Free The Remake by Stephen Humphrey Bogart

R.J. thought it was maybe the cleanest, purest, best kiss he’d ever had in his life. None of that, though, explained how they ended up on the floor in front of the fire, with the flickering light playing off all the beautiful curves and hollows of Casey’s body.
    His suit was trashed, thrown all over the room, tangled up with panty hose and a high heel. At least one button on his only good dress shirt had popped off, and the silk tie his mother had given him would never be the same again.
    None of that mattered. Their lovemaking was gentle and crazed at the same time. There was a flavor of good-bye to it, and at the same time the discovery of something new between them.
    And it was only after that, when Casey was asleep beside him, that R.J. remembered he hadn’t had a chance to say any of the things he’d planned so carefully to tell Casey. He drifted off to sleep thinking he’d wake up early, make her a big breakfast, and tell her then.
    But before he knew it morning was on them and it was late. They had to rush downstairs without breakfast, and R.J. stood shivering on the sidewalk in a bathrobe as Tony called a cab for Casey. He kissed her one time, a quick brush of his lips against her cheek, and she was gone, off into the morning traffic, to the airport, to California.
    R.J. stood and watched until he couldn’t see her cab anymore.
    “Yo, hey, Mr. Brooks,” he heard behind him. He turned. Tony was holding the door to the apartment building for him. “It’s kinda cold this morning for how you’re dressed,” Tony told him. “Whyntcha get inside?”
    “I kinda feel like standing here in the rain, Tony.”
    The doorman blinked at him, rubbing one large finger at the corner of his eye. “It ain’t raining, Mr. Brooks.”
    R.J. looked down toward Central Park where the cab had disappeared. “Then I might as well come in,” he said.
    The day dragged on and R.J. couldn’t seem to concentrate or get anything at all done. He went to the office and went through the motions, but by four o’clock he hadn’t done anything except sign a few pieces of paper that Wanda shoved under his nose. He was glad he trusted Wanda so completely; he had no idea what any of the papers said. He might have been signing everything he owned over to her kid in Buffalo. It didn’t seem to matter too much if he was.
    R.J. knew he was supposed to be doing things—like finding Mary Kelley’s father. That would probably be pretty easy. If only he could start feeling like doing it. If the guy was out on parole, he’d have a parole officer. The parole officer would know where Kelley was, had to know according to the law. So all he had to do was make a couple of phone calls.
    It took him two and a half hours, but he finally made the first telephone call, to the Department of Corrections in Connecticut. He found out the name of Kelley’s parole officer. Then he just stared at the name and number where he’d written it on the pad. It seemed like an awful lot of work to make another phone call. The last one had worn him out completely.
    R.J. looked out the window. The day was cool but clear. The sky was blue. Casey was up in that sky somewhere. Trapped in a little metal tube at a great height, moving at a fantastic speed toward a terrible place.
    Maybe she would hate California. Maybe she’d get fired. Probably not; she was too damn good. Maybe she’d quit. Up close Casey would see Janine Wright for what she was. Casey would never work for somebody like that. Never.
    —Except she’d been working for Pike all this time and he wasn’t much better, except that he was a man. At least Janine wouldn’t “accidentally” grope her in the screening room. Casey wasn’t exactly a feminist, but she wouldn’t take shit from anybody, and she would probably like having a woman for a boss. Except Janine Wright could make Gloria Steinem long for a return to traditional values.
    Sure. Casey would get off the plane, hate her job, miss him like