Kill Whitey (4 page)

Despite my short schedule at GPS, my social life wasn’t exactly active. Usually, I hung out with Darryl, Yul, and Jesse after work. On Sunday afternoons, I visited my folks and had dinner with them. Mom would always ask if I was dating anybody. Dad would always mumble to himself. I think he thought I was gay. Sometimes I thought about fucking with him, telling him I was, that I had a life-partner named Andre and we were in love. But my Dad’s got a heart condition and that shit wouldn’t have been funny if he had a heart attack.

Occasionally, I’d go see a movie by myself or go to a ballgame or a concert with the guys. But that was pretty much it. No girlfriend. It was hard to meet girls. Sure, I had the occasional fling here and there—one night stands or weekend trysts. But nothing permanent. Nothing meaningful or serious. I’d given up on the bar scene. The women I met in bars usually turned out to be batshit fucking crazy, and most of the time I didn’t find that out until after I’d dated them for a few weeks. They were all drama queens or attention whores or just generally unhinged—and one had been married (she’d revealed this to me on our fourth date, when her husband came home from work early).

There were women working at GPS of course, but none in my load area, and it was difficult to meet them while on the clock. I couldn’t exactly walk into another load area and say, “Hi, I’m Larry Gibson. I don’t know you but do you want to go out some time?” First of all, I couldn’t be away from my trailers for that long, or I’d back the whole line up. And secondly, I didn’t want to look like a stalker—just approaching strange women and asking them out. My Mom once told me I should go to church and meet a nice girl, but I wasn’t a church-going guy and doubted I’d have much in common with any woman I’d meet there even if I had been. Online dating seemed too weird to me. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’d tried a singles night at the local Borders Books one time, and that was a disaster. Turned out women didn’t hang out in the hunting section too much, and I had no interest in chick-lit or poetry or current affairs.

Bars. Churches. Bookstores. There just weren’t many places in York County to meet women.

But now I could add the Odessa to my list.

Thinking again of Sondra, I ate two granola bars and washed them down with a beer. Breakfast of fucking champions. Webster stuck his face in his bowl and sniffed his food. Then he turned his tail up at me and stalked away.

“Fuck you, too, buddy.”

My apartment wasn’t much. Bedroom, living room, bathroom and kitchen—all furnished with stuff I bought from yard sales and thrift stores and Wal Mart. The only really nice things I had were my big screen plasma TV and my stereo, both of which were high end. I’d spent more money on them than I had on my Jeep Cherokee. I had a pretty extensive DVD and CD collection to go with them, as well as complete NFL and NASCAR subscriptions with my satellite provider, and an Xbox and a Playstation. I had a computer that I hardly ever turned on. My email inbox was as empty as my answering machine and I could look at porn and play games on the TV.

That was pretty much it as far as belongings. Everything else was perfunctory. The bare essentials. Bachelor pad 101. The fridge was never full, except for leftovers and pizza and beer. Most of the bathroom cupboards were empty. A few rolls of toilet paper and some toothpaste. There wasn’t even much furniture, really. Most of the rooms seemed bigger than they were, simply because there wasn’t a lot of stuff in them.

It was my home, but it was also the loneliest place in the world.

My crib. My prison.

I finished my beer and then went looking for Webster. I found him curled up on my bed, taking a nap. He opened one eye and looked at me with disdain. Sighing, I lay down beside him and closed my eyes. Webster changed positions, snuggled up against me, and did the same. His fur tickled my nose and his purring rumbled in my chest.

Before I fell asleep, the last thing I remember thinking was wondering where Sondra lived and if she was as lonely as I was when she went there.

six

I went back to the Odessa two nights later, a few hours before my shift started at work. I didn’t tell Yul or Darryl, and I didn’t see Jesse there. I’d thought I might, since it was one of his favorite hangouts. But he wasn’t among the crowd and to be honest, I was relieved. Despite the fact that he came here, too, it would have been embarrassing to run into him. Would have seemed like I was sneaking around. Deep down, I felt like a creepy stalker-type. But it didn’t matter.

I had to see her.

And I did.

