Free The Remake by Stephen Humphrey Bogart Page A

hell, and be back by Monday morning, at the latest. Sure she would. And while he was waiting, R.J. could flap his arms and fly to the moon.
    The day closed in on him. R.J. hadn’t thought about Murray Belcher, Janine Wright’s dead lawyer, for days. But now, for no reason, just to stop thinking about Casey, it was all he could think about. He thought of Mary Kelley’s description of Murray’s death. A bad way to go. Even a lawyer didn’t deserve to go out like that. Even Janine Wright’s lawyer.
    R.J. half-expected Boggs to come for him, drag him away downtown for more of Kates’s dull incompetent questions.
    He would have welcomed it this once. Something to do, something to take his mind off things. But even Boggs stayed away and he was left to himself. Frankly, he didn’t much like the company.
    Finally fed up—with his office, with his inability to concentrate or do any work, with himself and everything else—R.J. stood up, kicking his chair across the room. He stomped into the outer office, fighting into his coat.
    “Go home,” he almost yelled to Wanda.
    “Sure thing, boss,” she said, careful not to put any expression in her voice or on her face.
    Even as he slammed out of the office R.J. had to appreciate her just a little bit. By God, she even knew how to deal with him when he was like this.
    He decided to walk home and felt a savage release in fighting through the crowds on the sidewalks. He went out of his way to bump into people a little harder than usual, hoping some idiot would be dumb enough to call him on it, to turn and snarl at him. Hoping to find somebody in a mood as bad as his, somebody who would be willing to stand and wing punches for a while.
    But New Yorkers are used to the moods of other New Yorkers, and they gave him room on the sidewalk, barely glancing at him as he slammed through.
    Five blocks from his apartment a door opened as he passed it and he stopped dead.
    A smell came out at him, an old familiar smell, like the perfume an old girlfriend used to wear.
    From inside he could hear a jukebox, some Michael Bolton tune wailing. Somebody laughed and a couple of other people joined in. They sounded happy.
    R.J. looked in the open door as a fat, red-faced man brushed past him on his way out. There was a brace of neon signs inside, a warm glow in the room, the smell of beer and popcorn and happy people. R.J. wanted to go inside and have a drink, sing along with Bolton, swap stories with the comfortable-looking people inside; wanted it so bad all of a sudden his hand started to tremble.
    It would serve her right, he thought. Serve her right if I got stinking drunk.
    And he recognized that thought for what it was—the alcoholic trapped inside him, struggling to get out and take control again. Knew that thought for what it was and still stood there for a long moment, as the door swung slowly shut.
    Then the rectangle of light on the pavement vanished. The music and laughter were cut off. The warm glow was gone and he was alone on a cold sidewalk. R.J. stuck his hands in his pockets, lowered his head, and turned away. But he could still feel the place pulling at him the last few blocks.
    It was around seven by the time he got in to his apartment. His snotty cat, Ilsa, was perched on top of the answering machine, which meant there had been a call. R.J. stuck a plate of cat food on the linoleum by the refrigerator and Ilsa glided over to it and started smacking away.
    Sure enough, the light was blinking. R.J. hit Play and in a moment Casey’s voice filled the room.
    “It’s me,” she said. “I didn’t want to bother you at the office.” That was just like her; work came first for Casey, and she hated like hell for anything to disturb her work. She assumed everybody else felt the same way.
    “I’m here, I’m fine, the plane didn’t crash. I’m staying at the Beverly Hilton until I get settled.” A pause. “It’s quite a place.” Another pause. “Gotta go. Talk to you later.”