn funny.

  He stretched his arms and legs, rolled his head on his shoulders to crack his neck, and sighed before he stepped out of the holding cell. The guard, meanwhile, kept his eyes on the hefty, unkempt detainee while he closed and locked the door.

  For his part, the man remained on his cot and only glowered and muttered things under his breath.

  Taylor and Remington strode to the door and quickly found themselves in the brightly lit hallway, where the officer who’d escorted her a moment ago rejoined them.

  He was an older, broad-shouldered white man with a red lumpy nose. Judging by his voice, he drank his whiskey on literal rocks rather than ice and crunched and ate them after he’d drained the glass of liquid. “Ms Steele. Between you and me, we’re not charging your boy there with anything serious at this point.”

  “Good.” She now walked beside the cop and he followed the two of them. “He was, after all, attacked, so I would think the majority of the blame would fall on his assailant. Of course, I’m certain he put himself into a situation that made it much more likely that something of this sort would happen.”

  Remy remained silent but his mind groaned. The ride home would definitely be unpleasant.

  Somehow, he had the distinct impression that Taylor would hold this incident over his head until after time itself came to an end.

  It took a few more minutes before they were free of the precinct building. They had to stop at the front desk and complete more paperwork. He had to sign release forms and answer a couple more basic questions so the arresting officers could complete their reports.

  He didn’t pay much attention. It felt like the whole process was being expedited—as if his companion had some means to circumvent the usual protocols and hurry things smoothly along. But he could not remember the details of the previous times he’d been into and out of jail with much clarity, so it was hard to contrast the experiences.

  Outside, the evening was bright with electricity and busy with noise and motion. Seeing Times Square again suffused him with an odd, uncomfortable mixture of both nostalgia and loathing.

  Taylor gestured toward the nearest non-handicapped parking space. “This way, David.”

  He followed her toward a familiar-looking black Tesla. A couple of goons—who almost resembled Craig and Justin—ambled down the walkway. Both turned to stare lecherously at her as she passed, their mouths open as they formed stupid comments on their tongues.

  She sent them a quick, sharp glare and they turned their heads forward and kept moving.

  Remy chortled. “Those guys are smarter than they look.”

  To his mild surprise, she opened the back passenger-side door for him before she climbed into the rear driver’s side.

  As he slid in and strapped himself in, he glanced toward the front. Presley sat behind the wheel.

  “Good evening, sir,” the old man greeted him. “And madam. I’m very glad to see that things didn’t take too long.”

  Taylor smiled and crossed her legs as the engine started. “Not long at all. Remington can’t even have himself charged with a proper crime. Disorderly conduct, mainly.”

  “Come, now,” he retorted, “disorderly conduct is better than nothing.”

  Presley maneuvered the car into the flow of traffic and began heading south and east. They were going to the office, then. Somehow, he would have been concerned if he’d started driving north toward Harrison. It wouldn’t have been professional.

  “Remington,” Taylor said and turned toward him, “tell me about this person who attacked you. I already persuaded the police to tell me most of what they’d heard, but I want to hear your firsthand account.”

  He cleared his throat and tried to clear his brain. “Well, he—and I’m almost positive it was a man—came out of nowhere. Somehow, he snuck up on me on a busy street in broad daylight.”

  The vampire nodded. “Go on.”

  “He wore a black sweatshirt and a black ski mask and looked…average, I guess, nothing unusual. His eyes were bright blue, though. I remember that much. He also hit like a truck and jumped like two or three pro basketball players combined. My first thought was that he wasn’t human. Fair enough, I was drunk but not that drunk. Some of the shit he did wouldn’t have been possible for a mortal.”

  “It’s unlikely,” she mused, “although not impossible that he was a vampire. We can act during the day with sufficient protection. There are other possibilities, as well, however. A lycanthrope, or a shapeshifter, or a normal person who’d been…augmented. What, exactly, did he try to accomplish by attacking you?”

  Remy shrugged. “Murder, I guess? Well, he probably could have simply torn my head off instead of throwing me around as much as he did. I don’t know.”

  “Hmm.” Her dark gaze went distant. “An intimidation beating—or perhaps a bungled kidnapping.”

  “Oh,” he added hastily, “I just remembered. He said he knew who I worked for.”

  The vampire nodded again, more sharply this time. “David…what were you thinking, wandering around without backup? Where was Riley?”

  He frowned. “Her week was up so I gave her the night off. Besides, I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Evidently,” Taylor cut in, her voice almost a hiss, “you do.”

  Now, he began to get pissed. “I did exactly what you asked, Taylor. I went out in public and spent a ton of money and acted like an asshole. You were busy, apparently, so that’s one source of backup I had to cross off.”

  She seemed about to retort, so he forged ahead. “And Riley would have probably misunderstood what was going on and done something attention-grabbing. Imagine if she’d levitated me out of that guy’s way while he attacked. Way too many peopl
e would be claiming to have seen some weird, weird shit.”

  Her face drooped with mild exasperation. “I could have mindwiped them if need be. That would be a hassle, but your death or capture would have been even worse.”

  “I’m glad you care,” Remy retorted, “but next time you tell me to take a working vacation, give clearer instructions, perhaps.”

  She grimaced slightly, her manner suddenly cool and distant again as she turned her face away and declined to speak. Her slender hands came together in front of her and the red nails of the left drummed in sequence upon the back of the right.

  Remy waited.

  Presley, up front, asked, “Shall I put some soothing music on, madam?” He received no answer.

  Did I beat her in an argument? He marveled at the thought. Is such a thing possible? He tried to contain his glee and avoid jumping to that conclusion too soon.

  He was about to mentally declare victory when Taylor broke the silence.

  “I will let it go, for now,” she stated. “That does not mean you are correct, only that there are more productive ways to spend our time than arguing. We have other things to discuss.”

  Goddammit, he cursed inwardly. So close…so damn close.

  “After the impressively melodramatic display you put on last night and this morning,” she elaborated, “I believe we can declare ‘mission accomplished’ as far as the whole business of getting attention goes.”

  “Ah,” he countered, “so you’ve been forced to admit that I succeeded at the task you gave me. We both knew I would.”

  “Oh, you more than succeeded, Remington.” She turned her head partway toward him. “There is no further need, at this point, to tramp through the city flashing your money and acting like an insufferable prick alongside your loyal companions. Anyone who is the slightest bit interested in your activities will have gotten the point by now.”

  He forced a smile and nodded.