by Mike McCrary
“You could thank me for saving you from those first two whores. That third one in there though, she’s a real catch.”
“Two minute warning.”
Remo’s on his heels in this discussion. Scrambling, he replies, “I've got nowhere to go with this. You're it, I'm sorry. I wish I didn't have to come here today, but I'm fucked man. People are coming for me.”
“Shocking.”
“Bad men are coming to kill me and they will be monumentally successful unless you help me. You're the only one who can throw me an assist here. Please. Come on…save me. It'll do your soul a solid.”
“Final minute.”
“I can't fight these people alone, you understand? I will be dead. I can't run from this . . . fucking tried.” His voice cracks, a slight chink in his armor that doesn't go unnoticed by Hollis, who continues to water the nicely kept rose bushes. Still zero eye contact.
Remo continues to pour his heart out. “I’d like to live Hollis. I'm working toward being a slightly better human.”
Hollis turns off the spray. “And we're done.”
The hose drops.
Remo drops the shit, digs out the truth. It’s hard for Remo to find given that he’s spent the majority of his life avoiding truth of any form or fashion, has made a fortune slicing the truth up, throwing it in a blender with some bullshit alteration of the facts, then shoving it down your throat with a big smile.
Remo fumbles, but finds the heart of the matter. “I have a kid, a son, I abandoned. I turned my back on him.” Sees he has Hollis’s attention and keeps going. “I've done countless shitty things. Helped a lot of shitty people get away with shitty things . . . immeasurable moments I wish I could undo, but I can't. I can, however, maybe, just maybe, salvage something from this waste of sperm and egg I’ve turned out to be. I'm trying man; I'm trying hard to do the correct thing.”
All defenses are gone, a raw nerve of man. “I’ve been bold, now I need a mighty motherfucking force to come to my aid. Please help me.”
Hollis finally looks in Remo’s direction, sizes up the moisture building in Remo's weary eyes. He hates everything about this man. He can’t help but glance at his kids through the window. They are fucking up the house and Jenny’s screaming at them, but they are his kids, and the love he has for them is immeasurable. Hollis remembers when his first was born. Something in him shifted; there was an actual change in his thoughts and feelings. That change didn’t happen when Jenny told him she was pregnant—a call he took mere minutes after executing five mid-level targets in Bangkok. No, it didn’t register until he was waiting for the nurses to bring him into the delivery room. He was alone, dressed in scrubs waiting for his first child to be born, and all he could think about was how he needed to take care of family. Even thought about changing his line of work. Of course, that didn’t happen. Look, he’s in his forties and he does what he does. He can’t really go back to school or start a new trade, go entry-level at some crap company for 30K a year with bennies after the first 60 days. Not when he makes high six figures in bad years, seven in the good ones. No, now he just makes better decisions about the jobs he takes.
Hollis is a first-rate killer. A global, all-star, motherfucking murder man. He’s killed in hot, cold, and room temperature blood, dropped bodies on every continent, and told people they were going to die in more languages than Rosetta Stone can teach. But even he can’t ignore what he sees in Remo.
“Meet me at Chili's.”
26
Chili’s.
That bundle of glory that is Middle America’s home for fine dining.
Hollis sits across from Remo in a booth toward the back, a location Hollis has selected so he can view all entry and exit points as well as keep a good line of sight on the kitchen. Just in case some fucker decides to come out blazing.
A table tent separates the two of them, proudly displaying a dizzying array of colorful drinks and towering dessert options, all for reasonable prices. Rarely is there this much tension at a Chili’s, but there’s been nothing but stares and uncomfortable silence between them since they sat down. Remo can’t take it anymore, opens up the conversation by saying, “I can't begin to describe how much this means to—”
Hollis can’t take it either. “Asshole . . .” Hollis stops while a young waitress drops off a plate of appetizers with zero zest for life. When the abruptly delivered plate stops sliding, Hollis continues. “I haven't agreed to a damn thing. Now, what are you proposing here?”
“Bluntly speaking, we gotta kill these fuckers. There's going to be three of them—”
“Probably more,” Hollis states matter-of-factly based on his extensive experience with this type of situation.
