A Woman Like Me

by Bettye Lavette

  Other men, who were not magnificent artists, also led us to believe that they could help our careers. Ray Scott was one such man. He was a comic and sometime singer who became obsessed with me. His comedy was modeled after Redd Foxx’s. He wasn’t as funny as Redd, but funny enough to gig at the Baby Grand, which is where I met him. His true talent was pimping. Ray had a fleet of white girls working for him. He was a dog, but a supercool, slick New York dog. He had a boatload of high-octane cocaine that he was always coaxing me to try. But his coaxing didn’t stop with drugs.

  Ray was salacious. He loved whispering to me, “Why don’t you do him?” Or, “Why don’t you do both those guys?” None of those promptings motivated me. I’ve never been into sex with strangers. But Ray’s sex obsession didn’t end there. He liked to put together what he considered freaky combinations.

  I remember the night I had gone to the Apollo to see my friends the Majors, the group produced by Jerry Ragovoy. They had a little hit called “A Wonderful Dream.” One of the Majors introduced me to his girlfriend, Cynthia Wharton, a stunning woman. I was getting ready to hang out at the Baby Grand and suggested everyone join me. The Majors were too tired, but Cynthia, whom I called Cindy, came along.

  Ray Scott was at the club, and the minute he saw Cindy, he said, “Why don’t you fuck her? I think you’d both love it. But if you do, one word of advice—don’t let her get on top.”

  I laughed off the remark, but the thought stayed with me. I can’t say that I was longing to make love to a woman. Yet the idea was not unappealing, especially with someone as lovely as Cindy. She was another groupie extraordinaire. She knew every black singer, dancer, comic, and actor in New York and was welcome at every backstage, slipping in and out of limousines with the grace of a cat. If groupies had formed a union, Cindy would have been our president.

  The provocation of the pimp, who began giving money to both Cindy and me, fueled my motivation. Those pimps loved to watch girls have sex. They also loved jumping into bed with two women. Had Ray not insisted on it and stoked the fire with copious amounts of cocaine, none of this might have happened. But it did, and I liked it. I liked it well enough that Cindy was in my life for the next thirty years. We’d have our boyfriends and husbands. We’d live our separate lives, but if we were in the same city on the same night, we’d get together.

  My dalliances with women just sort of happened. I’ve never had hang-ups about sex, an area where I’ve felt fortunately free. In the case of women, once the sex was over, it was over. It never turned to romance. The friendship with Cindy, though, remained strong. She and I had some wild adventures.

  A member of one of the major singing groups—I don’t want to embarrass him by using his name—was madly in love with me but too shy to make a move. He was adorable. I can’t say I loved him, but I appreciated his attention. One night I asked if he wanted to come back to the hotel with me and Cindy. He did. When we got there, Cindy and I started getting it on. Naturally, the guy was welcome to join in, but he was terrified. He just stood there and watched, his shirt buttoned up to his neck, tears running down his cheeks. We wondered what the other guys in the group would say if they knew he had two naked broads up in bed and all he could do was cry. I never could coax him to join us, but that just shows how sex affects everyone differently.

  Don’t get the idea that men were the only pimps. They certainly dominated the field, but there were women who also played the role. Take Doris Troy. She had scored a top-ten pop hit in 1963, “Just One Look,” as a singer and cowriter. Doris was the first person I met who lived on Central Park West, a fancy address, where she liked to give parties attended by entertainers. I was flattered to be invited into her little group. Every time I went up to Doris’s place, though, I noticed a bevy of beautiful women. Doris was either matching them up with men who came to look them over or sending them on the streets to find johns on their own. Doris was not only an effective singer, but an effective businesswoman. Some of the male pimps felt threatened, but they knew not to threaten Doris. She was bad.

  • • •

  As a pimp, Doris was cool, but Ted White was the coolest. And when he called to say he and Aretha were in New York and he wanted to see me, I eagerly went to their suite at the Americana Hotel. The three of us spent the afternoon blowing cocaine—Ted’s cocaine. I rarely carried drugs. I never had to. They were usually extended to me by generous hosts and suitors.

  I have no idea whether Aretha knew that Ted and I occasionally had sex. Given how close I was to him, she may have assumed so. On the other hand, Ted may have kept her in the dark. Either way, we didn’t have problems getting high together and shooting the breeze. With Ted present, Aretha let him do all the talking.

  He told me how Jerry Wexler at Atlantic had offered Aretha a contract. They were frustrated with her current label, Columbia, because she had not enjoyed any major hits. He thought that Wexler had a good understanding of singers like me and Aretha.

  “Well,” I said, “Aretha will tell you that we’re not all that much alike. Aretha is church, and I ran from the church. Besides, her church is Baptist and mine was Catholic.”

  “You’re both rhythm-and-blues singers who can sing anything,” said Ted. “The challenge is to find what that ‘anything’ is. Look what Wexler did for Otis and Wilson Pickett.”

  “That’s right,” I said, “but look what Aretha did on that ‘Skylark’ song she cut for Columbia. She killed it.”

  “Thanks,” said Aretha, who was not inclined to disagree with anything her husband said.

