Kill Whitey

I lunged out of the closet, swung the bat, and smacked Alexander in the side of the face. There was a sickening crunch. It was like hitting a rock. The shock ran through the bat and into my arms. My hands went numb. Moaning, Alexander dropped to the floor. Vacheslav turned his gun towards me but Sondra threw a beer bottle at him. He swung back to her and I used the distraction to strike him. I bunted him in the nose with the handle, and then kicked him in the balls. Blood streamed out of his nose. He cupped his groin with one hand and struggled to raise the pistol. Sondra grabbed a handful of Vacheslav’s hair and jerked his head back. I struck him in the side and belly with the bat and then gave both his knees a good crack. He sank to the floor, unmoving. Turning, I delivered another blow to Alexander’s head, just for good measure. Teeth flew out of his mouth. Then I dropped the bat and picked up his handgun. It was a Rexio .38 revolver. Cheap piece of shit, according to my coworkers who were into firearms. I didn’t know much about guns, personally. I’d been target shooting a dozen times, but that was it. But despite my lack of knowledge, I knew the pistol was junk. I was unimpressed and a little disappointed. I’d figured Russian mobsters would have much better weapons.

Sondra and I stared at each other—half naked, bloody, and gasping for breath. To be honest, I was stunned. Not having been in a fight since seventh grade, I was pretty impressed with my performance. Maybe it was the adrenaline or survival instinct or my feelings for Sondra. I don’t know. All I know is that in that moment, I felt invincible.

“I’ve got to check on Darryl,” I said. “You stay here.”

“Nyet. We must leave, Larry. The police come. Your neighbors hear shots.”

Out in the living room, Webster howled. I whipped around and ran for the door, shouting his name.

“Drop the gun or I’ll kill your cat.”

Whitey. His accent was noticeable, but his English was perfect.

He sat on my sofa, looking calm and sedate. His clothes were unwrinkled. His white hair shined. He held Webster at arm’s length by the scruff of his neck. Webster kicked and hissed, thrashing in his grip. Whitey’s other hand held a pistol—the kind I’d imagined Russian mobsters to have. There was no sign of Darryl. I heard shouting from the apartment next to mine. A child was crying.

“Put my cat down, you fucker.”

Instead of answering, Whitey squeezed his trigger. The only thing that saved my ass was Webster. Still twisting, he swiped at Whitey’s face, slashing him across the cheek. The shot went wild. The bullet gouged the drywall next to my plasma screen.

I hadn’t checked Alexander’s pistol. Had no idea how many bullets were left. Hoping for the best, I cocked the hammer and returned fire. The Rexio jerked in my hands. Sofa stuffing flew through the air. Whitey dropped the cat and flung himself to the floor, scrambling for cover behind the coffee table. I fired again. Screaming, he flailed on the carpet, holding his shoulder. The gun slid from his grasp. Blood squirted from between his fingers. I felt a sick sense of excitement. I’d hit the fucker.

“Stay down,” I said. “Just stay right there and don’t move.”

Whitey raised his head and grinned. “You’ve been a bad, bad boy.”

“Fuck you, you piece of shit.”

I raised the gun to shoot him again, but Sondra grabbed my arm. She was carrying Vacheslav’s handgun.

“Let’s go.”

Before I could protest, she led me into the kitchen. Darryl lay face down on the floor. His blood had pooled all around him. He wasn’t moving. Something was wrong with his head but I couldn’t figure out what it was.

“I’ll kill you both,” Whitey shouted. “You think you shot me? Think again. This is nothing.”

There was more yelling and screaming from the other apartments. Police sirens wailed in the distance. Webster growled from a hiding spot somewhere in the living room. I felt torn. Part of me wanted to run back into the living room and shoot Whitey again and again until the gun was empty. But I had other things to deal with, too.

“Darryl…”

I knelt over his body. His blood soaked through my jeans, a sticky mess. His head was at an odd angle. I shook him, but he still didn’t move. He wasn’t breathing. When I rolled him over, I saw why. Even though I had turned him over, Darryl’s head remained face down. They’d shot him in the neck. The bullet tore most of his throat out, and there wasn’t much left to support his head. Just some flaps of skin and gristle. He’d almost been decapitated. Strangely, I didn’t throw up. Didn’t feel sick.

All I felt was sadness.

The sirens drew closer.

In the living room, we heard Whitey bump against the coffee table. He was back on his feet.

“Come,” Sondra shouted.

“Darryl…we’ve got to do something for him!”

“Nyet. Is too late, Larry. Whitey is coming. So are police.”