Authors: Mike McCrary
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.
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.
PART V
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.
Detective Harris breaks the ice. “Remo. Would love a word.”
Remo puts up a hand, asking for a moment. He wants to say something to Sean. No idea what, but he’s gone through some serious trouble to have this opportunity and wants to have this moment.
He starts to say something, stops. Thinks better of whatever was about to come out. Anna watches with a level of apprehension she’d have watching a dog trying to cross a highway. Sean sits with his little heart beating fast in anticipation. Remo knows there’s no way to say what he needs to say, what Sean deserves to hear, so he opts for silence instead.
Sean lets him off the hook by asking, “Who are you?”
Remo smiles, the closest thing to genuine happiness you will ever see out of him.
“One asshole.”
They share a big smile as an infectious giggle rolls out of Sean.