Remo Went Rogue

by Mike McCrary

  Remo slips back inside, locks the door. He slowly picks up the envelope, treating it like it was a special delivery of anthrax. Takes a long moment, as if not opening it will end whatever the fuck is going on. As if denial will call off the dogs.

  The Mashburn family.

  If only.

  He slides his finger along the flap creating a slow tear, opening it ever so carefully. In the back of his head he thinks of the Road Runner’s creativity while trying to elude Wile E. Coyote.. With one eye shut he rips the rest of the envelope open. No anthrax or bomb, but he does find a crudely written note. It reads like an inbred five-year-old— or a profane Santa— crafted it.

  We no when U R sleeping. We no when U R awake. Sleep tight, cunt.

  Remo’s balls might have climbed into his sinuses. His hand shakes as he guzzles more Johnnie. It should burn as it slips down his gullet. Remo’s senses are so dull he doesn’t even notice. He races to the bedroom. Clothes scatter in every direction as Remo digs through his dresser.

  “Come on . . . fuck, fuck, fuck. Ah, there you are,” he says, finding the Glock 9mm he has tucked away just in case.

  Hello, lover.

  He inspects the Glock like he knows what he’s doing. Pulls at it, picks at it. “Shit.” The clip falls out, dropping to the floor. The Glock was a gift from a client to show appreciation for a job well done. When Remo opened it years ago his first thought was, how many times has this been used? What a nice, tidy way to get rid of a murder weapon—give it to your attorney.

  Unbelievable dickhead clients.

  Now, however, Remo thinks it’s the most thoughtful fucking gift he’s ever received. He just wishes he’d gone to the range or taken some damn lessons or something. He jams the clip back in and yanks back the slide like they do on TV.

  Blam!

  The blast blows out his bedroom window, a deafening sound reverberating through the apartment. Remo makes a mental note to come up with a good lie before calling maintenance with this one. He slips the gun back into the dresser drawer, covering it with underwear. Perhaps going to the gun was a bit premature. He’s pretty sure the neighbors are out of town. He’ll lie later if he has to.

  Remo heads back into the living room, yanks the sprawling picture window’s curtains shut.

  Throws the remaining three locks on the door.

  Slides the chain on.

  Checks the peephole.

  Jams a chair under the knob.

  He doesn’t know what else to do. He’s defended people who have caused situations like this one. He’s even torn apart on the stand the people who were their victims. But he’s never been the target. He’s not a fan.

  Remo digs through the hall closet, finds a baseball bat and backpedals out. Okay, he thinks, you’re okay. On second thought… he switches off the lights.

  “Shit,” he yelps as he bumps into something, falling to the floor of the now pitch-black apartment.

  Fumbling in the darkness, he manages to get a candle lit and sits at the dining room table. Smells like jasmine. Would be a romantic setting, if things weren’t so damn shitty.

  He takes out his cell and scrolls through the contacts. He stops on one, looking long and hard at the name. Anna. His thumb inches toward select.

  Stops himself.

  Not the time. Not sure if there is a good time.

  He scrolls on and goes with another number.

  New York City ADAs are somewhat used to receiving phone calls at all hours, but the rude awakening still pisses Leslie off. She manages a groggy, “Hello . . .”

  “You fucking suck,” Remo announces before hanging up.

  Downs the Johnnie and pours a fresh one by dancing candlelight. A self-satisfied smirk spreads across his lips. Can’t help but think, Even in the face of death…still got it.

  11

  They say when you drink to the point of passing out you don’t ever truly achieve a deep sleep. Something to do with the fact that your body is fighting off the alcohol and is unable to relax enough for your mind to completely let itself go. That… or maybe your body has some sort of mechanism just underneath the surface that’s acutely aware your drunken ass could puke at any moment. Believe it or not, your body doesn’t really want you to die choking on your own vomit while passed out. Self-preservation doesn’t take nights or weekends off.

  Of course, you can override this mechanism by sucking down so much sauce it short circuits nature’s little self-preservation helper—see former AC/DC frontman Bon Scott for details. Death by misadventure does not look pretty.

