Remo Went Rogue (11 page)

22

There’s a song that rattles around in Remo’s head from time to time. He avoids it on his iPod when he’s sober. When he’s hammered he gives it a listen. By the time the last chords of the song fade away Remo’s usually in a puddle. It’s an obscure Pink Floyd song from one of their lesser-known albums, but Roger’s words cut right through Remo every damn time.

Through the fish-eyed lens of tear-stained eyes,

I can barely define the shape of this moment in time.

And far from flying high in clear blue skies,

I'm spiraling down to the hole in the ground where I hide.

There’s no chorus or catchy riff to speak of, but the lyrics continue…

There's a kid who had a big hallucination

Making love to girls in magazines

He wonders if you're sleeping with your new found faith.

Could anybody love him,

Or is it just a crazy dream?

The words that send Remo down for the count…

And if I show you my dark side

Will you still hold me tonight?

And if I open my heart to you

And show you my weak side

What would you do?

Would you sell your story to Rolling Stone?

Would you take the children away

And leave me alone?

And smile in reassurance

As you whisper down the phone?

Would you send me packing,

23

Remo sits stone-faced in his apartment, ever-present glass of scotch in hand while seated at his long, empty dining room table. It’s imported from…somewhere. He remembers that someone referred him to a gay guy who hand-picked everything in the place. Nothing here has any real meaning or history, other than Remo’s memory of suffering through the gay guy’s presentation of his urban chic vision.

Remo’s set up a small video camera on a tripod on the far side of the table, lens pointed directly at him. A one-man press conference of sorts.

He looks long and hard into the camera’s lens, struggling to capture his thoughts before starting this little exercise. Maybe this was a bad idea.

No, it is a good idea. Great idea. Just fucking do it already.

He clears his throat, starts to address the camera. Stops for a snort of scotch. Coughs and clears his throat again.

S
hakes his head hard side-to-side and then starts. “Boy . . . So
n . . . Sean. You have no idea who I am, and that’s probably a good thing.” Thinks, goes with it. “I’m your dad.”

Takes a beat to let that sink in. Sounds funny for him to hear. No one ever talks to him about Sean, and God knows he never talks about Sean to anyone else. Well, aside from the goofy waitress. He can’t imagine what it will sound like to Sean.

Remo continues, “I set up a college fund for you, started it when you were born. Your mom doesn't know about it. You should go to school, drink . . . drink a lot. It'll assist in the realignment of your thinking about your old man.”

Sip of scotch.

“You should drink and get weird with a lot of girls. Everybody says that kind of behavior doesn't help; they're fucking idiots. It helps. Helps a lot. Sorry, off topic.”

Gulp of scotch.

“My sperm donor of a daddy died in a shootout. Unfortunately, it’s looking a lot like yours might bite it the same way. His was for cheating an unfriendly poker game. Mine is, well, slightly more complicated. Same error in judgment, I suppose…fucking drifting again. Sorry, man.”

Another gulp.

Pours more.

“You're going to hate me for a long time and you won't really know why. That's okay. I should have been around to show you shit, I know I should have.”

He pushes the glass away, pops open his pill bottle scattering out a few on the table in front of him. Preparing.

“You got good
DNA
kid, no question. Your Mom's a MILF, and I'm not bad either. Both of us are pretty bright bulbs, so that has to put you ahead of the curve. Good looking and smart goes far in this life. Sucks for the armies of hideous dumbasses that clog the planet, but it is a fact. People will like you, and definitely will want to show up to your funeral. That's a long way off, but it's important.”

Takes a mouthful of scotch, swishes it side-to-side before a hard swallow. He picks up a pill, getting it ready between his thumb and index finger.

“You should live like you want people to miss you. There, that's a good one. I’ll leave you with that bit of wisdom.”

He bounces the pill, trying to land it in the scotch glass.

