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White Russian

A short story by Justin White

I'm used to dealing with gangsters. I grew up with them, I've spent my whole life around them. These guys, these Russians, are a very different breed. I had always heard that they're a patient people, not this bunch. It didn't take long for them to call in the favor I found myself owing.

Vito Candolini is a man of the people; he believes that people should have what they want, when they want, no matter what Johnny Law has to say about it. People fear him; you don't get called "The Shark" because you're the humanitarian of the year, but just as many respect him. Some even love him, in an odd sort of way. Danny Doyle is a thug and a maniac, all he has ever cared about is lining his pockets and doing whatever pops into that twisted brain of his. I'm not sure his own mother loves him but I'm damn sure she's afraid of him. This guy, I don't know what the hell to make of him.

He works fast, if nothing else. I'm in a car and on my way south to Fulton less than twenty-four hours after my run in with Bull. Two granite faced goons flank me in the back seat of one the finest cars I've ever been abducted in. The Rolls Royce speaks volumes about my new friends. Lyudmila sits up front with the driver, she turns to check up on me and reassure me that all is well every few minutes. That helps less than she thinks. We pull up to one of the most ridiculous looking little restaurants I've ever seen. The walls are red and green striped and the roof shining gold. It takes me a second before I realize it's decorated like the Kremlin. It feels absurdly out of place in the new anti-communist America. We all pile out of the car and my guards motion for me to enter.

Viktor Andreiovich Romanov is as massive and imposing a figure as you'd want in a gang lord, made all the more intimidating by the long scar down the left half of his face. Topping the whole impression of barely contained malice is his one milky white eye, rendered useless in the incident that gave him the scar. He's also the hairiest man I've ever seen, grey from his head down the pelt on his knuckles. He pours each of us a glass of strong smelling vodka as his grim henchmen look on.

"You are no doubt surprised to find us here, da?"

"I didn't think there were many Russians out here." I get a good whiff of the Vodka, I'm not sure I'm interested.

"We are White Russians. You are familiar with the term?" Viktor takes a long easy swig from his glass. I'm still not sure I'm interested.

"You fought for Czar Nicholas during the Bolshevik revolution."

"Oh ho! A scholar we have here! He was my cousin and simply the 'fall guy' I believe is the term. Damn those Marxist bastards to hell!" He knocks back the rest of his drink and begins to pour another. "You are wondering why I have brought you here."

"I was curious." I take a pull from the vodka. It's eye opening.

"Your Don Vito has gone 'down the river' is it?"

"Up the river."

"Ah, of course, yes. With his going up the river there will be certain needs in your city, needs that my associates and I can meet most readily! There is of course the problem with Mr. Doyle, but it seems you are already 'On the case'! When Lyudmila told me who it was she had encountered, I could not believe the luck! You are exactly the man we are in most need of!" He ends with what I'm guessing is meant to be a reassuring grin. It brings to mind being mauled by a grizzly.

"I'll save the 'thank you' until you finish." I consider taking another pull of the Vodka, but think better of it.

"Ho ho! A wise man indeed! You are already eliminating our competitors, for that you have my thanks!" He raises his glass to me, I return the gesture. "Also though, you know people, contacts of Don Vito's that we need to do business in your city. You will take my Lyudmila, and you will make introductions to these people. She is face of our organization, for mine is not so pretty as hers!" He waves his hand over the massive scar and laughs loudly. His men share the joke with him and all have a good laugh. It's the first sign of life I've seen out of them since I got here. I just smirk and nod my head.

"That's easy enough. A lot of them aren't going to like it much, but how many of us have a choice right now?" Viktor laughs again, long and loud, rumbling like thunder across the empty restaurant.

"You are a man of my own heart! A pragmatist! There is one more thing, then, we will consider our debt paid in full. I am lover of your American music, The Jazz most especially. It would be an honor if you would favor us with a song." I sit up straight, eyes widening. This just became a lot more uncomfortable.

"You know more than you let on Viktor."

"Da, always. It is how I am alive and my poor idiot cousin is not." I nod, and make my way across the small restaurant to the upright piano in the corner. I ease myself onto the bench next to Lyudmila. She looks a lot more like a giddy child than a mobster's daughter. No one has looked at me like that in a long time.

"Anything specific you'd like to hear?" My fingers reach and flex, testing the old piano. It plays surprisingly well; they've kept it well tuned if nothing else.

"I have always enjoyed your 'Blue Sundays' tune. It is favorite of my Lyudmila as well." She nods eagerly.

I haven't played in over a year now, I haven't even thought about trying. I look at my hands with their knuckles scarred and calloused. They aren't a musician's hands anymore. I feel the ache from countless punches, the creaking of battered bones. I stretch them out; they're stiff from the cold. It doesn't take long for them to remember what they once were, and they don't mind forgetting what they've become.

