by Mike McCrary
Another.
Then another, and another.
As Hollis drives his Lexus out of town, his mind is in a twist. He turns on the radio, flipping the stations. Turns it off. He hates himself. It’s all over his face. He hates himself for even thinking about Remo. “Fuck him. Fuck. Him.” Hollis knows he’s almost out of this; the city limits are in his sight. He’s done enough for that prick. More than anybody ever should, that much he knows. He tries the radio again.
Then…
Hollis spots a black Escalade, windows blacked out with heavy tint. A gangster ride if ever there was one. It’s completely out of place here. This isn’t the kind of neighborhood where this type of pack would travel. Not without a reason. Not without a score, or a score to settle. He watches the Escalade pass by him. The driver’s window is down and Hollis catches a glance at the passengers . . . a heavy-hitting crew of bad boys.
Hollis knows they can only be headed to one place. After they pass, Hollis takes a self-loathing pause. Takes that time to try and determine the weight of the situation, understand what is actually happening here. Those guys are going to Remo’s. Of course they are. If Remo is even still alive, he won’t be for long. Hollis starts beating the steering wheel. “Dammit. Fuck. Shit.”
The Lexus does a screaming U-turn.
Dutch tears up the stairs to the second floor in search for his money. In the distance he can hear Chicken Wing going nuts, working that office door like a champ. Dutch pours through closets, behind furniture.
Nothing.
A feeling for Dutch . . . fear.
Where’s the money?
In the office, Remo is curled in a fetal position behind the pushed over desk. He can only watch and wait as the door is battered by Chicken Wing’s relentless attack.
It’s almost open.
Won’t be long now.
Remo’s mind spins, trying to find a strategy. He pokes his head up for a look.
Smash!
The thug flies through the window, squeezing off a couple of rounds in mid-air. Remo drops behind the desk. In the same instant, Chicken Wing finally busts through the door, his bloodlust in hyper drive. The thug lays down fire, holding Remo down behind the desk. Overwhelming fire rains down. Remo is forced to stay down, pinned behind the overturned desk.
Chicken Wing runs wildly toward the desk, dropping the .357 and pulling his knife along the way. He wants the feeling of tearing, of ripping, of cutting Remo’s flesh by hand. He wants to slow-bleed this fucker.
From behind the desk, Remo hears Chicken Wing’s footsteps rumbling towards him. They’re slightly muted by the thug’s pounding fire, but the rolling thunder of storm Chicken Wing is coming.
Chicken Wing leaps, looking to go over the desk, looking to land his knife into Remo’s skull.
Remo pops up at the last second, getting a pointblank blast off with the Mossberg. The shot catches Chicken Wing in mid-air.
Almost cuts the kid in half.
As chunks of Chicken Wing’s corpse land with thick, wet sounds, his knife jams deep into Remo’s thigh. Remo cries out in agony. The thug keeps firing, shots hitting way too close to the thrashing Remo. Remo manages to turn his shotgun in the general direction of the thug. Knows his shot doesn’t have to be perfect—just point and shoot. He rattles off two fast blasts, blowing the thug’s upper body into pulpy bits.
Remo knows this is far from over. He pulls the knife from his thigh—to say it’s painful is the understatement of the year—clinching his teeth, his face draining of color.
Oh shit.
He’s bleeding badly, almost every part of his body something to be concerned about. Thinks he could pass out.
Gotta make a move.
Dutch whips around the corner, firing with double-fisted .357s.
Remo drops to his belly, managing to fire two blasts which push Dutch out of the room, back into hallway. Dutch takes cover behind the door. This is taking its toll on him as well.
In the distance, the sounds of sirens wail.
Dutch knows he doesn’t have much time. He calls out to Remo. “Hear that? Cops are coming.”
Nothing from Remo.
Dutch makes a silent two count and spins, coming hard through the door firing.
Remo is long gone.
