Kill Whitey

fifteen

The pounding got louder and more insistent. It was the sound of somebody having a really bad day and ready to take their frustrations out on other people.

“What do we do?” Yul cried. “It’s him!”

“Maybe not,” I said, peering out from behind the boxes. “It could be the cops. Or some homeless guy. We don’t—”

A loud crash cut me off. It sounded like the plywood I’d leaned against the broken outside window had just fallen to the floor, along with the wooden crates I’d used to hold it in place. Then there was silence.

We stared at each other, eyes wide. Sondra and Yul tensed, holding their breath. I looked around for a weapon, but there was nothing except for some wooden skids and a tangle of plastic shipping bands and metal strapping, all cut or broken. The skids were out of reach. If I went for one and managed to pry a length of wood free, I’d be out in the open with no cover. That was no good. I could strangle Whitey with one of the shipping bands, or maybe cut his throat if I could find a metal one that was sharp enough—and if I could get close enough to him. Related to Rasputin or not, I was willing to bet that he’d find it hard to survive a slit throat. True, it was a slim chance that I’d get close enough to pull it off, but the 9mm was useless without ammo, except for maybe as a club. Sure. That was it! I could brain him with the butt of the pistol—and then he could shoot me in the face. There was no doubt in my mind that Whitey still had bullets left in his gun. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would leave home without them.

Still tensed, Yul leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “That doesn’t sound like the cops, Larry.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, for one thing, they’d shout ‘Freeze, this is the police!’ or ‘Throw down your weapons’. I’m not hearing that.”

As if to prove Yul’s point, Whitey’s voice boomed across the empty warehouse.

“Come out, come out, little mice. You have been very bad, and it is time to put an end to this. I have other things to do today.”

Sondra reached out and squeezed my hand. I tried to smile at her in reassurance, and instead, I ended up trembling.

“Mr. Gibson,” Whitey called, “I know you are hiding in here. I have a proposition for you. If you turn over the girl, I will allow you and your friend to leave unharmed. The police will be here soon, I think. You can end this whole thing now. Just give me the girl.”

“That sounds pretty reasonable,” Yul muttered. “I vote we do what he says.”

Incredulous, I glared at him. I couldn’t tell if Yul was joking or not. His expression was serious.

“Shut up,” I warned him. “This ain’t no fucking democracy. Sondra’s not going anywhere. And keep quiet.”

Footsteps drew closer; hard-soled dress shoes on concrete. Whitey whistled a mournful tune that I didn’t recognize. The sound chilled me.

“Ah, what is this?” He wasn’t shouting anymore. He was close enough for us to hear without difficulty. “Perhaps you are hiding down in the dark basement? Cowering like little rats. No, probably not. Sondra doesn’t like the dark, do you my dear? Brings back bad memories, does it not?”

Sondra pressed up against me, tightening her grip on my hand. Slowly, I reached out and grabbed a jagged piece of metal strapping. It was about seven inches long and the edge was sharp and pointed. I pressed it against the ball of my thumb and winced. It left an indentation—not sharp enough to draw blood, but jagged enough to part flesh if I pushed. It would have to do. Better than nothing, at least.

Yul started mouthing the Lord’s Prayer. His eyes were shut tight, and his face was even paler than before. The color had drained away, and every freckle and pimple stood out in sharp contrast. There was a tiny scar on the tip of his nose where Webster had scratched him a year ago. The blemish had faded over time, enough that I’d completely forgotten about it, but now I saw it clearly. I let Yul pray. It certainly couldn’t hurt. If I had believed in God, maybe I would have joined in with him and we could have had a little prayer circle right there behind the boxes, all of us holding hands and singing ‘Kumbaya’ and letting the power of Christ prevent Whitey’s bullets from reaching us. Praise His name. The power of prayer and all that bullshit. But I knew better. There was no God. Life had proven that to me a long time ago. This moment—being trapped in an abandoned warehouse with a runaway stripper, my last living friend, and a murderous, invincible Russian mobster—was just confirmation of the fact. If God existed, then the motherfucker smoked crack on a regular basis.

