Читать книгу Keeping The Record - Travis Richardson - Страница 7

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 nearly replicas from their hairy knuckles to their short and wide Armani knock-off suits. He couldn’t believe Andy was dead.

“Come 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.