Kill Whitey

by Brian Keene

  “Thank you again,” she said. “For help. You good. Both of you.”

  Her fingers slowly caressed my skin. They felt cool to the touch. I closed my eyes and sighed. Then her hand went away again.

  Darryl pulled back onto the Interstate and fumbled out his cell phone. He flipped it open. The keypad glowed green in the darkness.

  “Who you calling?” I asked.

  “The cops, man. Who the fuck do you think?”

  “Nyet,” Sondra shouted. “You no call police. Very bad. Much trouble if you call them!”

  Ignoring her, Darryl began dialing with his thumb. Sondra leaned farther forward and snatched the cell phone from his hand. The Cherokee swerved into the passing lane. A GPS tractor trailer blared its horn at us. Darryl jerked the Jeep back into our lane. Before we could react, Sondra rolled down the window and tossed the phone outside. It smashed against a concrete construction barrier. The trucker blew his horn again.

  Darryl gripped the wheel. “Larry, I’m gonna kill your new girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend…”

  “Shut up.” He glared at her in the rearview mirror. “What the hell did you do that for? Fucking phone cost me a whole goddamn paycheck. You know you’re paying for that shit, right?”

  Sondra’s bottom lip trembled. “No hit me, please. No more. I am sorry. I buy you new phone. Just no hit.”

  “Hit you?” Darryl’s voice immediately softened. “No. Relax. Ain’t either of us gonna hit you. We don’t beat on women. We ain’t no chumps. It’s okay. You’ll be okay. Just tell us what’s going on and why you don’t want to call the cops.”

  “Let’s get off the road first,” I suggested. I was starting to feel a little better. “I don’t like being out here. If they called the cops and gave them my plate number, then the State troopers might be looking for us.”

  “Why would they call the cops? Aren’t they the motherfuckers that shot at us? That doesn’t exactly seem like the behavior of law-abiding citizens, does it?”

  “No,” I agreed, “it doesn’t.”

  “Damn straight it doesn’t. These guys are mobsters. They ain’t gonna call the po-po. ”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “Jesse and Tonya said—”

  “Fuck Jesse and Tonya,” I interrupted. “We don’t know for sure if these guys are Russian mob.”

  “Yes,” Sondra said. “They are.”

  “Oh…”

  Darryl chuckled. “Well, that’s just fucking wonderful, now ain’t it?”

  We were silent for a few minutes. Darryl took the exit for Interstate 83 and we headed back to York.

  “Let’s get off the road,” I said again. “We need to go somewhere and think. Sort this whole thing out.”

  “Where?”

  “My place. If the cops aren’t looking for us, then we’ll be safe there. The Russians don’t know our names and they don’t know where we live.”

  Darryl arched an eyebrow. “Your place?”

  “Yeah. My apartment. Sondra can get cleaned up a little and then explain everything.”

  Sondra smiled.

  I blushed. My ears burned and my cheeks felt warm. Her smile grew broader and so did my embarrassment.

  Darryl looked at me and then at Sondra. He shook his head and sighed.

  “There you go, thinking with your goddamned dick…”

  “Shut up, Darryl.”

  That was how I finally met Sondra.

  And it was the last time I was ever truly happy.

  Things got worse after that.

  eight

  Webster greeted us with a hiss. His food dish was half-empty again. In protest, I noticed that he’d flipped his water bowl over, soaking the doormat. He sat on his haunches, glared at Darryl, and then growled.

  “Don’t growl at me, fur ball. I’ll tell Larry to sell you to the animal testing people.”

  Hissing at the threat, Webster retreated to safety beneath the kitchen table. After a moment, he crept out and investigated Sondra, who was busy looking around. Darryl went to the window and peeked through the shades.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  “Nobody out there,” he said. “We’re cool.”

  I didn’t reply. My attention had returned to Sondra. She’d been timid at first, half afraid to come inside. But now she was crouched on the kitchen floor, holding Webster in her lap. She slowly stroked his fur. Blinking, Webster purred. He seemed as surprised as I was. Then he licked her fingers and Sondra giggled. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.

  “His tongue is rough, like paper sand.”

