by Mike McCrary
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.
They retreat to a converted warehouse loft in Midtown. Nice place, but trying hard not to be too nice. Cool, but trying hard not to be too hip. Expensive period. On the bed, the hot bartender rides Remo with abandon. Bites her lower lip, squealing like an over-caffeinated porn star.
Remo is bored out of his mind, his dead eyes staring at her and her show.
Glances to the clock then back to her. Formulates a plan.
Remo forces out some bad acting. “That’s it. There it is.”
“Oh yeah? Do it, Remo. Come for your girl.”
He gives it final thrust, adds a twitch to make it look good, along with a somewhat convincing grunt. He lies still, hoping she bought it. She stops bouncing, a little confused and not sure how to handle this.
“Did you come, Sugar Bear?”
“Yup, mind-bending.”
“Really? It just . . . didn’t seem like you did.”
“I have a condom on, so it’s not really bareback kinda fireworks.”
“I know, but . . .”
She slides off him. Something is bothering her as she pulls her clothes from the floor. Sure, she likes not having to pay for things. Nice things. She likes having the little things that make life special for her. But dammit, there needs to be a little respect too…just a little bit. She deserves that much. Sex with someone you don’t really like isn’t as easy as it looks. She starts to say it, stops, then says it anyway.
“You don't respect anything about me.”
Remo sinks. “Ah, fuck.”
“No, really. What do you respect about me?”
“There’s so many . . .”
“Come on, Remo. One thing. Name one thing.”
“I . . . look, you're a great girl.”
“Thank you. And?”
He thinks. It hurts. It hurts to think at all given the booze, pills and fake orgasms, but it’s even harder to come up with a single thing to tell this woman. Whatever her fucking name is. She becomes more and more pissed as the pause drags out. She looks at him as sincerely as a naked, surgically enhanced woman can.
Well?
With no other options, Remo attempts the truth.
“You’re a twenty-eight-year-old bartender with a BMW, condo, and tits, who I happily picked up the tab for—what's not to respect?”
Without even a fuck you, she throws her shirt on in a huff, heading for the door.
Not a great time for the truth.
Remo does respect the tits, just not what they’re attached to. He tries to make a quick, last-ditch effort to bring them back.
“My place in the Hamptons this weekend?”
The door slams behind her.
“Sugar Bear?”
That could have gone better. It started out nice.
Fuck it.
Remo’s hungry.
5
Remo takes refuge at an all night Chinese joint. He’s nestled himself into a throne of a booth in the 24/7 dive. Red tablecloths, cheap paper lanterns. A drunk’s afterhours haven. His mind drifts as he stares out the large picture window. He lets his head unwind as he watches New York breeze by effortlessly, people moving through the city, through their lives. He looks on glassy-eyed. Lost. Wanting. Like a puppy left in the rain.
He gets caught up in the pace of his wandering mind. There’s a lot going on in that head. Still can’t shake his conversation with Mr. Crow. The sting of his words hasn’t faded. People have said many horrific things to him before—nothing new—but that conversation is really doing a number on Remo. His memory slams back to his father. It always does. Daddy Cobb was a hard, hard man. Loved the sauce, hated keeping a job, not much use for Remo. The day Remo’s mom went AWOL, Remo remembers asking his dad, “Will she be back?”
“No.”
“Where is she?”
“Does it matter?”
“Is she ok?”
No response.
Later, when Remo was around ten, he found out she left them; remarried and even had a new baby. Can’t blame her. Remo never looked for her. Even with the vast resources currently at his disposal, he’s never tried. His firm could find anybody, anywhere, but she wanted out, so she’s out.
It is what it is.
Not many people these days have their dad die in a gunfight while cheating a card game. Remo did. In a way he takes pride in it. Others might say, “My dad died from Alzheimer's at this nice home we found for him,” or “He fought the good fight, but cancer ultimately won.” Not Remo. “My dad shot two men down after he caught a hanger off the bottom of a stacked deck and, shortly thereafter, caught two slugs from a .45—one in the chest, one between the eyes.”
How would you rather go?
Again, it happens.
A fifty-something Asian waitress drops off a plate of shrimp fried rice as big as his face, along with a cup of black coffee. At fifty-something she looks twenty. These people don’t age, Remo thinks. He addresses the shrimp-laced pile with fork in hand. Pauses, pushes the plate away
. Pulls a silver flask, twists off the top and pours some booze into his coffee, stirs it with his finger.
