Kill Whitey

“I don’t know,” I whispered, “but we’d better figure something out fast.”

“Why?”

“Listen.”

Hammering sounds echoed across the warehouse. Somebody was battering the boarded up windows.

“Oh, shit.” Yul’s face paled. “We are so fucked.”

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.