by Iceberg Slim
Then it hit me! The girl’s trip to employment in Montana was still within the White Slave statute of limitations. I stopped and leaned weakly against a lamppost. I realized that I would be asking for a bit in the federal joint if I split from the girl in a way to leave her hostile.
I was one of the dozen or so black pimps the F.B.I. kept constant tabs on to nail on a white slave beef. Their deadly method was to swoop down on an angry girl, usually when she was facing a jail term for prostitution, and offer her freedom if she would sign a criminal complaint against the pimp who’d left her raw and vengeful.
I’d been shipped off once to a federal pen because I’d been careless and cut a girl loose in the rough. The greatest fear a seasoned pimp has is that some salty whore he has split from will sign a paper offered by an eager F.B.I. agent stipulating she was sent across state lines to hustle.
It was early afternoon when I went through the foyer of the tenement building and spotted her at the end of the first floor hallway. She was holding the infant in her arms and laughing gaily with an ebony skeleton who was jiggling inside an orange print tent and popping her fingers to the music and lyrics of the “Madison”—a then current dance craze.
I walked to within three feet of them before my girl saw me. For a moment her tan face was a cool, indifferent blank. And then, in a series of lightning changes, it twisted with recognition from wincing shock at my ghastly ruin, to puckered-mouth pity to the fraud of neon-eyed, squealy-mouthed ecstasy. I felt violence bubbling inside my skull, but I managed a grotesque grin and took the tiny infant in my arms. I heard the skeleton giggle derisively and dance away as I lowered my mouth to the curvy lips of my one and only (and last) whore.
I felt that old hot writhing of her lips and my tongue was instantly flogged by the wet whip lashing forth with its spray of honey. I began to wonder about how tough the exit from her life could possibly be.
I followed her into the furnished dungeon and sat in a rickety rocker beside a half-open, soot-streaked window. I pretended to be fascinated by the scabrous view of the garbage strewn alley as I frantically tried to frame exit dialogue that wouldn’t get me crossed into a long bit in a federal joint.
All of the countless whores I have known and those I have controlled revealed a hunger for notoriety and for punishment, psychic or physical or both. The phony glamour and cruelty of the pimp fill these needs and are the magnets that attract and hold the whore to the pimp.
Since I was aware of these things, my strategy to cop a heel smoothly from the young whore was obvious. I had to convince her of my inability to handle her affairs and to blaze again in pimp glory. I was going to ignore her freakish yen for the punishment ritual of “kiss, kick” that is the pimp’s trade.
I had to come on with low voltage, square world dialogue and saccharine sweetness. I couldn’t quit her because of the “white slave” threat, and I had to be certain that she quit me not in anger, but in pity.
I held the gambler’s squealer and tuned out the girl’s rundown on the yoyo affairs of pimps and whores we knew until twilight.
After we had eaten a soul food supper and the baby was asleep, she lay in my arms and beat me to the nitty gritty by peevishly saying, “You haven’t been rapping much, and the little you’ve rapped sounded ‘off the wall’ like a chump trick. You salty ‘cause I had that sucker’s baby?”
I playfully spanked her behind and said, “Sweet puppy, accidents happen to a genius, so how can I be salty with you about the kid? She’s beautiful. It’s just going to take a little time to come to myself after what the white folks did to me in that steel box. And I’m confused like a sucker fresh from the sticks.”
She said icily, “I can dig it. But what the hell about the game and are you going to keep me in this lousy pad forever? I’m the only bitch that stayed in your corner when you went to the joint. Don’t forget that.”
I kissed the brown skin bomb from belly button to ear lobe and said sweetly, “Baby Angel, I’m hip you’re my star, but my head is really bad. I’m ashamed to tell you how bad. I don’t see how my foggy head can put together a stable of girls and control it. And besides it wouldn’t be right for a beautiful young girl like you to hump her heart out to set the playing front for a washed out old nigger pimp like me. And Angel, what about the poor little kid? She needs her mama all the time and you need a man with ideas or with a job. My brain is dead and I’m too sick to work. Maybe I should split the scene so some fast young stud can come in and take care of your business. It’s up to you, Baby Angel, you call the shots. Like I told you, I’m dead upstairs.”
She stiffened in my arms and was silent for a long moment.
Finally she raised herself on an elbow and stared into my eyes and said quietly, “For real, I can call the shots?”
I nodded and she sprang to her feet. She slipped into a kimono, went to her purse on the dresser and dashed out the door. I heard a coin clinking into the phone in the hall.
I got up and stuck my ear against the door. I heard her placing a collect long distance call to a whorehouse in northern Michigan. The sudden racket of missile warfare between a shouting couple across the hall blotted out the girl’s voice.
I was sitting on the side of the lumpy bed faking my cool when she joyously pranced in and screeched out the numbing news. It was bad, way out bad for me and Mama on her death bed out in California. The establishment in Michigan would have an opening for her three-way talent at the end of the week. She went into a detailed rundown on how to feed, bathe, burp and diaper the gambler’s squealer while she was away nobly flatbacking our escape from the kitchenette dungeon.
