Politics. Escorts. Blackmail.

by Pynk

  Georgia, among other states, is gearing up for Super Tuesday, which is the first Tuesday in March. Ten states will be up for grabs, with Robert Sally and Kalin Graves expected to lead the pack in Georgia.

  Twenty-Nine

  Leilani

  Wednesday—February 22, 2012

  Like Midori, Leilani had not heard from anyone at Lip Service. Her income had come to a screeching halt. The last time she had a hobbyist appointment was the day the story broke about Kemba and the senator’s wife. That appointment had been with a popular, married rapper, Mr. 41, who wanted a massage in his hotel room, but with a happy oral ending. She was willing to bet that was one call he wished he’d never made.

  Leilani hadn’t heard from Shawn since that day he knocked on her hotel room door while she was with Senator Ellington. She called him a few times, actually surprised he wasn’t begging her to come back as usual, but he never returned her calls.

  Though one call was returned. Clean and easy Leilani, as Money called her, had received a return call from one of many entertainment and national news services, including Good Morning America. She spoke to the producer at GMA, and the date was set. An interview for her to talk. She was about to add fuel to the fire, all in the name of setting things straight. So while Kemba and Midori weren’t saying a word, Leilani was in it to win it, and her popularity was about to hit the roof. Her attorney was there standing in the wings, having already scripted her on what to say.

  She had arrived at the studio in Times Square with her attorney at seven thirty in the morning. She’d worn a hot pink dress and pink ankle boots, sporting oversized white, glam sunglasses, looking Hollywood. She’d had her nails painted in a soft periwinkle color, her makeup was done with pink hues, and with less than one minute before showtime she was all wired up and ready.

  Jasmine Hunter, the classy-looking, attractive host, sat facing Leilani under the bright lights as the crew around them did their jobs. After reading the segment’s introduction from the teleprompter, the energetic host began asking her questions.

  “Ms. Sutton, thanks for being here. You agreed to come on the show and talk about this company, Lip Service. Why?”

  Leilani smiled brightly. Her heart fluttered though her voice was steady. “Thank you. I agreed to come on because, though I can’t talk about the case itself, I can tell you about the world of being an escort.”

  Jasmine asked, “So, you’re saying you are an escort.”

  “I have been, yes.”

  “Have you been escorting for Lip Service?”

  “Yes.”

  “And have you had sex with clients in exchange for money?”

  Leilani replied, her hands cupped along her lap, legs crossed, “I have gone out with clients and socialized and spent time with them. No money was exchanged.”

  “But do they pay someone for your time?”

  She nodded. “Clients might pay for time, but the escorts don’t handle the money.”

  Jasmine looked down at her index cards and asked, “I suppose the question is, is any of that money in consideration for having sex?”

  “What two adults do is their business.”

  “Would you call that prostitution?”

  “No more than I would if a woman was at a bar and a man bought her a drink, maybe even dinner, and they decided to like, go home together. It’s silly to make it a crime. These people are consenting adults.”

  “Are you saying prostitution should be legalized?”

  Leilani sighed and paused, then said, “I’m saying there will always be men, and women, who will seek the services of a prostitute. There will always be prostitutes. No one is getting hurt. I once heard that if a man talks dirty to a woman, it’s sexual harassment. But if a woman talks dirty to a man it’s like, $2.95 per minute. I’m just saying.”

  The host nodded. “I like that. Okay. So, what about the wives of the men, and the husbands of the women, who are getting hurt by them spending time with escorts?”

  “That’s between the husband and the wife. If the husband has a mistress who sees him on the side, does she feel guilty? Maybe so, maybe not. It depends on the individual.” Leilani sounded certain.

  “Do you think most men go to escort companies because there’s trouble at home?”

  “No. Sometimes they just want someone on their arm who’s different. Sometimes they just want to talk. A lot of men really do have some things they want to get off their chest, you know, like share private things. It’s well-dressed, educated men who don’t want to get caught with the secretary. It’s about companionship and just listening. Not all are married. When I escort, I make them feel important. Listen, smile, laugh.”

  Jasmine held her pen in hand, and followed up, asking, “Did Senator Darrell Ellington come to you for that type of companionship?”

  “I cannot comment on the senator or details of his case or the charges against Lip Service. I’m here to reply to some of the speculation about the world of escorting itself. I’ve received phone call after phone call. I was photographed when I left my apartment this morning. It’s been crazy.”

  “How did the authorities get your name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will you testify in the pending cases?”

  Leilani nodded. “I’m sure I will.”

  Jasmine straight-out asked, “Are you guilty of prostitution?”

  “No,” Leilani straight-out replied.

  “Okay.” The host looked at Leilani and gave a wide smile. “You know. Obviously, you’re a very beautiful woman. You told our producer you’re from Las Vegas, and you were a showgirl at the Flamingo. Is that true?”

  “It is. I did that for a while, along with some burlesque. Then when I moved to Los Angeles I did some stripping and looked to get an agent to do some acting. Wasn’t making much money. I moved to New York a few years ago.”

  “Did you move to New York to become an escort?”

  “Yes.”

