The Russian Heist, page 17
Smittylookeddrunkandseemedintentonremaininginthatstate.While Macbride and Sonny lugged the heavy garbage bags into the kitchen from the back door, Dimitri and Bobbi went upstairs. From the kitchen below, they could hear the headboard banging against the walls and her gasps and cries. Macbride looked at the boy and said, “Tramp.”
“Watch your mouth, fat ass.” Smith stumbled into the kitchen and began rooting among the canned goods.Macbridewatchedhiminfascinationasheopenedacanof cornand washed it down with a Budweiser while the noisy sex upstairs went on unabated. Macbride, unused to any kind of physical labor, was drained even ashisbodybuzzedwiththedischargeof adrenalin.Hesatinthechairwhile Sonny finished unloading the bags and supplies from the Durango.
“Why are you bringing in the car batteries?” Macbride asked him. “So we don’t freeze our asses off, stupid.”
There would be no heat, Dimitri said, because the furnace was broken
but they had running water and they could run electric heaters , the TV, andaColemanoff thebatteries.Inastroke,Macbriderealizedhowtrapped they were. When Smith’s plan was blown to smithereens by the killings, Macbridebeggedforhisshare,saidhe’dtakehisownchances.Dimitritold him if he so much as put a hand inside one of those bags he’d pull out a bloody stump.
Now they sat around in a chilly, abandoned farmhouse mesmerized by the television screen. Macbride dared not turn away from the TV, afraid that if he went for a glass of water, he might miss hearing his name. The Smithsandtheirjuveniledelinquentshouldhavebeenlonggone.Heshould be standing on a pier in Key West overlooking aquamarine waters and haggling with some brine-weathered boat captain about a charter to Guadeloupe.Instead,theywerehidinginatumbledownhousewaitingfornewID papers as useless as Bobbi’s fake tits.
As long as his face wasn’t yet plastered on television newscasts, he believed he still had the option to leave before his name was broadcast. His instincts said to do just that—get into the wind, fly.
Something else said no. That something lay in the stacks and piles all around. More money than anyone couldcount in a day. Heaped in bundles onto tables, some of it not yet fished from the garbage bags, banded into various denominations, tantalizingly fresh—but not so fresh it could cut your fingers. Money for spending, if they could find a way to live to spend it.
Dimitrigavenosignof abandoninghisvodka.Noonedaredtopropose dividingthemoneyandsplittingup.Thetorporof thegroupinthisghastly den of thieves astounded and terrified him. What happened to the exhilaration of the night before—all those gleeful fantasies exchanged about where they would live it up with their wealth?
Macbride had never seen violent death before. He almost threw up but Dimitriwouldhavekilledhim,too.HesawthegunDimitriused,notmuch bigger than Carlos’ in fact, and when the big Russian twisted around in the seat and broke Carlos’ arm, he was too stunned to speak. Dimitri snapped itattheelbowwithaloudcrackof boneandjerkeditaboutuntilitflopped like a rag doll’s against Carlos’ side. A big man moving in a confined space was something to behold. Before Smith could get traction, the tires of the van sizzled and burned rubbery smoke beneath them, Dimitri shot Carlos in the face. Macbride remembered how a lock of the little man’s neatly combed hair jumped from the muzzle blast. Dimitri kicked the back doors open and heaved the body out backwards as the van leaped forward. Macbride almost vomited again.
Money—only money could change these last hideous hours into something like hope.
Chapter 18
Wednesday: Bobbi, ad Astraper Vaginam Bobbi watched from an upstairs window while Dimitri and Sonny went outside. She found her husband snoring on the downstairs sofa. “Hey, where they going?” she shook him awake.
“Leave me be, bitch.”
“Wake up! You’re drunk. Where are they going?” She shook it out of him in bursts:
“Drivethru . . . the freeway . . . hamburgers.”
She punched his shoulder. “Hamburgers? We’re s’posed to stay out of sight—nobody’s s’posed to leave! What’s happening?”
“I fuckin’ told you! He’s going to get hamburgers.”
“Wake up, asshole. What did he say?”
“You tell me, whore. You two are slicker than cat shit on a marble floor all of a sudden. It was my plan, remember?”
Hecollapsedbackonthecouchandburiedhisfaceintothefabric,muttering, “My plan, my plan . . .” The alcohol oozed through his pores and added to the unwashed smell of his clothes. He hadn’t bathed or changed clothes in three days. Things were falling apart, fast. Real menace was in the house with them now along with all that money.
