Kill Whitey (2 page)

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.

four

The first thing I noticed about Sondra was her black eye, but it was her laugh that really caught my attention.

The DJ was shouting and the crowd was hollering and the music surged—a perfect storm of white noise. It was giving me a headache. I glanced down at my drink, took a sip, and heard her laugh. Even over all the noise, I heard her laugh. I looked back up again and here was this beautiful woman with a bruised, swollen eye, dancing around the stage like she owned it, smiling and giggling and waving to the crowd. It was like she didn’t even know she had a bruise on her face. Despite that shiner, Sondra was still breathtaking—and I mean that in the literal sense. As I stared at Sondra, I stopped breathing. My heart beat faster. I began to sweat.

She glanced in our direction, saw me staring at her, and then quickly looked away. The flesh beneath her left eye was puffy and swollen and purple. It was like a blemish on an otherwise perfect apple. After she’d looked away from me, I started breathing again and averted my eyes to the floor. At first I was embarrassed that I’d been busted gawking at her, but then I realized that she probably hadn’t even noticed. Everybody in the fucking place—male and female, customers and employees—were staring at her, mesmerized by her presence.

“Holy shit,” Darryl gasped.

“Yeah,” Jesse said. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

“Damn straight,” I whispered. “What’s she doing in a place like this? She could be a model.”

Darryl nodded, his eyes never leaving her. “No bull-shit. I would kill or die to make love to that woman.”

“Make love?” Jesse shook his head. “Dude, that’s top shelf, Grade-A pussy. You don’t make love to something like that. You fuck the shit out of it and then you fuck it again till your dick falls off. Then you pick your dick up and fuck it some more.”

Darryl laughed. “That’s where you’re wrong, Jesse. That’s why you don’t get laid—because you don’t know shit about women.”

“I get laid.”

“In your dreams, maybe—if the chick is blind. And retarded.”

“Fuck you, Darryl. I know women.”

“You don’t know jack. You’re a novice.”

Jesse shrugged. “Oh, yeah?”

“Hell, yeah. A woman like that—every swinging dick, would-be player in the world is trying to fuck her. Anybody can
fuck
. Fucking is easy. Fucking is what animals do. You want to impress a woman like that? You gotta be different. You can’t fuck her. You gotta make
love
to her, instead.”

Jesse sat back and didn’t reply. He seemed thoughtful, as if Darryl had just handed him the Holy Grail. I wondered if he’d use the information, or forget about it like he did everything else in life.

My attention returned to the stage. I grabbed a cocktail napkin and mopped sweat from my forehead. Sondra wound around the brass pole jutting from the center of the stage. The spotlights shimmered over her body as she arched her back and ground her pelvis against the pole. Her long, black hair flowed over her back, swaying seductively. She twirled around the pole and I snuck another glance, checking out her perfect, heart-shaped ass.

It was lust at first sight.

Think I’m being crude? You weren’t there.

I popped wood, and pulled my t-shirt down over my crotch.

Jesse must have noticed my reaction, because he started laughing at me.

“Larry,” he said. “You’re allowed to look at her, you know. You don’t have to be sneaky about it and shit. Fuck, what are you, like twelve years old or something?”

I glanced at Sondra again, watching her glide across the stage. She did a split and I got harder.

“Do you know her?” I asked Jesse.

“Hell yeah, I know her.” He fumbled a wad of bills out of his pocket. “Her name’s Sondra Belov. Russian chick. She started here a few months ago. But before that, she used to turn tricks. Maybe she still does.”

“What?”

“You know Lou Myers? Works out in the yard? The cab jockey?”

I nodded.

“He told me that she used to work at that massage parlor in York. The one on Princess Street. Turned tricks in there. Twenty bucks a pop. I ain’t bullshitting you, man. She’s a ho. He banged her a couple of times.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“Can’t. I haven’t gotten a lap dance yet.”

As if on cue, a strawberry blonde approached our table. She smiled at Jesse and jiggled her hips. Her body sparkled with glitter. She was short, but well-proportioned and really, really cute.

