by Mike McCrary
I come back to the House of Chuckles. Just needed a moment.
Eyes are clear now. Focus = laser.
“I’m going to make a documentary with me embedded deep into a crew of bank robbers.”
14
My brother doesn’t tell me I’m crazy, at first.
Like a good brother does, he takes in the information I just provided and lets it simmer. Ponders. He ponders for what seems like a long damn time. The waitress stops by pouring a refresh for my coffee. She tells me to stop beating up the table. After all, this is Chuckles’s house, not a damn Roller Derby. I nod, telling her I will be more respectful. All this is while Alex is still giving my plan a good think. At long last, after he put his big lawyer brain on the case, Alex offers up his thoughtful insight.
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“What?” I ask.
“Your mouth. I can’t believe you moved your mouth to form that shit sentence.”
“I’ve looked at it from multiple angles. Crime films aren’t typically massive hits, but they are consistent. I don’t need an Avatar-type gross, I just need something to get me out from under. Get me back in the game. This can be special. Think about how I can—”
“Give double-barreled middle fingers to Wilson before he can finish Don’t Get Tripped,” Alex says.
“See, you get it.”
Alex puts his hands in the air. “Have you considered the fact these people, meaning criminals, don’t broadcast when or what they are going to steal? I haven’t looked into it, but I’m fairly certain the law will say you can’t just ride along knowing someone is going to commit a crime, a potentially violent one.”
“Let me worry about that. If I can get financing from Captain Kangaroo, I can work it out,” I say.
“Not to mention there’s no criminals who want you tagging along, filming everything they do like you’re on a fucked-up field trip. Most criminals probably prefer not to manufacture evidence. Just a thought.”
“These people love what? Money. Right? I use the Captain’s money to buy my way in. I can do filming anonymously. They can cover their faces, manipulate the voices, all that. Do it in-camera or go back and digitally alter later. Like I was interviewing terrorists or some shit.”
“It’s not going to fucking work.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“The reason it won’t work is the same reason you don’t see footage of people throwing a saddle on a great white and going for a ride. You do see, however, footage of sharks eating a shit-ton of seals.”
“You have to know somebody who can get me into something like that. A cop? A client?”
“I’m a Los Angeles entertainment attorney.”
“Okay. Your firm ever pay off a drug dealer? There’s never been an actor who rubbed up against the margins of society and your firm made it all go away?”
“No comment.”
“Oh fucking please.”
“Some kid feeding a client MDMA is a helluvalot different than setting you up on a meet with Capone.”
“Come on, man, think. There’s got to be somebody.”
Alex shuts down.
I can tell he’s completely checked out of this conversation. I manage to get him to meet my eyes. I’ve said all I can say. I need him to look into his brother’s eyes and tell me, without a shadow of a doubt, there is no chance. Not even a slight possibility this could work. He glances up. His eyes are hard, but then they soften ever so slightly.
There’s an idea floating in there, I can tell.
A germ of hope.
That’s all I need.
It’s all over his face. Alex just thought of someone. Who is it? He takes another pull from his OJ. I refuse to take my foot off the gas. Pressing him, I ask, “Who? You’ve got a name. Give it up.”
Alex takes a moment of pause. Pulls his flask and takes a swig of straight vodka this time. He swishes it around, gurgles, swallows, gives a body-shake, and then gives me a name.
“Remo. Remo Cobb.”
15
Remo and Alex were in law school together.
According to Alex, Remo was the smartest man in most rooms. An incredibly gifted attorney who went to the dark side. A wild-eyed Texan who became a defense attorney, and apparently a good one. The best in NYC, as a matter of fact. Alex also mentioned Remo had a bit of a weakness for booze, pharmaceuticals, trouble, and stray pussy.
Alex’s words, not mine.
He hadn’t spoken with Remo for some time. They had a bit of a falling out. Something about a girl, a casino, and a series of misunderstandings with the girl and casino management. I didn’t press him for details.
