Kill Whitey (8 page)

ten

Ecstasy.

Sensation.

Vibration.

That’s where we were at. If the bedsprings squeaked or the headboard thumped, I sure as hell didn’t hear it. I couldn’t hear Webster’s insistent clawing anymore either. The only sound was our breathing, and Sondra’s soft, passionate cries. We moved together as one, the perfect rhythm, the perfect timing, our hips grinding together at just the right spot with every stroke, gorging us, urging us both on. Our bodies were attuned, our nerves drawn out tight and hurtling towards that harmonious note that all lovers strive for.

In those moments, people often toss around bullshit clichés. ‘Did you feel the Earth move’ is a classic. ‘I might be having a heart attack’ has become popular. ‘Was it good for you’ is a popular stand-by.

These are common.

‘Was that a fucking gunshot’ is not one that easily comes to mind, however.

I was close to coming, trying to hold off just a little bit longer so that Sondra could get off first. I wanted us both to achieve that crescendo. I’d already figured out that it wasn’t going to happen without some clitoral stimulation. Propping myself up with one hand, I reached down with the other and gently rubbed her clit and pelvic bone. That sent her over the edge. Careful not to lose my rhythm, I softly cheered her on. Her stomach muscles clenched. Her thighs squeezed me.

And then Darryl shouted something. I couldn’t tell what. Grinding my teeth, I tried ignoring him, tuning him out. Sondra bucked against me, lost in orgasm. She squeezed her eyes shut and moaned. That was enough for me. My muscles went taut. I surrendered, collapsing against her as all my blood rushed to my groin and I exploded.

While I was in mid-orgasm, Darryl yelled again. I couldn’t react, couldn’t speak. I was too spent. All I could do was lie on top of Sondra, flopping and gasping, feeling our sweat run together. I went limp. The strength drained from my body.

“Wow,” I gasped. “That was something.”

She started to speak and that was when we heard the gunshot.

I didn’t know that’s what it was at first. Just an unidentifiable boom—very loud, very jarring, and very unexpected. It didn’t sound like the shot in the Odessa’s parking lot. That had been muffled and short and sharp. This was more solid. I felt it in my chest. Heard the echoes in time with my heartbeat.

Sondra froze. So did I. Then I heard voices over the ringing in my ears.

Speaking Russian.

I clenched the sheets. “Shit!”

Sondra trembled. “Where is my clothing?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Grab one of my shirts.”

I rolled off her and hit the floor in a crouch. Not bothering with my socks or underwear, I grabbed my jeans and yanked them on. While Sondra shrugged into one of my t-shirts, I reached under the bed and pulled out my baseball bat. I’d always meant to buy a gun. Something like a .357 or .45. I never had, though, and I cursed myself for it now. Fucking stupid. Facing down trouble without the proper firepower. Still, the weight of the bat in my hand made me feel better. I crept to the closed door. There was no sign of Darryl. If he was still out there, then he wasn’t speaking—or was unable to.

The voices drew closer, right on the other side of the door. I gripped the bat tighter. Webster, tough old cat that he was, bought us some time. He hissed. One of the intruders hissed back at him. Then I heard his paws running across the carpet. He’d obviously decided to retreat. While this was happening, I reached out and locked the door.

My bed sat in the middle of the tiny room, the headboard pushed up against the wall. On the far end of the bedroom was the bathroom door. On my side were the closet and the bedroom door. Someone entering the room would see the bed, bathroom door, dresser and nightstand, but they’d have to turn around to see the closet. Sondra crouched down between the dresser and the bed. I scurried into the closet. Keeping the closet door open, I raised the bat and held my breath. My heart thudded in my temples. I really needed to piss.

The doorknob jiggled. Then somebody kicked it. Sondra whimpered. The intruders hammered at the door. Each blow rattled the door in its frame. The cheap wood splintered, and then cracked. The door crashed open and two men rushed in. I recognized them both—bouncers from the Odessa, Vacheslav and Alexander. Both had guns. That was all I had time to notice because then they started shooting.

