Brian Keene - Kill Whitey

I wondered if I’d ever have a normal day again.

The taxi driver, a middle-aged Hispanic guy, couldn’t have cared less about us. He didn’t talk much. Just asked us where we were going, checked out Sondra’s ass in the side mirror as she climbed into the back seat with me, and that was it. I figured he’d at least comment on the dried blood, but he didn’t. Maybe he’d seen worse. Or maybe he just didn’t give a shit. I’d hoped he would have the radio on so I could find out if there was any news about us, but instead, he listened to Spanish music discs. They made my head hurt even more than it already did.

Sondra and I didn’t speak. We rode in silence, except for the music. Occasionally, the driver glanced in the rearview mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of Sondra’s cleavage. Her nipples were taut against the shirt’s thin fabric.

I had the driver drop us about a mile from GPS. I paid the guy in cash and tipped him five bucks. Not enough that he’d remember us, but not so little that he’d remember us either. With any luck, he’d forget about this fare by the time he picked up his next one.

The sun was up now; gray murk gave way to daylight. We cut across a grassy field. Sharp stones jabbed us through our socks and birds took flight, squawking at the intrusion. We slowed down as we approached the parking lot. With any luck, nobody in the guard shack could see us if we approached from this angle, rather than the road. I checked my watch. Yul would be getting out any minute now. It was almost time for shift change. The Glock rubbed against my ass, chafing my skin. Sondra took my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back.

“I don’t see any cop cars,” I said. “That’s a good sign.”

“Da.”

“Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

We stepped out of the high grass and onto the blacktop. Our socks were soaked from the morning dew. There were a few guys from the day shift sitting in their cars—listening to Howard Stern or smoking one last cigarette or finishing their coffee before they checked in at the guard house and trekked up the hill to the building. None of them looked at us. They were too caught up in their own thing. I was suddenly hit with a sense of longing. I used to be one of those guys. Yesterday, I had been. But not anymore. I wanted to go back to my boring, lonely life. These guys didn’t know how good they had it.

A long line of tractor trailers was backed up at the gate. That was good, because it meant the two rental cops inside the guard shack had their hands full checking seals and bills of lading and weren’t paying attention to the parking lot.

Yul’s car, a red Hyundai Accent, was parked in the corner of the last row at the back of the lot. Out of sight and out of mind. Sondra and I approached it with caution. I studied the other cars around it, checking to see if there was anybody inside them. They were all empty. I tried the Hyundai’s rear door. Yul always forgot to lock his doors, and today was no exception. Grinning, I cast one last look around and then we hopped inside. We ducked down, keeping our heads below the windows, and waited.

“Well,” I said, “so far so good. That went a lot easier than I expected.”

Within minutes, the parking lot came to life as the early shift got off work. We kept our heads down, but all around us were the sounds of car doors slamming, co-workers talking and shouting, engines starting, horns honking, sub-woofers booming bass lines from the latest hip-hop songs. Typical morning.

I missed it. I’d had a thousand mornings just like it, but had taken them for granted. Had dreaded them, in fact. Now, I would have given anything to have them back again. A million work days were better than this.

A shadow passed over us. I looked up and saw Yul standing at the driver’s door. He glanced around the parking lot, looking for us, unaware that we were hiding just inches away from where he stood. He put his key in the door, turned it—locking the door—and then frowned in confusion when the door wouldn’t open. I suppressed a giggle. Shaking his head, Yul turned the key again, unlocking the door. He still hadn’t seen us. He opened the door and slid behind the wheel. Then he slammed the door, rolled the window down, and put the key in the ignition.

Before he could start the car, I said, “What’s up, Yul?”

His body jerked. Arms flailing, Yul gave a startled cry.

“Settle down,” I said. “It’s just me.”

“Larry!” Yul turned around. “Jesus fucking Christ, you scared the shit out of—”

He stopped in mid-sentence, staring at Sondra. His mouth hung open.

“Hello.” Sondra smiled. “You are Yul, no?”

“No. I mean y-yes. I mean…aren’t you the girl from the Odessa?”

“Da.”

“What are you doing in my backseat?”

“Hiding.”

Blinking, Yul turned his head slowly to me and then back to Sondra again.

“Hiding? Hiding from who? Larry, what the hell is going on? You call me at work and say there’s a family emergency. My boss was pissed as shit about that. Then I find you in the backseat of my car with a stripper. No offense.”

Sondra shrugged.

“Where’s Darryl and Jesse? What’s—”

“Yul,” I interrupted, “just shut up for a minute. We’re in a world of shit and I need your help. Darryl and Jesse…”

“What about them? And you’re bleeding! Where did all that blood come from. That’s gonna be a real bitch, trying to get it out of the upholstery.”

“Relax. It’s not my blood. And I’ll pay for the clean up.”

“Did Darryl and Jesse—”

“Yul,” I whispered, “they’re dead.”

He paused before speaking. “What?”

“Darryl and Jesse are dead, man.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure about Darryl and I’m pretty sure about Jesse.”

“How? What the fuck happened?”

Before I could explain, we heard tires screeching. Sondra and I sat up and Yul whipped around. A black Lexus skidded to a stop in front of the Hyundai, blocking us from leaving. Sondra screamed. So did I. Yul just gaped in confusion. The stench of burned rubber filled the air.

Otar leapt out of the Lexus on the driver’s side. Another Russian who I didn’t recognize got out of the passenger’s side. Whitey climbed out of the back. His shirt was bloody from where I’d shot him, but otherwise, he seemed fine. He moved quickly. Calmly. Showed no sign of weakness or pain.

“Who the hell are these guys?” Yul hollered. “That white-haired guy—isn’t he from the strip club, too?”

Instead of answering, I flung my door open and knelt on the pavement, using the car door as a shield. I pulled the Glock and took aim at the guy closest to me—the one whose name I didn’t know. Whitey dived back inside the car. Otar dropped to a crouch and raised his gun. I was quicker. My first shot caught my target in the neck. Blood splattered the Lexus. He grabbed at his throat and fell.

“That’s for Darryl, you motherfuckers!”

Otar squeezed off a shot. The bullet glanced off the pavement at my feet. Pebbles and fragments of blacktop nicked my skin. He fired again, missing a second time. I shot at him and missed too. The trigger surprised me. I barely had to touch it and the gun would go off.

Sondra and Yul shrieked inside the car. Bystanders fled from the parking lot, running towards the guard house and the field. A few of them sped away in their cars. The cops would be here soon, if they weren’t already on their way.

“Start the car,” I shouted at Yul as I fired another shot. The Lexus’s front tire exploded. I had two bullets left.

“What, Larry?”

“Start the fucking car, goddamn it!”

The Hyundai sputtered, belching exhaust as it came to life. Yul was shit when it came to engines and preventative maintenance.