Kill Whitey

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…

The bouncers resumed their positions throughout the club. Whitey disappeared, presumably behind that closed door in the back. The music ended and Sondra left the stage. She was replaced by two more Russian girls named Jovanka and Monique. They danced together, touching each other all over. Darryl took a drink and watched. Meanwhile, Yul squirmed beneath Tonya, and Jesse called another girl over and got a lap dance, too. All around us, people talked and laughed and drank. Darryl looked away from the stage and started reciting an old Dave Chappelle routine about strippers, but I was barely listening to him.

Instead, I was still thinking about Sondra, and wondering how she’d gotten that black eye.

five

The Odessa closed at eight that morning, and we reluctantly got up and filed out with the rest of the crowd. The lights came on, flooding the place with dazzling brilliance. Many customers blinked like they’d just woke up, or shielded their eyes. Cigarette smoke swirled around the fluorescent bulbs. A sullen old man appeared on stage with a bucket and a mop and started swabbing it down. Apparently, in accordance with state law, they’d open again at one, just in time for the after-lunch crowd.

I nodded at Otar the bouncer as we left. He didn’t return the gesture. I didn’t expect him to. I was just some blue collar asshole who’d come to gawk at naked women. Just another face in the crowd. He didn’t know me. But still, it felt like I should show him some respect. The dude was possibly a Russian mobster. If that was true, then I wanted to stay on his good side, because there was no doubt I’d be back. And soon, too.

I had to see Sondra again.

The sun was out and the storm had ended. We piled into the Cherokee. Once again, Darryl rode shotgun while Jesse and Yul got in the back. I turned on the iPod. Motorhead’s ‘Orgasmatron’ played softly. It felt wrong, somehow, playing Motorhead at such a low volume, but the bass inside the club had left me with the beginnings of a headache, and I wasn’t in the mood to crank it up. Besides, Lemmy is still God no matter how fucking loud you listen to him.

None of us spoke. I pulled out of the lot and back onto the road. Darryl stared out the window and smoked. In the backseat, Jesse closed his eyes and got comfortable. Yul chewed his fingernails and looked worried. Glitter sparkled on his cheek, leftover from his lap dance. He spat a nail onto the floor.

“Hey,” I said, glaring at him in the rearview mirror. “Spit that shit out the window, man. Don’t fuck up my ride.”

“Sorry.”

Jesse opened his eyes and sat up, wondering what was going on. Darryl glanced in the backseat and then turned around again, shaking his head. Motorhead gave way to Circle of Fear. I drummed along on the steering wheel with ‘Child of a Dead Winter’.

“That’s some nasty shit,” Darryl said.

I stopped drumming. “What is?”

“Yul chewing his fingernails.” He turned around again. “Don’t you know you can get diseases that way, man?”

Jesse chuckled. “He can get ’em from that lap dance, too.”

“Shut up!” Yul punched Jesse in the arm and then scowled at us. “You can’t catch anything from a fucking lap dance. And besides, I had my pants on. There was no contact.”