They fired several shots into the bed, dresser and mirror in an apparent effort to flush us out. The plan worked. Sondra screamed and Vacheslav started towards her.

I lunged out of the closet, swung the bat, and smacked Alexander in the side of the face. There was a sickening crunch. It was like hitting a rock. The shock ran through the bat and into my arms. My hands went numb. Moaning, Alexander dropped to the floor. Vacheslav turned his gun towards me but Sondra threw a beer bottle at him. He swung back to her and I used the distraction to strike him. I bunted him in the nose with the handle, and then kicked him in the balls. Blood streamed out of his nose. He cupped his groin with one hand and struggled to raise the pistol. Sondra grabbed a handful of Vacheslav’s hair and jerked his head back. I struck him in the side and belly with the bat and then gave both his knees a good crack. He sank to the floor, unmoving. Turning, I delivered another blow to Alexander’s head, just for good measure. Teeth flew out of his mouth. Then I dropped the bat and picked up his handgun. It was a Rexio .38 revolver. Cheap piece of shit, according to my coworkers who were into firearms. I didn’t know much about guns, personally. I’d been target shooting a dozen times, but that was it. But despite my lack of knowledge, I knew the pistol was junk. I was unimpressed and a little disappointed. I’d figured Russian mobsters would have much better weapons.

Sondra and I stared at each other—half naked, bloody, and gasping for breath. To be honest, I was stunned. Not having been in a fight since seventh grade, I was pretty impressed with my performance. Maybe it was the adrenaline or survival instinct or my feelings for Sondra. I don’t know. All I know is that in that moment, I felt invincible.

“I’ve got to check on Darryl,” I said. “You stay here.”

“Nyet. We must leave, Larry. The police come. Your neighbors hear shots.”

Out in the living room, Webster howled. I whipped around and ran for the door, shouting his name.

“Drop the gun or I’ll kill your cat.”

Whitey. His accent was noticeable, but his English was perfect.

He sat on my sofa, looking calm and sedate. His clothes were unwrinkled. His white hair shined. He held Webster at arm’s length by the scruff of his neck. Webster kicked and hissed, thrashing in his grip. Whitey’s other hand held a pistol—the kind I’d imagined Russian mobsters to have. There was no sign of Darryl. I heard shouting from the apartment next to mine. A child was crying.

“Put my cat down, you fucker.”

Instead of answering, Whitey squeezed his trigger. The only thing that saved my ass was Webster. Still twisting, he swiped at Whitey’s face, slashing him across the cheek. The shot went wild. The bullet gouged the drywall next to my plasma screen.

I hadn’t checked Alexander’s pistol. Had no idea how many bullets were left. Hoping for the best, I cocked the hammer and returned fire. The Rexio jerked in my hands. Sofa stuffing flew through the air. Whitey dropped the cat and flung himself to the floor, scrambling for cover behind the coffee table. I fired again. Screaming, he flailed on the carpet, holding his shoulder. The gun slid from his grasp. Blood squirted from between his fingers. I felt a sick sense of excitement. I’d hit the fucker.

“Stay down,” I said. “Just stay right there and don’t move.”

Whitey raised his head and grinned. “You’ve been a bad, bad boy.”

“Fuck you, you piece of shit.”

I raised the gun to shoot him again, but Sondra grabbed my arm. She was carrying Vacheslav’s handgun.

“Let’s go.”

Before I could protest, she led me into the kitchen. Darryl lay face down on the floor. His blood had pooled all around him. He wasn’t moving. Something was wrong with his head but I couldn’t figure out what it was.

“I’ll kill you both,” Whitey shouted. “You think you shot me? Think again. This is nothing.”

There was more yelling and screaming from the other apartments. Police sirens wailed in the distance. Webster growled from a hiding spot somewhere in the living room. I felt torn. Part of me wanted to run back into the living room and shoot Whitey again and again until the gun was empty. But I had other things to deal with, too.