  Jasmine again glanced at her notes. “Was it Lip Service who hired you then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has it been lucrative for you? I mean, are you looking to stay in it or do something else? Acting again, maybe?” She put her hand to her chin, awaiting the reply.

  “Well, I’m not sure how much acting I’d be offered after this, but I can’t really say what the future will hold. There are obviously some things we need to get past first. So, I don’t know. But yes, it has been lucrative.”

  She turned her head and looked playful. “Are you dating anyone?”

  “I was, but no. Not at the moment.”

  A man near the main camera signaled Jasmine with a wrap-up sign. She said to Leilani, “Well, I wish you all the best, and thank you for coming on the show. I know this topic will be discussed quite a bit since it involves such a high-profile political figure and his wife. That’s never happened before. But I thank you and wish you the best.”

  “Thank you, Jasmine.”

  Within ten minutes Leilani and her attorney left the studio. A crowd of photographers snapped pictures of her as she got in his black Audi, and then her phone rang. One call came in after another, and they were numbers she’d never seen before.

  Her older, Italian lawyer said to her while driving, “You did good. But, you might need to get your number changed. Honestly, it’s your looks. The Flamingo hotel wants you to appear in their nightclub. Just show up for money. People are fascinated with you. Curious about why you’d even be in the business in the first place. They even want to know the name of the nail polish and lip gloss you’re wearing.”

  “Oh my gosh.” She glanced at her bluish nails and giggled. Then her phone rang. It was one particular caller she did recognize. She answered, “Hi, Shawn.” Sounding unfazed.

  He said, talking fast and loud, “Babycakes. I just saw you.”

  She smirked at his nerve to call her by a pet name. “Yep.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  She looked out of the passenger windo
w. “I knew you would be. Things were about to be revealed so eventually you’d need to know. I’m sorry. But I hadn’t heard from you anyway, so I figured the door was shut tight. We’ve been done for a while.”

  “And that’s what you’ve been doing in New York this whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not catering?”

  Feeling irritated, she said, “No, Shawn.”

  “Okay. Is that what was going on at the hotel?”

  She changed his direction. “Where are you?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Uh-huh. I called you since that day, but you’ve ignored my calls.”

  “I know. Sorry about that. I’ve been busy. But I do have something to tell you.”

  Her attorney asked while they were stopped at a red light, “Leilani. You want to come by my office for a while?”

  She looked at him. “Ah, yes. Sure.” She then said to Shawn, “Okay. What?”

  “I was about to work for Lip Service.”

  She darted her head back. “Stop lying.”

  He continued. “I’m not. I met Money and another woman at a restaurant and they asked me to work. I talked to the booker one time, and then all of this shit hit the fan.”

  She rested her elbow along the door. “Is that why you came here?”

  “No. I came here to model. A friend of mine hooked me up with an agent, but nothing panned out. I had just thought about trying to see if any other options might work, and bam, there was Money. See, I got fired from the casino. I just didn’t get a chance to tell you.”

  She gave a look of disbelief. “And here I was worried about you knowing my business.”

  “Leilani. It’s okay.”

  She gave a long sigh. “I’m going to talk to you later. I’ve got to go. I wish you luck.”

  “Babycakes, wait.”

  “Bye, Shawn. Don’t call me again.” She disconnected the call. Her attorney continued on, headed to Park Avenue.

  Another call came in. It was from The View.

  The secret was out and the whole world knew, just as she now knew what Shawn was up to.

  But what Leilani was now up to was about to make her very rich and very famous.

  While in Michigan for the primaries, Republican candidate Robert Sally spoke about the importance of family values, saying candidates must have a good moral compass. It is believed that Sally was referring to former candidate Darrell Ellington and his alleged connection to a prostitution ring.

  Thirty

  Kemba

  Saturday—March 10, 2012

  More than a month had gone by since Beryl had spilled the beans on Kemba’s profession. He made sure to watch the latest newscasts to stay informed on the case. He knew that Money was still in jail, so his stream of income was cut off. He received e-mails from media outlets that he ignored, and he had not yet heard back from investigators.

  He was still renting a room at the Aloft hotel in Harlem. He kept a close eye on his bank account to make sure it wasn’t frozen. He didn’t want to withdraw his funds and possibly raise a red flag by removing any amount in cash over ten thousand dollars. He just hoped the charges against Lip Service would be dropped, or some deal would be struck, and it would all go away, and that all of the unfolding caused by Beryl would be zipped up.

  When he’d come to New York from Kenya with Beryl, he came to a new world and hadn’t taken the time to build up a social circle. He hadn’t heard from his mother since she left him, and he hadn’t seen his father since he was twelve.

  All he did now was work out at the gym. He kept an eye out for anyone who might try and get a picture of him, who might find out he was registered at the hotel or had the gym membership. For the most part he sat in his hotel room, worked out, ignored unknown calls, and just waited.

  The one person he did talk to a lot was Romeo, who seemed to be living on cloud nine since the scandal broke. Romeo’s workload had increased significantly, even though it appeared the world of escorting was under a microscope. He told Kemba that people were more curious than ever about it. More people, more business, more money, and more of a desire to fill the need.

