Kill Whitey

three

The Odessa was busy, even at that time of morning. The parking lot was packed with cars, and I had trouble finding a space. I ended up squeezing the Jeep between an SUV and a tractor trailer parked out back. We got out of the Cherokee and I thumbed my remote, locking the doors behind us. The electronic chirp of the power locks was almost drowned out by the muffled music drifting out of the building. Hip-hop or trance, I couldn’t tell which. All we could really hear was the bass line. It rolled like thunder.

There were a few other customers in the parking lot. A guy pissed next to a Harley. I hoped it was his bike. Otherwise, if the owner came out, he was going to get his ass kicked. He seemed oblivious as we walked by him. He shook his dick and moaned. We avoided the trickling urine as it spread steaming across the pavement. Two more men stumbled past us, laughing and clutching half-empty bottles of Miller Lite. Because of Pennsylvania’s archaic liquor laws—designed when the Quakers and the Amish were still in charge—the Odessa was strictly a B.Y.O.B. joint. You could bring in your own beer or liquor, but you couldn’t buy it inside and the establishment couldn’t serve it to you. For a second, I considered asking the two strangers if they had any leftover beer they’d sell us. In our state, you can’t just pick up a six-pack at the grocery store or convenience store. You have to go to a bar or a state-licensed beer outlet, and all of those were closed for the night. Before I could ask them, the guys had brushed by us and lurched towards a muddy pick-up truck.

Sighing and thirsty, I followed Jesse and Darryl towards the front door. Yul lagged behind, staring up at the bright, flashing neon sign. The strip club’s name glowed in hot pink letters, and the dark silhouette of a generously proportioned female form stood beside it.

“I don’t know about this,” he murmured.

“Come on,” I said. “It’ll be fun. Kim never has to find out. Just tell her we went to my place. Or better yet, don’t fucking tell her at all. She doesn’t know we got out early. She thinks you’re at work.”

“Maybe…”

“Hey,” Jesse hollered, standing at the door. “You two coming, or you gonna stay outside all night?”

I flipped him the finger and he returned in kind.

We hurried to catch up with him and Darryl. Then Jesse pulled the door open and the four of us walked inside. Immediately, the music grew even louder. I felt the bass thumping in my chest and teeth. It was something by Jay-Z. I wasn’t sure what. I’m a metal head and I’ve never been much of a hip-hop fan, except for some of the mash-ups. A cloud of cigarette smoke drifted towards us (Pennsylvania may have some shitty laws when it comes to booze, but at least you can still smoke in our bars). We entered a small foyer. On the wall were several notices in big, black letters: Absolutely No One Under The Age of 21 Admitted; In Accordance With State Law, We Do Not Serve Alcoholic Beverages—Please Provide Your Own; We Reserve The Right To Refuse Service To Anyone; and of course, Touching The Performers Is Strictly Prohibited, Violators Will Be Asked To Leave Immediately.

A large bouncer blocked our way. Presumably, he’d be the one who would ask us to leave if we broke rule number four. I got the impression that turning down such a request would be really fucking bad. He looked like a side of beef dressed in a pair of black slacks and a black sweater. Despite the heat and his clothes, he wasn’t sweating. His thin, black hair was plastered to his head with some kind of greasy gel. He had a face like a slab of stone—sullen Slavic features, cold, gray eyes, and a nose that had been broken several times. When he spoke, his thick Russian accent was unmistakable. His voice reminded me of the dude from Rocky IV and I had to stifle a grin.

“Yo,” Jesse greeted the bouncer, “what’s up, Otar? What’s the cover tonight?”

“Ten dollars each. You bring beverage? If so, I check.”

“No drinks for us,” Jesse told him, handing over two fives. “How’s everything tonight?”

“Is good,” the bouncer said, unsmiling. “Is busy.”

I figured that Jesse knew him from his previous visits.

“Ten bucks,” Yul complained. “Christ, that’s pretty fucking steep. And they don’t even serve booze.”

“Shut the fuck up and pay the man,” Darryl said. “You’re gonna spend a lot more than that inside. Just make sure you have some ones on you.”

I dug out my wallet and gave Otar a ten dollar bill. His gray eyes momentarily flashed downward, checking out the contents of my wallet. I stuffed the rest of my cash back inside and put my wallet away. He stamped our hands and then moved aside, letting us enter the club. Jesse took the lead, and we followed.

“Later, Otar,” Jesse called over his shoulder.

Otar didn’t respond. He still hadn’t smiled.

