Kill Whitey

fourteen

“In America,” she asked, “have you hear of Grigori Rasputin?”

Yul shook his head. “Never heard of him. Is he another mob guy?”

“Yes you have, man.” I nudged him. “Rasputin, the mad monk? Big ZZ-Top looking beard?”

He blinked.

“You’ve heard of him,” I insisted. “The Russian dude they couldn’t kill?”

“So he is like Jason Voorhees,” Yul said.

“Like I said, he took a lot of damage and kept coming.”

“He is like Jason,” Sondra said. “Not wear hockey mask. Not have same name. But like each other. Hard to kill, no?”

“Jason was hard to kill,” Yul agreed. “But I still don’t remember Rasputin. The name’s not ringing any bells.”

“Rasputin was like a wizard or something,” I said. “Supposed to be some kind of psychic faith healer. He acted as a counselor for Tsar Nicholas.”

“Tsar who?”

I sighed. “Russia’s last royal family? The Romanov dynasty? What the hell did you learn in school, Yul?”

He shrugged. “Not this. And not much else, either. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be working at GPS.”

“The Romanovs ruled Russia,” Sondra said. “Larry is right. They our last kings. Tsar Nicholas, Tsaritsa Alexandra, and their son, Tsarevich Alexei. Alexei had sickness. Had…what is word? When you are to bleed?”

Yul stared at her blankly. “I don’t know.”

“Hemophilia,” I said. “He had hemophilia.”

“Da. Hemo…however you say. He inherit from his great-grandmother. She had, too. One summer, while on vacation, Tsarevich Alexei fall off a horse and bruise his back. He gets very sick and weak. Has much bleeding inside of him. People say he might die. Tsaritsa Alexandra looked everywhere for help. Doctors, faith healers, holy men. Nobody can fix. Alexei gets worse. But Alexandra’s best friend, Anna Vyrubova, tells her that she can help. Anna knew of a wandering strannik in Siberia who was supposed to be powerful healer. Is maybe part of the Kwan.”

“The Kwan?” I hadn’t heard this part of the story before. “What’s that?”

“Am not sure.” Sondra shrugged. “But is not a what. Is a who. Much mysterious. Much said in whispers. Maybe they are magicians. Is said in my country that they secretly rule the world from their black lodge.”

I frowned. The only black lodge I knew of was the song by Anthrax.

“Black lodge?”

“Is place where magicians go.”

“So this Kwan,” I asked, “they’re like the Illuminati? You believe that shit?”

“I don’t know what is Illuminati,” Sondra said. “Is that to turn on lights?”

“No,” I said, “it’s a group of people who supposedly control the world. They own the politicians and the corporations.”

“They say same thing about the Kwan,” Sondra continued. “Maybe is not true. Maybe is bullshit, as you say, but it is what old man in my town used to tell people. I do not know. Maybe the Kwan is not that. Maybe is something different. But Anna Vyrubova thought Rasputin was part of it. She thought he was something special. Says he can help the boy. So the Tsaritsa sent for him. Rasputin prayed over the boy and Alexei get better. Rasputin tell the Tsar and his family to not let doctors bother the boy. Says he will care for the Tsarevich himself. Then, every time Alexei is hurt and bleeds, the Tsarina called for Rasputin to heal him.”

“And,” I interrupted, “that was how he got in good with the family. But what does any of this have to do with Whitey?”

“Much,” Sondra said. “Has much to do. The Tsar put much trust in Rasputin. He came to live with the family, and watched over them, especially Alexei. They say when the boy was attacked by a swarm of bees, Rasputin yelled at the bees and they fly away and not bother the Tsarevich again. Rasputin had much power. He told fortunes. Saw the future. Held much…what is word? Sway? Held much sway over Tsaritsa Alexandra.”

“What did he yell?” Yul asked. “At the bees? What did he say to make them flee?”

“He say, ‘Sting him and you will die.’”

“And that worked?”