Remo is forced to hit pause on memory lane as some guy tries to get his attention.
The guy does more than that.
The guy slides into the booth across from Remo.
Weathered, seasoned, beaten by years of dirty deeds. Body art a wandering contradiction of personal philosophies.
A confused, or at the very least conflicted, man.
Lester speaks.
6
“Remo Cobb.”
Remo barely glances up from his plate—hurts to focus—and the expression he manages to pull together is one of indifference and intoxication.
Lester sits, rubs his bible while staring at Remo. Watching, taking in everything about him, studying him, working through his feelings about this man and suppressing the ill will. Remo takes note of Lester’s appearance, tries to place the face. He can’t seem to remember this guy, but feels like he should.
Some burn-out from high school?
That crazy,ass-clown from down the dorm hall in college?
Booze typically makes positive recognition challenging, but this one is particularly difficult. Remo attempts, nonetheless, to identify the man sitting across from him asking, “I know you?”
Lester sits stone-faced for a moment that stretches forever—beyond and back again—then utters, “You do.”
Remo’s brain gives off a vague spark, ignites a flicker of recognition. “Client?”
“I was.”
“All right . . . what the hell you want?” Remo drifts back to his meal with coffee and sauce chaser.
“My name is Lester. I’m on a mission of mercy.” Remo spots the God tat on his hand, then the bible. Jesus freak. Fuck me.
Lester continues, “I was imprisoned. During that time I learned the grace and glory of a righteous path. A road to redemption, the way the Lord wants me to be. Wants me to save you.” Lester is well aware the ears across the booth from him are deaf to his words, but feels he has to at least say these things. Sort of like a disclosure statement for a car ad (Professional on a closed course, do not attempt), or a cigarette box (Smoke these and die slowly and horribly). Everybody knows, nobody cares, still, it has to be there.
Remo halts his rice and spiked java intake. “Fan-fucking-tastic.”
“Please don’t interrupt me, sir.”
“Please go away, cocksucker.”
Lester feels the rushing wave of anger rip down his spine. He remembers a time when that ripping sensation meant someone was going to be hurting, really bad, really soon. That was a different time, a different Lester. He holds those bad thoughts back now. The thought of jamming that fork in Remo’s eye? Currently on the back burner. The idea of dragging Remo from this booth and stomping a boot through his teeth? Held back. That simple notion of wrapping his fist around this lawyer’s neck until there’s a single snap? Please hold. In lieu of these proven problem solving techniques, Lester grits his teeth and goes with the coping mechanics he learned inside. Breathes through his nose. Finds his calming voice, his happy place. Exhales the hate and says, “I’m asking you politely to listen to what I have to say. I’ve come a long way for you.”
Remo, who considers holding back and exhaling hate techniques for pussies and homos, opts for another method. He covers his face with his hands. From behind his fingers, he replies, “When I move my hands, I’d like you to be gone.” He gives it a beat and then removes his hands.
Lester’s still there.
Frustrated, annoyed and flat-out fucking done with God Boy, Remo barks, “Pretty please, fucking dissipate.”
Lester slams his bible to the table. Hard. The kind of slam that makes one think, I shouldn’t have said that. Shrimp and coffee jump as Lester’s cold, hard eyes burn with an unmistakable intensity. The room drops to a low murmur. Other tables look on, while trying hard to not to seem like they are. The uncomfortable seconds crawl. The air feels tight; at least it does to Remo.
Lester lets the entire restaurant off the hook by finally speaking. “You have wronged people in your life, correct?”
Nothing from Remo. He’s pretty sure Lester knows the answer without him saying it.
Lester asks harder this time. “Correct?”
Remo gives in. “One or two.”
“Yes. Yes, you have.” Lester grabs a giant scoop of shrimp fried rice with his bare hand, inhaling it. Remo is trying hard not to be disgusted by this poor man’s Tebow shoving his paw into his food.
He asks, “You mentioned saving me?”
Lester gives a nod.
“From . . .”
“Men are coming to kill you.” Lester wipes the excess rice from his mouth.
Remo watches a carrot cube land on the table, then asks, “One more time…”
“You recall a devil named Dutch? Evil brothers named Mashburn? Ferris? Chicken Wing?”
Remo’s life hits pause.
Face drops.
Heart freezes.
Every molecule of his being slams on the brakes, flips and catches fire. Oh, yeah…he recalls. Throwing the case.
Digging up the money.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Total recall sets in, Remo now remembering how he knows this man. “You drove getaway.”