“I am getting closer,” Whitey called. His sing-song voice echoed, bouncing off the walls. He was near. In the room with us. Squinting, I peered through the cracks between the boxes and saw a flash of movement. Sondra squeezed my hand hard enough to make me wince.

Yul’s silent prayer ceased. He opened his eyes and tears ran down his face.

“I know you are here,” Whitey said. “I can sense you, Sondra. Sense the baby. There is nowhere you can hide. Not while you are carrying my child. You know how this will end. How it must end.”

Sondra jerked her hand away from mine and put it protectively over her belly. I felt like somebody had just punched me in the gut. His baby? Whitey was the father. My first reaction was shock, but within seconds, anger overrode all of my other emotions. Anger at Sondra for lying to me when she’d said that she didn’t know who the father was, and anger at Whitey for wanting to abort his own child. Somehow, that seemed even more heinous than before. He had to be lying. Trying to get us to give away our position.

“I am sorry,” Sondra mouthed. There were tears in her eyes.

Before I could respond, Yul stood up. His knee joints popped, startling me. I grabbed his pants leg but it was too late. He yanked away from me.

“Mr. W-Whitey, sir? M-my name is Yul Lee. I don’t want any t-trouble.”

There was a brief pause, and then Whitey said, “Where are you, Mr. Yul. Behind those boxes, I suppose?”

“Y-yes sir. But like I said, I d-don’t want any trouble. I’m…I’m not p-part of this.”

“Yul!” I pinched his leg. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Without looking down, he waved me away. Then he took a hesitant step forward, pushing a box out of his way so that Whitey could see his face.

“I just want to go home, sir. My girlfriend, Kim, she’ll be waiting for me. She doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve been thinking about asking her to marry me. So, I just want to see her. I’m sorry about everything, but you’ve got to understand, I’m innocent. I wasn’t involved. These guys kidnapped me.”

“Kidnapped you? That wasn’t very nice, now was it? There’s no reason to treat a friend that way.”

“Oh, I-I’m not their f-friend…”

“Yul,” I growled, “you son of a bitch.”

“That is surprising to hear,” Whitey said. “Because Jesse talked about you as if you were a friend. You, Larry, Darryl, and he were supposedly very close. The best of friends. He referred to you as being ‘tight’.”

Yul made a clicking noise in the back of his throat.

“No matter,” the Russian continued. “This has been a costly affair so far, and I am anxious to see it finished. I have lost friends today, as well. So have you. There’s no need for anymore bloodshed. Come on out, Mr. Yul, and leave this place.”

“You…you m-mean it?”

“Of course. I’m a man of my word.”

Yul glanced down at Sondra and me.

“Don’t.” I shook my head.

“I’m sorry, Larry. I really am. But Kim…”

He turned away and pushed the box aside. Sondra and I ducked lower. As we did, I caught a glimpse of Whitey. His chest, stomach, neck, and face were covered in dried blood. His ear, the one that had been dangling off the side of his head, was completely gone now, leaving behind a red, raw stump. My bullet had ploughed a furrow in his cheek. Yul stepped out in front of the pile. His back was to us and I couldn’t see his face, but I could see Whitey’s. The Russian smiled.

“Please keep your hands where I can see them. No surprises, now.”

Yul put his hands in the air. “You promise you won’t shoot me?”

“I promised that you could leave this place. Are Gibson and Sondra hiding in that rat’s nest, as well?”

Yul shook his head, and then Whitey shot him. It happened so quickly. One second, he was standing there shaking, hands held even with his shoulders. The next, blood exploded from the back of his shirt, leaving a hole the size of a light bulb. The fabric smoked like it was on fire. The noise was deafening. My ears rang. I couldn’t hear myself screaming.

The impact forced Yul backwards. He stumbled, then fell, his head cracking against the concrete. His face was turned towards us. His eyes were open, but I couldn’t tell if he was alive or not. There was more blood now, gushing from his mouth and chest and from the gash in his head.

