Brian Keene: Kill Whitey

“So don’t tell her, dude,” Jesse advised. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Some things should just stay among friends.”

Looking back now, those words haunt me. Some things should just stay among friends . When I think about them for too long, I start to cry. If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have sided with Yul—insisted on going to Thads, or maybe suggested we all just head back to my place and finish off the half case of Yuengling Lager that was in my fridge. We weren’t supposed to be drinking it because a few months earlier, the Yuengling brewery had busted its union and the Teamsters were calling for a boycott of all their products. We were supposed to stand firm alongside our fellow working men. Solidarity forever and all that bullshit—even though we didn’t have union jobs ourselves and worked for GPS. But I still had a case of the stuff at home. And we could have ignored the boycott and drank it.

Yeah, we could have.

Instead, we went to the Odessa.

And that was where I met Sondra.

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.