Alex had reached out to Remo but had a difficult time tracking him down. Remo had recently run into some “client issues” at his house in the Hamptons and was subsequently disbarred. Something about bullet holes, dead bodies, and the bullet holes in those dead bodies.
Again, I didn’t press him for details.
But this potentially brings to light an opportunity. A criminal defense attorney with a laundry list of clients who fall on the wrong side of the law and there is a greater than zero chance that, given Remo’s circumstance, Remo could be in need of money.
Captain Kangaroo’s wire hit my production company account yesterday afternoon. His money trunk arrived this morning. I had a rather quick call with the Captain and assured him the project was no ADTAW. I gave him a thin outline of what I wanted to do. Which is to say, I didn’t really tell him anything other than this idea was a winner and, oh yeah, I needed five million and I guaranteed him ten million back in less than a year. The big catch was I need a million five of it in cash, hence the money trunk thing. Funny, he didn’t ask as many questions as I thought he would.
The good Captain’s hands aren’t exactly clean in this life. In addition to his success with the Internet and poker, he has dabbled in funding some adult films. From what I understand, there were some other activities that might be considered illegal. Nothing crazy, some underground boxing rings and a handful of exclusive poker games you won’t find anywhere else. Big money, off-the-books games that have a hefty buy-in and include perks like hookers and drugs. All of this is to say Captain Kangaroo has access to leg-breakers if I don’t come back with the ten million in a year.
Why the hell would I make that deal?
I believe in the project.
I know I can deliver.
If I don’t, I’m heading the fuck out of the country anyway.
This is my last go, I know it. All I’ve got is pushed in, and there is no going back now. So long, Stinktown. Some men need the bridge behind them to burn in order to pull greatness out of their ass. Not sure if I’m that man, but I’m about to find out.
I listen to Lucy’s message again.
16
I’m supposed to meet Remo at this Chinese place he chose in his home turf.
New York City.
It was a bitch of a flight from CA to NYC.
Middle seat moist with someone else’s sweat, screaming baby two rows back, and I’m wedged between two large men who think we’re all friends. Also, this little side trip is cutting into my budget, but my project hinges on this Remo meeting, so the extra expense is justified. If he can’t help me get connected with something, someone, then I’ve got a problem. A big one.
Fucked is the more truthful way of putting it.
I like New York City. I haven’t been back since everything went to hell. A moving, pulsating sea of humanity that cannot be duplicated. It’s like Noah gathered up all the people two by two. Every race, nationality, religious belief, political ideology, size, attractiveness, ugliness, level of intelligence, level of stupidity, sexual preference, type A, mute—you name it, it’s here broadcasted in glorious Technicolor with quality stereo sound. I knew all this before I touched down at JFK, but I am quickly reminded as I push down Pearl near Wall Street. Working the GPS on my phone while avoiding getting run over by a cab or getting screamed at is an art
in and of itself. I also feel the need to keep one hand on the envelope stuffed with cash I have in the inside pocket of my jacket.
My tribute for Remo’s help.
I walk into the Chinese place. A 24/7 dive-type joint. It’s everything you’d expect. Red tablecloths, cheap paper lanterns. I scan the place, but nobody jumps out at me. Alex had an old picture of Remo, and he showed me some things online about him and his recent struggles.
“Jasper.”
I turn to find Remo standing behind me. No idea how long he’s been there. I never even heard him step up. Looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Bags hang below his eyes. The final stages of heeling bruises scatter across his face with a stitched-together wound above his brow. The suit he’s wearing cost a few bucks at one time, but now it looks like it was stuffed in a sack, tossed out of a speeding car, and then trampled by hippos.
“You Alex’s brother?”
“Yup.”
He gives me a look up and down, then down and up, then lets his eyes look around the room, scanning the place as I did, but he seems to be looking in a much more meaningful way. Like he expects something to happen. Based on what Alex told me, I’m assuming this is how he lives.
