Kill Whitey

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.