“Sweet Christ, I hope not. You think so?”
“You defended these guys?”
Remo shrinks. “Kinda.”
“Care to expand on that?”
“I was going through a bit of a time during their case. The wife left me—”
“Smart girl.”
“Without question. I fell into a little depression, self-loathing. The descent dumped me into the abyss, and then this case comes to me. Could have won it fair and easy; cops fucked up everything. But I couldn't do it. I’ve seen a ton of horrible things over the years, but this one…man. They shot everybody. Most were unarmed, face down. There was this woman and her kid. Kid … a baby, really.” Remo drifts, comes back. “They shot everyone.”
Hollis watches, trying not to show sympathy for this complete waste of oxygen sitting across from him. Keeps listening as Remo goes on. “I threw the case.”
Hollis’s eyes go wide. “Sweet, counselor.”
“That's not all. They got away with just north of three million. As their attorney, I told them I needed to know where it was stashed.”
There it is, thinks Hollis, fucking knew it. He starts to reassess being here.
“I dug up the money.” Remo confesses.
“Give it back.”
“Don't have it.”
That does it for Hollis. “I'm leaving.” He begins sliding out. Remo scrambles to keep him there by saying, “I didn't want that money landing with the cops, going wherever the fuck it happens to go. I gave it all away. One hundred percent.”
“Where?” asks Hollis.
“I gave it to the foundation they set up for the families of the bank victims.”
Hollis knows better. “You lying fuck.”
“Why doesn’t anybody believe me? I gave it away. Seriously, I did. Roughly ninety percent of the money went to them.”
Hollis flicks aside a Loaded Potato Skin, grabs a Southwestern Eggroll. His disbelief wrapped in disapproval spins round and round. He busts into a series of uncontrollable laughs.
“Not funny. Not funny at all.”
“Oh, it is. The one vaguely decent thing you've done with your miserable life is the thing that’s going to get you killed.” Hollis is now rolling with laughter. “Classic. I’m so glad you stopped by today.”
“Glad I helped you find your smile”
“Simply awesome.”
Remo tries to ignore his “buddy’s” enjoyment of the situation. “I've got a vacation home in East Hampton. It's secluded, nobody else will get hurt. They think I’m handing over the money. Told them I’d call by sundown.”
“What are you, Wyatt Earp?”
“So what I propose,” Remo continues, ignoring Hollis’ sarcasm, “is you, guns, and a pile of dead fuckers. Name your price.”
“I'm not going anywhere.” Hollis stuffs the once discarded potato skin in his mouth as he starts to slide out again. Remo’s heart drops, his last bit of hope fading away. He has no other plays left. That’s it. It’s all over.
It’s really fucking over.
Hollis turns back to him. “I’m going to the mall. You in or not?”
Remo follows Hollis as he strolls among the suburban shoppers in a mall that buzzes with parents, teens and children, as well as some elderly people using the pl
ace as a walking track. A 1,434,786 square foot monument to disposable income and the American dream.
Hollis stops at a large window outside a Gap, admiring a sweater.
Remo is beyond anxious. “No offense, friend, but I didn't come here to bond with you by sharing feelings and picking out sweaters. I need you heavily armed, bloodthirsty and pissed off.”
Hollis continues his window shopping, chatting along the way. “Did you think you could just stumble into my yard misty-eyed spewing flowering sentiment about your kid and I would gladly dive face-first into a sausage grinder . . . for you?”
“Yeah. I did.”
“Do you completely understand my profession?”
“You kill people.”
They pass an ice skating rink. Hollis shakes his head in frustration and thinks to himself, Nobody gets my job. They think they know from watching movies and playing video games. ‘Ooooh, look how cool it is to be a contract killer.’ The hell with it. Just suffer the fools . . . can’t kill them all.
Hollis takes a deep breath and attempts to explain. “I'm a highly skilled professional. I research everything. Nothing is a surprise. I monitor daily patterns. Wait. Watch. Plan. I take out targets from a hundred yards away. The goal is to work without the target, or anybody else, knowing what happened. I only go messy if a client wants to send a message, but that’s an additional charge. My skill set is—”
“Calculated murder,” Remo finishes. “Are you forgetting who you’re talking to here?”
