Kill Whitey

nine

Darryl took care of calling GPS. The phone lines at the distribution center were busy and it took him a long while to get through. When he finally did, Darryl told our supervisor, Scott, that the head gasket in my Jeep had blown and we were stranded along the side of Interstate 83 waiting for a tow truck. Scott wasn’t real happy with this news. Apparently, our Load Area was getting slammed with boxes. Twelve trailer shipments of Total Gyms had arrived and they all had to go out immediately. Dock workers fucking hate Total Gyms. They’re heavy, unwieldy, and generally a big pain in the ass. The plastic binding straps can snap if you use them to lift the boxes, and the cardboard has sharp edges that will give you one hell of a paper cut if you’re not wearing gloves. The only thing worse than seeing an endless supply of Total Gyms rolling across the conveyor belts and sliding down your chute is at Christmas and the start of summer, when book distributors like Ingram and Baker & Taylor increase their shipments to bookstores. That’s just pure fucking hell—all those heavy boxes of diet books and How to Get Rich guides and whatever Oprah got wet about on television. Makes for hard days. That’s probably why I don’t read much, anymore. Thank God Oprah’s off the air now.

So Scott was pissed off, but not at us. He was just mad in general. Our department was getting its ass kicked. But he believed the excuse—believed that we were standing alongside the highway with a busted head gasket—and we were off the hook and out of trouble.

Relatively speaking.

We still had that whole Russian mob thing to worry about.

Sondra started crying again. It happened suddenly. No preamble or warning. One minute she was sitting there at the table, petting Webster and drinking her coffee. The next, she had her face in her hands, her body wracked with sobs. Webster hopped off her lap and ran into the living room. He stopped there, turned around, and watched her. Then he looked at me.

“Hey…” I reached for her, but then pulled my hand away. I didn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry your old man molested you,’ didn’t seem appropriate. Neither did, ‘I’m sorry that you became a sex slave for the Russian mob’ or ‘Hope you and your unborn baby escape the psychopath who wants to kill you’. I was pretty sure Hallmark didn’t make greeting cards for such occasions.

I realized that Darryl and Webster were both looking at me now. They had the same expression on their faces: Do something, dumb ass.

So I did.

I got up, walked around the table and put my hand on Sondra’s shoulder. The silk was soft and smooth. Her skin was warm. She didn’t move, didn’t look up or acknowledge me, but neither did she push me away or run off screaming. I patted her shoulder and made empty promises—that it would be okay, that it was alright, all better, she was safe now. Sondra didn’t respond, but after a few minutes, she raised her head and wiped her eyes.

“I am sorry. I not mean to cry so much. I am just very afraid. And very tired.”

“Would you like to lie down for a little bit?”

She nodded. “Da. Just for few minutes.”

I took her by the hand. She didn’t resist. Webster trotted after us. I led her to my bedroom and immediately regretted it. The room was a mess. The sheets were rumpled and covered with crumbs—even a stain from the last time I’d eaten a meatball sandwich in the bed. Webster shed a lot and wads of cat fur covered the bedspread. Dirty clothing and wet towels littered the floor. My dresser and nightstand were a forest of empty beer bottles, joint stubs, half-read paperbacks, plates, bowls, and CD cases. The room smelled like ammonia; Webster’s litter box was hidden in the corner. I hurriedly attempted to tidy up, grabbing an armload of towels and clothes. Sondra giggled.

I turned around. She smiled at me and shut the door behind her. Webster immediately howled his displeasure at being locked out of the bedroom.

“See? You are like other men. Waiting for mother to clean up after you.”

I couldn’t tell if she was being serious or joking. Shrugging, I dropped the dirty laundry in the hamper.

“The bed’s clean,” I said. “Just a little messy. Go ahead and lie down for a bit.”

“I am not wanting to be alone.”

“I’m sure Webster will climb up there with you. He never turns down a chance to nap. As you can hear, he wants in.”

“I like cat very much. He is fuzzy. But you will stay, too, yes?”

“M…me?” I swallowed. “Sure…I g-guess. If you want me to.”

“Da, I want you.”

She lay down on the bed, propped herself up on her elbows, and smiled again. I smiled back. She patted the mattress next to her and kicked off her high heels. Her robe had come unfastened again. Trying not to stare, I sat down on the edge of the bed and unlaced my boots. I jumped when her hands touched my shoulders.

