Free Kill Whitey by Brian Keene

shrugged. I nodded.
    “When communism fell,” I said. “It was part of Gorbachev’s reforms. I remember it, too. I was a little kid. My parents watched it on TV.”
    “I was baby then. All my life, I never know Communist Russia. I just know ‘new’ Russia. Know Capitalism. Is supposed to be great thing, like American Democracy. But is not. Is no work for people to do. No way to support families. I never know good times. Only bad. Only poor. My family, they go hungry lots. No money. No jobs. But the criminals—we call the Bratva—they do fine. They are like your Mafia. The Bratva make money. Their families eat at night and have more to drink than vodka. When Soviet Union fall, the Organizatsiya was there. In old days, they sell Western products on black market. Music and movies and blue jeans. But with all the political…how you say…uncertainty…in my country, they take over quick. They take over the banks. Then the courts. Soon, their people run the corporations, factories, everything. They are lawyers, bankers, even judges. They call themselves vori v zakone—thieves in law.”
    “Damn,” Darryl muttered. “Tony Soprano don’t be doing that shit. He just owns a sanitation company.”
    “In my country, the Bratva are the real power,” Sondra continued. “They are many. One hundred thousand of them. They control eighty percentage of private business and half of country’s money.”
    Darryl whistled. “Are you sure? That seems awfully high.”
    “My English is so-so. But I know Bratva. I have known them all my life. The Organizatsiya terrorize everyone—executives, politicians, journalists, common people. First they take over banks and companies. Then they do the things you Americans see on television. Porno. Prostitutes. Drugs. Steal things. Sell weapons. Assassinations. Kidnap. Identity theft. Slaves. All…what is word? Under the ground?”
    “Underground,” I said.
    “Thank you. They are in secret. In the Western movies, Italian Mafia is known, yes? Not the Bratva. They are unseen. If you tell on them, they kill your whole family. Not just you. They wipe out all enemies. Get very strong.”
    Darryl cleared his throat. “How strong?”
    “They take over all other gangs. Italians. Greeks. Chinese. Yakuza. Even American street gangs. Soon, I think, they move on the Colombians, too. That is rumor I hear from other girls.”
    “And now they’re here in York,” I said. Shaking my head, I sipped my coffee. It was already getting cold.
    “Da,” Sondra said. “They are here. They come to America after Cold War. Jewish people flee here. Many from the Organizatsiya fake their passports and come here, too. They settle in Brighton Beach and spread out from there to all American towns and cities. Whitey Putin come to York. He is in charge here. But Whitey is not like traditional Bratva. He is like me—raised on Western culture. He is not secret, like in Russia. He is, how you say? Operating in the open? Is easy to tell he is criminal.”
    Darryl sipped coffee. “Then how come he ain’t in jail?”
    “Because he is also clever. He give money and women to police and cover his tracks.”
    “Sondra,” I said, “if you don’t mind me asking—you seem like a nice girl. How did you get wrapped up with these guys?”
    “Wrapped…up?”
    “Yeah. It means ‘involved’. How come you’re working for a guy like Whitey? I mean—you’re beautiful.”
    She smiled, lowering her eyes. I felt my cheeks begin to burn. Darryl grinned at me. Despite my embarrassment, I stammered on.
    “You…you could be a model. An actress. How did you end up dancing in a strip club for some Russian mobsters?”
    Sondra laughed softly, but it was a humorless sound. Her expression was sad. Suddenly, her eyes brimmed with tears. She sat down her coffee mug, scooted back from the table, and grabbed a paper towel. After she’d wiped her eyes and blown her nose, she leaned against the sink. She seemed tired. Her shoulders