She carried pots of heated water from the kitchen to make him bathe. The professor sat in his chair watching; his stupid cat lay curled up on his round stomach. “Fat slob just lies around with a scared look in his eyes,” she said to Nelson. “His cat’s got bigger balls—”
She turned on the taps and watched the water dribble and trickle. She changed her mind about giving up the tub of lukewarm water. Let him fix hisown,thelazybastard.Whenshewasagirl,solitudeinthebathroomwas anunobtainableprize.Thereweremomentswhenshecouldbealonewhile the family din swirled around her. She could think her thoughts or masturbate in peace. She couldn’t wait to leave home at thirteen. Except for steel bars it was no different from a prison. She was never alone, babies and little ones clinging to her, hollering at her constantly to be picked up.
Butshediscoveredshewaswhitetrashherfirstdayof juniorhighwhen every boy in Bluefield thought he had a right to snap her bra from behind or say filthy things to her in the hallway about what they’d like to do to her. She was born Roberta Cooper in a house that smelled of coal smoke and animalfecesandhadcrumblycementstepsoutfront.Exceptforascrawny Rose-of-Sharon in the backyard where the dogs were kept and a lilac bush by the porch, the yard was all dirt, and it looked like everybody else’s place on that street. The only difference seemed to be the number of brokendown cars on blocks out front.
Town people called where they lived “Dogpatch” or “Tobacco Road.” When she learned how despised her family was for being poor and illiterate,sheburnedwithshame.Herbreastswerealreadybigatelevenwhenan oldergirlattheendof thehollowinitiatedherintosex.Shestayedoverher house one night when both their parents were out drinking. The girl broughtherretardedbrotherintotheroomandtookdownhispants.They took turns putting his doodle in their mouths. That’s what the girl called it, a “doodle,” which made her giggle.
Shealsodiscoveredsexmadeenemies.Everygirlinschoolhatedherbecausetheboyslustedforheranddrewcartoonfiguresof herintheirnotebooks. She caught her own father looking at her from the bathroom doorway too often for it to be coincidence and her brothers were always findingexcusestobargeintothebathroomjustatthemomentshestepped out of the tub with her skin dripping wet.
One day she found herself in the boy’s bathroom with a handsome boy with black hair and a single wedge of eyebrow, one of the popular kids, a football player, who had never looked twice at her when she’d seen him in town at the movie theater or the places where kids hung out She did for him what she had done to other boys she never cared half as much for. As soonasshefinished,shewipedthedribblefromherchinandstartedtoget off her knees.
“Wait right there, Bobbi,” he said, pushing her back down by her shoulders. “I got ya’ll a surprise.”
Some surprise: one boy after another came into the stall. First, his best friend. She recognized him because he always made jokes about her breast size.Helookedatherwithasheepishsmileonhisfaceandstartedtounzip his pants. Never said a word. That was when she knew what she was good for, all she was good for. The boys kept coming—she didn’t know how many but at some point before her tears fell in parallel streams down her cheeks;shevowedshewouldnevercryagainevenif itmeantsuckingevery cock in school. Twice she gagged on the heaps of sperm jetted into her mouth and throat, splattered over her face, or shook, laughing, into her eyes and hair. She made a hateful game of it, urged them on, mocked them if they couldn’t get stiff fast enough, these town boys who despised her. She’d give them something to remember all their worthless lives.
Whenitwasoveroneof thefemaleteacherswashedheroff withsoapy water in the girls’ bathroom. She seemed to be smiling at her, and she was so grateful to have someone touch her with tenderness that she couldn’t help herself, she started crying softly. The woman cupped her breasts and squeezed hard, hurting her. She leaned into her face and spat. “Stop whimpering, you filthy little whore! God didn’t give you these to abuse!”
They called her parents and made her father come get her. He dropped her off and drove back to work. Her mother said her beating would commence when he got home from work. When the babies went to sleep, she slipped out of bed fully clothed and left the house. She never returned. Never called home to say she was married. They were dead to her but she often wondered how the little girls had turned out.