“Shhh,” she whispered.

Sondra began massaging my shoulders. Her fingers kneaded muscles that I hadn’t even known were sore. Her breasts brushed against my back. Her nipples were stiff. So was I. She continued rubbing. The tension drained out of me. Gently, she pulled me down. Her face hovered inches away from mine. And then we kissed. She winced a little and I remembered her split lip.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized.

“Is okay. You are good to take care of me.”

I nodded, too stunned to speak.

“I wish I could stay here,” she said. “Is nice. My apartment is not this nice. You must have good job.”

“Not really.”

She kissed me again. This time, I made sure not to brush against her cut. Her fingers worked their way down my chest, then slipped beneath my shirt and caressed my stomach.

“You are in good shape. What do you do for living? You are not police. Maybe you are in the army, no? Or maybe you are under the cover police?”

I chuckled. Her hands glided up to my chest. It felt good. She toyed with my chest hair, twirling it in her fingers.

“No,” I said, “nothing like that. I’m a dock worker. I work for GPS—Globe Package Service, over in Lewisberry. Darryl and I both work there. That’s who he had to call a little while ago.”

“Oh.” There was a slight hint of disappointment in her voice.

“Why?” I asked. “Does it matter?”

“You seem like dangerous man. The good kind of dangerous. Not bad kind. Like you can protect, no?”

“I can protect you.”

“You can fight?”

“Sure. I can kick ass when I need to.”

And I meant it, too. I hadn’t been in a fight since the seventh grade, when I popped Glen Lehman in the mouth because he stole my Moon Knight comic and gave it to his little brother. The fight was a draw. I’d been in close calls since then—shoving matches and stare downs. But no fists. No beatings. Truth was, I didn’t know if I could stomp some ass or not, but lying there in Sondra’s arms, I felt like I could.

Sondra gently squeezed my nipples and I grew harder than I’d ever been in my life.

“Could you kill?” Her breath was hot on my neck.

I nodded. “Yeah. If I had to, I could kill.”

“You could kill Whitey?”

She slipped a hand into my pants and squeezed my cock. I groaned. Her pouting, glossy lips glistened in the dark. Her eyes were sad. So was her voice.

“Larry,” she pleaded, “you will kill Whitey?

“If he comes after us.”

“You can kill him?”

“Yes,” I said. “If he tries to hurt us, I can kill him.”

“Easy to say. Harder to do. Many have tried.”

“He’s just a man.”

Instead of responding, she kissed me a third time. Both hands cradled my erection, kneading it through my pants.

“Damn…” My breath hitched in my chest.

Sondra nuzzled my ear. “And speaking of hard…”

She slipped off her silken clothes and then slipped off mine. I stared at her in the light. The sight of her beauty took my breath away. I’d watched her all those times on stage, seen every private part of her, and pretended that she was dancing only for me, but this was different. She was here now. Not fantasy, but flesh. Sondra was sharing herself with me and me alone. No one else could be a part of this.

“You like?” she purred.

“Yeah,” I said. “I like.”

We made love then, and despite the fact that I’d been shot at, and we were hiding from the mob, and one of my best friends was in the other room, and my cat was scratching at the bedroom door, and that I didn’t know her and didn’t have any condoms and we both had coffee breath—despite all of that—it was absolutely the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had happen to me. It was tender and slow and passionate and fun. It wasn’t sex. Wasn’t fucking. This was something different. We took our time with each other, forgot about everything else and just surrendered. I didn’t know if she really liked me or expected to be paid when we were done or was just rewarding me for saving her life—and in truth, I didn’t give a shit. It was too perfect to ruin with thoughts and fears and misgivings.

Here’s a little fact about guys that you might not know. Men fantasize, too. We don’t just want porno movie sex. Yes, we may be primarily visual creatures, but we’ve got feelings, too. We want to love and be loved. We just don’t admit that shit out loud. But yeah, we want to be wanted. Loved. And lying there, holding Sondra in my arms as we moved together, our bodies touching, our mouths locked, our hearts beating—I felt loved. I’d never felt anything like it before and I didn’t want it to end.

Not ever.

And for that brief moment, it didn’t. Time stopped. The only two things in the universe were me and her. Nothing else mattered.

Until the gunshot.