Kill Whitey

“No. I am indeed going to kill you. But I need to know how much damage has been done before I do. I need to find out what you know, and more importantly, if you’ve told anybody else.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not today, I’m afraid. Make no mistake, Mr. Gibson. You are going to die. You can tell me what I want to know, and I’ll end it now with a bullet to the head. Or, if you insist on being difficult, I can torture you until you confess. Either way, you’ll talk.”

“No time to torture me.” I spat more blood. “You said it yourself, shithead. The cops are on their way. Doesn’t give you much time, now does it?”

“I do not need much time.”

He walked closer, covering his approach with the pistol. It felt like there was an invisible line running from the barrel to my head. His shoes tapped loudly on the concrete floor. Still seated on the floor, I shrank away from him, scooting backward and taking the opportunity to drag my foot along the floor, pulling the piece of metal strapping closer to me. Whitey interpreted it as fear. I risked a quick glance to the left. There was no sign of Sondra. The far end of the warehouse was hidden in shadow. I wondered if she was hiding there, watching, and if so, what she could do to help me.

“You care for her?”

“Fuck you,” I mumbled. Again, not the wittiest of replies, and one I’d used already. “How’s the ear? It must hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“You must care for her,” Whitey said, ignoring my taunt. “Love her, perhaps?”

“None of your business.”

“Yes, I think that you love her. Why else would you go through all of this? So much pain, so much death, all to protect a pregnant whore?”

“Don’t call her a whore!”

He loomed over me. I could smell his cologne—heavy, cloying, stifling my breath. He brushed the tip of the gun barrel against my forehead. The metal was cold. I shivered, even though I was sweating like a pig. Then he slid it across my face and brushed against my ear.

“Why not? That’s what she is. Sondra is one of our best. Why do you think I only let her dance twice a day? If she was such a popular dancer, would I not allow her more stage time? Of course I would. But the money she brings in on stage pales in comparison to what she makes in the private rooms. Sondra is our top attraction—and her prowess on stage is only a small part of that. She’s much better on her back…or her knees.”

“You trying to goad me, Whitey? Trying to get me to attack, so you can blow me away like you did Yul?”

“As I said, the expediency of your death is up to you. But it is a foregone conclusion. I’m going to kill you, just like we did your friends. This one…” He prodded Yul’s body with his foot, “and the others—the redneck and the nukka.”

“Nukka?”

“Nigger. Or, if you prefer, ‘journi’ or ‘herp’. We have many names for black men, but in the end, none of them matter. The best name is dead.”

My mouth was dry, and I had to work up enough spit to talk.

“I’m going to kill you.”

Whitey laughed. It was the ugliest sound I’d ever heard.

“No, you are not. But I am going to kill you. Now, let’s make this quick. What did she tell you?”

I tried to buy more time. If I could keep him talking, maybe I could figure something out. “She told me you were related to Rasputin. She said you were with the mob.”

“And? The money? Where is that?”

“She never said shit about any money. She said that she was pregnant, and that you were gonna force her to get an abortion, so she ran away.”

“Did she?” Smirking, he nudged my ear with the gun again. “Did she indeed? Mr. Gibson, why on earth would you think that I’d waste so much manpower, so many resources—not to mention the very good possibility that I’ll be arrested for today’s events—all on forcing a pregnant prostitute to get an abortion? Does that seem like a sound business position to you?”

I shrugged. “The fuck do I know about business? I’m a dock worker.”

“This is true. But a smart dock worker, no? I can tell by the way you speak—the way you carry yourself. You have an excellent grasp of language and you are far more clever than you let on. You are not a stupid man, Mr. Gibson, so don’t make yourself sound that way.”

“If you want to sleep with me, Whitey, you’ll have to sweet talk me more than that.”

“Did Sondra tell you who the father was?”

His voice had changed. It was quieter—more insistent. So far in the conversation, his tone had been calm, almost friendly, even when he’d killed Yul and promised to do the same to me. But now his voice sounded grim and full of menace.

“She said she didn’t know.”

Whitey leaned closer. His breath stank of garlic and cheese. The stench of his cologne became a solid thing.

“Do not lie to me, Mr. Gibson. Did she tell you that I was the father?”

“N-no,” I choked. “Why would she…”

The question died on my lips. The deadliness in Whitey’s voice was now mirrored in his eyes.

“Because I am.”

“Yeah, you tried that lie already. Just a few minutes ago, when you tried to flush us out of hiding. Remember? It didn’t work.”

“But it is the truth, Mr. Gibson. I am the father.”