She looked much older so when the truckers who picked her up asked her age, she always said eighteen. Three blow jobs got her only as far as Youngstown.Fromthehighwayshehadseenabarrimmedwithneonlights andahugehighwaysignshowingawomaninmake-upshapedlikeanhourglass; she wore a top decorated with sequins and the name of a bar. Bobbi asked the driver where it was. The truck driver told her and pointed off to the right. “I thought you was wantin’ to go further,” he said. “Y’all welcome to ride along.” She thanked him but said here would be fine. He was a nice man but he didn’t smell clean. She’d already leaned to control her gag reflex by so it was not a problem.
She sunk down into water until it covered her chin. Her breasts were twin islands separated by a lagoon of gray water. She touched her nipples erect and slipped her hand between the folds of her labia. She rubbed herself with practiced flicks of her finger against her clitoris and thought of her favorite sex fantasy, a faceless man grinding away on top of her, the slap of their warm skin heightening the sensuality. He went deep, saying nothing to her, just a grunting automaton with his manbone working like a horn inside her.
Dimitri came as close to her phantom as any man she had ever fucked, though she had to admit that her husband’s cock gave her more pleasure whenever he bothered to time his thrusts to hers. Dimitri, however, could go for an hour, and she often wondered if he were mentally ill. She was looking to a future where she was alone in her dream world: a woman in fine clothes, her body caressed by the most expensive gowns, admired when she walked in, always an expensive restaurant or a private salon by invitation only—a woman who drew all eyes to her, not just lusting men butthewomen,too,whoburnedwithenvy,andtheycouldsee,atlast,she was desirable for her poise, grace, and intelligence. But sometimes the faces blurred, contorted into jeers and scornful looks. Then she was back in the hills.
Nomorestickingherhandsuptheassesof senileoldmenwiththeirimpacted bowels. She was out of that job forever; she was sick of the snide looks of the RNs and the occasional visiting doctors who treated her like an imbecile good only for changing beds and dumping bed pans. The youngfemaledoctorsweretheworst—justbitches,questioningeverything sheputonthechartsordidonhershift.Themaledoctorswerenotmuch better.
She smacked the water, ending her reverie. The means to achieve her dreamwasdownstairsscatteredonthetableandthefloor.Herhusbandand thefatprofessorwerestupidmenwhenitcametounderstandingtheRussian.Sheknewfromthedaysheandherhusbandinvitedhimintotheirbedroomforsexanddecidedthetimewasrighttolayouttheirplantohimand invite him aboard. She recalled how he lay on his side after he finished up and looked at her, his elbow crooked for support, stared into her and saw everything there was to see—her wretched past, her bad grammar, her cheap clothes, assessing it coldly while her husband pumped his load into herfromtheothersideof thebed.Shehadn’tcomeyet.LookingintoDimitri’s eyes, she felt a shudder ripple through her and build into a sequence of waves.Hereachedoutandheldhercalmlybythechinsohecouldwatch her face while she had her orgasm.
In the days after he agreed to join them, he continuedto be polite, careful in his speech, courteous even, but she had seen inside him, too, and she knew one thing those men downstairs should have known, but didn’t. He was going to kill them all and keep the money. She was going to see to it that she didn’t wind up like the spic.
What Dimitri wanted to do when they got back to the house was stake the kidoutinthefrontyardlikeagoatandwaitforthetigerstoshow.Instead he threw bags of fast food with the clown portrait on the front at them oneatatime.Theprofessor’sflewoutof hishandsandtheburgerslanded on the floor, spilling meat, buns and ketchup all over, which made Dimitri laugh.
Sonny didn’t buy the Russian’s line and didn’t trust him any farther than hecouldthrowhim—yeah,yeah,right,man,Iseewhatyou’resayin.’Heknewthe Russian was playing head games while they drove up the street to McDonald’s. Talking about being the boss, owning whores and bitches, fucking women. Sonny was seriously gaming now to pass the time. You could control a game.
Itwasn’tsupposedtobeaboutkillinganyone,man.Hereallydidn’tneed this shit. The Mad Pack was scoring big off Conrail. They all had BMXs, new boards, Nikes, British Knights, Xboxes, PlayStation 4s, MP3 players, whatever—shit, the works. They didn’t need this. “Oh fuck me,” he said. A mistake, he realized, as soon as the big Russian bastard swiveled his head to look at him. Got to keep cool.
He hated his stupid father, his dumb-bitch wife, the fat slob with his pointy beard, but most of all, he hated this Russian a few feet away, hated his ugly face, called him “Incredible Hulk “Moscow motherfucker” behind his back. It killed him nobody said word one about the dead fairy—it was likeheneverexisted.DimitrimadeSonnynervousasshitandthat’swhyhe had to keep downing his tablets and playing hour after hour—to numb that big scary dude right out, man.
