on, you can pick up his personal effects,” a cop said, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Remmy nearly jumped out of his loafers. A cop touching him while he was looking at his dead brother. What the fuck? It took all his willpower not to yank the young cop’s pistol out of the holster, bitch slap him silly with it, and shoot him between the eyes for good measure.
Cops, what the hell were they good for? Keeping people like him from conducting proper business, that’s for sure. Knowing his rotten luck, the coppers might catch that deadbeat Roy Brands before he got his shot at him… but not if he could help it.
He followed the cop, thinking of all the ways he could kill Brands. A funnel down the slugger’s throat and a gallon of acid, a buzz saw and, well, a buzz saw would be just be awesome and painful regardless of where the carving started. Perhaps the acid beverage first, followed by a limb removal. Yes, that would be perfect.
“Sign for this, please.”
“What the fuck is it?” Remmy said, looking at a manila envelope the officer was holding.
“Personal effects. Didn’t you hear me?” The officer had lost his sympathy.
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you.” Remmy opened up the envelope to see what the hell personal effects meant. There was a wad of money inside and some other things. “What’s this?”
“It’s what we found on your brother. It’s yours unless you want to give it to us.”
Remmy instinctively pulled the envelope away. He counted. Forty-eight hundred. There was also a Rolex, Andy’s driver’s license, and a dozen of their business cards. Bay Area Brothers Loans, Etc. They’d never figured out what the et cetera was about. They were busy enough giving out or buying loans and then collecting on the motherfuckers. It was dirty work, but somebody needed to do it. And they were pretty damn good at it. Together, he’d been collecting with Andy most of their lives.
Remmy started to walk for the door.
“Hey!” the cop shouted. “You better sign for that.”
It was almost five Gs and a genuine Rolex. Remmy felt his blood boil, but he bit his lip.
“Where?”
“Any reason your brother and that other guy with the cracked head was in Roy Brands’ apartment?”
“Are you questionin’ me on the day my brother suffered a horrific death? What the fuck is the matter with you guys?”
Remmy scribbled his name and address on the clipboard while giving the copper his best outraged sneer. The kid had flushed crimson. Good, he deserved it. Turning, Remmy almost made it to the door this time.
“Wait. We really need to ask you a few questions,” the cop said.
“Are you detaining me?”
“No, not… not yet.”
“Well suck on this,” Remmy said, grabbing his crotch. Fucking cops. Too bad you couldn’t just shoot ’em.
Outside, Remmy walked to his Lexus. The cold breeze felt nice and refreshing compared to the bowels of the morgue. He lit a cigarette. He had to focus on Roy and catch him before the coppers did. Why did he ever give the cheating bastard a hundred grand? He inhaled as much tar as he could get out of the cancer stick. Roy had owed way too much money, and all of his assets had been seized. Yet, when Roy B. Brands lumbered in, all fat with a surprisingly squeaky voice asking for a loan, Remmy got friggin’ stars in his eyes. He couldn’t help himself. He’d been in the stadium when Roy hit that 78th home run and got a black eye fighting for that ball. He didn’t end up with it, but the guy who did at least suffered a cracked rib or two. The memory brought a smile to Remmy’s lips.
So where would a murderous deadbeat like Brands go? He hadn’t taken Andy’s money. Roy had probably freaked and ran after smashing Andy’s head into that useless nigger goon’s skull. If Roy wanted to get out of town, where would he go, and how would he do it?
Roy had no car and probably no money or friends at this point. Andy had called Remmy to tell him they’d found the trophy. It wasn’t worth a hundred and eighty grand, but it was worth something. According to Andy, it was the only thing of value in that shithole. Remmy tossed his cigarette. Pawn shop. That’s where he went. Of course, there were around sixty in the East Bay alone. But he’d go to every one from San Pablo to Alameda if it meant finding the asshole and getting his revenge.
Chapter 3
Interstate 580
Roy couldn’t believe how much the bus fare cost. Holy hell, there had to be airline flights around $150 to St. Louis and definitely more direct. Until now, he hadn’t been on a bus since the minor leagues. He sat towards the back as the vehicle puttered through traffic toward Los Angeles, via Fresno and many more places in between. Eventually, two days later, he’d make it to St. Louis.
A couple of loud ghetto brothers were drawing as much attention to themselves as they could. Laughing at shit that wasn’t funny, playing hardcore hip-hop from a tinny cell phone, and shouting at each other like they were in a packed club instead of sitting next to each other. When Roy turned to look at them, they gave him the hard stare down, daring him say something. So young and insecure, that was an equation that equaled scary. Roy was certain the youngsters were packing heat and traveling down to LA. A good fucking eight hours on the road with these gangbangers. Life was grand.
There were a dozen or so migrant farm workers crowded around the front, chatting in Spanish. Probably going to do backbreaking work in Fresno, Bakersfield, and the other farm communities in the Central Valley for a few dollars a day. As bad off as Roy was, picking strawberries or green beans or whatever was growing would never be an option, ever. He had thought about trying to talk beisball to them, but he had already seen their frightened looks when he had lumbered between the aisle to find a seat.
Across the aisle from Roy sat a babbling, possibly schizophrenic, white guy with wild eyes behind thick glasses and crazy gray hair going up in all directions. Of course, he could also be a Berkeley professor deciding to take an alternative route to Los Angeles. The crazies and the elite are so easily interchangeable in the East Bay.
Roy turned back to the window with a view of the six-thirty Bay traffic. He tried not to drop his eyes, but they went down, like the way a hunk of metal can’t resist the attraction of a magnet. He was staring at his duffle bag on the empty seat beside him. It was unzipped with a huge space between the underwear and T-Shirts – nearly as vast as the universe as far as Roy was concerned. It was the space where his home run trophy had been. His record breaking home run trophy. Everybody had wanted it: the outraged descendants of the bronzed Babe, the asset seizing IRS, his conniving ex-wife, some millionaire who wanted to blow it up on the internet, even that dead bruiser with the dent in his head. Everybody wanted it, but Roy was desperate enough that he had walked into a pawn shop in downtown Oakland and got a measly $300 for it.
He had claimed he was his own sister and listened to G-Dawg, the pawnbroker, denigrate him while he stood there, arms crossed over his breasts and fists clinched, trying to keep from ripping the old man’s head off. Which Roy was sure he could do, but two murders in a day were enough.
Roy shook his head in disgust. Three hundred fucking dollars. At least the man promised he wouldn’t
