Kill Whitey (13 page)

I stared at him in disbelief. Make me feel better? He’d just shot Yul in cold blood and had tried to kill me and Sondra.

“I’m sure you’ll understand if I’m brief. I once attended a birthday party in East Petersburg. The town in Lancaster County, of course. Not the one in my homeland. It was a gathering comprised of people from my organization. Our families were in attendance as well. Several of the children discovered a large black snake crawling through the yard. An impressive specimen, really—at least four feet in length and very thick. It had eaten well. The children were frightened, so the host grabbed a shovel and cut the serpent’s head off. The body continued to writhe and coil for a full fifteen minutes afterward. If we had more time, I could demonstrate it for you. Cut your dead friend’s head off and let you watch.”

“Do whatever you want to us,” I said. “Just leave Sondra alone.”

“How much did she tell you?” Whitey asked. “Did she tell you where the money is?”

“What money?”

“The money she stole from me.”

I said nothing, trying to figure out if this was some sort of trick.

Whitey sighed. “Did she tell you that she was with child?”

“Why? You gonna promise not to kill me if you find out I don’t know everything? Gonna offer me the same deal you gave Yul?”

“No. I am indeed going to kill you. But I need to know how much damage has been done before I do. I need to find out what you know, and more importantly, if you’ve told anybody else.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not today, I’m afraid. Make no mistake, Mr. Gibson. You are going to die. You can tell me what I want to know, and I’ll end it now with a bullet to the head. Or, if you insist on being difficult, I can torture you until you confess. Either way, you’ll talk.”

“No time to torture me.” I spat more blood. “You said it yourself, shithead. The cops are on their way. Doesn’t give you much time, now does it?”

“I do not need much time.”

He walked closer, covering his approach with the pistol. It felt like there was an invisible line running from the barrel to my head. His shoes tapped loudly on the concrete floor. Still seated on the floor, I shrank away from him, scooting backward and taking the opportunity to drag my foot along the floor, pulling the piece of metal strapping closer to me. Whitey interpreted it as fear. I risked a quick glance to the left. There was no sign of Sondra. The far end of the warehouse was hidden in shadow. I wondered if she was hiding there, watching, and if so, what she could do to help me.

“You care for her?”

“Fuck you,” I mumbled. Again, not the wittiest of replies, and one I’d used already. “How’s the ear? It must hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“You must care for her,” Whitey said, ignoring my taunt. “Love her, perhaps?”

“None of your business.”

“Yes, I think that you love her. Why else would you go through all of this? So much pain, so much death, all to protect a pregnant whore?”

“Don’t call her a whore!”

He loomed over me. I could smell his cologne—heavy, cloying, stifling my breath. He brushed the tip of the gun barrel against my forehead. The metal was cold. I shivered, even though I was sweating like a pig. Then he slid it across my face and brushed against my ear.

“Why not? That’s what she is. Sondra is one of our best. Why do you think I only let her dance twice a day? If she was such a popular dancer, would I not allow her more stage time? Of course I would. But the money she brings in on stage pales in comparison to what she makes in the private rooms. Sondra is our top attraction—and her prowess on stage is only a small part of that. She’s much better on her back…or her knees.”

“You trying to goad me, Whitey? Trying to get me to attack, so you can blow me away like you did Yul?”

“As I said, the expediency of your death is up to you. But it is a foregone conclusion. I’m going to kill you, just like we did your friends. This one…” He prodded Yul’s body with his foot, “and the others—the redneck and the nukka.”

“Nukka?”

“Nigger. Or, if you prefer, ‘journi’ or ‘herp’. We have many names for black men, but in the end, none of them matter. The best name is dead.”

My mouth was dry, and I had to work up enough spit to talk.

“I’m going to kill you.”

Whitey laughed. It was the ugliest sound I’d ever heard.

“No, you are not. But I am going to kill you. Now, let’s make this quick. What did she tell you?”