Again and again and again. Sondra was my drug of choice and yeah, I was fucking hooked. Jesse and Darryl had been right about my attraction to her. I had it bad. She was more addictive than meth. The Odessa became my new hangout. I went there before work, after work, on the weekends, whenever I had the time and money. Started thinking about picking up another part time job just to pay for all the lap dances and shit. I got at least one every time I went there. I used the time to make small talk with the other girls, to ask about Sondra—what she was like, did she have a boyfriend, how long had she been here—things like that. Most of the dancers were suspicious at first. One even asked me if I was a cop. None of them told me anything useful. But still I tried. And besides—a lap dance is a lap dance.

Jesse ran into me there soon enough. With the cat out of the bag, we started hanging out at the Odessa together. Partners in slime, because despite my libido, I did feel slimy after leaving the place. Still, that didn’t stop me from going back. Sometimes Darryl came with us (but not Yul—he’d felt guilty and admitted everything to Kim, who’d gone ballistic and forbade him to go there with us ever again). Most of the time though, I preferred to go by myself. Being alone in your apartment is one thing. Being alone in a strip club is something very different. I could focus more when my friends weren’t there. Enjoy the lap dances and talk to the girls without interference or being fucked with.

And watch Sondra dance without distractions.

After a few weeks, I guess I was considered a regular. I started showing up even more than Jesse, who still had other clubs he also liked to hang at. Once I’d quit asking about Sondra, the girls warmed up to me. Or at least they warmed up to my tips. Some of the dancers, including Tonya, called me by name and asked about work and Webster and shit like that. Several of the other regular customers recognized me, too. A few even knew my name or shared beers with me. But for the most part, we didn’t interact with each other. We weren’t there to make friends. We were there for one reason only. Women. Still, it was a friendly vibe. The bouncers didn’t glare at me quite as hard. And Otar the doorman would actually return my head nods now when I left. His gray eyes still regarded me like I was a bug, but even a head nod was acknowledgement.

The only two people I didn’t interact with on some level were Whitey—and Sondra.

Whitey was an enigma. I saw him around occasionally, either passing through the club or standing in the rear. I found out he had an office back there, where he spent a lot of time. The Odessa had a second floor, too. I hadn’t noticed it the first time we’d been inside because the staircase was located in the rear, next to the restrooms. Although I hadn’t been upstairs, I was told there were private rooms available where you could go with your favorite stripper and watch her perform the ‘Forbidden Dance’. Turned out Jesse hadn’t been full of shit after all—at least about that part. I was too chicken shit to spring for the Forbidden Dance, and besides, Sondra wasn’t giving them, so there was no point. It was all about her. Even the lap dances I got from the other girls were related to Sondra.

As for the rest of what Jesse had said, I’d seen no indication that Whitey and his employees were mobsters. Hard motherfuckers, sure, but not gangsters. Tonya hadn’t brought it up again and I didn’t ask. The only things I knew for sure about Whitey were that he never smiled, rarely spoke to the customers, and that some of the girls seemed scared of him. Not in a terrified, run away screaming sort of way, but subdued and fearful. Cautious. I never saw Whitey holler at them. In fact, he barely acknowledged them at all. But even so, they seemed to walk on eggshells around him, especially the foreign girls, who outnumbered the other dancers. Dude’s pimp hand was strong.

Sondra was an enigma, too, but in a different way than her boss. Her performances were limited and I sometimes wondered why she didn’t dance more. She only stripped twice a night, fifteen minutes at a time, and when she was on stage, she owned the joint. She interacted with the crowd without ever really getting involved with them. Unlike most of the girls, Sondra didn’t do lap dances or work the crowd when she wasn’t dancing. In fact, you never saw her at all in between sets. She’d disappear backstage and she didn’t appear again until her second set came around. I wondered what she did back there. There was no way I could get backstage to meet her. Two bouncers guarded that area at all times.

Maybe she didn’t need to work the crowd in between her time on stage. She sure as hell made a killing while she danced. Every night, guys (and sometimes women) would rush the stage, crowding around as soon as she came on. They reached for her and she floated just out of reach—an endless ritual. Trying to touch Sondra was like trying to hold gossamer or a cloud. Her admirers were always grasping, never quite touching, fists clenching ones and tens and twenties and more. They’d put them in her g-string. She’d pick them up with her mouth or push her breasts together and collect the bills with her cleavage. And at least once during every set, one lucky individual would get an extra special treat—he’d roll the bill into a tube and hold it upright, and Sondra would squat over it and pick it up that way—not using her hands. The crowd always went nuts when she did this, even though they’d seen her do it before. I didn’t blame them. I totally understood. I went nuts every time, too. I imagined what it would be like to be that dollar bill. I imagined a lot of things.