  Your brain will allow you to dream while in this alcohol-induced limbo. Perhaps not as peaceful as normal sleep would be, not as fluid. More of a herky-jerky kind of sleep that starts and stops, hits pause, rewinds, then records over the good parts. Over and over and over again, until you wake up feeling like you crawled out of a goat’s anus.

  Remo prefers this to lucid dreaming.

  It’s not the sole reason he drinks the way he does, but it’s a side effect he welcomes. Real dreams can unlock the head or unconsciously unwind things that are better left in a twisted hairball in the corner.

  His dreams tend to be more superficial mental exercises.

  Comfort food dreams.

  Something for his brain to chew on while Remo falls under the spell of Ritalin and Johnnie Walker Blue.

  R&B, he calls it.

  He saw something somewhere, maybe 60 Minutes, where college dickheads were taking Ritalin to increase brainpower, allowing them to study/cheat in school. The drug was designed for hyperactive children, but apparently when adults take it the results are slightly different. Instead of mellowing out hyper Jenny or Jack, it allows adults to focus—like really fucking focus—and absorb information at a much greater rate. Of course there’s also talk about it elevating blood pressure, causing strokes and the like, but hell, McDonald’s can do that too. Not to mention, Mickey D’s does nothing for your grade point average and can make you fat as fuck, so what’s a boy to do?

  Remo likes the Johnnie Blue, but he’s a high-priced, high-profile attorney who needs to be able to focus, be sharp, and retain large amounts of information. The sauce can cause more than a few hiccups with those needs, so it makes perfect sense to welcome the pills to the party.

  Mr. Blue does what he does, little boy Ritalin does what he does, and Remo comes out smelling like a rose.

  Of course, it hasn’t been perfect. Working out a system takes time, and there were moments, especially in the beginning, when he struggled to get the timing, dosage and mix just right. Painful, socially uncomfortable moments. But after a relatively short amount of time Remo got it down and, depending on your personal moral code, he’s been pretty successful.

  Alcoholics sometimes refer to their time being drunk as “being on the island.” Remo thinks those AA cocksuckers probably invented it.

  Quitters.

  Not that “being on the island” is a bad description. It just sounds so, so…

  Fuck it. Remo just doesn’t like it, that’s all.

  Now, during Remo’s time on the island, his thoughts tend to bounce and skip from memory to memory, with the occasional blip of fantasy.

  Tits and pussy, booze and pills, big ticket luxuries.

  More tits.

  More pussy.

  Remo surrounded by tits and pussy while in a massive hotel suite, getting a blow job in a limo, sex with a woman while skydiving, her form flipping between different nationalities and ethnic origins like that chick from the X-Men. Fairly certain there’s a blue girl in there somewhere.

  Then, surprisingly, his mind goes black.

  The kaleidoscope of pornographic images is wiped from his mind, replaced by total, swallowing dark-ness.

  In his dream a door opens.

  It leads into a dimly lit room.

  A room lit by the soft glow a child’s nightlight.

  In the room, a young boy is sound asleep, wrapped up in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin. Remo slump
s in a leather office chair nestled in the corner of the room. He wears his best suit and holds a bottle of Johnnie Blue in his hand. He watches the boy, but is unable to see his face. The boy’s back is turned to him as he lies facing the opposite wall.

  A baby cries in the background, somewhere Remo can’t see. The sound is piercing.

  Through the door storms a pack of men armed with shotguns and assault rifles. Their faces are blank, like a pillowcase of skin has been stretched over their skulls.

  They stop to look to Remo, then turn their attention to the boy in the bed.

  The baby screams louder.

  Remo looks on emotionless, takes a swig.

  The men pump their shotguns, lock and load their assault rifles.

  The baby’s screams stop, leaving an eerie silence in the air.

  The young boy pops straight up in bed, as if it was on fire. His face is pillowcase blank as well, but Remo can still make out his mouth beneath the strained skin. The boy reaches out for Remo and screams in terror.

