Remo Went Rogue (2 page)

2

“Stop,” snaps Leslie.

Remo explains. “The math on this is simple.”

“Can you stop?”

“It’s a huge case. I have a bulging box of evidence. You can put them away forever.”

“What?”

“What, what?”

“To be clear, you’re admitting while we’re having sex that your clients are guilty.”

“Too weird for you?”

Leslie scrambles off the desk and pulls on some of the balled up clothing on the floor. Her confusion is surpassed only by her hostility.
 

“You unbelievable shithead.”
 

Drunken state showing, Remo stumbles while trying to find his pants, yanking open the curtains as he falls and hits the hardwood. It’s the middle of the day and sun lights up the room. Through the window is a magnificent view of
Manhattan
.

Leslie wants out of there, fast. She tries to get her head around this situation. This Remo Situation.

“I am the fucking prosecuting attorney, and you’re telling me how to put your clients in jail forever?”

Remo slides over to the cabinet, pouring himself a foot-sized tumbler of Johnnie Walker Blue. He gives her that damn smile. With her last bit of dignity, she fires, “Fuck you, Remo. My team is going to win this case . . . cleanly.”

“Highly doubtful.”

She’d defend herself, but he’s right. Damn it.

He takes a large gulp of booze, then pulls a box from under his desk. The box is packed. You can’t even close the thing, files and photos almost spilling out. A bursting, spewing, geyser of evidence. Leslie’s eyes nearly pop.

“I can’t take that.”

“It’s not that heavy.”

“Remo, I cannot accept the box.”

“Leslie, your team is fairly shitty.”Complete disbelief that he said it, but she knows he’s right.

“You will lose,” Remo clarifies. “Look at it this way: you get to help the world be a better place, with orgasms to boot. That’s as Kennedy as it gets.”

“Orgasms?”

“Seemed like your eyebrow twitched.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Remo pops a pill. Ritalin. It’s a delicate balancing act with the booze, but Remo has mastered the chemistry. He washes it down with a gulp of Johnnie Blue. Pours a fresh one. He’d rather not give his reasons.

Leslie has heard the rumors. Remo has had a few problems, to put it mildly. Something about a wife who left, and a kid. Somebody said something about that during a lunch, but Leslie can’t remember the details. One of those things you hear and give a forced-compassion response like, “Oh, that’s horrible,” or “Man, that’s tough. Is he ok?” That kinda shit.

Leslie gives a similar response now, thinking she knows what’s up. “You’re going through a rough patch.”

Remo barely appreciates her efforts, gives her his rebuttal. “I’m living a dream.”

“Come on, even an emotional dumpster fire like you has to acknowledge it. Everybody knows. The drinking, the pills, the whatever…and now you’re throwing cases. Your behavior is suspect, at best.” Remo is a blank slate. She tries to pry the humanity from him. “Your wife went bye-bye. Have you ever even met your son?”

“That . . . that has nothing to do with this thing . . . here.” Now it’s all over him, because it has everything to do with this thing here. He redirects; it’s what he does for a living for Christ’s sake.

“You have sex with the defense, I win your case for you, and you call me a shithead. Flat-out fucking rude.”
    

She continues getting dressed. Remo continues drinking.

“Healthy people have a cathartic moment of clarity and give up the pills and sauce.”Remo mulls that idea for a second. “That sounds awful.” He pushes the box toward
       

her. “This is a onetime thing.”

She thinks, then asks, “The money?”

“Wow. Hookers are less direct than you.”

“No, fucker, the money from the bank. The three point two million they stole.”

“Oh, I dug that up.”

“What?”

 
Remo shrugs.

“Well fucking hand it over.”

“Don’t fucking have it.”

“Where the fuck did it go?”

“You know that foundation for the families of the bank robbery victims?”

Leslie nods.

“Gave it to them.”

“What?”

“The city offers health insurance, because your hearing is horrible.”