Was I obsessed? I don’t know. Maybe. Fuck it. Yeah, maybe I was. But if you’d seen her, you wouldn’t blame me. You’d know why.

I sat there, night after night, and watched her. Sometimes she looked at me. Other times she didn’t. When our eyes did meet, no matter how fleetingly, I always wondered if Sondra recognized me or not. Was my face familiar? Did she think, ‘
Oh, there’s that nice guy who’s in here watching me every night
’? When she did look my way, she always smiled, but she fucking smiled at everyone. Was her smile different for me? Special? Did it hold some hidden meaning or message? No, of course it didn’t, but sometimes it was fun to trick myself into believing so. What else did I have going on in life?

Shit.

So I’d leave the Odessa and think about Sondra. At work. At home. Out with the guys. Even at my parent’s house on Sunday afternoons. Mom asked me if I was seeing anyone. I told her yes and didn’t elaborate. I thought of Sondra when I was in the shower and when I was doing laundry and while I ate and when I laid down to go to sleep.

But my fantasies never became reality.

Infatuated, I remained alone—except for my cat. Wanting Sondra somehow made my loneliness worse. But I was okay with that, because at least I finally had some fucking excitement in my life.

I never spoke to Sondra, until the night she spoke to me first—and then I had all the fucking excitement I could ever want.

Be careful what you wish for and all that.

Here’s how it happened.

seven

Darryl and Jesse were with me. I’m sorry about that. Of all the things I regret in this whole fucking mess, that’s one of the big ones. If they hadn’t been with me, then maybe none of this shit would have ever happened. They wouldn’t have been involved. If they hadn’t been with me, maybe I wouldn’t have even gone to the Odessa that night.

Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Of course I would have gone. Sondra was working, like every other night. So I was there, like every other night.

And things got fucked.

Jesse was already inside the club. He’d gotten a table close to the stage and saved seats for me and Darryl. When we walked inside, he was getting a lap dance from a skinny stripper named Natalia, who I didn’t care for. In truth, she grossed me out. Her black hair was cropped short and she had way too much ink on her body. Even her tattoos had tattoos. Demons and flowers and tribal signs. I hate that shit. Natalia always had dark circles under her eyes, and her arms and legs were usually covered with black and yellow bruises. Rumor had it that she was on heroin. Supposedly, she shot up between her toes so that the customers wouldn’t see the needle marks. In order to feed her habit, she offered rough trade in the private rooms upstairs—S&M type shit. That wasn’t my thing. I never understood how pain was supposed to feel good. Whether you’re making love or just fucking, the last thing you wanted to do was hurt the other person. It just seemed wrong, somehow. Defeated the entire purpose. Years ago, I used to work at the foundry in Hanover. We had this dude there named Sherm and he was into that shit. Used to punch girls in the mouth during sex. Choke them as they came. Said it helped him blow a load. He also said that the girls got off on it, too. The cops shot him during a botched bank robbery. That had always seemed just about right to me.

Maybe Sherm and Natalia would have been a good fit. Then again, maybe not. He’d have probably gotten the shits of her skank ass, too.

Despite all of this, Jesse certainly seemed into her. No accounting for taste. Maybe he was drunk or maybe he just didn’t give a fuck. He barely acknowledged me and Darryl as we slid into the booth. He just kept staring into her eyes, his own lids half-closed. His body was tense, his arms stiff. His muscles stood out taught. Natalia ground against him. Jesse’s breathing quickened. Then he groaned. With a parting smile that was more business than it was pleasure, Natalia snatched a rolled-up twenty from Jesse’s hand and slunk away. Jesse turned his head towards us. He looked spent. I guess he was, at that. There was a wet spot on his jeans.

“Dude,” Darryl said, “you are one sick white boy.”

“Why? What the fuck?”

“Because, Jesse.” Darryl nodded towards Natalia. “That shit is infested.”

Jesse shrugged. “Pussy’s pussy.”

I laughed. “You’d fuck a garden hose if there was enough pressure in it.”

“True that,” Darryl agreed. “He’d fuck a bush if he knew there was a snake in it.”

“Screw you both.”

“No thanks.”

We’d brought a six-pack of Miller Lite bottles with us. Darryl offered him a beer and Jesse accepted. Apparently, Jesse was tired from blowing his load. His eyes drooped and his shoulders sank. The three of us popped the caps off the beers and took a drink. The beers were still cold. That seemed to wake Jesse up again.

