Kill Whitey (12 page)

For once, he was right.

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.”