Brian Keene - Kill Whitey

“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.

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,” she 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.”