I tried to buy more time. If I could keep him talking, maybe I could figure something out. “She told me you were related to Rasputin. She said you were with the mob.”

“And? The money? Where is that?”

“She never said shit about any money. She said that she was pregnant, and that you were gonna force her to get an abortion, so she ran away.”

“Did she?” Smirking, he nudged my ear with the gun again. “Did she indeed? Mr. Gibson, why on earth would you think that I’d waste so much manpower, so many resources—not to mention the very good possibility that I’ll be arrested for today’s events—all on forcing a pregnant prostitute to get an abortion? Does that seem like a sound business position to you?”

I shrugged. “The fuck do I know about business? I’m a dock worker.”

“This is true. But a smart dock worker, no? I can tell by the way you speak—the way you carry yourself. You have an excellent grasp of language and you are far more clever than you let on. You are not a stupid man, Mr. Gibson, so don’t make yourself sound that way.”

“If you want to sleep with me, Whitey, you’ll have to sweet talk me more than that.”

“Did Sondra tell you who the father was?”

His voice had changed. It was quieter—more insistent. So far in the conversation, his tone had been calm, almost friendly, even when he’d killed Yul and promised to do the same to me. But now his voice sounded grim and full of menace.

“She said she didn’t know.”

Whitey leaned closer. His breath stank of garlic and cheese. The stench of his cologne became a solid thing.

“Do not lie to me, Mr. Gibson. Did she tell you that I was the father?”

“N-no,” I choked. “Why would she…”

The question died on my lips. The deadliness in Whitey’s voice was now mirrored in his eyes.

“Because I am.”

“Yeah, you tried that lie already. Just a few minutes ago, when you tried to flush us out of hiding. Remember? It didn’t work.”

“But it is the truth, Mr. Gibson. I am the father.”

“You…” I whispered. “You want to kill your own baby?”

“Nyet. I want to save my child. It is that cunt of a whore who wants to abort it.”

“Bullshit.”

His face twitched and I saw it in his stare, knew that he was about to pull the trigger. I started blubbering, doing my best to look frightened and distraught. It wasn’t much of a stretch. I threw my hands over my face and drew my legs up against my chest—sort of a seated fetal position. At the same time, I kept the metal beneath my shoe, dragging it closer still. I put my hands on the floor and begged.

“Don’t shoot me, man. I’m sorry, okay? I’m fucking sorry. She tricked me and I love her and I don’t want to fucking die. Just let me go. I’ll get you your fucking money. Let me go and I’ll—”

My fingers closed around the shard. Shrieking, I stabbed it into Whitey’s thigh, pushing it through his pants leg and deep into his flesh. Whitey screamed. The gun went off. Something popped inside my head, followed by an excruciating pain in my right ear. I smelled something burning. At first, I thought he’d shot me, but then I realized it was just the force of the concussion so close to my head. I was deaf in my right ear, at least temporarily. And the smoke was coming from my hair. It was on fire.

I yanked the strapping band free and stabbed him again. This time, I aimed for his groin. The metal slid in easily, and Whitey’s screams got louder. At least, I guess they did. I could barely hear him above all the ringing in my ears. He swung the pistol around, but I grabbed his wrist with my free hand and held it away from me, forcing the weapon over my shoulder. I pulled the makeshift knife out of his crotch and clambered to my feet, still keeping a firm grip on his wrist. Whitey’s face was twisted into a horrific mask of pain and rage. I knew how he felt. My own expression was probably the same.

It didn’t matter that I hadn’t been in a fight since I was a kid. Survival instinct is some impressive shit, because I fought like a fucking Green Beret. Adrenaline and fear and anger surged through me, and the resulting mix brought out something in me that I’d never known I had. The savagery felt good. Right. Playtime was over. My fuck around quotient had been reduced to zero.

