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.”
She dragged me out the door. I didn’t protest. I don’t think I could have, even if I had wanted to. My mind was numb. We ran to the Cherokee. Luckily, my keys were still in my pants pocket. A crowd of people mingled around. They stared at us. We must have made quite a sight. Both of us were barefoot and almost naked. I only had on a pair of jeans, and all that Sondra wore was one of my t-shirts and her panties. We were both armed, and covered in Darryl, Alexander, and Vacheslav’s blood and the dried remnants of our lovemaking.
“Hey,” one of my neighbors hollered. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
Instead of answering, I unlocked the Cherokee. Sondra and I jumped inside and took off. The crowd moved out of our way as we roared out into the road. I stomped the gas pedal. Sondra used the t-shirt to wipe blood from my face. The pistols rested on the seat between us. The iPod played some classic Slayer, but I turned it off. I needed to concentrate. Figure out what the hell to do now.
“The cops—”
Sondra interrupted me. “No police. You promised.”
“People are fucking dead, Sondra! Darryl. Darryl is dead. In my apartment. His throat…And those fuckers… those fuckers did it.”
“Nyet. No police. They will send me away. The Bratva will kill everyone I love.”
I chose my words carefully. “At this point, won’t they go after your brothers and sisters anyway?”
“Da.”
“So then why not get the cops involved? Maybe they can protect you. Protect your family. Work with the Russian authorities and—”
“Do you not listen? The Bratva own the authorities in my country. Is no good.”
“Well, whether we call them or not, they’re already involved. My neighbors heard the gunshots. Somebody dialed 911. The cops were on the way when we left. You heard the sirens. They’ll figure out I lived there and that we fled the scene. Everybody saw us. We’re fucked.”
Sondra crossed her arms and shivered. I turned on the heat. Hot air blew across our bare feet. We needed to get off the road, and fast.
“Not only are we suspects,” I continued, “but Whitey was still alive. I shot him in the shoulder. They’ll capture him on the scene. If we tell them now, they can arrest him as soon as a doctor sews that shoulder up.”
Sondra muttered something in Russian. She wouldn’t look at me. Instead, she watched the night flash by.
“What’s that?”
“I say that he will not be there when cops come. Whitey will be gone.”
“He’s wounded. No way he can flee that quickly. He was losing a lot of blood.”
“He will be gone when they arrive. You do not know Whitey.”
She turned away again and stared out the window. I was frustrated, but decided not to press it. She’d been through just as much shit as I had—more, actually. I needed to be gentle.
I fumbled for my cell phone, glad that I’d left it in the Jeep.
“No,” Sondra pleaded. “You promise, Larry!”
“Relax. I’m not calling the cops. I’m calling Jesse.”
“Who is this Jesse?”
“He’s my friend. I need to let him know about…Darryl. And he’s at the Odessa. I need to warn him to get the fuck out of there.”
Sondra’s face paled.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your friend is at the club?”
“Yeah.”
“Did Whitey and Otar know he is your friend?”
My stomach lurched. I gripped the cell phone tightly.