We take a seat toward the back, and Remo takes the side so his back is against the wall. So nobody can sit behind him, I suppose. He’s not nervous or a jittery wreck, really, he’s just fully aware of everything around him.
An Asian waitress drops off a plate of shrimp fried rice as big as my face, along with a cup of black coffee. The waitress looks like she could be twenty, could be fifty. These people don’t age. Remo addresses the shrimp-laced pile with fork in hand. Pauses, pushes the plate away. Pulls out a silver flask, twists off the top, and pours some booze into his coffee.
Is that where Alex picked that up?
He stares at me as he stirs his boozy coffee with his finger. Sizing me up. He glances away as someone drops a fork, then his eyes slip right back to mine as he asks, “Okay, Jasper, what the fuck is all this?”
“Nice to meet you too,” I say.
“It’s never nice to meet anybody; nobody’s ever happy to meet someone.”
“Well, sometimes it is, not right now.”
“You thinking about fucking me?”
“What?”
“Your hands on me. Mouth. That kind of shit?”
“Sorry. What?”
“You want to fuck me, of course you do.”
“I’m a little squishy on where you’re going with this.”
“There’s no shame, man. Just say it.”
“Can we talk sans the creepy shit?”
“I reserve this delightful brand of chitchat for potential sex partners. Never tried dudes, but I’ve hit a dry spell as of late.”
“Look—”
“You like to add your name to Remo’s sexy-time list? It’s short, so there’s not much of a wait.”
“No, no, I’m all set. Big thanks though.”
“Disappointing. Tell ya what. Let’s table the magic between us, focus on the business at hand. Good?”
“Outstanding.”
Remo grins fat-cat big. He’s really, really enjoying this.
17
We sit in silence.
I watch Remo sip his coffee, pour in a dash of more booze, and sip again.
Seconds.
Minutes drag by.
A Chinese acoustic cover of “Hey Ya!” plays. For this, I could’ve stayed in California. Remo takes a big bite of fried rice. I could be hungover on my couch. Perhaps meeting up with a new J-something. Of course by conservative, modest estimates, I’ll be completely broke in about four to six months.
A plate breaks behind me.
Remo pulls a gun.
I might have pissed myself.
Remo quickly analyzes the situation and slips his gun behind his back, tucked under his suit jacket. I imagine it resting between his belt and pants or maybe between his pants and skin. Doesn’t seem like that would be comfortable. Doesn’t seem like living with the need to have a gun is very comfortable either.
“Apologies, man,” he says.
I nod.
I’m guessing nobody in the place saw the gun, only because I didn’t hear screams or see a stampede toward the door or anything else of the sort. Maybe a waitress saw it and called the cops. Maybe they’ll be here any second. They’ll come and take Remo away before I get what I need for my film. Better get on with this.
“Can you help me?” I ask.
“You got a stack for me?”
I slide over my envelope. He reaches out to take it away. For some reason I don’t let go. Remo looks at me with an unmistakable “what the fuck, asshole?” flash in his eyes. He pulls it harder. I hang on. I don’t understand what’s happening. With me hanging onto the money envelope for dear life, it’s as if I know this is the beginning. If I let this man have this money, I can’t turn back. This will start me rolling face-first down a path, the first day of the rest of your life, that kind of shit. I’m not consciously hanging onto the envelope, but yet here I am, gripping this bulging envelope as if my life depends on it.
I think of Lucy.
Another Asian rendition plays. This time it’s the Beach Boys’ “God Only Knows.” This one is actually okay.
With Remo struggling to free the envelope from my death grip, he says, “Fuckface?” He then lowers his head and says very clearly, “You need to let go. If you do not release, I cannot and will not help you. Are ya gettin’ me, sweetheart?”
I release the envelope, letting it slip from my fingers.
Remo is completely annoyed. “Fucking shit, man.” He gives the contents of the envelope a quick look. He thumb-flips the bills, pockets it. “So, from what I understand, you’d like to meet some bad motherfuckers.”
18
“Yes,” I say.