He did leave behind Dutch’s almost cut in two dead brother and the bloody remains of a hired thug for Dutch’s viewing pleasure. Dutch has learned the valuable trait of compartmentalizing his emotions. It’s a skill that will get a man through a lot of bad days inside, if you can master it without completely checking out of your head. Dutch will, at some point, grieve for the loss his brothers.
Now is not the time for that shit.
He eyes the blown out window to his left.
It’s starting to get dark outside. Remo is running on fumes as he drags his beaten, barely functioning body through the woods. He takes cover, propping himself behind a tree where he has a good line of sight on the house. Remo readies his shotgun. He’ll wait for Dutch to come out, end this damn thing.
One way or another.
A decent plan, all things considered. Then he notices a dead, heavily tattooed body with a single, clean bullet wound between its eyes. Way too skilled for Remo.
Who the hell?
He looks around, sees another similar body. Same perfect wound.
The guys from the Escalade.
Of course, Remo doesn’t know this. Crunching footsteps sound behind him. Remo turns, readies his shotgun.
Movement from a tree not far from him.
Remo reacts without thought, doesn’t have time to process who it is before he pulls the trigger. His shotgun blast hits Hollis, sending him flying backward to the ground.
No! No!
Sure he’s killed Hollis, Remo dives to his side. Please no, not this. Remo can’t compartmentalize this the way Dutch can. Hollis is a friend, of sorts, and this is a cross that Remo cannot bear. Hollis’s face is cut up, a few stray hits in the shoulders and belly. Peppered buckshot shows all over his Banana Republic wrinkle-freeOxford.
However, there is no blood to speak of.
Through the holes in the shirt, shades of black show, giving the sight of the Kevlar vest Hollis is wearing. Wounded, but he’ll make it. Remo breathes again.
Hollis spits out, “You are such a fucking asshole.”
“Shit. Sorry.”
Hollis’s eyes go wide. Remo doesn’t have time to turn before Dutch is on them. He rams Remo at full speed, the force knocking Remo clear of Hollis. Dutch beats on Remo while screaming out, “Where’s my money? Where?!”
“Gave it away,” says Remo, taking a solid punch to face.
“Where is it?”
“Look at you . . . big, bad man. Listen good. Your money is with the family members of the people you and your piece of shit brothers murdered.”
Something in Dutch comes unhinged.
Remo spits out a tooth saying, “It’s gone baby, gone.”
Dutch’s rage has been building for a lifetime.
Taking care of his brothers when nobody else would.
Years inside a cell.
Time waiting for a prize that was never even there.
Someone must pay the full freight for these heavy burdens.
Dutch unleashes punches backed by primal animal furry. Face, neck, ear—doesn’t matter where they land to Dutch as long as they inflect pain. His veins pop. Spit flies.
Remo is pinned down, his only option to lie there and take the beating.
Dutch feels around for something, anything, to finish the job. He fingers find a large rock. He raises it above his head, ready to crush Remo’s skull.
Dutch can taste it, the moment he’s obsessed about. Remo’s death is in sight.
Remo can only watch, motionless, as the rock rises up above him, casting a shadow across his face.
Hollis pulls his 9mm, shifting to get clear shot. It’s not there.
The solid clunk of a baseball bat connects with the
side of Dutch’s skull.
Lester stands over Dutch, bat in hand.
Remo watches Dutch’s body wilt to the dirt, blood spreading out around his head. Sitting up, Remo attempts the impossible task of comprehending the last hour of his life.
Hollis holds his gun on Lester.
Lester grips the bat, not about to stand-down.
Remo can’t help but notice. Did he steal my fucking clothes?
He jumps up yelling, standing between Lester and Hollis. “No, Hollis, I know him. Lester, stand-down. You did good. You saved me. God’s proud.”
Lester’s expression remains hard, war ready. Not a single facial muscle moves. Hollis keeps his gun on Lester; it’s what he does.
The sirens are very close now.
Remo continues talking Lester down. “We’ve gotta go, man.”
