Kill Whitey

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For this new digital edition of Kill Whitey, my thanks to everyone at Cemetery Dance; Kelli Owen, John Urbancik, Tod Clark, and Mark Sylva; Geoff Cooper, for graciously allowing me to reference the Kwan, and for digging this story since its drunken conception and thinking Kill Whitey was the best title since Fuck Around Quotient Zero; everyone who helped me with Russian (there are too many of you to name here); and my sons.

Although this book takes place in Central Pennsylvania, I have taken certain liberties with the geography. So if you’re looking for your favorite strip club or industrial park, it might not be there anymore—just like in real life.

Her name was Sondra, and when she asked me to kill Whitey, I said yes.

What else could I say? If you could have seen her, if you could have watched the way her pouting, glossy lips formed the words, or if you looked deep into her sad eyes, or heard that sorrow in her sweet, pleading voice—you would have said the same thing.

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