“It’s what I do. What I don't do is kick in doors, spraying bullets like some entry-level cowboy who just jerked off to The Fast and the Furious.”
“What are you willing to do?”
Hollis takes a moment to ponder that while checking out the display case of one of those places with the big-ass cookies. He makes a decision while surveying the buffet and says, “I will arm you. I will arm you well. I will show you basic tactical weapons scenarios, fundamental close quarters techniques.”
Not what Remo had in mind, but it’s better than his other options, which all end with him cut to pieces and his remains spread like fertilizer.
Hollis continues. “I’ll assist in developing some basic situational defense plan.” He pauses to chat up a cute cookie cashier. “Just one. Chocolate chip, please.” He turns to Remo. “You want a cookie?”
Remo feels more like throwing up again. Hollis takes the cookie from the cashier. He moves on through the mall, smiling the whole time like a three-year-old getting a big treat. Remo is forced to catch up, and attempts to get the conversation back on track. “Well . . . I mean, thank you, of course, but I was hoping you might pitch in.”
“Go to the cops then.” Hollis bites into his cookie. Soooo good.
Remo snaps, “You know damn well I can’t. They hate me too. And, oh yeah I threw a case and stole stolen money.”
“You’ll be alive.”
“Disbarred, unemployable, in jail.”
“Maybe your son is better off without you. You think of that?”
That stings. A verbal foot to the junk. The truth is a painful thing. He has thought about that and, sadly, the boy may be better off that way in the long run. Remo pulls a large envelope from his tattered suit jacket, hands it to Hollis and says, “In there is a DVD and a copy of my will. If this doesn’t go my way, please give these to Anna. The DVD is for Sean.”
Hollis takes the envelope with a nod, no reason to discuss it further. He’s had to sit Jenny down and show her the “worst case scenario” box he has put together. Except Hollis’s box contains Swiss bank account access codes, a 9mm, passports, and approximately twenty large in cash.
“I’m the only one who can stop these guys,” says Remo. “They’ve already dodged jail and the cops once.”
Hollis gets it, but wants to make sure Remo gets him. “I’ve got a family too. I’ve made my offer. Your call.”
Remo has no play here, no leverage. There never was any. It’s not a place Remo is accustomed to. He nods in agreement; he’ll take what he can get at this point. Hollis nods as well, a silent agreement between two people who are the best at what they do. Up until today, however, Hollis has only taken advantage of Remo’s skills, and Hollis knows it.
Next stop, Home Depot.
Remo feels like he’s touching all the bases of the suburban diamond; golf community, Chili’s, the mall, and now Home Depot. Perhaps they’ll pull through somewhere for a diet cherry limeade and catch a dance recital. Hollis searches an aisle packed with a thousand nails and shit. Remo pushes a cart behind him.
Hollis takes the opportunity to begin his lessons and clarify some finer points of their arrangement. “That fantasy you're having of me swooping in like Han Solo . . . not realistic.”
Remo snorts, “You were cooler when you had balls.”
Hollis tosses him a high powered nail gun.
Mattress Giant is destination two.
Remo follows Hollis with no idea why they are here. Hollis sucks down a diet cherry limeade as he checks the quality of various mattresses. Hollis bounces on one in particular, checks the specs on the tag. Not all mattresses are created equal, and his assessment has nothing to with the spine. He’s looking for a mattress with the ability to stop, or at least slow down, a shit-load of bullets.
He flags down a dork of a sales guy. Wide as he is tall, probably been to Comic-Con ten times, and not the one in San Diego. Fuck that noise. San Diego has become all about the money, all about Hollywood’s full on rape of what was once pure. No sir, the true fan boys attend the New York City version of the pop culture event.
Hollis asks Remo, “How many downstairs windows at this place?”
“I don’t know . . . ten maybe.”
Hollis tells the sales guy, “Give me twelve of these.” The sales dork has never been happier in his life; he hit his monthly nut with one customer. More LOTR figurines await him. He almost glides off.