  Remo tries to jump from his chair but falls hard to his knees, fingers fumbling mere inches from the faceless boy.

  Shotguns explode.

  Assault rifles rattle endlessly.

  This is not REM sleep.

  This is REMO sleep.

  12

  Remo jolts awake.

  Not completely awake, it hurts to get there. He cracks his lids open, finding himself still at his dining room table. The candle has burned down to a purple cow turd. He sits upright in the stiff dining chair. All seems well, save for the fact his Johnnie bottle is completely empty.

  His head feels like it’s on fire, and he realizes he still holds the bat, clutched tightly to his chest. Remo jolts back in the chair when his cell starts ringing, tipping over and landing less than gracefully on the floor. He springs up, bat in hand, fighting to gains some semblance of control. Answers the call.

  “You thinking about making it in today, snowflake?” asks the gravel-grinding voice of his boss, Victor.

  Remo squeezes his eyes shut. Replies, “Rough evening. Cover for me?”

  “Fuck you, cover for you. We’re buried here.”

  “Things . . . things are bad,” grunts Remo.

  “Fascinating. Get in here or I’m sending people to come get you.”

  Victor’s words spark an idea. Remo hangs up, bolting for the door.

  Remo looks a mess as he pushes his way through the crowded streets. He constantly checks over his shoulder, working sideways glances to scan faces as they pass by him. His heart pounds at the thought someone could gun him down at any moment. Can’t help but think again, this is no way to live. Thinks about Harrison Ford in The Fugitive. That makes his situation seem sexy-cool for about five seconds, then it’s back to the sickening tumbling in his gut, a feeling that’s starting to become his normal state of being. It’s odd, but this feeling is starting to become almost comforting.

  Everyone else seems to glide along without a care in the world. Just fluttering about their normal day like all is fine and dandy. Have they no idea about the pain and struggle of others? Actually, Remo realizes he’s never given a second thought to any of these things either, decides to let it go.

  Someone bumps into Remo and he jumps back, raising a fist.

  “What the fuck?” barks a kind-looking little old lady.

  Nice. Even the elderly are giving him shit. Remo tries to get a hold of himself as she passes, muttering something about him being a fucking cocksucker. Lovely woman. Remo cuts through the crowd and enters a building, heading for the floor of his law office. Office of the Gods. He barely makes eye contact with his fellow co-workers. A few try to engage in a good morning or two. Stops just short of telling them to fuck off, actually. Remo hates morning chit-chat on a good day, and he sure as hell isn’t interested today. Singular focus as he moves to a corner office.

  He reaches his corner fortress of solitude, shutting the door behind him. Fires up his laptop while pulling multiple files from a cabinet. In the files he fumbles through photos of now familiar guys. Candid photos, multiple mug shots, and other random photos of Dutch, Lester, the Mashburns and other assorted assholes doing unsavory activities. There’s a shot of masked gunmen taking down bank, followed by a great team photo of the crew—you could put it on a Christmas card. Next ones he pulls are stills of a shot-to-hell bank lobby taken from the surveillance cams.

  Pools of blood.

  Tape outlines of bodies.

  Some, very small bodies.

  He turns to his laptop, scanning seemingly endless legal PDFs and doc files before finding a video file. Remo leans back. He knows this is the one he was looking for. The one that frightens him. Remo hesitates before clicking it open, knowing what’s on it. Wishing he’d never seen it. But he has to see it again. He clicks.

  A surveillance video of the bank lobby opens on the screen.

  Calm at first, filled with people doing their business. Remo’s eyes zero in on a young mother holding a newborn child. He’d warn her if he could. Run! Get the hell out of there, lady. It’s too late, of course. Hell busts loose as five men in ski masks storm in, armed to the teeth.

  The Mashburn crew, crashing the party.

  Remo’s eyes never leave the mother and child. He knows what’s coming. Hates what’s coming. Hates what he’s seen. Not just here, but what he’s seen and defended over the years. He feels sick again, and this time not because of the people coming to kill him. This time he feels sick because he defends these people. He’s been paid well for defending these people.