“Bullshit. Which locker at what train station is it stuffed in?”

“I. Don’t. Have. It. Gave it to a good cause. That so hard to believe?”

Leslie’s eyes bore through him. Yes, it’s extremely hard to believe that a guy like this even knows how to do that. You could hand him a donation bag of used clothes and shoes, drive him to the front door of the local Goodwill, he still couldn’t pull it off.
 

Remo replies, “Take the box. Win the case and you’ll get hired to a better gig. Or you can run the risk of being that prosecutor who tried to trade sex for a guilty verdict.”

Leslie stares daggers as she struggles with her whirling thoughts. Is he right? Yes. Does she have a choice? Yes, but the right choice, not taking the box, does her no good whatsofuckingever.
 
Eventually, as per usual, the low road wins. She grabs the box as she heads for the door.

“You are a stunning asshole. Thanks for the guilty-in-a-box and the god-awful sex.”

Remo stops her, his face now reflecting a surprising, almost alarming amount of sincerity. All the bullshit is gone, the slickness washed away. “Promise me these monsters will never be able to do this again.”
  

Leslie takes in his complete shift in tone, his new body language, can’t help but be moved. This is the man who got her into bed…well, on a desk. This is a man with a heart and perhaps, God forbid, a soul. She understands there is a real reason for what he is doing. She hopes it’s a good one, and not that he stole the damn money to flush it away on hookers and blow.

Realistically, she knows that cocaine and boob jobs are exactly where that boatload of blood money is headed, but for the moment, this moment, she’d like to believe Remo is better than that.

The idealistic, hopeful little girl in her can’t help but respond, “I promise.”

3

The plan?

Simple.

Murder multiple motherfuckers, save one asshole.

This is the strategy of one Lester Ellis, former criminal, former wheelman, current man of the Lord. Lester’s résumé, if he ever felt the need to pen one, would read:

July 1968 to February 2012: Murdering Thief -- Team player. Individual contributor.
 
Fluent.
 
Six Sigma.

February 2012 to Present: Servant of God -- Six months experience. (But a good six months, you judgmental ass.)

Lester: weathered, seasoned, bleary-eyed, and beaten down by years of dirty deeds. He stands along an empty road some thirty-odd miles north of
New York
, surrounded by not a whole helluva lot. Behind him lies the unmistakable outline of a sprawling fifty-five acres on the east bank of the
Hudson River
known by most as Sing Sing maximum security prison.

His body is a wandering contradiction of personal philosophies. Tats tell the tale of a confused, or at the very least conflicted, man. A Swastika rests on one side of his neck, with a sad clown on the other. A large cross with Jesus nailed to it is scrawled from blade to blade on his back. “FuckU” on one of his shoulder. The cherry on top? On the fatty part of his right paw, etched in crude prison-blue fashion, “Right Hand of God.”

He carries few Earthly possessions in his thick hands save for his prized cigar, which is barely holding together, a plastic bag that contains a roll of duct tape and a bible. The guard working the release counter thought it was kinda strange when Lester asked for the duct tape. Lester proceeded to point to the holes in his boots. What the hell does the guard care? Lester readjusts the crude silver tape job that holds his footwear together.

His fingers rub along his bible, caressing it. This is not some cheap-ass Motel 6 bible. This thing has some weight, with a hard binding built to stand up to time and gold accents with touches of tough leather designed to protect the words of the Lord.

Thoughts bounce. Thoughts of the life he’s led. Thoughts of the life he’s going to lead. Thoughts of how he’s going to find salvation for the wicked he has done, if that’s even possible. Can you forgive the killing? The stealing? The severing of limbs? The blood Lester has spilled during his lifetime could fill an Olympic-size pool. The money he’s made off of it could fill a needle…and it did. Can all the wrongs be washed away by recently letting the Lord in? By performing a righteous act or two? Can that kinda shit be forgiven?