  On a rainy afternoon, Kemba lay across the leather sofa in Romeo’s living room. Romeo said, “You’re sitting up there worried about Money Watts, who doesn’t give a damn about you.”

  “I’m not worried about her at all. I’m worried about this coming down on me.” Kemba massaged his forehead with his left hand.

  “She runs the risk of being convicted of pandering. She committed the act of arranging the appointments, she was the go-between—or procurer, as they say—of the sex. Not you. No money exchanged hands between you and the clients, right?”

  “Right.”

  Romeo sounded sure. “So lighten up. If anything, you’d be a material witness. Nothing more.”

  “You can’t guarantee that.”

  “Dude. Prostitution’s the act of providing sexual favors to another in return for payment. You didn’t get paid by the client for the act.”

  “Yeah, but I got paid.”

  “You got paid as an employee. Trust me, man, I’ve seen this before.”

  Kemba turned to Romeo, who sat in the recliner. “You should be a damn attorney then. It’s not that easy.”

  Romeo broke it down. “Most of the hookers you see are streetwalkers, getting handed cash. Like in some of my cases. You rarely see them spend more than a night in jail. The police aren’t looking for them unless they’re looking to see the trail that leads from them to the top person. The prostitution ring. Money and I, we’re the ones they want. The big fish. We take the risk and we get the money. In New York with budget cuts, they’re not doing all the stings they did or patrolling the streets like they used to. I know some folks who tell me things.” He stood and walked to the sliding glass door of the balcony, looking out. “Now enough with Ho-ing Law 101. What you need to do is get your big ass up and come to work.” He turned back to Kemba.

  Kemba picked up the remote but didn’t turn on the TV. He tossed it up and caught it as he spoke. “Man, I don’t know. I think I should just stay low-key a while longer until they subpoena me.”

  “They’re working on the senator, dude. He’s a really big fish. And I guarantee you, if he was a client of Lip Service he was a client of other escort companies, too. And besides, I heard about some pink book Money has. If there’s mention of sex acts and names in there, she’s done.”

  Kemba set the remote back down. “Pink book?”

  “Yeah. Never heard of it?” Romeo asked, sitting back down.

  “No.” Kemba turned onto his back again. “Damn, man. Obviously, you’re cool with her being in jail. You’re happy Money’s going through this.”

  Romeo gave a half laugh. “True. I don’t give a fuck about her. She took Midori from me. Or should I say, I handed her over for a whole lot less than she was worth. Then she talked shit and got her business going using one-quarter of the people I had working for me. But you know, I was trying to get Midori back, but I realize now, with all Money’s going through, Midori’s blood and that’s thicker than water, so she’ll be the devoted little sister for the time being. I’m not thinking about her. I want you. I want you to work for me. So get your ass up and make us some money. Tonight.”

  Kemba eyed him down. “With who?”

  “I have a woman staying at the Marriott downtown.”

  Kemba adjusted the soft pillow under his head, giving a heavy sigh. “Marriott? I don’t know if I should go there. That’s where I met Ursula.”

  “I heard. But hey, you don’t need to check in. She’s checked in so just go right up. Be there at nine. I’ve got the payment handled. You get half. And by the way, she’s in drag,” he said as if it was nothing.

  Kemba raised his head and gave a crazy stare. “By the way what? In drag? She’s dressed as a man?” His three questions sounded like one.

  “No. It’s a he. A TV. He’s a transvestite. He dresses as a woman.”
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  Kemba moved his legs from the sofa and sat up. “Again with this shit? Here you are trying to get me to work for you, and you have the nerve to assign me to a man!”

  “You don’t have to do any penetration. You don’t have to do him. He’s dressed the way he’s dressed, just like a chick, but with a dick. He does you with his mouth. I’ve got a couple of guys who do him, but he wants someone new. He pays a lot. He’s an ex–soccer player. Freaky, I know, but you’ve seen freaky before in this business, I’m sure. You’re in the biz, you know the kink. So, you down with it or not?”

  Kemba’s bare feet were against the expensive carpeting. His toes dug into the pile threads. He put his hand to his forehead again and asked, “How much?”

  “You get fifteen hundred.”

  “Damn.” His brain wheels were spinning. He was searching his thoughts to see if he had enough nerve.

  Romeo said matter-of-factly, “Kemba, get with it. Women seek men more than ever now, but most men in this business go both ways. They just make sure to protect themselves. Whether it turns them on or not, it’s up to them. But, its money. It’s work. It’s reality.”

  Kemba released the deep sound of exasperation mixed with acquiescence. “How will you let me know the room number after check-in?”

  “I’ll text you. I do this all myself. No middle person. A middle man just makes for one more person to cave in when the heat gets hot. You just text me when you get there. Your name is still Harlem. Just text Harlem.”

  “Got it,” he said, though his face looked unsure.

  “Good.”

  Dammit.

  Three hours later, big-ass butterflies banged around in Kemba’s stomach. His penis was saying, I don’t know about this.

  He rode the elevator to the fifth floor and exited, noticing wall signs pointing the way to his destination. It was 8:59, and he wished the one minute he had left until he had to knock on the door would never pass. The thought of having sex with men, money or not, had him messed up.