“Hey there, player.” She slid alongside Jesse and ran her fingers through his hair. “I see you brought along some friends.”

“Sure did. This is Yul, Larry, and Darryl. We work together. Boys, this is Tonya.”

I nodded, barely acknowledging her. It was hard to take my eyes off Sondra.

Jesse slipped a ten dollar bill into Tonya’s g-string. “My friend Yul would like a lap dance.”

“H-hey,” Yul stammered. “I d-didn’t…”

I glanced away from the stage. Darryl and Jesse were laughing. Grinning, Tonya began to gyrate in front of Yul. Her hands slid over her breasts, then down to her flat stomach. Yul’s mouth hung open.

“T-that’s okay. You really don’t have to—”

Tonya put a finger to his lips and then sat on his lap, slowly grinding against him. Yul closed his eyes and sighed. Darryl and Jesse slapped each other the high five.

Funny as it was, I turned my attention back to the stage, studying Sondra. Her belly button was pierced and a small diamond glittered in the spotlight. Her stomach was flat and flawless. Jesse was full of shit. Nobody that perfect could have worked as a whore. Especially not for a measly twenty bucks. I’d seen hookers. You could find them in downtown York and Harrisburg, or you could watch them on episodes of
Cops
. Sondra didn’t look anything like those women. She seemed fresh.

The number of guys around the railing had noticeably increased as soon as Sondra began her performance. They crowded around the stage, waving money and calling out to her. Sondra complied, noticing each and every one of them. I noticed the looks on their faces as she’d move on to the next guy. They all looked satisfied, as if she’d danced for them and them only. Halfway through the song, she shed her thong and teasingly draped it over a customer’s head before tossing it aside. She was partially shaved. Had a nice little landing strip of dark pubic hair and nothing more. Her lips were as full and perfect as the ones on her face. Crouching, she arched her back and spread her legs. Even from where I sat, I had a clear view. It was like glimpsing Heaven.

I melted.

The club seemed to grow silent, like somebody had hit the mute button. The music, the crowd noise, Darryl and Jesse’s laughter—all of it vanished. There was just Sondra and me. We were the only two people in the club and she was dancing just for me, showing me all of her secrets.

And then the sound came rushing back in and my illusion was shattered as some drunken fat guy in a t-shirt and jeans clambered onto the stage and grabbed Sondra’s wrist. The crowd hollered in anger. Sondra tried to pull away but the guy yanked her closer. His other hand cupped her ass.

“Yo,” the DJ shouted. “Yo, yo, yo! Cut that shit out. Security!”

“Here we go again,” Tonya muttered.

“This happens a lot?” Darryl asked.

“Every time Sondra dances,” Jesse said. “Or at least it seems that way sometimes. Fucking guys can’t keep their hands off her.”

The bouncers swarmed, rushing the stage. The fat guy let go of Sondra and held his hands up, pleading with them. Not that it did him any good. Four of them jumped his ass and shoved him offstage. The patrons around the stage scattered. There would be no crowd-surfing tonight. The fat man bounced off some chairs and a table, and then belly-flopped onto the floor. The bouncers leaped off the stage and pinned him. Two of them grabbed his arms. Another seized his hair. The fourth shouted something in Russian. Then they dragged him to the door. I noticed that his nose and lip were bleeding. The bouncers didn’t seem to give a shit. Otar opened the door and they threw him outside.

Their faces were expressionless throughout this. They barely broke a sweat. It was all very perfunctory.

And the music never stopped.

And Sondra started dancing again as if it had never happened. The crowd surged towards the stage again, the altercation already forgotten. I turned my attention back to her as well, but not before noticing another man standing in the rear of the club. He leaned against a door. I guess it led to an office or something. He was watching Sondra, too, but instead of looking lustful, he seemed angry. He was short and pudgy, but not fat; probably in his thirties or early forties. His thick mop of hair was just starting to thin on top. He had a long goatee and mustache. All of his hair—face, head, even his eyebrows, was snow white. Not gray or silver, but ivory colored. There were no strands of black or brunette. He wasn’t an albino. No pink eyes or any of that shit. But his white hair was striking—and somehow unsettling.

