Exit by Duck Phillip Thomas

Author:Duck, Phillip Thomas [Duck, Phillip Thomas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781451617177
Amazon: 1451617178
Goodreads: 11687401
Publisher: Strebor Books
Published: 2005-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

SEVEN

It was a low building with a flat roof. Barnyard red siding, set at the back of a large lot just off the main stretch of road that led to the area’s shopping mall. Poor lighting in the lot, but still it was choked with cars. Inexpensive models with high mileage and serious body wear, for the most part. A few pickup trucks with exaggerated tires, and flames and such painted on their rear panels. Rich Kubiak parked his Toyota Camry in one of the few available empty spaces. The Camry’s interior smelled strongly of motor oil and acetone, of McDonald’s’ hamburgers and spoiled milk. Work and family odors. Kubiak shut down the Camry’s engine, hesitated briefly, then went ahead and got out and walked over a carpet of crushed beer cans and see-through beer cups and a used rubber or two. Headed for the building.

The building was fronted by a neon sign, several of the letters blown out. Below the sign was a light-colored awning with the shadow pictures of two crossed champagne glasses and the silhouette of an extra curvy woman. The awning was bordered with a string of unlit light bulbs. The building’s two front-facing windows were completely covered over with beer posters and old football schedules for the Jets and Giants and Rutgers’ Scarlet Knights and flyers for one-night dancing engagements from porn stars. Kandy Kupcakes’ poster was bisected by a tear that trailed all the way from the header to the footer. The tear had been repaired with strips of Scotch tape, and was so old it would have to be scraped off the glass with a razor if Cheaters was ever shut down and turned into a Domino’s Pizza or a Burger King.

None of this stopped Rich Kubiak.

He walked inside.

First thing he saw was a guy as big as the building itself, sitting comically on a barstool that looked moments away from disintegrating into fine wood dust beneath his considerable bulk. Second thing was a chalkboard advertising a menu of hastily scrawled offerings. VIP Champagne Room. Lap dances. Twenty dollars for four minutes. One hundred and twenty for fifteen minutes. Two twenty-five for a half an hour. Kubiak made a quick decision, paid the cheap cover and moved inside through a curtain of smoke.

A DJ was spinning records from an elevated cubby at the far corner of the room. The music vibrated the organs in Kubiak’s chest and rumbled the hard floor beneath him. Reminded him of the subway system in the city. Lots of bass in the song of the moment. That he-she-it freak that improbably got the hot girls. Marilyn Manson. Beautiful People.

To Kubiak’s left was a long bar area. Each of the eight stools in front of it was occupied. The bartender was a college-aged girl wearing a generic sports jersey, the material tied in a knot that touched the underside of her heavy breasts. Her navel was pierced. She wore enough makeup for two women. She was a blur of constant movement.

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