Description
White Russian

A short story by Justin White

I'm used to dealing with gangsters. I grew up with them, I've spent my whole life around them. These guys, these Russians, are a very different breed. I had always heard that they're a patient people, not this bunch. It didn't take long for them to call in the favor I found myself owing.

Vito Candolini is a man of the people; he believes that people should have what they want, when they want, no matter what Johnny Law has to say about it. People fear him; you don't get called "The Shark" because you're the humanitarian of the year, but just as many respect him. Some even love him, in an odd sort of way. Danny Doyle is a thug and a maniac, all he has ever cared about is lining his pockets and doing whatever pops into that twisted brain of his. I'm not sure his own mother loves him but I'm damn sure she's afraid of him. This guy, I don't know what the hell to make of him.

He works fast, if nothing else. I'm in a car and on my way south to Fulton less than twenty-four hours after my run in with Bull. Two granite faced goons flank me in the back seat of one the finest cars I've ever been abducted in. The Rolls Royce speaks volumes about my new friends. Lyudmila sits up front with the driver, she turns to check up on me and reassure me that all is well every few minutes. That helps less than she thinks. We pull up to one of the most ridiculous looking little restaurants I've ever seen. The walls are red and green striped and the roof shining gold. It takes me a second before I realize it's decorated like the Kremlin. It feels absurdly out of place in the new anti-communist America. We all pile out of the car and my guards motion for me to enter.

Viktor Andreiovich Romanov is as massive and imposing a figure as you'd want in a gang lord, made all the more intimidating by the long scar down the left half of his face. Topping the whole impression of barely contained malice is his one milky white eye, rendered useless in the incident that gave him the scar. He's also the hairiest man I've ever seen, grey from his head down the pelt on his knuckles. He pours each of us a glass of strong smelling vodka as his grim henchmen look on.

"You are no doubt surprised to find us here, da?"

"I didn't think there were many Russians out here." I get a good whiff of the Vodka, I'm not sure I'm interested.

"We are White Russians. You are familiar with the term?" Viktor takes a long easy swig from his glass. I'm still not sure I'm interested.

"You fought for Czar Nicholas during the Bolshevik revolution."

"Oh ho! A scholar we have here! He was my cousin and simply the 'fall guy' I believe is the term. Damn those Marxist bastards to hell!" He knocks back the rest of his drink and begins to pour another. "You are wondering why I have brought you here."

"I was curious." I take a pull from the vodka. It's eye opening.

"Your Don Vito has gone 'down the river' is it?"

"Up the river."

"Ah, of course, yes. With his going up the river there will be certain needs in your city, needs that my associates and I can meet most readily! There is of course the problem with Mr. Doyle, but it seems you are already 'On the case'! When Lyudmila told me who it was she had encountered, I could not believe the luck! You are exactly the man we are in most need of!" He ends with what I'm guessing is meant to be a reassuring grin. It brings to mind being mauled by a grizzly.

"I'll save the 'thank you' until you finish." I consider taking another pull of the Vodka, but think better of it.

"Ho ho! A wise man indeed! You are already eliminating our competitors, for that you have my thanks!" He raises his glass to me, I return the gesture. "Also though, you know people, contacts of Don Vito's that we need to do business in your city. You will take my Lyudmila, and you will make introductions to these people. She is face of our organization, for mine is not so pretty as hers!" He waves his hand over the massive scar and laughs loudly. His men share the joke with him and all have a good laugh. It's the first sign of life I've seen out of them since I got here. I just smirk and nod my head.

"That's easy enough. A lot of them aren't going to like it much, but how many of us have a choice right now?" Viktor laughs again, long and loud, rumbling like thunder across the empty restaurant.

"You are a man of my own heart! A pragmatist! There is one more thing, then, we will consider our debt paid in full. I am lover of your American music, The Jazz most especially. It would be an honor if you would favor us with a song." I sit up straight, eyes widening. This just became a lot more uncomfortable.

"You know more than you let on Viktor."

"Da, always. It is how I am alive and my poor idiot cousin is not." I nod, and make my way across the small restaurant to the upright piano in the corner. I ease myself onto the bench next to Lyudmila. She looks a lot more like a giddy child than a mobster's daughter. No one has looked at me like that in a long time.

"Anything specific you'd like to hear?" My fingers reach and flex, testing the old piano. It plays surprisingly well; they've kept it well tuned if nothing else.

"I have always enjoyed your 'Blue Sundays' tune. It is favorite of my Lyudmila as well." She nods eagerly.

I haven't played in over a year now, I haven't even thought about trying. I look at my hands with their knuckles scarred and calloused. They aren't a musician's hands anymore. I feel the ache from countless punches, the creaking of battered bones. I stretch them out; they're stiff from the cold. It doesn't take long for them to remember what they once were, and they don't mind forgetting what they've become.