Remo Went Rogue

by Mike McCrary

  “What?” Remo demands. “You want a please, cocksucker?” More uncomfortable looks from their fellow elevator passengers.

  Victor rubs his fingers together. “They ain’t cheap, Big Fun.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right? What was my number last year? Last month? Hell, last week—”

  “Fine. Damn, you bitch a lot.” Victor pulls his Blackberry, scrolls through a few things. “But Hollis is your best bet.” He sends a text to Remo’s phone, which buzzes. Remo reluctantly checks, finding a text that says HOLLIS, along with a phone number. Remo looks at it like Victor sent him a nude picture of his mother.

  “He used to like you,” Victor points out. “Make him like you again.”

  The elevator reaches Victor’s destination floor and he pushes his way out. “Can we talk frankly for a second?” Remo shrinks. If we must.

  “You've got demons. I know it and am fine with it because you always deliver. But when a Five Diamond criminal like Crow with a habit of killing hookers comes to me, concerned about you . . . Sweet fancy Moses, man, that should give you a moment of pause; maybe dry out for a spell?”

  Complete disbelief from Remo. “That’s sweet, boss, but could you call the bodyguard before these animals eat my heart and make my corpse their girlfriend? Could I trouble you to make that fucking phone call?”

  The elevator doors shut in his face in answer.

  13

  Remo sits in an Irish pub across from a stern-looking wall of a man. His new bodyguard. Goes by Seck. They sit in uncomfortable silence as the place moves on around them. Remo tries to break the ice with some banter. “So, you from New York?”

  “Yes.” Seck likes the ice where it is.

  “I'm from Texas originally.” Remo receives a blank. “Little town you've probably never heard of.”

  Nothing.

  Remo’s working way too hard at this. “Tiny, tiny town.”

  Seck finally responds. “Mr. Cobb—”

  “Thank God. You do know how to speak.”

  “Your firm is paying me to protect you. Keep you out of harm's way”

  That’s the idea.

  Seck, “Keep you alive?”

  “At the minimum,” replies Remo.

  “Right. That's what bodyguards do. We guard bodies. We are not escorts. This is not a date. If you're lonely, call somebody else. We understand each other?”

  Remo smiles. “We’re gold.”

  “Stupendous.”

  Seck and Remo move their conversation out onto lower Broadway. The client and his new bodyguard pass around and through the masses on the streets of NYC.

  “Now, what's the issue with regard to your personal safety?” Seck asks as he scans for predators, checking reflections in the passing store windows, always on the job.

  Remo tries to explain. “Nutshell, there's a few people running around who would like to kill me.”

  “Happens.”

  “Yeah, well, not to me. I mean, sure, there are a ton of folks walking the earth who don't really care for me, but they don't want to kill me. Not in a realistic sort of way, right? I'm sure plenty have entertained the idea of me dead, though none have actually gone this far. But I have it from a reliable source there is a particularly high threat level. I’m pretty certain someone will try to take me out in the very near future.”

  “Who's the source?”

  “This dead Jesus-freak dude,” Remo responds, as matter of fact as he can. “Most guys find out they’re dying from a doctor who starts off the conversation with, ‘You’ve got a horrific disease.’ Me? I get the, ‘Agitated psychos are coming to kill you’ heads up from an ex-con neo-disciple of Christ who gets shot to shit while shoveling down fried rice— my fried rice, actually.”

  “You don't need to worry, Mr. Cobb.”

  “Well, come on. Need to worry a little. Who doesn’t worry when people are coming to kill them?”

  Seck stops in the middle of the street and gives Remo a strong, reassuring look. “Mr. Cobb, I am the best at what I do.” Remo relaxes a bit, feeding off Seck’s calm and confidence. He enjoys the feeling of security, thinks about how he’s always taken that feeling—the feeling most people have pretty much all their lives that they are safe going about their day-to-day business—for granted. Until now. He lets that feeling sink in, allows it to take hold.

  With a nerve-shattering crack, part of Seck's head explodes.

  Remo’s new bodyguard wilts to the concrete, a decapitated flower. People scream while parting like the Red Sea. The street becomes a rippling wave of chaos. Remo ducks, fear tearing through every cell in his body.

