Remo
Some people think a life of crime is the easy way out.
Yeah. It’s the easy way out if you don’t do it right.
Done right, it’s hard. It requires constant awareness, quick-thinking, strategic movement, tough leadership and a fucking fast aim.
The perks are, well, alright. Not amazing. Money, power, pussy—not always the right kind though. And when the right kind comes along there’s rarely enough time to stick a dick in it.
I’ve never met a half-decent criminal who’s in it for the perks.
For the most part, they’re in for the rush. The adrenaline. The God complex.
Me? I’m in it because I have an anger management problem and a short fuse. Not much call in the nine-to-five for someone who doesn’t have the patience to settle a dispute without the aid and efficiency of a .45.
Why do I have an anger management problem?
Well, you know, that’s deep.
Too deep for an epilogue.
What I can tell you is I’m not always angry. I’ve found the yin to my yang—the calm to my storm—and that’s good enough for me. But that’s a whole other book.
So, yeah, back to the day job.
It’s fucking busy.
By eight a.m., I've already settled two disputes, signed off on a shipment coming through the port and authorized the disposal of a body found floating in the Delaware.
By noon, I'm sitting in a boardroom in Philadelphia wearing a custom suit listening to a bunch of lawyers argue over property acquisitions.
By six, I’m in Jersey collecting debts.
By midnight, I should be winding down in my brother’s club, maybe getting a lap dance or two in the back room.
But I’m not, and I never am.
Because instead, I'm watching.
The only thing that cools my blood after a day of organizing crime is the soothing stillness that comes from stealth, observation and reliability.
I’ve watched many women over the years. Mostly benign archetypes leading quiet, non-threatening, uninteresting lives.
Learning their routines and habits was easy and quickly satisfying. I knew where they would be, any time, any day of the week. I sought comfort from that. Laying eyes on them walking to their cars after a routine day at work softened my shoulders.
The predictability was to my obsessive brain like a warm bath to my taut muscles.
Though I am a creature of habit, I have tried varying my sources of obsession.
I watched a sex worker once but it was too fucking stressful.
Her schedule was chaotic and I never knew where she was, which did the opposite of relaxing me—it made me half-crazy.
The streets lost a good handful of pimps over those strained six months.
I returned to watching the same old calculable women with their humdrum habits and predictable routines, and it soothed me again for a while.
And then I found her.
I pull up on the opposite side of the street, taking care to position my imported Aston beneath the low-hanging branches of a London plane, and kill the engine.
She lives on the third floor, second window from the left.
My pulse settles when I see the light come on. She got home safe. One illuminated window and my entire nervous system calms the fuck down.
I would hate myself for it if I didn’t love the feeling so much.
According to the clock on the dash, it’s exactly one a.m. She’ll be getting ready for bed.
I pull out my phone, open the surveillance app and log into the feed streaming directly from her bedroom.
I have cameras in her small kitchen diner and one in her bedroom.
Not her bathroom—the girl needs some semblance of privacy.
But right now I’m kicking myself for that because that’s where she’s gone and I can see the tell-tale steam from the shower leaking into the master.
She moved into this building because my presence in her last building became too much. I felt guilty about that, so when I saw her meet with the realtor about this place, I bought it.
Then I had cameras installed so I could still watch without making her feel afraid.
That being said, I’ve been watching her—and only her—for three years now. Usually, I’ve gotten bored by now and moved onto the next. But this one’s different. While I know her routines and her habits, she still keeps me on my toes.
I get the soothing calmness of knowing where she is at any given time, but there’s something about the way she moves and the habits she follows that excites me. And knowing all of it with the intimacy one usually has with a lover keeps me hooked.
I know which side of the bed she sleeps on, and that she has two pillows which she re-arranges every night.
I know she has two vibrators but no batteries.
I know she skips breakfast then picks at fruit and crackers all day.
I know she watches the same movie, What Maisie Knew, over and over, even though she sobs every time.
I know she does laundry on a Monday and cleans her apartment on a Friday.
There’s a lot I know.
But what keeps me coming back is that there’s a lot I don’t know.
I know she doesn’t have friends outside of work, but I don’t know why.
I know she uses an alias in her social media accounts, but I don’t know why.
I know she’s a natural—stunning—blond who dyes her hair and eyebrows dark with an at-home kit every six weeks, but I don’t know why.
But I’ve been in this game a long time and I can sense when someone’s running.
Parts of her are entirely, comfortingly predictable, while other parts of her are a mystery, and I won’t stop stalking her until I have the answers.
Even then… I probably won’t stop.
She emerges from the bathroom wearing only a towel. I enjoy the sight of her—her pale, freckled skin glistening with drops of water, cat-like indigo eyes and that rebellious silver nose ring. And the curves she’s unable to hide in the dresses she wears every evening.
But the fact she’s a hot little thing is irrelevant, really. I don’t do this because of some unhinged sexual desire. I do it because it makes me feel safe.
Watching means I’m not the one it’s happening to.
I don’t need a shrink to tell me why this is a compulsion. In fact, it’s more than a compulsion. It’s a need—a dependency. It’s oxygen.
Realizing this, as I often do at one o’clock in the morning from beneath the shadow of a London plane, a humourless laugh escapes me.
Because if Hallie Mitchell ever discovers that the capo of Philadelphia and Jersey has spent three years watching her sleep from the street below, she might run again.
And me?
I don't think I'd survive it.
to be continued…
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