Then my vision was obscured by a cloud of shredded cardboard. Something whizzed by my face. I couldn’t hear it, but I could feel the heat of its passing. Sondra tugged on my arm and shouted something, but her voice sounded like it was underwater. More cardboard confetti rained down on us, and then I realized that Whitey was firing into the boxes.

“Go!”

I shoved Sondra hard, pushing her to the left. Then, still clutching the thin shard of metal, I grabbed a large refrigerator box. Holding it in front of me like a shield, I charged across the room. The box concealed everything but my feet. Whitey couldn’t see me, but I couldn’t see him either.

Sondra stared at me like I’d lost my mind, but she did as I’d told her. She jumped to the left and started running. I guess maybe I had lost my mind. Even as I charged him, a little voice in the back of my head asked me what the fuck I was doing. Whitey had a gun. A cardboard box wouldn’t stop a bullet. But my body overrode such common sense. My feet and legs rebelled, carrying me forward.

Whitey fired at Sondra, but missed. Even though my ears were still ringing, I heard the bullet hit concrete. Sondra dashed across the room, ducking behind a steel girder. Whitey paused for a split second, his attention turning to me. I couldn’t see him, but I could sense the hesitation. Maybe he thought I’d lost my mind, too. Sondra took advantage of the distraction and took off again. At the same time, I hurled the box at Whitey, shrieking with rage. He shot the box and then fired a third shot at me. The only thing that saved me was Yul. Slipping in his blood, I toppled over, landing on my ass. The metal shard slid from my grasp. My teeth clacked together and I bit the inside of my cheek. Warmth filled my mouth. The shock ran up my spine. My eyes watered from the mixture of pain and cordite.

“Go, Sondra,” I shouted. “Keep running!”

My voice echoed, competing with the gunshots.

Whitey coughed. “Very noble of you, Mr. Gibson. Or should I call you Larry?”

I spat out a mouthful of blood and glared at him. Suddenly, I felt very small and powerless and afraid.

“Call me Mr. Gibson,” I croaked. “Bitch.”

Keeping the pistol pointed at me, Whitey reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out his cell phone. I stared down the barrel of the gun, literally. A big, black hole—probably the last thing I’d ever see. But I’d be damned if I was going to let this fucker know how scared I was.

“If you’re planning on calling your mob buddies,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “then don’t bother. Reception is for shit inside this building. You won’t get a signal.”

His aim didn’t waiver. The pistol looked heavy but he held it steady. Whitey glanced at the cell phone. In that second, I put my foot over the fragment of metal strapping, hiding it from him. Scowling, Whitey looked back up at me and stuffed the cell phone in his pocket.

“Told you,” I said. “Asshole.”

“If you’re trying to buy time for Sondra to get away, Mr. Gibson, then you are even more foolish than I thought. She has nowhere to go. Even now, the police are probably entering this complex.”

I shrugged. “It’s a big place. Lot’s of warehouses and buildings in here. Might take them a while to find us.”

“I doubt it. Both of our vehicles are parked outside. I don’t think they’ll have any trouble locating us.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You willing to take that chance?”

“I am indeed.”

“Well, then you’re as dumb as you sound.”

It wasn’t the stinging retort I’d hoped for, but I was having trouble focusing. Fear is funny that way.

Whitey looked me over. I stared back, trying not to flinch. Yul broke the silence when his bowels let go. Cringing, I glanced over at him, and was alarmed to see that his fingers were moving, slowly clenching and unclenching.

“Oh Jesus,” I gasped. “He’s still alive. He’s still alive you son of a bitch.”

“Nyet. What we are seeing is just nerves—the final electrical impulses of an already dead brain.”

“He’s fucking moving!”

“Ignore it. The gas. The loosening of the bowels. The finger gestures. These are all taking place after death. Believe me, I have seen this many times before. I am something of an expert. But if it will make you feel better, I’ll give you an example.”

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.