“Are you not listening? He had powers. Some say his powers were from books. Others say from his blood—that he was born with special abilities. Maybe both. Or maybe the Kwan. But however he get powers, many in Russia not like it. They say that Rasputin was no man of God. Was man of Devil, instead. Say his abilities are because he make deal with the Devil. And so they plotted to kill him.”

Her voice got louder as she told the story. I cautioned her to whisper, and to hurry up and get to the point. I’d never heard the bee story, either, but it sounded like folk magic to me. Central Pennsylvania was full of that shit. Even today, in some of the more remote parts of the Appalachians, Dutch and German descendants still use powwow magic and folklore, making medicines and spells from The Long, Lost Friend and other weird books. Rasputin’s incantation over the bees sounded like something straight out of one of those books. I guess I believed in it, too, without really thinking about it much. Things like that were just part of the background for me. But I’d seen folk magic in action once, when I was a little kid. My parents had gone away on vacation together, and I had to stay with my Grandma for a week. While I was there, I came down with pink eye. Scared the hell out of me. I thought I was going blind or something. Instead of taking me to the doctor, my Grandma referred to a little brown book, and followed the instructions. Before dawn, she dug up five dandelion roots and tied them together with a white thread. Then she wrapped these up in a clean dishrag, placed it over my eyes, and chanted something out of the book. Sure enough, the infection was gone the next day.

I never believed in God because I’d never seen him in my life. But I believed in my Grandma and I believed in folk magic and I believed what Sondra was telling us.

“Wouldn’t the Romanovs protect him?” Yul asked. “Sounds like he was pretty important to their family.”

Sondra lowered her voice. “Rasputin’s enemies say he is sex fiend, is Satanist, and is having too much political power over the Tsar. When first World War comes, they say he is spy for Germans. And so, many men get together and try to kill him. First, they invite him to big dinner and then poison him. Put cyanide in cakes and red wine and give to him. There was enough poison to kill ten men, but it not kill Rasputin. He ate the cakes and drank the wine and then asked for more. So the men distract him. When Rasputin was turned away, they shot him in the back. One of the men, Felix Yusupov, checked the body. Rasputin open his eyes, grab Felix by the throat, and say, ‘You bad, bad boy.’ Then he fight back at the men.”

I shivered. Whitey had said the same thing to me, back at my apartment. I doubted it was a coincidence.

“Rasputin was still alive. They stab him in stomach and his insides fell out. He had to push them back in. The men beat him badly. Felix strangled him with rope. Hang him from a big tree and his insides fall out again. But Rasputin still alive. He got away and ran. The men shot him three more times. Then they beat him again, tied his hands and feet, put him inside sheet and throw him into the Neva River.”

I shuddered at the image of Rasputin running away, trailing his intestines behind him like he was a fucking zombie or something.

“Jesus,” Yul muttered. “I hope that finally killed him.”

“Three days later, after ice on the river melts, they find Rasputin’s body. Is poisoned, shot four times, strangled, beaten, and stabbed. The authorities did…how you say? Autopsy?”

We nodded.

“They do this. Say the cause of death was by drowning. But they say Rasputin’s hands look like he was alive in the river and trying to claw his way out from under the ice. His fingernails are broken and tips of his fingers are bloody. So he was still alive after all that. Was still alive beneath the ice. Is hard to kill, no?”

“Yeah,” I said, losing my patience. “He was a tough son of a bitch, Sondra, but I still don’t see what any of this has to do with Whitey.”

“Whitey is hard to kill too, no?”

“Sure seems like it.”

“That is because Rasputin is Whitey’s…how you say? Aunt?”

Yul chuckled. “His aunt? You mean he was a hermaphrodite, too?”

“What is that?”

“A he-she,” Yul explained. “A chick with a dick.”

“No,” Sondra said. “Is not that. Rasputin was Whitey’s Aunt.”

“Ancestor,” I guessed. “You mean ancestor, right?”

“Da. To relate. That is word I was thinking of. Related.”

Yul and I stared at her in disbelief.

“Is true,” Sondra insisted. “Whitey is great-grandson of Rasputin, but is…illegitimate? Is that right word?”