  “Sandpaper,” Darryl corrected her.

  “Da. Sandpaper. What is his name?”

  “Webster.” I grinned.

  “Web-ster…” She looked back down at him. “Hello, Webster. You are fat cat, no? Larry feed you good. You are fuzzy cat.”

  Darryl turned around again. “Well, ain’t this just some touching shit?”

  Sondra’s face fell. “I sorry. If I make trouble, I leave…”

  “No,” I said, shooting Darryl a dirty look. “Don’t mind Darryl. He’s an asshole. You’re fine here. You’re safe.”

  “Safe…” She repeated the word like she didn’t know what it meant. Thinking back now, maybe she didn’t.

  “Can you tell us what’s going on?” I asked. “Why were those guys looking for you? Who beat you up?”

  “Whitey,” she spat. “That son of bitch, he hit me for last time. He is very mad.”

  “That’s great,” Darryl said. “Now how about you tell us everything?”

  “Can I, how you say…pee first? I get scared in parking lot and almost pee my pants.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Follow me.”

  I showed her where the bathroom was and turned the light and exhaust fan on for her. Webster waited outside the door. Obviously, he preferred Sondra’s company to me and Darryl. Can’t say that I blamed him. My cat had taste, just like me. I walked back into the kitchen. Darryl was seated at my table. He didn’t speak. Neither did I. Instead, I started brewing a pot of coffee.

  “That’s a good idea,” he said finally. “Something tells me we’re in for a long night. Coffee would hit the spot.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So while she’s in there, let’s call the po-po.”

  “No, man. You heard what she said. No police. Let’s at least hear her out. If the Russians knew how to find us, they’d be here by now.”

  He sighed. “We’ll do it your way. For now. But hear me, man. After we listen, if I don’t like what she has to say, then I’m dialing 911. Ain’t no way in hell I’m gonna live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for the Russian mob. I got enough shit in my life. I don’t need that, too.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Sondra came back into the kitchen, cradling Webster in her arms. She’d cleaned the grime and blood from her face, and had wiped most of her make-up away as well. Her lip was still swollen and her bruises had darkened, but she still looked beautiful. Her robe was fastened tight again. The blue silk clung to her curves. Webster purred, lying limp like a rag doll. He seemed content. I wondered if someone had secretly switched my cat for a look-a-like when I wasn’t home.

  “Coffee?” I offered her a mug. “Just made some, so it’s fresh.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Sugar? And I think I got some milk.”

  “Da. Milk.”

  I pulled the milk out of the fridge, sniffed it, and made a face.

  “Is no good?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry.”

  “Is okay. I drink black.”

  She sat down next to Darryl. Webster hopped off her lap and wound between my legs, apologizing for his rude behavior when we’d first come home.

  “Same way I like my women,” Darryl said. “Strong, black, and just a little bit bitter.”

  He and I both laughed, but Sondra just stared at us in confusion.

  “I sorry,” s
he said. “I not get joke.”

  “It’s okay,” I told her. “Wasn’t very funny, anyway.”

  I poured coffee into both of their mugs. Then I poured myself a cup as well. After filling Webster’s water bowl again, I sat down.

  “So,” Darryl said. “Sondra. You’ve met Larry. You’ve met me. You’ve even met the cat. Had a chance to clean yourself up and calm down. Larry even made you a nice cup of coffee. Feel better?”

  “Da, very much. Is nice.”

  Darryl smiled, flashing all of his teeth. Sondra smiled back at him.

  Then Darryl’s smile faded.

  “Now how about you tell us what the fuck is going on. No more delays or excuses. This ain’t an episode of Lost, where they never answer the fucking questions. Tell us what’s up. We want the truth. We deserve that much.”

  “Da,” she said. “You do. I tell you everything. It is just…not easy to talk of.”

  “Try us.”

  “I try. My English is so-so. You tell me if you not understand?”

  We nodded.

  She took a sip of coffee and sat the mug down. Her hands were shaking. She folded them in front of her and stared at the tabletop. When she spoke again, her voice was low.

  “I was born in Russia after Glasnost. You know of Glasnost?”

  Darryl shrugged. I nodded.