On the ground, an indecipherable grunt comes from Dutch. Hard to believe it coming from a man like Dutch, but it’s a whimper of sorts. A dying man looking for some kind of mercy in his final minutes.
Lester nods to Remo, then flashes a cold set of eyes to Hollis before turning his attention to Dutch.
His former partner in crime.
Current object of anger.
Up until now, Lester has done a fine job of keeping his violent tendencies in check, stuffing his old self down under the surface where it wouldn’t cause harm. Like all pressure that builds, it has to be released. Lester’s under pressure and his violence needs to be released, regardless of his newly found path of the righteous.
Lester remembers the Preacher Man saying, “Personal growth is a work in progress.”
He’ll ask for forgiveness later.
Lester lifts the bat high over his head and rains down a frenzy of brutal swings to every inch of Dutch’s body. Bones crunch as wood lands over and over. He pulls the butcher knife from behind his back. Grabbing a fistful of Dutch’s hair, he attacks his neck, sawing away with the massive carving blade.
Tendons pops.
Blood gurgles.
The sickening mix of sight and sound is too much for Remo.
It reminds Hollis of a night he spent in Singapore many years ago.
Remo and Hollis rush through the woods, the sirens continuing to get louder as they move out of the trees toward Hollis’s Lexus. Remo wants to look back at Lester, but doesn’t.
He knows that some things can’t be unseen.
34
Pale.
Bleeding.
Pissed, but working through it.
Hollis is laid out in the passenger seat while Remo drives away from his house in the tranquil Hamptons. A stream of police and emergency vehicles blow past them headed the opposite way. Remo watches as they pass, checking his rearview.
Hollis is a pro, always. Even with the annoying little flesh wounds, he manages to disassemble his gun in record time and with absolute precision. He tears away his carved up vest and dumps all of it in a black, Hefty lawn & leaf bag.
Remo alternates looking at the road and Hollis, admiring his work and curious about what’s next. His wounds throb, but Remo thinks it would be in bad taste to bitch to Hollis about the pain. You know, considering that he shot the man.
They haven’t said a word to each other since Hollis called him an asshole. Remo can’t take it and decides to break the silence. “Dude—”
“Shut up.” Hollis isn’t interested.
Now Hollis really hates himself for going back. He could be watching the Golf Channel right now, or perhaps playing with the kids while nursing a cocktail. Worst-case scenario, he’d be attempting to talk the wife into an evening blow job. The possibilities were endless.
Now, however, his possibilities are somewhat limited.
He pulls his cell and scrolls through his contacts. To Remo’s surprise, Hollis speaks in perfect Mandarin to whoever is on the phone. The conversation takes less than twenty seconds, but it’s damn impressive. Hollis hangs up and barks to Remo, “Give me those.” He motions to Remo’s equipment. Remo pulls off the sling and vest, doesn’t ask questions about the Mandarin.
“Hollis—”
Hollis stuffs all of Remo’s hardware in the bag as he speaks. “You drop me off a couple blocks from Dr. Wu’s house.” Motions to his wounds. “I’ll take care of this, and you can go fuck yourself.”
Remo bites his tongue. Again, given the fact he’s the one who shot Hollis he should just take it. Of course, that’s not a truly viable option for a guy like Remo. He reflects on the day’s events as he says, “Not to be a dick, but you had a gun.”
“I was going to shoot him, but your whackadoo buddy showed up and—”
“You took your sweet-ass time as that animal beat the piss outta me.”
Hollis winces and continues packing everything in the bag. “Shut. Up.”
“Pretty sure you did it on purpose, that’s all.”
Rolling silence.
No eye contact.
“Fucking hate you,” mutters Hollis.
Complete silence the rest of the way.
PART V
(crazy, crazy heart)
35
Children and parents are playing their hearts out, soaking up family time at Gramercy Park on a gorgeous Saturday evening.