“Darryl…”

I knelt over his body. His blood soaked through my jeans, a sticky mess. His head was at an odd angle. I shook him, but he still didn’t move. He wasn’t breathing. When I rolled him over, I saw why. Even though I had turned him over, Darryl’s head remained face down. They’d shot him in the neck. The bullet tore most of his throat out, and there wasn’t much left to support his head. Just some flaps of skin and gristle. He’d almost been decapitated. Strangely, I didn’t throw up. Didn’t feel sick.

All I felt was sadness.

The sirens drew closer.

In the living room, we heard Whitey bump against the coffee table. He was back on his feet.

“Come,” Sondra shouted.

“Darryl…we’ve got to do something for him!”

“Nyet. Is too late, Larry. Whitey is coming. So are police.”

She dragged me out the door. I didn’t protest. I don’t think I could have, even if I had wanted to. My mind was numb. We ran to the Cherokee. Luckily, my keys were still in my pants pocket. A crowd of people mingled around. They stared at us. We must have made quite a sight. Both of us were barefoot and almost naked. I only had on a pair of jeans, and all that Sondra wore was one of my t-shirts and her panties. We were both armed, and covered in Darryl, Alexander, and Vacheslav’s blood and the dried remnants of our lovemaking.

“Hey,” one of my neighbors hollered. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Instead of answering, I unlocked the Cherokee. Sondra and I jumped inside and took off. The crowd moved out of our way as we roared out into the road. I stomped the gas pedal. Sondra used the t-shirt to wipe blood from my face. The pistols rested on the seat between us. The iPod played some classic Slayer, but I turned it off. I needed to concentrate. Figure out what the hell to do now.

“The cops—”

Sondra interrupted me. “No police. You promised.”

“People are fucking dead, Sondra! Darryl. Darryl is dead. In my apartment. His throat…And those fuckers…those fuckers did it.”

“Nyet. No police. They will send me away. The Bratva will kill everyone I love.”

I chose my words carefully. “At this point, won’t they go after your brothers and sisters anyway?”

“Da.”

“So then why not get the cops involved? Maybe they can protect you. Protect your family. Work with the Russian authorities and—”

“Do you not listen? The Bratva own the authorities in my country. Is no good.”

“Well, whether we call them or not, they’re already involved. My neighbors heard the gunshots. Somebody dialed 911. The cops were on the way when we left. You heard the sirens. They’ll figure out I lived there and that we fled the scene. Everybody saw us. We’re fucked.”

Sondra crossed her arms and shivered. I turned on the heat. Hot air blew across our bare feet. We needed to get off the road, and fast.

“Not only are we suspects,” I continued, “but Whitey was still alive. I shot him in the shoulder. They’ll capture him on the scene. If we tell them now, they can arrest him as soon as a doctor sews that shoulder up.”

Sondra muttered something in Russian. She wouldn’t look at me. Instead, she watched the night flash by.

“What’s that?”

“I say that he will not be there when cops come. Whitey will be gone.”

“He’s wounded. No way he can flee that quickly. He was losing a lot of blood.”

“He will be gone when they arrive. You do not know Whitey.”

She turned away again and stared out the window. I was frustrated, but decided not to press it. She’d been through just as much shit as I had—more, actually. I needed to be gentle.

I fumbled for my cell phone, glad that I’d left it in the Jeep.

“No,” Sondra pleaded. “You promise, Larry!”

“Relax. I’m not calling the cops. I’m calling Jesse.”

“Who is this Jesse?”

“He’s my friend. I need to let him know about…Darryl. And he’s at the Odessa. I need to warn him to get the fuck out of there.”

Sondra’s face paled.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your friend is at the club?”

“Yeah.”

“Did Whitey and Otar know he is your friend?”

My stomach lurched. I gripped the cell phone tightly.

“Yeah,” I said. “They knew. They’ve seen us with him before.”

“Then your friend is already dead. That is how Whitey find us. We run away from club. He go inside and get your friend.”

“Jesse wouldn’t drop dime on us.”

“What is drop dime?”