  “When communism fell,” I said. “It was part of Gorbachev’s reforms. I remember it, too. I was a little kid. My parents watched it on TV.”

  “I was baby then. All my life, I never know Communist Russia. I just know ‘new’ Russia. Know Capitalism. Is supposed to be great thing, like American Democracy. But is not. Is no work for people to do. No way to support families. I never know good times. Only bad. Only poor. My family, they go hungry lots. No money. No jobs. But the criminals—we call the Bratva—they do fine. They are like your Mafia. The Bratva make money. Their families eat at night and have more to drink than vodka. When Soviet Union fall, the Organizatsiya was there. In old days, they sell Western products on black market. Music and movies and blue jeans. But with all the political…how you say…uncertainty…in my country, they take over quick. They take over the banks. Then the courts. Soon, their people run the corporations, factories, everything. They are lawyers, bankers, even judges. They call themselves vori v zakone—thieves in law.”

  “Damn,” Darryl muttered. “Tony Soprano don’t be doing that shit. He just owns a sanitation company.”

  “In my country, the Bratva are the real power,” Sondra continued. “They are many. One hundred thousand of them. They control eighty percentage of private business and half of country’s money.”

  Darryl whistled. “Are you sure? That seems awfully high.”

  “My English is so-so. But I know Bratva. I have known them all my life. The Organizatsiya terrorize everyone—executives, politicians, journalists, common people. First they take over banks and companies. Then they do the things you Americans see on television. Porno. Prostitutes. Drugs. Steal things. Sell weapons. Assassinations. Kidnap. Identity theft. Slaves. All…what is word? Under the ground?”

  “Underground,” I said.

  “Thank you. They are in secret. In the Western movies, Italian Mafia is known, yes? Not the Bratva. They are unseen. If you tell on them, they kill your whole family. Not just you. They wipe out all enemies. Get very strong.”

  Darryl cleared his throat. “How strong?”

  “They take over all other gangs. Italians. Greeks. Chinese. Yakuza. Even American street gangs. Soon, I think, they move on the Colombians, too. That is rumor I hear from other girls.”

  “And now they’re here in York,” I said. Shaking my head, I sipped my coffee. It was already getting cold.

  “Da,” Sondra said. “They are here. They come to America after Cold War. Jewish people flee here. Many from the Organizatsiya fake their passports and come here, too. They settle in Brighton Beach and spread out from there to all American towns and cities. Whitey Putin come to York. He is in charge here. But Whitey is not like traditional Bratva. He is like me—raised on Western culture. He is not secret, like in Russia. He is, how you say? Operating in the open? Is easy to tell he is criminal.”

  Darryl sipped coffee. “Then how come he ain’t in jail?”

  “Because he is also clever. He give money and women to police and cover his tracks.”

  “Sondra,” I said, “if you don’t mind me asking—you seem like a nice girl. How did you get wrapped up with these guys?”

  “Wrapped…up?”

  “Yeah. It means ‘involved’. How come you’re working for a guy like Whitey? I mean—you’re beautiful.”

  She smiled, lowering her eyes. I felt my cheeks begin to burn. Darryl grinned at me. Despite my embarrassment, I stammered on.

  “You…you could be a model. An actress. How did you end up dancing in a strip club for some Russian mobsters?”

  Sondra laughed softly, but it was a humorless sound. Her expression was sad. Suddenly, her eyes brimmed with tears. She sat down her coffee mug, scooted back from the table, and grabbed a paper towel. After she’d wiped her eyes and blown her nose, she leaned against the sink. She seemed tired. Her shoulders sagged, her head drooped. Meowing, Webster walked over to her and rubbed against her legs. Sondra reached down and scratched his ears. That seemed to make her feel better. Him too.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I…is not easy to talk about. All my life, I watch American movies and shows and listen to American music. Friends. Backstreet Boys. Seinfeld. American Pie. Britney Spears. All are great examples of American culture—of success person can have here in your country.”

  “Friends?” Darryl sneered. “No wonder Russia is so fucked up. An example of success? Hell no. Friends is an example of the worst shit our country has ever foisted on the world.”

