Kill Whitey

“Da,” Sondra said. “They are here. They come to America after Cold War. Jewish people flee here. Many from the Organizatsiya fake their passports and come here, too. They settle in Brighton Beach and spread out from there to all American towns and cities. Whitey Putin come to York. He is in charge here. But Whitey is not like traditional Bratva. He is like me—raised on Western culture. He is not secret, like in Russia. He is, how you say? Operating in the open? Is easy to tell he is criminal.”

Darryl sipped coffee. “Then how come he ain’t in jail?”

“Because he is also clever. He give money and women to police and cover his tracks.”

“Sondra,” I said, “if you don’t mind me asking—you seem like a nice girl. How did you get wrapped up with these guys?”

“Wrapped…up?”

“Yeah. It means ‘involved’. How come you’re working for a guy like Whitey? I mean—you’re beautiful.”

She smiled, lowering her eyes. I felt my cheeks begin to burn. Darryl grinned at me. Despite my embarrassment, I stammered on.

“You…you could be a model. An actress. How did you end up dancing in a strip club for some Russian mobsters?”

Sondra laughed softly, but it was a humorless sound. Her expression was sad. Suddenly, her eyes brimmed with tears. She sat down her coffee mug, scooted back from the table, and grabbed a paper towel. After she’d wiped her eyes and blown her nose, she leaned against the sink. She seemed tired. Her shoulders sagged, her head drooped. Meowing, Webster walked over to her and rubbed against her legs. Sondra reached down and scratched his ears. That seemed to make her feel better. Him too.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I…is not easy to talk about. All my life, I watch American movies and shows and listen to American music. Friends. Backstreet Boys. Seinfeld. American Pie. Britney Spears. All are great examples of American culture—of success person can have here in your country.”

“Friends?” Darryl sneered. “No wonder Russia is so fucked up. An example of success? Hell no. Friends is an example of the worst shit our country has ever foisted on the world.”

Sondra pouted. “You no like Friends

?”

“No,” Darryl said. “I no like Friends. I think it sucks.”

“I do like. I admire Jennifer Aniston. When I was girl, I wanted to be her. That is why I come to America. To meet Jennifer Aniston and meet man like Ross. On television, they not poor or hungry. They have love. Are happy.”

She fell quiet again, but I barely noticed. I was too busy studying her face, watching the way she spoke, the way her lips moved, the little lines and creases in her forehead and cheeks. Darryl had to tap the table to get my attention.

“Sorry,” I apologized, feeling my face get red again.

“So,” Darryl said, “Whitey promised that you could meet Jennifer Aniston or something? No offense, Sondra, but that should have been your first red flag.”

“Whitey’s people say they can get me to America. Then I can live American dream, just like Jennifer Aniston. So I say yes and start learning English, because coming to America is all I ever want. But is after 9/11, yes? Your country not so good at letting people in. Would have to wait five years for visa.”

Darryl shrugged. “Five years ain’t so bad.”

“Is very bad. There were…problems.”

“What kind of problems?” I asked.

A shadow passed over her face. Darryl and I looked at each other.

“My family,” Sondra said. “My…father.”

“Was he sick? In trouble?”

Sondra shook her head. Her shoulders trembled.

“My…father. He would…touch me.”

I sat up. “Touch you?”

“Da. My mother died when I was eleven. He began touching me a month later. Climbing in my bed. He call me by my mother’s name. Say I look like her. Smell like her. Taste…”

I was speechless. It felt like somebody had punched me in the stomach.

“Jesus…” Darryl sighed. “Never understood that shit. Fucking child molesters.”

“True that,” I muttered.

“When I was little girl, I thought my father was to protect me. Would make things all better. But he was not that. I close my eyes while he is on top of me, pushing, and I dream of America. I tell the Bratva yes. I go to America to escape. It is this magical place, even today. Until you get here. Then you see it is just like any other place. Full of bad men. Like my father. Like Whitey.”

“We’re not bad men,” I said. It was hard to talk around the lump in my throat.

“Nyet, you are not bad men. You help me. But still…you are men, yes? You help me because you find me beautiful.”

I shook my head. “That’s not true.”

Sondra didn’t reply. Instead, she stopped scratching Webster and sat down again. Darryl rubbed his chin and said nothing. I wondered what he was thinking—what they both were thinking.