  No sign of the shooter anywhere, only people running for their lives. Remo rises to his feet, about the join the stampede, when he spots a man standing across the street. Stops dead.

  Have I seen this guy before?

  Maybe. Fuck, have I?

  Remo can’t place him, but of course the last time Remo saw him it was dark and the guy was wearing a bad beard, dark glasses and a hoodie. This time he’s able to get good look at the youngest Mashburn.

  Chicken Wing stands still among the bystanders scurrying for safety, staring directly at Remo. His mouth cracks into a bone-freezing grin, followed by a finger curl wave.

  The blood drains from Remo's face as Chicken Wing gives a bounce-step and starts toward him. Chicken Wing walks a straight line through the masses running in every direction—a shark fin cutting through the water.

  Remo takes off, pursued by Chicken Wing. He loves it when they run.

  In and out of the crowds, they slice between gridlocked cabs, limos, and delivery vans. Remo darts in front of one of the few vehicles moving, a cab which stops just shy of taking off Remo’s leg. He jumps, rolling across the hood, back bouncing hard off the windshield before tumbling back to his feet on the street.

  Horns blare.

  Profanity flies.

  Chicken Wing’s still on him.

  Remo cuts through Macy’s, trying to find cover among the patrons long enough to catch his breath. Turning, looking, he doesn’t see the man chasing him. Taking a beat, Remo works to gather his senses.

  Chicken Wings springs through the store doors and scans the floor, wild eyes looking for his unwilling playmate. Remo runs for all he’s worth up the nearest escalator, Chicken Wing back in pursuit.

  Second floor. Remo pushes and shoves his way through a Women’s Sports Wear Sale, doesn’t slow down or look back. His heart feels like it’s pumping battery acid as he races to an exit door. He finds an employee only stairway and takes the concrete stairs two, three at a time. Lungs on fire now but he can’t stop, flying to the emergency exit covered in alarm warnings. Remo pushes through, alarm screaming, and hits the street like he was shot from a cannon. Runs wild without knowing really where he’s going, only that he can’t stop. The feeling of safety he soaked in just minutes ago gone as quickly as it came.

  He spots a cab pulling out up ahead and chases it down, beating on the roof, slapping a palm to the window. The cab finally stops.

  Remo dives into the back, a bona fide mess. Barely gets out, “Anywhere,” to the cabbie before the cab door opens. Remo almost jumps out of his skin as Chicken Wing slides in.

  “You mind if we split this? Got a flight to catch,” Chicken Wing says with a shit-eating grin.

  Remo can’t speak.

  The cab takes off.

  14

  The cab cuts through the packed New York streets where it can, weaving in and around traffic and civilians who are completely unaware of the situation playing out in the cab’s backseat.

  This is possibly the single most unnerving moment of Remo’s existence. He’s been in close proximity to a lot of unpleasant individuals, no questions, but not like this. He’s not completely sure it’s number one, but sharing a cab with a psycho who murdered two peopleand intends to kill himis at least in the top three.

  A silent ride save for Remo trying to catch his breath, which isn’t going too well. He keep
s his eyes actively looking for an exit. Chicken Wing pulls a New York Times from the floor. They don’t make eye contact. Remo labors to the get a hold of himself.

  Chicken Wing breaks the silence. “Where ya headed?”

  Remo can’t believe the question, but he answers. “Away.”

  “Must be nice to have that kinda freedom.” Chicken Wing puts the paper down and leans in close. Uncomfortably close. “More freedom than you gave my brother.”

  Remo jerks back. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

  “I’m just saying.” Chicken Wing goes back to the paper.

  “Who are you?”

  “You know me, man.”

  “Sorry, I don’t.”

  “Friends and family call me Chicken Wing. To you, it’s Mr. fuckin’ Mashburn.”

  Remo’s blood stops. He’s seen pictures, heard stories, but has never had the displeasure of meeting Mr. Chicken Wing Mashburn face-to-face.

  The cab driver looks in his rearview, not liking where this conversation is going. “Everything okay back there?”