Good Book says it can. Sing Sing preacher man says it can. Gotta give it a shot, what the hell else is he gonna do? Go back to that life? Back to the shit that put him in a hole for the better part of his life, shoved him farther and farther away from the Lord? Not fuckin’ likely. To Lester this is a new day with a new path. One that will deliver him from evil…even if that means inflicting a touch of evil in the process.

Lester closes his eyes tight while he mutters a few holy words under his breath.

Pops his lids open.

He’s ready now.

A horn blares, jolting Lester from his perfect moment of introspection. His eyes squint, verifying the vehicle kicking up dirt is headed his way.
 

Yup, that’s his ride.

A slightly used black Escalade
—
a fine mode of criminal transport a few years ago
—
dented here and there with four unmistakable bullet holes peppered around the hood. The Escalade makes a sudden stop,
 
a drop of the power window revealing the driver—Bobby Balls from Remo’s story.

But unlike in Remo’s story, he’s very much alive.

Bobby Balls smiles wide while greeting Lester. “You ready, Sweetheart?”

Lester checks the back, spotting two other criminals. The young one, a punk of a bastard begging to show you how hard he is, answers to Country.

On the other side sits an ice shard of a man with a piercing gaze that makes pit bulls piss. A man who’d gladly cause the suffering of fools way before he’d even consider suffering one himself. One who’s spent his years without knowing remorse. Goes by the name of Ferris Mashburn.
 

Yup, all three of them are very much alive.

Sizing up the occupants of the car, Lester makes his way to a passenger side door. He tosses the cigar, grips the plastic bag in one hand, bible in the other.
 
As he takes in a deep breath of fresh air he looks to the heavens, mutters a few more silent words before plopping down in the Escalade’s passenger side.

Ferris starts in. “We cool?”

Lester gives a nod as he rubs a finger across the bible.

“Fuck yeah we are,” from Country. “That fucker is dead as Dillinger.”

Nothing but a searing gaze from Ferris. “Nobody touches the lawyer until Dutch gets loose.” Eyes Country in the back. “Get me?”

“Fuckin’ why?” fires Country.

“Because that’s how Dutch wants it
—
”

“Fuckin’ retarded.”

“
—w
hich means that’s how we want it. More importantly, that’s how a subhuman half-wit like you wants it. Clear enough?”

Lester slowly removes the duct tape from the bag. No one notices.

Says Country,“I know big man Dutch wants to be the one to end the motherfucker, but he’s locked up and we’re out. Fuckin’ free, and I’m really fuckin’ tired of being in hiding. It sucks. We got Chicken Wing on the lawyer right now, watchin’, just waitin’ for the green light. We go in, blow that legal eagle to shit, get our money and ride off into the sunset as soon as Dutch joins the party. Pretty fuckin’ simple if you ask me
—
”

Ferris stops him midsentence. The heart-freezing glare, along with Ferris’s fingers tightening around his voice box, puts an end to Country’s debate. They roll on in silence, the energy in the car having been sucked up and held hostage by Ferris.

“We’ve been in hiding, that’s correct. What’s also correct, the point you’re missing, is that we’ve been waiting for the right time, and that time has presented itself. Now.”

Country gives a guttural sound, works as a yes.

Ferris eyes Lester. “You’re a quiet prick.”

Lester caresses the bible.

Country continues to gasp and squirm.

“Heard Lester found Jesus or some shit,” adds Bobby Balls.

“I did,” Lester replies.

Lester watches the countryside, but not for the view. He’s looking for something in particular. Setting his bible down next to him, he rests the plastic bag on top, starts to peel a small bit of the duct tape off the roll. Makes a starting pull as discreetly as can be. No one notices…except Ferris, who’s starting to eye the back of Lester’s head.

Country is a second or two from passing out. Ferris releases him from his near-death grip. Country slips into a ball in the corner of the backseat. Where he belongs.