We struggled with each other in some kind of demented two-step—a disco dance of death. I twisted his arm, trying to knock the gun loose. Whitey clawed at my shirt with his free hand, his fingers seeking my throat. I punched him in the kidneys and then kneed him in his already wounded groin. The effect was even better than I’d hoped for. Wailing, Whitey dropped the gun. Spasms shook his body and his eyes rolled up in his head. His knees buckled and he toppled over.

Releasing his wrist, I slapped my head with my hands, feeling my burned hair and blistered scalp. Whitey pushed himself up on his elbows. I scrambled for the pistol. The Russian’s foot shot out, tripping me. I stumbled, accidentally kicking the weapon further out of reach. He grasped at me, but I kicked him on the side of his mangled head, right where his ear had been. That seemed to do the trick. Moaning, Whitey shuddered and then lay still.

Without pausing, I picked up the gun and pointed it at him. I didn’t know what kind it was and didn’t give a shit. All I cared about was that it worked. I squeezed the trigger and found that it did. The gun jumped in my hands. I could barely hear the blast. My first shot hit him in the balls, finishing what I’d started with the shard. The second shot blew a hole in his belly. The third shot hit him in the chest. Whitey flopped around on the floor, his arms and legs jittering. I leapt to my feet and stood overtop of him. His teeth were chattering. His eyes rolled uncontrollably.

“Fuck you,” I said a third time. Overused, maybe, but it summed up the situation and my feelings pretty damn well.

I shot him in the head. The bullet made a very small hole but the exit wound must have been a motherfucker, because his head jerked up off the floor and came back down in a splash of brains and skull fragments and blood.

He didn’t move again, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I fired another shot into his chest. When I pulled the trigger a sixth time, the gun clicked empty. I couldn’t hear the click, of course, but it didn’t jump in my hands the way it did when it fired.

I stood there panting, looking down at his corpse. I’d done it. I’d killed Whitey. Not so fucking hard after all. My head was in agony, but despite the pain, I laughed.

“You die pretty easy after all, don’t you motherfucker?”

I was still laughing when I went to search for Sondra. I didn’t bother to look back.

I should have.

sixteen

When I reached the back end of the warehouse, there was still no sign of Sondra. Despite the anger I was feeling towards her, I was worried. What if she’d been hurt? Or what if she’d been captured by the cops and was telling them everything right now?

No
, I told myself,
she wouldn’t do that. Sondra’s got as much to lose as I do. More, even…

Still, her absence was unsettling. If she’d called out to me, I doubt I could have heard her anyway. The ringing in my ears was constant, and my head throbbed. It felt like someone was stabbing a hot ice-pick into my ear canal over and over again, and my scalp ached. I peered into the shadows, wincing from the pain. Sondra hadn’t run past us during the fight, so she had to be back here somewhere.

Brushing aside some dangling spider webs, I stepped into the shadows and let my eyes adjust. Water dripped on my head. I looked up and noticed a rusty pipe was leaking. I wiped the wetness from my head, cringing as my hand came in contact with my crisped hair. It felt like steel wool—sharp and brittle. My fingers came away red. If I made it through this, I’d have to shave my head for a while, until my hair grew back—if it even grew back at all.

“Sondra? Are you here? It’s okay to come out now. Whitey won’t bother you again. I killed him.”

More silence. If Sondra was hiding somewhere in the gloom, then she was too terrified to answer me.

I hid Whitey’s empty handgun beneath a moldering pile of old, greasy shop rags. They didn’t look like they’d been touched in years. With luck, they’d stay that way. If I’d been thinking clearer, I would have hid the gun better, but in my state of mind, it was the best that I could do.

“Sondra? We’d better talk, don’t you think? Whitey said something…well, something that’s kind of fucked up. A couple things, actually. I need to know if he was telling the truth.”

No response. I started to get angry with her again. Whitey wasn’t lying. Of that I was convinced. I’d seen his expression. Heard his voice. The baby was his, and he’d been trying to stop Sondra from killing it. It would have been almost noble if he hadn’t killed three of my friends in the fucking process. Pro-life. Pro-choice. Didn’t fucking matter because this time, both ended in death. Sondra had lied to me. And then, on top of all that, there was the little matter of some missing money. Was she planning on stringing me along about that, too? Was that what my friends had died for? Was it worth my life being destroyed?