“Take it easy on your mom. Take care of her. She deserved a helluva a lot more than me . . . as do you. Just know that I think of you frequently. I've set aside some things for you. Your mom will know what to do. But Sean . . .” Remo’s eyes water, but he holds it together. “All of this—me talking here, the mindless babbling—this is really me trying to say, in an extremely piss-poor fashion, that I'm so very, very sor—
”

His ringing cell phone cuts him off in mid-sentence.

Plop.

Finally got one in the glass.

Remo sees the caller ID, answers with a confused, “Hello?”

Nothing on the other end.

“Anna?”

Anna clutches her cell, standing in the doorway of her homey kitchen. Unlike Remo, she picked everything out by herself.

Sean sits coloring a Toy Story 3 picture at the table. Woody and Buzz are an odd mix of magenta and periwinkle, but the kid’s enjoying himself. Anna tries hard to keep her conversation with Remo away from Sean. “Remo, I shouldn't have said those things. You deserved every word and it was the truth, but I shouldn't have said them. Are you really dying?”

Remo, touched, replies, “Unfortunately.”
      

“Let's be clear, I will never forgive you.”

“Understood.”

“Stop. Let me talk. I don't like this, and I’m certain this is a massive mistake, but . . . you should meet Sean. If I don't let him meet you, I'll hate myself later.” The conversation is emotionally exhausting for her.

For first time in a long, long time, a light shines in Remo. “Thank you, Anna.”

She can hear in his voice that he means it. At least, she’d like to think he’s being honest. She snaps, “No talking. I'll meet you Saturday at seven. They’re doing a thing for kids at the park that night.”

Remo doesn’t want to make a mistake with this. “Help me out. I haven't checked a calendar in a few days.”

“Today is Friday.”

“Okay. Yes. Absolutely. I'll be there.”

“Remo…don't fuck this up.”

“No. No way. I will be—”

She hangs up.

Remo looks straight into the camera, “There.”

Wipes the moisture from his eyes.

Sniffs.

“Well, okay then.”

He gives a grin, his heart wide open.

His expression shifts as his mind clicks, data churning. A thought comes to light and he hates himself for not piecing this together sooner, pissed that this is something he should have realized long before.

Why haven’t they killed me yet?

Chicken Wing could have easily done it by now, so why hasn’t he?

He can’t!

It’s a fucking family dynamic issue, some bizarre organizational chart Mashburn chain of command.

He can’t do anything until his brothers get here.

Remo shuts off the camera and hustles out.

His beloved pill sits at the bottom of the glass, dissolving into granules swirling in good scotch.

24

Remo scours the aisles of a late night convenience store. He checks his new best friend, the Glock he’s tucked in his belt for safekeeping. Checks it just about every five seconds, like a newly married man twists his wedding ring after the ceremony—some things you have to get used to.

He hunts down the aisles, searching for something specific even though he doesn’t even consciously know what he’s looking for.

Finally, he finds the goal of his hunt in the isle of random crap packed high with gaudy tourist bait—worthless made in Taiwan NYC souvenirs—there to amaze the taste-challenged. Remo wonders, who buys this shit? He picks up a Statue of Liberty, checks the weight. That’s not it, but close. Puts it back, lifts a marble ashtray with a cheaply painted silhouette of the
Brooklyn
Bridge
. He thinks this could be the one; it’s heavy.

Likes it.

He continues his shopping, finding a generic white electrical extension cord. Takes two.

Outside the all-night convenience store, a late model battleship of a black
Lincoln
sits parked across the street, Chicken Wing behind the wheel. He studies the store. The streets are almost vacant at this wee hour of the night. He inhales a bag of peanut M&M’s as he watches. He’s surrounded by a landfill of empty candy bags, Big Mac boxes, wadded up Taco Bell wrappers, crushed coffee cups and a piss jar. Chicken Wing is on stakeout, and fucking hates it. If it were up to him, and it’s not, he would have already cut that lawyer’s head off and mounted it above the fireplace of whatever house in wherever the fuck country Dutch was talking about blowing away to after they get their money. Chicken Wing allows his broken mind to imagine this unknown country. A place where he can be himself, free of all the shit that holds him back (meaning laws and his brothers), and of course a place filled with hot women who have no other desire than to please Lord Chicken Wing. What a glorious place it will be.