Bobby Balls continues, “Tell me, why do you people always find God in the joint? Is it to cling to something, or is it more about hope? Hoping that some magic man in the sky will help you while you’re taking five black cocks in the shower?”

Country cackles with laughter, starting to feel his blood flowing again.

“Something like that, I suppose,” answers Lester, still scanning the outside world.

Without looking down he has taken the plastic bag in one hand and attached the free bit of duct tape from the roll. Has a finger gripped around the roll as if ready to pull, plastic bag at the ready in the other.

“I mean, seriously. When they say find Jesus…the fuck does that even mean?”

Ferris keeps watching Lester.

Lester keeps watching the road.

Country keeps laughing.

“What is Jesus going to help you do? I mean, now that you found his ass.” Bobby Balls, amused with his own questions.
 

Lester’s eyes stop. He’s found what he wants through the front window.

“Come on, man, I’m just fucking with you. But really, what are you and Jesus going to do?”

Lester cracks the slightest of grins as he gives his answer. “Murder multiple motherfuckers, save one asshole.”

Everyone except Lester is slapped with of healthy dose of what the fuck?

A perfect, silent slice in time.

The plastic bag flies over Bobby Balls’s head. In a single move Lester rolls the duct tape around Bobby’s neck two, three times, sealing the bag. The words “Right Hand of God” flex on his hand as Lester works the tape. Leaves the roll attached, bouncing as Bobby Balls fights for air, plastic sucking in and out with a panic-stricken rhythm. It’s sick, lacks compassion, but it does give a nice beat you can tap a toe to.

“The fuck?” Country screams, making a dive from the backseat toward the front, 9mm pulled. As he does, Lester grabs the wheel, cutting hard toward a line of trees just off the road.

The Escalade slams head-on into a tree, a jarring collision of bark and steel.
 
Country launches from the backseat—a low IQ javelin—face-first into the windshield. Nose-first, actually, with a crunch of bone and snap of spine, leaving a pulp-faced corpse.

Air bags deploy a fraction of a second after Country’s lifeless body bounces from the glass. Ferris’s seatbelt snaps him back, as does Lester’s. The whole string of events takes only a few seconds. One dead. One working on dying. Two left to kill each other.

The Escalade ricochets off the tree, skidding to a stop. Fluids spit from the hood. Windshield’s a spider web, with clumps of Country’s face and hair stuck in it. Bobby Balls gives a couple of dying jerks and spasms.

He’s hanging in there, God bless him for trying.

Ferris pulls his .357, squeezing off two blasts at Lester. An air bag takes the blast as Lester pops the seat belt free, spinning out the door.

The eerie quiet that comes after a car crash fills the air. All that violent, sudden energy expended in a sliver of time, leaving you with a pile of life-altering devastation. Granted, most car crashes are not the byproduct of a recently released Jesus-freak suffocating the driver with a plastic bag, but it’s the same result as a soccer mom blowing through a stop sign while on her cell babbling about shoes
—
shit you don’t want.

Ferris stumbles out, his .357 tracking as he makes his way around the back. Legs wobbly as he tries to get his post car wreck bearings, he clears the back bumper and is met by the solid binding of Lester’s bible, which makes a low, muted thwack connecting with Ferris’s face. Leaves his vision spotted with white blobs of light. It only lasts a moment, but that’s just enough for Lester to get to his feet and land a crack-punch. Drops Ferris to the dirt. They go at it like wild dogs fighting over the last scrap of meat. Not elegant. Not choreographed. Criminals beating one another’s ass, life and death on the line.

A 4Runner filled with high school kids pulls up. The bearded, hipster driver pokes his head out the window.

“You guys ok?”

Lester pops up, having wrestled away the .357. Ferris bolts, putting a foot on the 4Runner’s hood as he springs over. Opening fire, Lester’s shots pop holes across the kid’s hood, barely missing Ferris as he escapes into the woods.