  Who does that?

  He does that.

  His thoughts are ripped back to the screen by the mix of screams and thundering gunfire. He closes his eyes and covers his ears, trying to force away the horrible sights and sounds of senseless violence. There are a lot of bad things on that video. Bad things that can’t be unseen.

  Remo pops a pill.

  Slams the laptop closed.

  Pulls his iPhone, flips to a picture of a three-year-old boy.

  Sean from the park.

  Remo storms into Victor’s office, one which leaves no question this is where the boss does his thing. Pleasant work environment doesn’t even begin to cover it. Victor, a silver fox of a defense titan, sits, working someone over hard on the phone. He massages the words like a tiger playing with a ball of yarn. “Maybe he burned down the building, maybe he didn’t. Arson is a strong word to use so casually . . .”

  Remo grabs the phone and hangs up. You’d think Victor’d be pissed, but he’s not. An effective leader, Victor knows you have to treat individuals differently. If you produce for Victor, you get the spoils. If you don’t, you get a sideways foot up your ass. Remo gets the spoils, and the benefit of doubt that goes along with it.

  “Well, fucking hell. You look like you crawled out of a goat’s ass.”

  Remo shuts the door, starts closing the blinds.

  “What the hell are you doing?” asks Victor.

  Remo paces. “I need help.”

  “No shit.”

  “People are trying to kill me.”

  “Who?”

  “Bank crew, about a year ago.”

  Victor scratches his head. “Need more.”

  “Mashburn brothers.”

  Zero recognition from Victor.

  Remo explains. “Oldest one, Dutch, touch of a violent streak. Middle fucker, Ferris , cool as a cucumber but mean as a snake. Then there’s the little whackadoo they call Chicken Wing.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right, right.”

  “Their getaway driver, dude named Lester, came to me last night.”

  “You lost that case.” Victor likes Remo, but you have to remind even your best employees every once and awhile about their failures. He remembers reading that in some book once during a long flight. “Big loss. You should have won, if memory serves.” Victor gets up. Remo follows him out the door and they continue their chat while moving through the busy floor. Remo can’t help but be
annoyed by the conversation.

  I mean, shit. People are coming to kill me, you insensitive prick.

  Instead, Remo goes with, “Victor, I know but—”

  Victor cuts him off. “Got a lot of ink. Not favorable ink.”

  “They think I threw the case.”

  “Did you, asshole?”

  “No, of course not. They also think I stole their money from the bank job.”

  Victor cracks a grin, speaks in a low, between me and you tone, “Did you asshole?”

  “No. My income clears seven figures by March. Why would I . . .”

  “Don’t get sensitive, just asking.”

  “What would I need the money for?”

  Victor hits the down button for the elevator thinking as he says, “Oh I don’t know… booze, rugs? Snatch?”

  “Victor, I think they’re really going to try and kill me.”

  Victor stops, attempting to fake some concern. “Talk to the cops?”

  Remo looks at him, incredulous.

  “Sorry,” Victor laughs, “They may shoot you themselves.”

  “I need protection.”

  “Call Hollis.”

  “You’re full of fucking giggles this morning.”

  “He’s the baddest man I know.”

  “We’re not currently pals,” recalls Remo.

  The elevator arrives and they enter a car packed with workers from other floors. Remo and Victor slide to the back. Most people wouldn’t think a public elevator is the best place to discuss matters such as this, but Victor and Remo aren’t most people. Victor continues. “That will happen when you fuck a hit man’s wife . . . sorry, wives.”

  “Only fucked one wife,” Remo responds. The other elevator passengers alternate looking at the ceiling and their shoes. Wanting to get the point of this conversation, Remo asks, “Look, Victor, didn’t Schmidt use a bodyguard service a couple of months ago?”

  “Yeah, that gang shit-show went sideways and he needed a little looking after. Got him set up with this protection outfit, supposed to be the best in the city. Schmidt’s still breathing, so . . .”

  “Yeah, them. Set me up with them.”

  Earns an eyebrow raise from Victor.