The Russian Heist by White Robb

Author:White, Robb
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Moonshine Cove Publishing, LLC
Published: 2019-06-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

Nine Days after the Heist: Macbride Uxorious

They didn’t know how long the Russian would be outside so Macbride needed to work fast to plant the seed. He found a clean rag under the sink and cut it up into three pieces; he soaked them in cold water and draped them across his wrists. Bobbi lay on the bed with an arm crossed over her face. One of her eyes was red and swollen. She held a pillow over her torso that covered her breasts but slipped to expose the coral areolae. She was exposed below all the way down to her pubis.

Macbride took in the darkened razor stubble and quickly looked away. It was no time to be embarrassed, if she even had that capacity, which he doubted, but he could afford no distractions in the time available. Your husband’s plan was supposed to make us rich, he wanted to say. Look at the results, stupid woman. Desperate, he sat down as close to her as he dared; he looked forlornly at the wall where long tatters of flocked wallpaper curled at the tops bent by time’s relentless tug.

Like a child pretending to hide from a parent, she moved the pillow up even higher until it covered her face and muffled her voice. “Get out of here,” she said.

“I want to help you, Bobbi,” he said softly and moved nearer. “Let me help you.” He lightly dabbed her face with a cloth strip where tears had dried like snail tracks.

She grabbed the rag from his hand and threw it against the wall. “You want to help me, you fat gutless motherfucker, why didn’t you pull the big bastard off?”

He had a glib answer at the ready but felt the truth would achieve better results: “I was afraid he’d kill me.”

Her flawed irises and contorted smile cracked her toughness a fraction. “I seen him watching and then . . . he was gone,” she said.

Him, her so-called old man, Sonny’s “Pop,” a wife’s husband and protector.

“He’s downstairs . . . resting.”

“You mean drunk.”

“Well, yes, I suppose he is.”

“Christ, Christ, Christ. Sweet fuckin’ Jesus Christ.”

“We don’t have much time.”

Macbride slowly spread his arm out toward her, a peace offering; she saw the damp rags and took one and set it over her nipple and hissed between her teeth.

“That goddamned pig,” she sobbed. “Look what he did to me, oh God damn—”

As the gray light gathered and spread to the corners before darkening the room, she drew long, fitful breaths, and finally subsided into sleep.

Macbride pitied himself, not her. She had asked for it. Lie down with this Russian dog and get up if you’re lucky. When Dimitri was done plumbing her womb, he would kill her too. At least he didn’t have to convince her of that. She couldn’t look him in the eye, didn’t even try to deny it.

Macbride didn’t know what choices the Russian contemplated for them, but he guessed a bullet in the head and then dumped out back for the animals to gnaw.

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