“I can't turn you into Special Forces in a few hours. You ever even fired a weapon?”
“Used to get drunk in high school and shoot beer bottles with a deer rifle by the creek . . .shot out a window not long ago.”
“Motivated Mashburn brothers might be slightly more challenging.”
27
Dutch and Ferris enter Remo’s apartment.
They find Chicken Wing hogtied on the floor with the electrical cords. His face is swollen, still pulsing from being busted up by Remo.
Ferris snickers, “Such a tough guy.”
“Fuck you piece of shit fuck-face cock sucker —”
Dutch cuts in, “Get him up.”
Ferris goes to his little brother’s aid. Dutch leans over Chicken Wing, looking him over. “You think this behavior somewhat dampens the element of surprise?”
“In his defense, Lester fucked that up,” Ferris chimes in.
With Ferris’s assistance, Chicken Wing begins the process of pulling free from the cords. He fires back with a face-saving, “And I fucked Lester up.”
“You're lucky Remo didn't bounce to the cops,” says Ferris.
“Remo tried to run away,” whines Chicken Wing, getting more and more defensive.
“And?” prompts Dutch.
“And I tuned him up.”
Ferris raise his eyebrows. “Yeah, looks like you showed him good.”
If looks could kill, Ferris would have ninety-seven bullets in his brother by now. Chicken Wing, finally loose from the cords, tackles Ferris to the floor. They go at it as homicidal brothers will do. Every third or fourth punch lands, a stray foot here and there. They’re pretty rough-and-tumble dudes, capable of taking a beating as well as dishing one out.
Dutch lets it go on for a while; they need to get it all out. He looks to a clock and decides that’s enough. “Stop.” They pull away from each other immediately, as if Dutch was their father with a belt. “If he hasn't gone to the cops by now, he won't. He has too much to lose. We just have to adjust our plans.” He turns to Ferris. “We still g
ot safe passage?”
Ferris shrugs. “If we can afford the freight out of town.”
“Then nothing changes. Get our money, make Remo wish he'd never been born, and take a long holiday.” Dutch looks around the luxury apartment. “Tear the place apart. Find out where he is. He’s going somewhere he feels safe. Rather not wait for his invite.”
Dutch looks around, taking in the digs where Remo resides. He thinks of his last residence. The closet. The dog pen. The 10 x 6 Rikers condo he lived in during his little stay in shit-town U.S.A.
He reflects on that first night, when Rudy tried to fuck him. Literally. Rudy must have had some daddy issues—or a thing for older men—considering Dutch was at least twenty years older than the boy. Dutch remembers hating himself for choking Rudy to death, after taking out one of his eyes. Not out of some remorse for taking the life of one of God’s creatures. Please. Dutch hated the idea that this sick fuck probably liked being choked like that…until he died, of course.
That time in Rikers was all made possible by one man; Remo. Now Dutch stands in this gorgeous apartment where Remo eats, sleeps, shits and fucks. Probably fucks pretty women at will. Probably lounges around watching the tube in his underwear, never knowing the fear that comes from the ever-present possibility of gang rape. Remo probably ate well, not knowing anxious moments in a chow line. Those moments of checking your blindside for some bitch who wants to show the yard how hard he is by taking down Dutch Mashburn.
No, pretty sure none of that was an issue here for Remo.
If it wasn’t clear before its crystal clear now—Dutch fucking hates Remo Cobb.
The younger Mashburn brothers, having been given their orders, are ripping through the place, scavenging like wild bears looking for good eats. Kitchen drawers get thrown, dumped. Dishes spin like Frisbees into earth tone walls and shatter, pieces falling to the floor. Chicken Wing tosses the king size mattress aside, as Ferris digs in the dresser without regard for the fine oak finish.
Dutch watches his brothers as he calmly pours over Remo’s office desk for something that will help. Let those guys do heavy lifting. He digs through files, checks some random business cards—mostly massage parlors—some random strippers’ cell numbers, and a Subway punch card. He opens a drawer, finding a stack of bills. Flipping through them, he finds a few utility bills with an East Hampton address in Remo’s name.
