Kill Whitey

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.”

“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.