“You alright?” Darryl asked him.

Jesse smiled. “Damn straight.”

He had the night off at GPS and was ready to party. Darryl and I had to go in later. Our load area was expected to get hit hard. Jesse bugged us to stick around the Odessa. Said we should call in sick. I considered it. I’d called in sick a few times before, just so I could see Sondra dance. But Darryl wasn’t having any of that. He needed his paycheck—his child support got taken directly out of it and if he didn’t work enough hours, there’d be hardly anything left. And since I’d driven us to the Odessa, I was his ride to work. No way was he letting me call off and no way I was letting him drive the Cherokee. Darryl had totaled three cars in the last two and a half years. I wasn’t going to let him do the same thing to mine.

It was a little after ten. We called Yul and laughed at him. He was just getting home from a flower show at the York Fairgrounds. Kim had made him go along with her. The poor fucker had to get up at three and go to work after spending a night doing that.

We drank beers and watched the dancers take their g-strings off and had a good time. At first, things seemed normal. But after the first hour, we noticed something was amiss.

The first indication that something was wrong was when Sondra missed her dance slot. The DJ announced her. Played her song—Gwen Stefani again. The house lights dimmed. The red spotlight swiveled, searching the stage—but the stage was empty. No Sondra. The DJ called her name again, but she didn’t show. There were a few boos and jeers from the crowd. Some of the bouncers looked pissed. I sat up in my seat and glanced around, confused. The DJ called for Sondra a third time and when she still didn’t take the stage, he quickly covered.

“Change of plans, folks. Sondra will be with us a little later on. You’ll want to make sure you don’t miss her. Meanwhile, please put your hands together for the lovely, luscious Lakita! Let’s give her a big Odessa welcome. Make some mother fucking noise!”

A young black girl hurried out onto the stage. Unlike the other dancers, she was fully clothed, as if caught unawares backstage. She seemed bewildered, and it was easy to tell that she wasn’t used to dancing to this song. But she recovered soon enough and writhed around, losing more clothing with every verse.

Tonya walked by us, on her way to give a lap dance to a customer two booths away. I stopped her as she passed.

“How you doing, guys?”

“Okay,” I said. “But what’s up with Sondra? She sick or something?”

“Awww,” Jesse teased. “Larry misses his girlfriend. Ain’t that cute?”

He and Darryl elbowed each other, snickering.

Tonya ignored them. “Don’t know. She was here earlier. But I haven’t been in the back all night. Maybe she’s in the bathroom or something.”

I nodded. It sounded reasonable enough.

“Got to go,” Tonya said, and then hurried away. The guys at the other booth whistled as she approached them. I turned back to Darryl and Jesse.

“Maybe she got her period,” Jesse said. “Can’t dance if she’s bleeding.”

I didn’t respond. Instead, I got up and started to walk away. Darryl tugged my elbow.

“Where you going?”

“To piss. Be right back. Save me a beer.”

Nodding, he turned his attention back to Lakita, who’d managed to win over the crowd. I headed for the bathroom.

The men’s room at the Odessa was filthy, and I hated it. After the first time I’d used it, it was easy to understand why we’d seen guys pissing in the parking lot. The parking lot was much nicer. Cleaner, too. The restroom had three urinals, three commode stalls, and two sinks. All of them were covered with grime and stains. The toilet seats were pitted and loose. They wobbled when you sat on them. One of the urinals had a leaky pipe, and there was usually a pool of water on the floor beneath it. A paper towel dispenser and a condom machine hung on the wall, along with a cracked mirror. The linoleum floor was pea-green and my shoes stuck to it. The toilet stalls and the walls were the same sickly color as the floor.

There was an old guy using the urinal on the left. He leaned against the wall with one hand, drunkenly swaying back and forth. About every fourth drop of piss hit the floor, rather than his intended target. His nose whistled when he breathed. Ignoring him, I picked the urinal on the right, putting one between us for distance, and hurried to do my business. I tried not to step in the puddle beneath the urinal. I wondered again where Sondra was, and why she’d missed her set.

The wall was covered in graffiti. People had etched it into the paint with keys and knives or written on the wall in everything from black marker to shit. Some of it looked very old—ancient hieroglyphics from the late-Nineties. Other missives looked fresh. None of them had ever been painted over, as far as I could tell. They’d been left for posterity, I guess.