They went out back to the ramshackle garage overgrown in grape vine that hadcomeupfromthefieldsandshroudedit.Itwasswaybackedinthemiddlelikeanoldhorseabouttofalldownanddie.Theplacehadbeencleaned up but it still reeked of meth fumes from whoever had used it as a lab. Thesestupidpeople.Dimitrilaughed,theythoughttheycouldrideoff into the sunset like their American cowboys.
Dimitri placed a chunk of wood on the chopping block, lifted the axe inonehandandbarelytwistinghisbody,letitdescribealazyparabolaover his shoulder and thunk-chunk, two pieces flew up.
“Becareful,”DimitrisaidhandingtheaxetoSonny.“Don’tkillyourself, little man.”
SonnystaredintotheRussian’swolf smile.No,becauseyouintendtodothat, you Moscow motherfucker, but said nothing; he took the axe from him and set to work. Sonny didn’t like the way Dimitri stared at him. He missed his homies. Man, it wasn’t fair. Just because she let him put his hands around her titties while she was taking a bath. Now he was doomed, man, fuckin’ doomed. Once that dude stepped in your shit, you were gone. He had a split second’s joy when his own face popped up on the screen, his stupid realnamebelowthe fuckassschoolphoto.Heimaginedhimself onAmerica’s Most Wanted, talking to a couple serious-looking US marshals about the notorious airport heist. Then he saw himself in leg chains with hands shackledtoachainbeltinoneof thoseorangejumpsuits—thatsuckedshit for real.
He watched the surly Russian’s back return the way they had come and wished he had enough guts to charge him and drive the axe into his head. Sonny knew what happened to small guys like him in prison; he’d be wearing a dress and his hair grown out and parted down the middle. Wearing makeupfrompencilshavingsandstirringabatchof prunomadefromrotting apples and bananas in some stinking hellhole. Some disgusting dirtball middle-aged convict would smile at him and say, “Yoo-hoo, babydoll, I’m home.”
Man oh man, Sonny would go down on a dead dog just for some free time with his boys back home, do a few Skittles of MXD, or just kick back. Relive his free-running experiences. He’d give anything for a bottle of cherry syrup—robodose until he couldn’t even close his eyes—just to live a little again, man. Not this retarded, goofy shit out here in the cold with an axe chopping wood. Sonny hadn’t logged thousands of hours not to knowsomethingsabouthuntingandkillingyourenemies.Hewasthebait. Out there somewhere in the dark were real tigers.
Chapter 19
Thursday: DeAndre Marquis Scruggs, Witness for Christ Themanthoughtaboutthequestionforawhilebeforeheanswered: “No, I don’t believe that.”
“Soyouseenocontradiction?”Thewhiteboydetectiveaskedhimagain. “I didn’t quit because I felt there was a contradiction between my witnessing and my employment in that place,” he said.
Kirran waited, pen poised over the paper, not exactly breathless with
anticipation. Guy calls himself a religious man but works in an adult bookstore that sells blowup dolls, battery-operated vaginas, every kind of fetish
and bondage kink going, not to mention other anatomical devices for insertion that don’t exist outside Tussaud’s wax museum of torture. Scruggswasacoffee-and-creammixof Afro-AmericanandLatino,but
preferred the term “person of color.” He told Kirran how his mother had
been disowned for mixing with a black man. Kirran wondered how his father’s fifteen-to-life for murdering his mother affected his witnessing. “I quit,because my wife and I weren’t hardly seeing each other. She was
asleep when I was awake and vice versa. We wanted more time together as
a family.”
“You have other children?”
“I have two other children, Sydné and Sharisse. That’s them, the photos
up on mantle.”
“How was the money?”
“Not so good,” Scruggs said with a laugh. “A buck over minimum.” “I see. Mister Scruggs, you mentioned it was a second job—” “Yes,”hesaidafterawhilewiththesamelaboriouscogitationbehindit.
He didn’t care if this racist cop thought it was because he was stupid. He
picked his words because he might be hearing them come back through a
lawyer’s mouth someday. Making sure his testimony in playback wasn’t
going to get him in trouble.
Kirranbitbackhisexasperation.Heoncehadsomeboyswavehimover