Anna and Sean sit on a bench, waiting for Remo. Sean, every bit the wide-eyed boy who can’t sit still, looks like any child would if they were waiting for Santa or the Easter Bunny…or meeting their dad for the first time. He bounces with anxious energy while his mom tries her best not to look how she feels. She doesn’t like this, but she holds it together for her boy.
There’s a gasp, followed by a low murmur spreading through the park. The low hum starts to grow as whatever’s going on gets closer to Anna and Sean.
“Oh my God.”
“Is he okay?”
The commotion finally catches Anna and Sean’s attention. Turning, they see the cause.
Remo.
A bloodied mess, he’s somehow pulling himself through the park. He’s barely able to walk, a staggered crawl of sorts. He stumbles through the park without regard for his body, or others’ for that matter.
Puts a foot in the middle of picnic blankets, in plates of food. A sandwich squirts mustard as his heel plants in the middle of the rye.
He interrupts games of catch.
Knocks over a girl texting.
He resembles the grace and style of a zombie with epilepsy. It hurts to watch him move, powering through despite every cell of his body yelping in agony.
Anna stares. What to Expect When You're Expecting doesn’t cover these moments in life. “Remo?” she asks, covering her son’s eyes as Remo makes it over to them.
He stands up as straight as he can.
Adjusts his shirt.
Sways a bit.
Although he looks like he’s been touring the bad side of hell, he’s glad to be there. It pains him, but he gets out, “Hey, guys…”
Then falls face first to the ground like a broken pile of bones.
36
An eye fights to open. It’s a real struggle, but the lid finally gives way with a slight crack of healing skin. The lid flickers slowly, reluctantly, as it finds its way to a semblance of normal. It begins blinking rapidly, working overtime to find moisture and feed an eye that feels like you could strike a match across it.
Remo’s lone good eye dances around, checking out the room he’s found himself in. Doesn’t recognize it, but coming to in a strange room has happened before.
It’s a stark, clean place. Not a bar, a whorehouse, or even a lady’s strange apartment with cats and shit. Most importantly, he’s woken up and not found himself in a coffin.
It’s a box of a room that’s trying very hard to be a livable space. Not much furniture to speak of, bland dime-store paintings hang on the walls. The sun peaks through heavy curtains, cutting shafts of light across the white tile floor. Remo is laid out in a hospital bed. Struggling to come around, he smacks his lips.
Feels like a
cat shit in there. He forces his lids to remain open. He thinks about the cartoons he watched as a kid where they used toothpicks to hold their eyes open, lids crashing down snapping them in two. Up until now that seemed silly and unrealistic to Remo. Today, however, it’s possible.
Tubes and machinery are attached to various points of his body. Something to the left drips. Another thing to the right dings softly every so often while numbers bounce across a screen. He’s held together with tape, gauze and a little bit of hope, but he’s alive. Pain fires through every inch of him as he sits up, trying damn hard to regain his senses.
His voice cracks as he says, “That was a horrible idea.”
He stops short, realizing he’s not alone.
There is a person staring at him.
A little person.
Sean.
Perched at the foot of his near deathbed is his son. A perfect little face rests in tiny hands propped up by scrawny elbows. Sean has found a safe distance from which to watch, but he’s close enough and curious as hell. The young boy gives a slight, apprehensive wave. Remo winces through the pain, but returns the gesture.
A hopeful splinter in time for Remo.
Remo turns, noticing that along the wall is a line of other folks who were waiting for him to wake up as well.
Folks just dying to chat with Remo.
Detective Harris leans against the doorframe along with a pack of his fellow officers, all looking like they would like nothing more than to rip Remo’s face from his skull and nail it to the wall.
ADA Leslie has wedged herself in a corner of the room, and shares a similar expression.
Anna sits in an uncomfortable chair. She could actually care less about Remo. She’s a ball of nerves as she watches Sean. What was I thinking? I knew somehow something like this would happen. Fucking Remo.