The old man flushed and walked out of the restroom without washing his hands. I didn’t blame him. The urinals were probably cleaner than the sinks.

As I pissed, I read the wall. Some of the graffiti looked like Russian. A few of the letters were written backwards. ‘
Chobo Meptbbin’.
I wondered what it meant. ‘
Ctopoha cnhrk aeno 555-0673’
. Gibberish. I read the English graffiti instead. ‘
This is shit
’. ‘
I got the Aids
’. ‘
Legalize it
’. ‘
Who farted?
’ ‘
What are you looking at?
’ ‘
Tony was here
’. ‘
For good head, call 555-9081
’. And the ever popular ‘
Here I sit, broken hearted. Tried to shit but only farted’
. Then there was an entire exchange between different people: ‘
I love them hoes
’. ‘
Your Mom is a ho
’. ‘
So is your mom, fucker
’. ‘
You fucked his mom, too?
’ ‘
This is his Mom
’. There were several that were either cryptic or crude—or sometimes both: ‘
Have you seen Teddy and Frankie…call 555-6667…ask for Kaine…Cash Reward
’. ‘
My pussy ate my thong
’. ‘
My crabs have crabs
.’ ‘
Jesus saves, but Ob rulz
’. And then there were doodles—a big-nosed Kilroy looking over a wall, the President with a gap-toothed grin and enormous ears, a smiling dog, weird occult symbols like you’d see on a Slayer disc, a smoking bong, and lots of male and female genitalia, all of them larger than life. Some of them made me laugh. Others made me cringe. Some made me do both.

Finished, I shook myself off, zipped up, and turned the sink on with my elbow. I was afraid to touch the knob with my hand. There was a layer of black scum and pink hand soap on top of it. I rinsed my hands off under the water, and then used my elbow to work the lever on the paper towel dispenser. It was empty, so I wiped my hands on my pants.

As I was heading out the door, a bouncer pushed past me and charged into the bathroom. I had to slink against the wall to avoid being run over. He paused, then turned around and looked at me.

“You see girl inside?”

His accent was thick and I had trouble understanding him at first. He leaned closer. I could smell his cologne.

“Girl,” he repeated. “You see her?”

“In there?” I shook my head. “Just me and an old guy. Maybe she’s in the stalls?”

“Da.” He started to turn away.

“Who you looking for?” I asked.

“No one. You go back to table. Enjoy show. Look at pussy. No worry.”

He walked over to the stalls. Shrugging, I let the door swing shut behind me and made my way through the crowd. There was a lot of commotion. Most of the bouncers had disappeared. I wondered where they’d gone. Whitey was standing outside his office door talking to Otar. They leaned close together. Whitey kept jabbing the bigger man in the chest with his finger, shouting something in Russian. Even though Otar was twice his size, he seemed scared of Whitey. The bouncer headed for the front door. He seemed worried—the first expression I’d ever seen on his stone face. Whitey scanned the crowd. His eyes lingered on me for a moment before moving away. I didn’t like how they made me feel. I hurried to the table and sat down. Lakita was on her second dance, gyrating to the latest by Fergie.

“What’s going on?” I asked Darryl and Jesse.

“Don’t know,” Jesse said, “but it must be something important. The bouncers took off backstage and Whitey looks pissed as shit.”

“About what? Was there a fight or something?”

“Nope.” Jesse shook his head. “Who knows? Maybe one of the girls stole some money or something.”

“Got to keep his pimp hand strong,” Darryl said, his eyes never leaving Lakita.

“You like that?” Jesse asked him.

Darryl grinned. “I hate this fucking song, but damn if she don’t make it better.”

They laughed. I tried to join in, but found I couldn’t. My stomach hurt. I felt tense. First Sondra hadn’t come out. Then that shit with the bouncer in the bathroom. There had to be some connection—but what? Even the other strippers seemed nervous. They kept glancing around the club, looking over their shoulders, distracted. Cowed. There was definitely something serious going on. Something bad.

After that, the fun seemed to go out of the evening. The Odessa’s atmosphere became muted, its energy drained. The customers didn’t clap as loud, didn’t tip as well. The dancers moved slower. Even the DJ seemed off, stepping over songs and fucking up the mix. Darryl and I finished our beers, and left the rest for Jesse to drink.