  Sondra pouted. “You no like Friends?”

  “No,” Darryl said. “I no like Friends. I think it sucks.”

  “I do like. I admire Jennifer Aniston. When I was girl, I wanted to be her. That is why I come to America. To meet Jennifer Aniston and meet man like Ross. On television, they not poor or hungry. They have love. Are happy.”

  She fell quiet again, but I barely noticed. I was too busy studying her face, watching the way she spoke, the way her lips moved, the little lines and creases in her forehead and cheeks. Darryl had to tap the table to get my attention.

  “Sorry,” I apologized, feeling my face get red again.

  “So,” Darryl said, “Whitey promised that you could meet Jennifer Aniston or something? No offense, Sondra, but that should have been your first red flag.”

  “Whitey’s people say they can get me to America. Then I can live American dream, just like Jennifer Aniston. So I say yes and start learning English, because coming to America is all I ever want. But is after 9/11, yes? Your country not so good at letting people in. Would have to wait five years for visa.”

  Darryl shrugged. “Five years ain’t so bad.”

  “Is very bad. There were…problems.”

  “What kind of problems?” I asked.

  A shadow passed over her face. Darryl and I looked at each other.

  “My family,” Sondra said. “My…father.”

  “Was he sick? In trouble?”

  Sondra shook her head. Her shoulders trembled.

  “My…father. He would…touch me.”

  I sat up. “Touch you?”

  “Da. My mother died when I was eleven. He began touching me a month later. Climbing in my bed. He call me by my mother’s name. Say I look like her. Smell like her. Taste…”

  I was speechless. It felt like somebody had punched me in the stomach.

  “Jesus…” Darryl sighed. “Never understood that shit. Fucking child molesters.”

  “True that,” I muttered.

  “When I was little girl, I thought my father was to protect me. Would make things all better. But he was not that. I close my eyes while he is on top of me, pushing, and I dream of Ame
rica. I tell the Bratva yes. I go to America to escape. It is this magical place, even today. Until you get here. Then you see it is just like any other place. Full of bad men. Like my father. Like Whitey.”

  “We’re not bad men,” I said. It was hard to talk around the lump in my throat.

  “Nyet, you are not bad men. You help me. But still…you are men, yes? You help me because you find me beautiful.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not true.”

  Sondra didn’t reply. Instead, she stopped scratching Webster and sat down again. Darryl rubbed his chin and said nothing. I wondered what he was thinking—what they both were thinking.

  “I came to America to escape my father,” Sondra said, staring at her hands. “No passport. No visa. There were thirty other women with me. All like me. Young and afraid. Pretty. The men…they put us on ship, inside big cargo container. Keep us hidden from crew and captain. Two men were there to guard us. Twice a day they would let us out to eat. The sunshine…it felt good. I remember it. So very dark inside the box. A bucket for toilet. Very little food or water. So I would look forward to see the sunshine. We come out. Eat. Then they put us back in box till next day. This goes on for long time. Some girls get sick. Finally, we come to America and are let out of box. That is where I meet Whitey. He tells us he has paid for our transport. We owe him everything. We will work for him. If we refuse, he say the Organizatsiya will kill us and kill our families back home. I care not about my father, but I have brothers and sisters. So I do what Whitey says.”

  I closed my eyes. It had all been true. Everything Jesse had told us—all true. The things she’d had to endure growing up, and then to come here and suffer an even worse fate, working in forced prostitution and dancing. My head throbbed.

  “So why not go to the po-po?” Darryl asked.

  Sondra looked confused. “What is po-po?”

  “Yeah, you know. The police. The cops. Why not cut a deal, give them enough info to take Whitey and his whole crew down?”

  “Do you not listening? Maybe I get rid of Whitey. Maybe he go to jail. But the Bratva are many. Hundred thousand strong. Sooner or later they kill me or my family. I go to police, immigration send me back home to Russia. There, I get killed quicker. Is no good. No one can help me. I must listen to Whitey. I obey. First I work in massage parlor and am hooker. Whitey say I am good at that and would be good at dancer. So I go to the Odessa and am both. I just do what Whitey say to do.”