In lieu of that special place, Chicken Wing has been stuck in a
Lincoln
for days with shit grub, forced to peer through binoculars watching this fucking cocksucker Remo like some half-assed stalker. Though it has been fun to watch Remo as he comes mentally undone.
 
Chicken Wing has seen all of it. The zombie strolls through the city. The hanging out in the coffee shop. And, of course, that little show at the funeral. That was a good one.

His burner cell goes off.

He answers. There’s no hello. No thank you for all you’ve done. No appreciation for the fact he’s been pissing in a jar. All that comes his way are questions, with a hearty helping of attitude.

He fucking hates it.

Bites his tongue, answering, “How the fuck should I know what he’s doing? Shopping for the last supper.”

In the stolen roofers van, Ferris mans the wheel while Dutch talks to his little brother. Dutch and Ferris have had their differences, sure, what brothers don’t? But they share a singular philosophy on how to deal with Chicken Wing. You must be clear, be precise and if he fucks up, be harsh.

“Do not kill him,” says Dutch.

Annoyed, Chicken Wing responds, “You fuckers keep telling me that. I. Fucking. Know.” He gets more worked up with each syllable. “All the fucking time with you people.”

“Calm down.”

“Fuck you, calm down.” Chicken Wing sees Remo exit the store. “Wait. He’s coming out.” Remo makes a beeline toward the
Lincoln
with his bag of goods from his shopping spree.

“He’s coming this way.”

“Why?”

“He’s crossing the street, coming toward me.” Remo pulls out the
Brooklyn
Bridge
ashtray as he gets closer to the
Lincoln
.

“What’s he doing now?” asks Dutch.

“Fuck!”

Remo pulls back the ashtray, giving it a major league heave at the driver’s side window. The old school
Lincoln
’s windows shatters open, a buckshot of glass shards bouncing around the interior, covering the huddled Chicken Wing.
 

The sounds from the other end of phone earn a look of deep concern between Dutch and Ferris.

Remo works quickly. Chicken Wing scrambles and Remo smacks his Glock across Chicken Wing’s jaw, which makes a satisfying pop and crunch. Damn that felt good, thinks Remo.

Once more he whips the gun into Chicken Wing’s face. Hell, does it again. The release of violence is intoxicating.

 
“You lost your fucking mind?” Chicken Wing calls out with a spit of blood.

Remo gives him another smack, enjoying it a little too much. “I’m calling your bluff.” He grabs the extension cords from the bag.

“I’ll kill you. I swear to fucking God.” Chicken Wing thrashes with rage.

“You can’t or you would have done it already, right boy?”

Chicken Wing is dazed.

Bleeding.

Pissed.

Remo continues his work, wrapping Chicken Wings hands tight with the extension cords, just like he learned in Cub Scouts—knew it would come in handy some day. “Big brothers won’t let you. That has to suck for you.” He takes the second cord, tying it around Chicken Wing’s neck. Remo sees his cell on the seat, grabs it. “That you, Dutch?”

 
“Hello, Remo.”

Chicken Wings struggles to get loose; it’s a lost cause. Remo clutches the phone. “You want me, come get me. You’ll hear from me by sundown with the location. This all stops. You hearing me, you fuckin’ faggot?” Remo knows from years working with the criminal element that you can say a lot to these guys and it will roll off their backs, but faggot usually gets their attention.

The street is silent save for Chicken Wing fighting the cords that bind.

Dutch finally answers, “Yes, Remo.”

“I’m dumping your brother at my place, pretty sure you know where it is.” Remo jams the cell in Chicken Wings shirt pocket. Chicken Wing groans some inaudible, profanity-laden threat.

Remo gives him another pistol-whip, just for good measure…and for fun.