  Chicken Wing says, “We’re cool man. We’re actors. I’m running through a . . . what’s it fucking called? An improv. Isn’t my buddy here good? Looks scared, doesn’t he?”

  The cab driver surveys them, says, “Yeah. You’re pretty good, bro.”

  Remo’s growing tired of Chicken Wing’s bullshit, his little improv. “I don’t know what you want, but—”

  “Nothing really. Just the fucking money you stole from us. That’s all. If you don’t get us that, then we’ll take your head. Your balls.”

  Remo beats on the separation between him and the driver. “Stop the cab.”

  The cab slows. Chicken Wing isn’t interested in ending their talk. He beats harder on the glass. “No, good sir, keep going, please.” He turns to Remo. “You can’t run away from this. You can try, but we’ll find you.” He flashes his .375.

  “I didn’t do whatever you think I did.”

  “No? Think about it good. Pretty sure you did.”

  “I don’t have any of your money and I can’t control the legal system. The judge ruled—”

  “The attitude is unnecessary, dude.”

  Remo scrambles for something to say. “Okay, look. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I’ve made mistakes.”

  Chicken Wing squeezes Remo’s cheek, hard. “We’re the sum of our mistakes, right? Dutch always says that shit. Lester shouldn’t have come to you, and that bodyguard was unwelcome.” He lets go of Remo’s cheek with a slap, leaving an outline of his fingers a pinkish hue behind.

  Lester?

  Remo suddenly realizes Chicken Wing was the guy in the hoodie. Pictures Chicken Wing’s face with the bad beard and dark glasses, remembers the reckless violence. His memory is now crystal clear as he relives Lester spinning like a blood-soaked top on the floor of the Chinese joint.

  Every part of Remo shakes.

  The cabbie glances in the mirror again. “You really are pretty good.”

  Remo’s eyes dart uncontrollably, scanning the streets.

  What do I do?

  The cab stops abruptly, inches from the bumper of a delivery truck, cabbie slapping the wheel in frustration.

  Now or never.

  Remo pushes the door open, exploding out into the street with arms and legs pumping like pistons firing. He pinballs through people crowding the streets but keeps moving, blocks passing in a blur. He reaches his apartment building in a balls-out sprint, flies through the lobby, and attacks the stairs two at a time all the way to his front door.

  Pulling a leather duffel bag down from a shelf, he stuffs it like he was on the clock cleaning out a bank vault, cramming in items without any real thought or plan: socks, underwear, toothbrush, Q-tips…whatever he can find. He rifles through the closet yanking ten-grand-a-pop suits off hangers and tossing them aside like they were last summer’s Old Navy bargain graphic tees. He pulls down the last one, revealing a large safe in the wall.

  Remo punches the code into the safe’s digital keypad and the door opens with a click.

  Inside is a stack of cash. A nice stack of cash, sure, but nothing vaguely close to the 3.2 million the Mashburns are all hot and bothered about. Looks like a few grand, tops.

  Remo pauses briefly. He takes a hard, thoughtful look at the blown out window from his recent gun experience. Yeah, that didn’t go well. But this is one of the situations where it’s better to be a well-armed idiot than an unarmed dead man. He yanks open his dresser drawer, grabs the Glock and stuffs it in the bag..

  Remo rushes through the apartment building’s subterranean parking garage, duffle over his shoulder. Clothes peek out from the bulging, unzipped bag. He tosses the bag into the passenger seat as he falls in behind the wheel of his Mercedes CL600. Remo pushes the ignition button,

  jams the shifter into D and speeds the hell outta there, the CL600 scraping the curb as it tears out of the garage.

  Remo takes alleys at high speed, running rip-shit in and out of traffic—offensive driving at its finest. He makes New York cabbies seem tame and neutered in comparison

  The Mercedes races across the Brooklyn Bridge, breezing past the other cars at a frantic pace as if they were standing still. Escape and self-preservation are Remo’s only concern as he taps nervously on the steering wheel, constantly checking the side mirrors. It’s fight-or-flight in action, and flight has won by an overwhelming margin. Remo’s been reduced to moving on instinct, and instinct is screaming to get the fuck out.