Tonya licked her index finger and then ran it down Yul’s neck, leaving a trail of saliva and glitter on his skin. She gyrated faster on his lap. Yul’s hands twitched. He licked his lips and closed his eyes.

“Remember,” she warned him, “no touching. Whitey’s watching.”

“O…okay.”

Darryl turned towards her. “Whitey? Who the fuck is Whitey?”

“The owner,” Jesse explained. “Dude in the back with the white hair. You don’t want to fuck with him. His real name is Zakhar Putin, but everybody calls him Whitey on account of his white hair.”

I continued staring at Sondra. “Putin? Like the Russian President?”

“Same name,” Tonya said, “but no relation. Although supposedly he is related to some famous Russian dead guy. Doesn’t need to be related to anyone, though. He’s hooked up. And Jesse is right. You definitely don’t want to know any more about him than that.”

I nodded. It made sense. All the bouncers at the Odessa spoke Russian, and a lot of the strippers had Russian accents, too (but not Tonya—judging by the sound, she was from Baltimore). ‘He’s hooked up’ Tonya had said. That meant Whitey was in the mob—as in the Russian Mob. I’d heard rumors they were moving into York. There had been a big thing about it in the newspaper recently. According to the police, they were trying to take over York’s organized crime. Our proximity to all of the East Coast’s major metropolitan areas made York desirable, same as it did for our employer. Like they say in real estate—location, location, location. Control York and you controlled a lot of flow. It had always been that way. Back in the day, the Greeks were in charge. They kept things pretty peaceful, and even helped squelch a race riot in the mid-Sixties. Then, in the Seventies, the Marano Family out of New Jersey seized power. But in the early Eighties, when the Italians started turning on each other or getting busted, their reign gave way to the drug gangs—offshoots of the Bloods and Crips and various Hispanic crews out of Philly and Washington D.C. and Baltimore. Things got violent. Bodies dropped. The Italians came back for a bit in the Nineties, long enough to chase the brothers out. The Marano Family took control of things again, but then old man Marano died and his top guy, Tony Genova, disappeared. After that, most of Marano’s crew went to prison or became informants for the Feds. York had been up for grabs since then. The drug gangs came back, squabbling with bikers and local drug dealers, but nobody had seized total control. Now the Russians were making a play.

I’d read that they were into everything. Money laundering, extortion, drug trafficking, weapon smuggling, auto theft, white slavery, prostitution, kidnapping, staging auto accidents for phony insurance claims, counterfeiting, credit card forgery, and of course, murder. I wondered how much of that was actually going on here, as opposed to larger cities. Many of the big bosses were ex-KGB officers who ended up out of work after the Cold War ended. They used ex-Spetsnaz members as their enforcers—Russian special forces. Some real scary, bad-ass motherfuckers. The paper said that they had even recruited an Olympic sharpshooter to carry out hits for them.

Not that any of those big fish were supposed to be around here, of course. This was the first time I’d actually encountered any Russians in York at all. First time I’d ever been close to anything like this—organized crime. Criminals in general, even. Sure, I had friends in York County Prison and one buddy up at Cresson doing three years for multiple drunken driving offenses. We worked alongside guys on parole or work release. I’d even been busted once on an outstanding warrant for failing to pay a traffic fine (I still say that fucking light was yellow). But actual mobsters? I’d never been around them until now, and it was sort of cool. I’d seen
The Sopranos
and
The Godfather
and
Goodfellas
. But this was real life. It was exciting. Forbidden.

Just like the woman dancing on stage.

Just like Sondra.

I wondered what it would be like to get a lap dance from her. Wondered what she smelled like. How she tasted. How her long hair would feel in my hands or spread out across my chest. Or brushing against my thighs…