There were maybe forty guys inside the club—rednecks and yuppies, bikers and homeboys, delivery truck drivers and high-powered lawyers—a mix of everything York County had to offer. Some, like us, were in their twenties, but a lot of the businessmen were older. There was one guy that must have been at least eighty. He flashed a toothless grin as he got a lap dance. Like it had in the foyer, cigarette smoke filled the air inside the club. Most of the patrons were seated and drinking, but a few tables were empty. We slid into a booth near the left of the stage. The tabletop was sticky, and a crumpled cocktail napkin was stuck to its surface. The stage dominated the room. A railing ran along the front and sides of it, and guys sat immediately behind that as well—hooting and hollering at the girls.

“What’d I tell you?” Jesse grinned. “Is this the shit, or is this the shit?”

Darryl nodded. “It’s the bomb. Good call, man.”

The music swelled, and we had to shout over it to hear each other. The DJ’s booth was set up in the far right corner of the club. The DJ was a skinny white guy with a receding hairline and the remains of a once proud mullet. He wore Blues Brothers-style sunglasses, even though he was inside. He strutted around behind his booth like a rooster, doing his best to look busy. As far as I could tell, all of his music was programmed into a laptop. Don’t get me wrong. Disc jockeying is hard fucking work. Money is good and there’s pussy galore, but you bust your ass for it. Back in the day, I used to know two guys that did it—Rage and Storm. They were damn good at it, too. Could pack a dance floor like nobody’s business. Always had cash and hot girlfriends as a result. They earned it. But that was before digital technology, back when they still had to use compact discs and records. All this guy had to do was turn his laptop on and make sure his microphone was live.

Next to the DJ booth was a small bar where another surly-looking Russian dispensed plastic cups of soda and water—at five bucks a pop. The club was brightly lit and clean, for the most part. Strippers, each one wearing only a skimpy thong, moved between the tables, flirting and offering lap dances. On the stage, a short Hispanic girl gyrated to the rhythm, slapping her ass occasionally before shoving it into the faces of the guys lined up along the railing. She didn’t do much for me. Her hips were too wide and her backside too big. I’ve never liked a lot of junk in the trunk.

Jesse stood up. “Yo, anybody want a soda? I’ll get first round.”

Darryl didn’t respond. His eyes were glued to the girl onstage. He was a fan of big asses.

“I’ll take a Pepsi,” I said.

“They don’t have Pepsi. Just Coke.”

“That’s fine. Whatever.”

Jesse turned to Yul. “You want anything, dude?”

Yul shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. His attention was focused on a nearby table, where a skinny blonde with huge fake tits was giving a lap dance to a guy in a cowboy hat.

I leaned over so that I wouldn’t have to shout, and elbowed him in the ribs.

Yul jumped.

“You like that?” I nodded at the blonde.

He nodded, still speechless.

Grinning, I scanned the club, checking out the different girls. The Odessa certainly catered to its clientele. There was something for everyone: blondes, brunettes, and redheads; skinny girls and fat girls; babes with back and ones with no junk in the trunk; hot MILFs and barely legal college-age chicks. It was like the internet had opened a strip club. All of the women were naked, except for their thongs. Each time the song changed, a new girl would take the stage, and then her thong came off. The crowd cheered each time. You’d think they’d never seen a woman before. But then again, looking at some of them—they probably hadn’t.

As I looked around, I noticed a few more Russian guys in the room. They were wearing suits, or sport jackets and slacks. Business casual. I wondered what they did on ‘Take Your Daughter to Work Day’. Most of them stood with their backs to the wall, watching the crowd for signs of trouble. All of them had that same stony expression that Otar the doorman had been wearing, and all of them looked like they could kick more ass than a donkey.

Jesse returned with our sodas. I sipped mine and grimaced. It was warm and flat. For five bucks, you figured they’d at least include some fucking ice. Of course, we hadn’t come here for the soda. The four of us sat back and enjoyed the show. The girl ended her set with a simulated orgasm. The music faded. The sound system hummed with feedback.

“Give it up for Sicily,” the DJ said, signaling another change in dancers. There was some scattered applause, along with catcalls, whistles, and rowdy cheers.

“Sicily will be back onstage in an hour. Meanwhile, make some noise for an Odessa favorite. Gentlemen, let’s hear it for Sondra!”

Gwen Stefani boomed from the speakers. The lights dimmed. A red spotlight illuminated the stage. The crowd shouted with enthusiasm. Whoever Sondra was, she had some fans.

“Give it up,” the DJ urged one more time. “Make some noise, ya’ll!”

And that was when I saw her.

Sondra took the stage.

And I fell.