Lester flicks the carrots cube away. “Yes.”
“How the hell are you out?”
“An organization named Prisoners for Faith got me a new attorney and found some holes in the case against me.”
Remo’s blood pressure spikes. How could Leslie fuck that up?
Lester takes Remo’s shaking hand. “I’m a man of the lord. I’ve been given a second chance and I cannot, will not, allow them to hurt you. I’m here to save you.” Remo pulls away. This is entirely too much for him to process in the moment, hard to process in lifetime. Too much for anybody to process, but for Remo, in his condition, this is just too damn much.
Lester prompts, “You threw our case.”
Remo knows the truth will not set him free in any way, shape or form. He attempts to cover the obvious truth, but Lester cuts him off. Saving Remo from throwing one more lie on the fire. “You lost on purpose. You lost the case against Dutch and me. It’s all right, Remo. No hate from me. I’m a better man for it.”
“I didn’t throw your case, I got beat. Big difference.”
“You stole their money.”
“What? What money? I did nothing of the sort—”
Lester’s dagger-stare puts an end to Remo’s bullshit. Remo recoils, leaks out, “Okay. Fine. Got me. I threw the case, but I don’t have the money. I gave it to a good cause.”
“Of course you did.”
“I did damn it.”
Lester smiles as he snatches another handful of rice, thinking how damn good it is. He thinks about ordering some more, perhaps an egg roll. Pork, not that vegetarian shit. He’s for God and all, but the man enjoys meat. Maybe some of that fried pork with the red shit on top.
Remo’s mind couldn’t be any farther away. He’s thinking of red shit all right, he’s thinking about his blood seeping out from multiple bullet wounds. Hell, that’s if he’s lucky. These Mashburn boys like to get creative when disposing of people they dislike. With Remo sitting at #1 atop on the Mashburns' most wanted list…yeah, they’ll work up something really super special for their best buddy Remo. His defense mechanisms kick in and he thinks this can’t be happening. Thinks it is simply not possible. Thinking out loud Remo utters, “Dutch is in jail. His brothers and the rest of their crew are corn-holing Hitler in hell.”
“They didn’t die in that fire,” says Lester, trying to flag down a waitress. “Some are dead now of course, by my hand. But the Mashburn brothers? Oh, they’ve been waiting for the right time to present itself, and they are very alive and very upset with you.”
Remo swallows a bit of vomit. Terror-shakes set in, rattling their way down to his toes.
“You’re out of your skull. Nobody
’s coming.”
Lester looks to Remo with surprisingly kind eyes. “People will come, dear Remo. Nasty, filthy, scary people. People with bad childhoods and questionable morals will descend upon you with guns, bloodlust, and visions of murderous mayhem dancing in their heads. Make no mistake . . . they are coming.”
Remo sits back, letting this life-altering news wash over him, through him. This kind of news is on par with you’ve got cancer or your liver will explode in 3 to 6 months or your balls are going to fall off. He rubs his face then takes a hard swig from his flask. Skips the coffee. Lester gets frustrated with the waitress, who is clearly ignoring him, and motions to Remo about his plate of unattended fried rice. May I?
Remo pushes it towards him. Oh please, help yourself.
An ever so delicate sound stops Remo.
Tink, tink, tink.
It’s coming from outside the restaurant.
Tink, tink.
Remo looks to the window.
A man in a hoodie, dark glasses, and what looks like a very fake beard is tapping on the window with car key trying to get Remo’s attention. Remo gives the man a what the fuck now? look. Lester notices nothing, oblivious with his face buried in the blissful freedom of Chinese food.
The Hoodie Man points down toward the ground.
Remo doesn’t get it.
The man pulls a nickel plated .357 with a rubber grip.
Remo gets it.
Drops down, sliding under the table lightning fast. Hoodie Man opens fire on Lester without a hint of mercy. A relentless pounding of lead blows out the window, glass exploding in a scattershot of bouncing shards which blanket the table and surrounding area. Bullets rip the air, tagging Lester in multiple points of entry, spinning and whirling him out of the booth. Pulpy pops sprout from his body like springtime flowers.
Restaurant patrons scatter like roaches when the lights turn on, screaming and running for the exits. Tables fly, chairs skid across the cheap floor, plates break—this is what happens when bullets come for dinner.
Remo hits the floor under the table, the falling rain of glass dancing around him, contorting into a fetal position in a feeble attempt to gain some form of comfort.