There was at the time a very deep reason or fear that overrode the obvious ones why I was not aching to help this poor frustrated mother to employment in the Michigan flesh factory. Several years before an over-confident pimp acquaintance of mine had sent his one and only whore to the Michigan spot under consideration directly that she healed from the dropping of twin boys.
I visited mama pimp at his pad and pointed out that the town was crawling with shit-talking, whore-starved young studs, and that a dizzy young hot money tree like his was certain to be chopped down by a new master under the strain of whorehouse boredom and loneliness. He sneered and went into the usual novice pimp monologue about how “tight” he had his woman and the power of his game.
He was surprised that I wasn’t aware of the trump he held in the twins to bind his girl to him forever. He was an arrogant ass, so I made no effort to “pull his coat” to the street-tested truth that while whores simpered their love and loyalty, they were really pressure-shocked robots who prayed for the pimp’s destruction and often dumped babies in alleys like garbage.
Within a month the Michigan mudkicker found her new master and the naive young pimp was stuck with a brace of howling crumb crushers. But fortunately for the twins, the pimp’s mother found them adorable and took them over.
And now in the funky autumn of my life I was apparently being set up for mamahood. What with the white slave thing still pulsing, it was a treacherous and explosive situation with a five-day fuse. I considered extreme strategy as I lay beside her in midnight misery.
I decided to play the role of rapidly worsening senility. “What is usually most disgustingly flawful about the senile?” I asked myself. “No control of the plumbing, of course,” I answered.
I scooted back from the girl’s sleeping form and shortly managed a stout stream which momentarily made of her a peninsula. But she slept on, wearing on her lovely face the last beatific (or any other) smile I was to witness. Soon, above the din of erotic rats squeaking their rodent rapture within the dungeon walls, I joined my whore madonna in pungent slumber.
Next morning she was curly-lipped furious and my slack-jaw idiocy augmented by even looser bowels had by nightfall inspired her to masterworks of creative profanity. She roughly diapered me on the greasy couch (my new bed) with a mildewed bath towel and she literally reeled away in disgust when I gurgled like a
big black happy baby.
Much later I heard her tiptoe to the hall phone and repeatedly call numbers and ask for “Cat Daddy,” an ancient pimp with enormous light gray eyes and a penchant for young whores. I was praying that they made a contract together because a whore almost never sends her exiting pimp to the penitentiary when her new pimp is on the scene to witness her treachery.
The next day when the girl was out with the baby I went to the corner drugstore and talked to Mama in California. We really cried more than talked, but I felt happy that she was still alive as I walked back to the dungeon. I was a hundred yards from the building when I saw the girl with the squealer in arms alight from Cat Daddy’s orchid-hued spaceship. I stopped and sat down on a stoop. She stood outside the car and for a minute and a half she dipped and nodded her head toward the gesticulating silhouette inside. I suddenly felt a weird combination of joy and loss for I realized that she was giving Cat Daddy the classic “yes” response a young whore plays out for her new pimp.
I sat on the stoop for over an hour after she had gone in. When I went in she pulled me down beside her on the bed and went into her thing. She told me in a pleasant voice that she felt very sorry that my illness had forced her to get herself and the baby a sponsor. She was moving soon, like within twenty-four hours, into a groovy pad furnished by the sponsor. But she was awfully worried about me, and perhaps I would be smart to run a game for care on one of the County institutions until our luck changed.
I strangled my wild joy (and a pang of loss) behind a blank mask and mumbled, “Baby daughter, I’m going to my Mama. She knows better than anybody how to nurse me back to the pink. And Angel Dumpling, as soon as I get myself and my game together I’ll write you at that bar on Forty-seventh Street and send for you and my baby girl.”
Later I lay sleepless in the stifling room watching her sleeping. Her magnificent body was nude except for wisps of whorehouse costume that seemed ready to burst against the buxom stress of her honey toned curves and fat jet bush gleaming through the peach gauze.
I remembered the fast stacks of greenbacks, the icy, goose-pimpling, hot-sweet torture of that freak tongue, and the exquisite grab of that incredibly heavy-lipped cunt in the giddy beginning when her sick whore’s skull was bewitched by my poisonous pimp charisma. My erection was sucker swift and rock hard, but as I started off the couch toward her, it collapsed. I suddenly realized that I had lost all power over her and therefore in her cold-blooded whore judgment I was just another customer, a chump john. I turned my face to the wall and worried until dawn about my moves and the wisdom of willfully blowing off a young freak whore with mileage galore left to hump away.
I was fully dressed, standing by the side of the bed looking down on her, when she awoke and cringed away. I smiled and flapped good-bye with my fingers like a child. Her lips mutely formed “good luck” and I went quickly away. In the cab on the way to the airport, I felt a stab of regret that I was leaving her forever back there. But then immediately the pain was gone in the great relief of my smooth exit from her and the terrible emptiness of the pimp game. And it was good to realize that no longer would I brutalize and exploit black women.