  Peeling off an exit ramp, Remo’s CL600 reaches a red light and comes to a stop. Remo’s breathing is slowly but surely returning to a normal. He’s still on edge, but coming down a bit. He’s bought himself some time to think about what the hell he’s going to do. He tries to, anyway, but his thoughts are complete shit.

  Who would know how to help me?

  His mind drifts . . .

  He grabs his iPhone and flips through it, eventually finding what he’s looking for: a video he’d taken of Sean playing in the park.

  He stares at the screen, almost through it. He wants to jump into the video and join that place—a place he gave up.

  Remo stops just short of running his finger over the boy on the screen’s hair. The boy is bursting at the seams with life, so happy and no sign of hate or anger. What’s that like, wonders Remo. Can’t remember ever feeling like that. Maybe he never did. He’s transported to another world, a better world, where things make sense. This one makes no sense. Not now, not ever. Not Remo’s world.

  The light turns green and Remo’s foot slides over, reaching for the accelerator . . .

  Smash!

  The driver’s window explodes from the impact of a crowbar.

  It’s a jarring moment of mind-bending confusion, punctuated by a fist crunching into Remo’s jaw. He takes another blow to the jaw, then another that dots his eye. Spit and blood scatters. The hand now tugs at Remo’s suit jacket, trying to pull him from the car. The seatbelt prevents Remo for being dragged from the car, keeps pulling him back into the driver’s seat.

  Remo thanks God for that.

  A tactical knife comes in, sawing away at the seatbelt, through it. in seconds. The door’s pulled open, spilling Remo out into the street where he rolls on the concrete. Fights to get his focus back…then he wishes he hadn’t.

  Above him stands Chicken Wing, .357 in hand. It’s not aimed at Remo though, even though Chicken Wing would like nothing more than to execute this fucker right here and now. No, not yet. He holds the gun by the barrel.

  Like a blunt weapon.

  Remo knows what’s coming as he mutters, “Sean . . .”

  Chicken Wing whips the butt of his .357 in Remo’s head.

  PART III

  (living a dream)

  15

  This is not REM sleep.

  This isn’t even REMO sleep.

  This is what happens after a guy called Chicken Wing beats you to a pulp.

  There are no dreams. No t
its, no pussy, and no aerial sex with a blue chick. There’s only a thick, swollen mass of nothing.

  A cerebral shit sandwich.

  If there’s a state of being wedged somewhere between awake, asleep and dead…this is it.

  Remo drifts in and out of consciousness a handful of times. There’s a flash of being dumped into a trunk and landing on a spare tire. He vaguely remembers not liking it. Later there was a red glow, of brake lights he guesses, flashing off and on while Remo rolled back and forth like a grocery sack.

  Other than that bit of fun, all Remo knows is that it feels as if his skull was thrown down a hole, with demons and ghouls spitting on it all the way down.

  He also retains a smeared vision of Chicken Wing wailing on him, and noticing that Mr. Wing was really, really enjoying it. Remo can’t wait for Johnnie Blue to take that memory out of his head. That is if he ever sees his good buddy Blue, or his favorite mix of R&B, again.

  During one if his brief blips of consciousness, Remo thought he was going to die. For a fraction of a second, before he drifted off again, he thought that Chicken Wing was going to cut him up and spread his remains all over the city.

  His eyes go heavy.

  Roll back.

  Back to black.

  Remo comes back online again, remembers reading in the files that the Mashburns have done this bit before. They caught up with a witness, a cab driver who said something he shouldn’t have…the truth. They hacked the guy into pieces with an axe and then fed those morsels, bones, guts and all, to some pigs down south.

  He thinks it was in Georgia, maybe Arkansas.

  Fortunately, Remo’s been unable to maintain a consistent state of consciousness. Thank God for that. Not that Remo is a religious person at all, but where else is he supposed to go with this? He’d rather not watch the axe come down. Rather not be a treat for a pen of pigs. He’d rather just wake up later, in heaven.

  That’s right.

  Remo thinks he belongs in heaven.

  Fuck you for thinking otherwise.