with it.
“Hey!”
Zhukanov bolted the rear door before parting the curtains. The fat bastard had his elbows on the counter, scratching a blubbery chin, sweating, eyes raw-looking and swollen. Hulking silhouette against the black beach sky, maybe tough-looking to some tourist, but all Zhukanov saw was a vat of grease.
“Hey, bro, din’ you hear me?”
Zhukanov said nothing.
“Listen, man-”
“Can’t help you.”
“How can you say that, man, you don’t know what I’m asking.”
Zhukanov started to slide down the front shutter. The fat man reached up and stopped it.
Zhukanov pulled. The fat man resisted. Flabby, but his weight gave him strength.
Zhukanov said, “Move, fatso.”
“Fuck you, shithead!”
That brought the blood to Zhukanov’s face. He could feel it, hot as winter soup. His neck veins throbbed. His hands ached from gripping the shutter.
“Go away,” he said.
“Fuck you, man. I got a question, you could at least try a fucking answer.”
Zhukanov went silent again.
“No big deal, bro,” said the fat man. “Maybe you’ve seen this kid since I was here. You say no, fine. So why you giving me shit?”
The shutter wouldn’t budge. The fat guy’s resistance enraged Zhukanov. “Go away,” he said very softly.
The fat guy pushed at the shutter and it shot up. Daring Zhukanov to try closing it. A bully, used to having his way.
Zhukanov remained in place, smelling him. The stench wasn’t just his breath, it was all of him. A walking garbage heap.
“Seen him?”
“Go away, asshole.”
Now it was the fat man’s turn to go red. Pig eyes bulged; spittle bubbled at the sides of his mouth. That soothed Zhukanov’s anger, turning it warm and smooth. This was starting to get funny. He laughed, said, “Stupid fat-ass piece of shit.”
The fat guy made a deep, fartlike, rumbling sound, and Zhukanov waited for the next insult, ready to throw something back, laugh in the bastard’s face again.
But the fat guy didn’t say a word, just went for him, faster than he thought possible, one huge hand shooting out and snagging him by the throat, pulling him up so hard against the counter he thought his ribs had broken. The pain nearly blinded him and he thrashed helplessly.
The fat guy’s other hand was fisted, zooming at him for a face-pulverizing punch.
Zhukanov managed to jerk his face away from the blow, but the hand around his neck kept squeezing and he could feel all the breath go out of him, hear the fat guy snarling and cursing. Ocean Front was dark, abandoned, just the waves, no one around to watch this monster strangle him to death-no one but the Yids, yards away, doing their Christ-killing chants; they wouldn’t help him anyway.
He tried to tear at the strangling hand, but his hands were sweat-slick, so weak, and the fat man’s arm was moist too, and he couldn’t get a purchase. Slipping and flailing as his field of vision funneled to a pinpoint of light, he saw the fat man’s enraged face, another fist coming at him.
A spasm of panic saved his face but brought the blow along the side of his head, hard enough to rattle his brain pan. His arms continued to wave around uselessly. He didn’t remember the knife until he’d nearly lost consciousness.
Then he remembered: pocket, front pocket, left side for the quick draw, just like they’d taught him in hand- to-hand. The fat man began shaking him harder, feeding off the pain and terror on Zhukanov’s face, not noticing as Zhukanov reached down.
Zhukanov floundered, found it, grabbed too low. Cold metal, a sting, grope-grope, finally he touched the warmth of wood.
He yanked upward. Pushed the blade. No strength, not even a thrust, just a weak, womanish poke and Must have missed, because the fat man was still choking him, cursing… gargling. And now the shaking had stopped.
Now the bastard wasn’t making any sounds.
A look of surprise on his face. The blubbery lips formed into a tiny O.
Like saying, “Oh!”
Where was the knife?
Suddenly, the hand around Zhukanov’s throat opened and air rushed into his windpipe and he retched and choked; finally realized he could breathe, but his throat felt as if someone had used it for a lye funnel.
The fat man was no longer facing him; he was flopped down on the counter, arms hanging over.
Where was the knife?
Nowhere in sight. Losing everything. Must be the vodka.
Then he saw the slow red leak from under the fat man’s shoulder. No gush, no big arterial spurt, just seepage. Like one of those summer tides when the waves got gentle.
He took hold of the fat man’s hair and lifted the massive head.
The knife was still embedded in the guy’s neck, just off-center from the Adam’s apple, tilting downward. Diagonal slice through jugular, trachea, esophagus, but gravity was pulling the blood back down into the body cavity.
Zhukanov panicked. What if someone had seen?
Like the kid in Griffith Park, watching, thinking he was protected by darkness.
But there was no one. Just this fat, dead piece of shit and Zhukanov holding his head up.
A hunter with a trophy. For the first time in a long time, Zhukanov felt strong, territorial, a Siberian wolf.
The only bad thing was the size of the bastard, and now he had to be moved.
Letting the head flop down again, he turned off the lights in the shack, checked the cut on his hand-just a nick-vaulted over the counter, and scanned the walkway in all directions just to make sure.
The stained-glass window in the Yid place was a multicolored patch in the darkness, but no old Yids out in front. Yet.
Removing the knife, he wiped it with his handkerchief, then eased the corpse down to the ground. Wiping blood off the counter, he stuffed the kerchief into the neck wound. Having to roll it up into a tight ball, because the slash was only a couple of inches wide.
Small cut but effective. Small blade-it was the angle that had done it, the fat guy leaning forward to strangle him, Zhukanov giving that little girly poke upward and then suddenly the guy’s weight had reversed the trajectory, forcing the knife down into his throat, severing everything along the way.
Making sure the handkerchief plug was secure, he inhaled deeply and prepared himself for the tough part. Mother of Christ, his neck hurt. He could feel it starting to swell around the neckline of his T-shirt, and he yanked down, ripping some elastic. Looser, but he still felt like the fat guy was choking him.
Another look around. Dark, quiet, all he needed was old Yids flooding out.
Okay, here goes.
Taking hold of the fat guy’s feet, he started to pull the corpse.
The damn thing only budged an inch, and Zhukanov felt horrid pain in his lower back.
Like dragging an elephant. Bending his knees, he tried again. Another vertebral warning, but he kept going- what was the choice?
It took forever to get the bastard out of view, and by then Zhukanov was sweating, out of breath, every muscle in his body aflame.
And now he could hear voices. The Yids coming out.
He yanked, dragged, breathed, yanked, dragged, breathed, frantic to get the corpse well back from the walkway. Had he gotten all the blood off the counter?
He rushed back, found a few stains, used his shirt, turned off the lights, and slammed down the shutter.
