ran into his apartment and shut the door, turning the lock and shoving the deadbolt. The couple was shouting again, building up for another passionate round of baby making.
“Mr. Brands, or have you completed your sex change operation yet?” a voice asked from behind.
Roy whipped around. There were two men standing in his living room. One was white and short in an ill-fitting suit. He was probably in his late forties. His voice sounded like that asshole creditor. Next to him was a big beefy black man full of muscles, wearing a T-shirt extended to its maximum stretching capacity. Roy was a little taller, but the guy pumped iron regularly and was a decade younger.
Roy was disturbed by what the bruiser carried in his hands. The Babe Ruth Home Run trophy. When all of Roy’s assets had been confiscated and auctioned off, that trophy was the one thing that he had managed to hide, claiming to have lost it. Nobody believed him, but so what? If they couldn’t find it, it was their loss. He’d only recently brought it out of hiding – under a bed in a Four Season’s Suite in San Francisco. He’d removed the mattress and punched in the middle of the box spring. Dropping the trophy inside, it had never occurred to him he’d never be able to afford a suite there again. How he got it back was a long messy story involving him impersonating a maid. It hadn’t been easy and standing in front of him were two men holding the one possession that proved he was the greatest baseball player ever.
“Hand me back my trophy,” Roy said in his most threatening voice.
“Oh really. I thought it was lost,” the slimy man in the suit said.
“Just like he didn’t take the juice,” the bruiser said.
“Looks like you take more than just vitamin supplements,” Roy said, mad dogging the younger guy.
“Yeah, well. I’m not testifying under oath or nothin’. And I don’t got no man tits either.”
“We searched your apartment, and it looks like you really don’t have shit, except for this little trinket,” the boss man said.
“It’s my home run trophy, and nobody gets it.”
“Au contraire, fucko. We have it. And you still owe us a hundred and eighty thou. If you step aside, we’ll be on our way.”
Roy felt his blood boil. He flexed his fingers in and out of fists. The squirt stepped forward. Roy decked him with his left, sending the man flying backward. The bruiser brought up the trophy like it was an axe. Roy charged him, head down like a bull, getting under his raised arms and ramming him against a wall. The bruiser’s breath burst out of his lungs.
Roy snatched the trophy in midair before it hit the floor. He’d been a four time Gold Glover. He hadn’t lost his fielding skills at all.
The runt was stumbling for the door.
“Oh no you don’t, punk.”
The little man tried to run, but Roy grabbed him by the collar and threw him to the ground. The bruiser stood, trying to catch his breath. Anger flooded Roy’s eyes. He needed to get them out, but then what? Go back into hiding? But where? And what about his record? Was he going let a little, scrawny second baseman take it?
The loan shark crawled past Roy, hoping to sneak away. Roy grabbed the loudmouth by his ankles and pulled his legs. The man shrieked like a baby stuck on a creepy Santa’s lap.
“How you like that, little man? You like being jerked around, do you?”
Roy swung him around once and then twice when the little man’s head smashed against the bruiser’s skull. The crack was louder than any fastball connecting to a home run swing.
Roy let go of his ankles. The body sailed across the living room, spewing a trail of blood and brain matter all over the apartment like his open head was a viscous sparkler. Roy’s stomach retched.
He looked down at the enforcer. Blood covered his face and the side of his head was concave. Roy ran to the bathroom, managing to vomit his digested Frosted Flakes into the sink. It was then that he saw the blood covering his body.
“Holy shit.”
He turned on the shower and stripped down, wondering how in hell he would get rid of the bodies with so many nosy neighbors around – if he could get them out, where would he dump them? The Bay, of course, though bodies didn’t always sink. And then there was clean up after that. There was a time when he could have paid people to do that for him, but then again, there was a time when the only people pestering him were reporters and autograph hounds.
When Roy stepped out of the shower, he heard sirens approach and then stop in the parking lot. He strapped on his double-D bra and threw on some sweats, freezing at the pounding knock on his front door.
“Open up, police.”
Roy ran to his living room, blood coated everything. Ain’t no way he would open that door. Not at all.
The knock persisted. “Ma’am are you home?”
Roy tiptoed back to his room, found a duffle bag and stuffed it with underwear, T-shirts, and socks. He went into the kitchen and took out the $100 bill he had hidden in the Rice-A-Roni box. Putting on the wig and muumuu dress, he was about ready to split. He grabbed the home run trophy, a Sultan of Swat bronzed and miniaturized, when a phone rang. It wasn’t his. It was a stupid hip-hop tune coming from inside of the bruiser’s jacket pocket. He didn’t know if he should answer it or ignore it. He opened up the kitchen window overlooking a junkyard. It was only then that he remembered the bars over the window.
“Oh hell no,” Roy muttered to himself.
“If you don’t answer, we will be forced to open this door,” the cop outside said.
The cell phone finally stopped ringing.
“She’s still there. She hasn’t left,” Roy heard the boy tell the cops.
Putting his hands on the rusted bars, Roy pushed. He felt some give. He inhaled again and pushed harder, spreading his feet apart and pressing his full body weight behind it. The screws in the stucco walls were giving way.
The bang on the door was different this time, like a foot was connecting with the cheap plywood. Crap. He’d have to hurry.
Roy doubled his efforts. The iron bars started moving. There was another kick to the door. Wood splintered. Roy, his muscles straining, shoved harder, and the iron grate tore free from the wall. He grabbed the trophy, stuffed the statuette into his bag, and tossed it out the window. He heaved his massive body through the tiny window just as heard the final kick. He fell, tits over ass – literally – to the trash strewn ground and heard an officer shout.
“Holy shit, we’ve gotta fucking homicide in here.”
Chapter 2
Richmond, CA 4pm
Victor “Remmy” Remmington looked at the corpse of his dead brother in the Richmond morgue. Yep, it was him. Little Andy, his kid brother, who couldn’t wait to collect their biggest debt from Roy Brands. Remmy didn’t need to look at the mess above the shoulders where the face had once been. The brothers were
