Keeping The Record. Travis Richardson

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 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