As I reached the far wall, I noticed a gray metal door, concealed in the shadows behind a pile of debris. I approached it slowly. The dust on the floor around it had recently been disturbed. There were footprints and a large mark where the door had opened and then closed again. I tugged on the handle. It wasn’t locked. The hinges creaked loud enough that even I could hear them. Daylight streamed through the open doorway, temporarily blinding me. Shielding my eyes against the glare, I peered outside. The exit led out into a vacant lot behind the warehouse. Tall weeds swayed in the breeze. All around me were more decrepit warehouses and buildings. I didn’t see any cops. There were no police sirens or helicopters, but given my injuries, I wasn’t sure that I trusted my hearing. Stepping out into the sun, I crouched down behind an empty oil drum and took a good look around, checking everywhere. There was no sign of Sondra—or anyone else. I was pretty sure the coast was clear. The question was, for how long?

“Sondra,” I called. “Where are you?”

Still no answer.

Unsure of what to do next, I sat there for a bit, catching my breath and trying not to shake. I was exhausted. My hands kept trembling, and despite the day’s heat, my teeth chattered. My bloodstained clothes were stiff and sticky and chafing my skin in some places. I needed a shower, a whole bottle of Advil, an ice-cold beer, and twenty-four hours of sleep. After that, I needed to cry. And clear things up with the police, if that was even possible. And bury my dead friends. And cry some more. And check on my cat. And try to return to a normal life—a life that seemed to be slipping farther and farther away with each passing moment.

After a few minutes, the ringing in my ears faded to background noise, even though the pain in my head remained. I tried shouting again, hoping I’d be able to hear her this time.

“Sondra? Come on out now. We need to talk. It’s okay! Whitey’s dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

My voice echoed back to me. A big crow took flight from a nearby telephone pole, squawking in anger at the disturbance. He sounded as pissed off as I felt. A mosquito buzzed around my face and then landed on my arm. I slapped it, leaving behind a splash of blood. I swept the crushed remains to the ground. One more little death in a day full of them.

“Sondra?” I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Enough of this bullshit! You need to be straight with me. Whitey said something about money. And he said something else, too. He said that—”

Tap-tap-tap…

I glanced around. Something was tapping against glass. I wasn’t sure where the sound had come from. At first, I thought maybe I’d imagined it. But then I heard it again, louder this time.

Tap-tap-tap…

I scanned my surroundings, studying the buildings, trying to find the source. I spotted movement behind a dirty window on the second floor of a nearby building. I stood up and stared harder. There was a figure behind the grime. It was Sondra, and she wasn’t tapping on the window—she was pounding on it with her fists hard enough to shake the glass. Although my hearing was returning, it was far from normal.

I shuffled out from behind the barrel and limped towards her. She beat the window harder.

“What?” I cupped my ear with my hand. “I can’t hear you, Sondra!”

She pointed at me, shouting something. I couldn’t make it out, so I guessed.

“Me? I’m okay. Don’t worry. Whitey’s dead. Wasn’t so hard to kill, after all. Now come on down before the cops get here.”

She shook her head and pointed again. Her movements were frantic.

“I’m telling you, I’m fine, goddamn it! Now get down here.”

She began yanking on the window, trying to open it. I saw her straining, but it must have been nailed shut. Frustrated, Sondra pointed again and screamed. Then two things dawned on me. The first was that Sondra wasn’t pointing at me.

She was pointing
behind
me.

And the second thing was that I was a fucking idiot.

“Oh shit…”

Slowly, I turned around.

Whitey’s fist smashed into my jaw. My vision blurred. I stumbled backward, my mouth filling with blood again.

“So, Mr. Gibson, shall we try this once more?”

I swore, and then he hit me again.