  Aretha was comfortable with me, not only because she saw me as a colleague, but because she knew I had hung with her sister Erma. For years Aretha’s baby sister, Carolyn, and brother Cecil shared the same drug dealer with me. They were more extroverted than Aretha, who in those years was the quiet one. Even high, she was shy. I asked her about some records she had made with Clyde Otis like Runnin’ Out of Fools. All she said was that she enjoyed working with Clyde and thought he was a good writer. I remember that Jim Lewis had told me that Otis had produced Sarah Vaughan’s only pop hit, “Broken Hearted Melody.” He’d also been responsible for the smash duets with Dinah Washington and Brook Benton.

  “Clyde’s cool,” said Ted, “but a little behind the curve. We’re trying to get ahead of the curve.”

  “I’ve been trying to do the same thing myself.”

  “I like your ‘Let Me Down Easy,’” said Aretha.

  “Thanks,” I said, “but it’s hardly paying the rent.”

  There was a knock on the door. Room service. Ted put away the blow and we nibbled on cheese and sipped champagne. The mood was cordial. I asked Aretha about Teddy, her son with Ted. Back in Detroit, many were the times I’d been with Ted and Teddy. I felt like I was part of Ted White’s extended family. In those days, it was not unusual for wives of pimps to socialize with both their employees and girlfriends.

  But then again, Ted was unusual. He groomed women in many walks of life. He got involved in their careers and stayed involved. I’ve no doubt he could be violent, but he was never that way with me.

  • • •

  Clarence Paul sent me a ticket to go home to Detroit. During that visit, Clarence had an idea for a party that he wanted to host in my blue basement bedroom. Stevie Wonder was turning sixteen, and Clarence was convinced it was time the boy became a man. Who did I think was the right woman?

  “He deserves the best,” I said.

  “I’m not volunteering you,” said Clarence.

  “I’m not worthy of that honor. Marrie Early is. If you want to initiate Stevie in an unforgettable way, you need Marrie. There could be no more beautiful birthday gift than Marrie Early.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” said Clarence. “I’ll call her.”

  I got the food and drinks, the friends and the music. I decorated my basement with balloons. When S
tevie arrived with Clarence, he walked down the stairs to the basement and bumped his head on the low ceiling. He was excited. Clarence might have told him about the special gift that awaited him.

  We had a blast, but sadly, Marrie never arrived. I know she was eager to do the honors, but something else more pressing must have come up. We were all disappointed, and no one more so than Stevie.

  • • •

  Back in New York, my life was anchored by my gig at Small’s Paradise with Don and Dee Dee. Dee Dee was also my buddy. One day we were riding around the city when two guys in a convertible pulled up beside us. We started flirting, and one thing led to another. I went off with one of the guys, a big-time drug dealer. Although he already had a wife and a girlfriend, he took a liking to me and vice versa.

  Meanwhile, Dee Dee’s romantic fortunes continued to decline. She fell into a deep depression. There was a period when I was working an out-of-town gig and gave her my clothes for safekeeping. At the time, she was staying with Margherite Mays, Willie Mays’s ex-wife, on Long Island. But poor Dee Dee. The blues got the best of her and she burned down the place. All my clothes, along with most everything else, went up in smoke.

  My new boyfriend was good enough to replace them. He obviously took our relationship seriously because when he caught me with another man, he cut up all the clothes he had bought me, including six pairs of shoes. I had never seen anyone cut up shoes before. When I asked him why, given that he had a wife and a mistress in addition to me, he would feel so betrayed, he was too angry to answer.

  “I’m not even number two,” I said. “I’m number three. Number three gets to fool around a little.”

  “Not on me she doesn’t.”

  Well, if I thought this guy was obsessive and possessive when it came to women, I hadn’t seen anything yet. The next man to enter my life was in a category all his own.

  J

  It astounds me that I succumbed to a muthafucka like J, the name I’m giving to the man you met at the beginning of this book. He represented the end of my venture in New York City. He also represented one of the low points of my life.

  How in the world did it happen?

  I was singing at Small’s. As Stevie would later say, I was living for the city. I found a way to survive; I even had a little following. My second single for the gangsters at Calla, “Only Your Love Can Save Me,” didn’t save me at all. Although it was written by Jo Armstead along with the team of Nick Ashford and Valerie Simpson—on the verge of writing smashes for Marvin and Tammi—the single sank like a lead balloon. My only income was a slim salary and the occasional tip from a drunk at the bar. When I met J, you could say I was vulnerable. But when it came to falling head over heels in love, I’ve always been vulnerable.

  In my defense, the man was magnificent. Good looks in a man have often blinded me to his character. When I’d see a handsome guy showing interest in me, his stares of appreciation killed off my brain cells. All powers of scrutiny collapsed.

  Later I learned that J had spent ten years in prison, but on the night we met, I saw not the slightest hint of criminality in his deep brown eyes. All I saw was sweetness and light. He dressed with the same sophistication as Ted White did. His speaking voice had the honey-coated tones of a midnight disc jockey. And there was the irresistibility of his high-toned culture.