“Mind if I ask why?” says Remo.
“It’s a complicated matter.”
“I’m already bored. Alex didn’t tell me much, but from what he did say, it sounds like you want to meet some very specific types of folks.”
“Yes, a crew,” I say.
“A what?” he asks.
“You know, a crew. A group of bank robbers who rob banks—together.”
“A crew?”
“Yes, one. Please.”
Remo blinks.
“Sorry, a crew of bank robbers. Please.”
Remo blinks again.
“Do you know any?”
“Fresh out. Should’ve caught me a few weeks ago.”
“Look, man. I know you’ve been through something. Alex said something about you going rogue or whatever, not my concern. What is my concern is getting connected with some people.”
Remo leans back. I have his attention.
I press on. “The inside of that envelope was put together with great care, and that care was given in the hope you would dig deep into that head of yours and pull out something helpful. You think you can manage that?”
Remo smiles while shaking his head. “Holy shit, man.”
Now I’m annoyed.
“You ever been around this brand of motherfuckers?” he says.
“Been around crazy people. Worked in Hollywood.”
“Not like this, man. Not talking about people whose big weapon is raising their voice. These people, the ones I’m thinking of, they will eat you alive—literally.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Not sure there’s much of one. Chance of you living, that is.” He takes another bite of rice and washes it down with coffee and sauce. “You sure you want this? Seem like an okay guy. Got that artsy, out-of-shape, dorky-douche thing happening, but ultimately an okay dude. I mean, I could use your money, but I’ll give it back if you’d like to keep on breathing.”
This little moment of kindness from Remo feels genuine. At the moment, his eyes are filled with a surprising level of compassion. I can’t help but wonder what those eyes have seen. They’ve seen a thing or two
, without a doubt. Unpleasant things. His eyeballs are glassy and wire-tight at the same time. In these few seconds, before I answer his question, I’ve noticed he’s scanned the room twice. A blurry version of the world only he sees. As if Remo is expecting something, waiting for something to happen. Something bad. Yup, those eyes have seen some damned unpleasant things.
“Again, do you want this?” Remo asks.
Is that where I’m headed?
Are those the aforementioned motherfuckers I will meet?
Will I see the same as this guy? Will I become this guy?
Images of the burbs, of LA orgies, of Wilson, me moving my earthly belongings out of LA, failing at my childhood dreams, Lucy, low-balance emails, Wilson’s interview, past-due notices, Lucy again, all of this and more rip through my head in a mind-bending flipbook, in no particular order.
I take a breath, swishing Remo’s pressing question in my head.
Recalibrate.
Exhale.
“I’m sure.”
Remo cracks a grin, lets out an ever-so-muted chuckle while looking at me as if I’m a complete idiot. “Well, all righty then, Big Fun. I’ve got a guy.”
19
Some people might become introspective when finding themselves in an alley behind a strip joint in Newark, New Jersey.
Might give some a moment of pause to reevaluate one’s choices in life. The Jiggle Queen thumps and buzzes like an angry hornet’s nest. The place seems rather lively for an early Tuesday afternoon.
This is where Remo had the cab drop me off.
On the way over we talked about the plan in some detail. Said he didn’t know what was going to happen, but if I listened to him and followed what he said exactly, then his “guy” will hook me up with the people I seek. He assured me his guy was legit, and Alex vouched for Remo, so the math on this relationship dictated I could trust the man and take his word.
I did feel an odd connection. We’ve never met before today, Remo and I, but I felt like he understood something we both knew. Maybe it’s because he knew my brother. Maybe I just needed someone to understand me at this particularly confusing, topsy-turvy moment in my life. Maybe Remo was an asshole and I was kidding myself. I don’t know, but I decided to share some. Open it up. Pour out a cup of unpolished honesty. Hoping for the kindness of a stranger. I told him I was scared and all I wanted was a chance to do something, to do better than I’ve done in the past, and with his help I might be able to do just that. I sincerely thanked him for that help.