“It’s the right word,” Yul said, and then turned to me. “You believe any of this shit, Larry?”

“See?” Sondra pouted. “I say before that you will not believe me. This is why I don’t tell you.”

I didn’t reply. I was too busy thinking about the story. Zakhar Putin, a.k.a. Whitey Putin. Putin—a shortened version of Rasputin. I’d shot the motherfucker twice now, and he was still coming after us, no worse for the wear, far as I knew.

Hard to kill.

It must have run in the family.

Crazy as the whole thing sounded, it made sense to me. What was the alternative? I mean, how else was I supposed to explain all this shit? Sure, maybe you could say that Whitey was on drugs or something. I’ve heard PCP gives you inhuman stamina. The ability to withstand tasers and stuff. Meth-heads can take a lot of pain and keep going. But I’d shot his fucking ear off! Shot him in the shoulder, too. There was no way a normal man would have recovered from those wounds as quickly as Whitey had, even if he was stoned. The blood loss alone should have been enough to put him down.

Yul started to speak, but I interrupted him. I looked Sondra in the eye and said, “Okay, I believe you.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do. But let me ask you something? Do you remember back at my place, when you asked me to kill Whitey?”

She nodded.

“You think maybe you could have told me this then? That information would have been good to have before I tried to do what you fucking asked me to.”

“I am sorry. I was afraid you make fun. You are angry with me now?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not angry. Just frustrated—and a little stunned. Got to admit, this was not what I was expecting to hear.”

“Wait a second,” Yul said. “If this Rasputin guy was a monk, then how did he have any kids? Aren’t monks celibate?”

It was a stupid question. Sondra had already told us that Rasputin was a sex fiend. I started to holler at Yul for not paying attention, but then decided he had a right to be a little out of it. We were all pretty stressed. Wasn’t every day people tried to kill you.

“He wasn’t an actual monk,” I told him, “and Rasputin made no secret of being married—or of having other women. He slept around while he was traveling through Greece and Jerusalem. Had a different woman in each port, you know what I’m saying? He had a legitimate daughter, I think, and it’s rumored that he had a whole bunch more illegitimate kids, too. Makes sense. If he slept around that much, then he probably has more bastards than anyone knows about. Guy was a player. Supposedly, he even banged the Tsar’s wife.”

Sondra nodded. “That is what people say in Russia.”

“Shit,” I said, “if I remember correctly, doesn’t Rasputin means licentious in Russian. I think our teacher told us that.”

Yul frowned. “What’s licentious?”

“It means he liked to fuck a lot. Like Jes—”

I paused. I’d wanted to say ‘Like Jesse’, but I couldn’t get the words out. There was a lump in my throat. My eyes burned. Yul hung his head and sniffed. I felt like the world’s biggest asshole. Jesse was dead, and it was all my fault, and here I was using him as the punch-line to some stupid-ass joke less than a few hours after his death.

Sondra must have sensed the tension in the room, because she spoke up quickly.

“Is not what it means in Russian. Is not ‘horny’. Rasputin is from ‘rasputye’ which means ‘place of crossroads. A place where paths meet. A maze. What do you call? Lab…?”

“Labyrinth,” I said. “It’s called a labyrinth.”

“That is what Rasputin means. A labyrinth.”

“You ask me,” Yul said, “it means bad motherfucker. I mean, if this Whitey guy is like his great granddad, then how do we stop him? How do we kill someone that can’t frigging die?”

“He’s not invulnerable,” I said. “He can feel pain. And fear. You guys heard him screaming when I shot him. And Rasputin died, eventually. So we just need to kill Whitey hard enough to do the job once and for all. Make sure there isn’t anything left of him to get back up and come after us again.”

“But how?” Yul asked again.

“I don’t know,” I whispered, “but we’d better figure something out fast.”

“Why?”

“Listen.”

Hammering sounds echoed across the warehouse. Somebody was battering the boarded up windows.

“Oh, shit.” Yul’s face paled. “We are so fucked.”

For once, he was right.