  J read me poems. J introduced me to haute cuisine. He knew the difference between northern and southern Italian cooking. He introduced me to Spanish paella and fine French wines. He cast a spell over me to the point that he convinced me to quit my job at Small’s.

  Don Gardner was aghast.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said.

  I didn’t listen.

  In my mind—my messed-up mind—I was thinking, Well, at least I’m over Clarence Paul. It took a mighty man like J to finally get me to fall in love with someone other than Clarence. But my thinking was wildly distorted. The distortion deepened when I took J home to meet Mama and Sister.

  “Betty Jo,” said Mama, “he’s a fine-looking man.”

  “No man,” said Sister, “has the right to be that pretty.”

  Obviously, they didn’t push me into this relationship. I’d found J on my own. But they were as blind to his cruel side as I was.

  For me to withdraw from my world of music and friends was an amazing thing. I’m a musical animal. I’m a social animal. I like to party. I like to hang at the clubs. I like to go out.

  “Ain’t no going out unless you going out for me or with me,” said J.

  Soon he was asking me, “Do you think you were smart before you met me?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “The hell you were. You were dumb.” And with that, he slapped me across the face.

  Who was he to talk to me like that? And who was I to accept that treatment? What was in my mind? What was in my heart?

  J had a hooker I’ll call Helen. She was his main earner, a stunning woman who worked with remarkable efficiency. She had perfected the art of turning tricks. She attracted men with money. So refined were her techniques that her tips were sometimes as big as her fees. Imagine the pleasure a man must feel to voluntarily double the fee he pays for sex.

  Helen would often be in the Amsterdam Avenue apartment where I was living with J. She cooked and slaved over the man to a sickening degree.

  One evening Helen spent hours cooking J a five-course dinner. When he sat down to eat, she sat next to him and, as though he were a child, cut up his food and, with her fork, put it in his mouth.

  I laughed out loud. “That is some funny shit,” I said. “That is some ridiculous shit.”

  J got up from the table, whacked me across my mouth, and snarled, “Shut up, bitch. No one asked you nothing.”

  In looking back at this sad period of my life, I can’t help but ask myself what took me so long to leave this man. When he stopped me from seeing my friends or singing in public, why didn’t I tell him to go fuck himself? After he ordered me out on the streets to turn tricks and told me not to come back until I earned a hundred dollars a day, why did I continue to do his bidding for another two or three months?

  I was a great groupie, but a horrible hooker. My judgment was bad, my approach inept, my hustle pathetic. I only survived because of the kindness of Frank Kocian, who would give me a hundred from time to time. King Curtis helped me out. So did Don Gardner. Other musicians who started making money as pimps felt sorry for me and gave me enough to placate J. Then one day I ran into Luther Dixon.

  “Bettye,” he said, “you look tired, baby.”

  “I am.”

  “What are you up to?”

  For whatever reasons, I told him the truth. The words just spilled out of my mouth. “I’m working for J,” I said.

  “Lord, have mercy,” Luther sympathized. “That man’s a monster. How much you gotta give him to keep from getting beat?”

  “A hundred a day.”

  “Here’s a hundred, just ’cause I don’t wanna see you hurt.”

  He put the money in my hand and went on his way.

  An hour later, I put the money in J’s hand.

  When I couldn’t make my daily quota, sometimes I’d steal it from Helen. She was earning so much she never knew the difference.

  When I walked past a record shop or turned on the radio, I’d hear hit after hit coming out of Detroit. These were friends of mine, people I’d grown up with—“Reach Out I’ll Be There,” “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted,” “My World Is Empty Without You.”

  My world was empty with J. My world was hell. Better men came through for me. Clarence Paul and Ted White would always wire me a hundred bucks so I could avoid another beating. But can you imagine how incredibly stupid I felt getting money from these guys so I could placate this raging asshole of a pimp?

  I
thought about the last two songs I’d recorded for Calla. The A-side was “I’m Just a Fool for You.” Was there ever a more fitting title to describe my ridiculous situation with J? The B-side was “Stand Up Like a Man.” It was when I was listening to that single that I finally saw the light. Enough was enough. I had to stand up like a woman. I can’t tell you where the strength came from. It was not a religious epiphany. I didn’t hear angels singing on high. I didn’t hear the voice of God. All I heard were two words coming from my mouth to J’s ears that should have been spoken months before.

  “Fuck you.”

  I said that to his face. I told him I was going and there was nothing he could say to change my mind.

  That’s when he grabbed me and hung me over the edge of the building.

  That’s when I wiggled my way out of that perilous moment by calling his bluff.

  That’s when he let me go and, taking no chances, that’s when I ran out, leaving all my worldly possessions with him.

  I was on the streets, a shoeless twenty-year-old, broke and scared to death.

  There could be no doubt—New York City had kicked my ass.

  Time to tuck my tail between my legs and crawl home.

  The Teacher

  When Mama saw me walk through the door of our home on Trowbridge, she collapsed. She thought she had seen a ghost.

  “Betty Jo,” she finally found the strength to say, “you look like death warmed over.”