Stilettos and Steel

by Jeri Estes

  Despite what I’d told Bunny, I allowed myself to linger in the vision of my childhood. I could picture my mother so well, standing on the front porch. She looked out of place in comparison to the other mothers. She was beautiful, always immaculately dressed and usually wore a simple black dress with white pearls. Her nails were done and her face made up just enough to emphasize her pretty features. My mother was a proud first-generation Californian and a descendant of the great Lopez Portillo family of Spain.

  Like a classic fifties TV mom, standing tall at her full height of four-foot-eleven, poised, her hand resting on the front porch railing, she looked more like a model doing an impression of Donna Reed than a housewife. She was a mysterious and glamorous sight in our neighborhood.

  Stella Hickenbotten, my friend Ronnie’s mom, would yell for her boys while planted next to the old Chevy pickup parked in front of a small camping trailer in their driveway. Stella would be wearing her favorite muumuu, looking like a white Aunt Jemima.

  Bunny’s sexy voice pulled me out of yesterday. Squeezing my hand, she excitedly said, “Oh, Jesse, I can’t wait to get to Chinatown! Today Macy’s is delivering my king-sized Simmons Beautyrest!”

  “Hookers, money, booze and a pillow top bed. Hit the gas, bitch!”

  Chapter 8

  CITY BY THE BAY

  Bunny held my arm as we walked past my old haunts in the Tenderloin. The chilly fog broke like faint clouds as we briskly stepped side-by-side past the strip joints and beer bars. The civilized San Franciscans were asleep, but the street people of the TL were just getting started.

  Bunny’s fur coat pressed up next to my new camel-hair overcoat that protected my custom-made gray gabardine pinstripe suit. We had just finished a late dinner at Original Joe’s Italian restaurant and were heading toward the Hilton Hotel.

  Bunny was meeting a high-rolling Easterner. The gentleman wanted a taste of New Jersey while visiting the city by the bay.

  As we ducked around the corner toward the brightly lit high-rise hotel, Bunny said, “Jesse honey, why don’t you go to the bar for a drink and wait for me?”

  “I don’t know, baby. I think I’ll check on a few of our ladies walking Turk. I’ll come over to your place later tonight.”

  She pulled me into a doorway. “If you promise, I’ll let you go take care of business.”

  Her sparkling baby blues looked up at mine with yearning. “I want to take you grocery shopping in the morning to fill up that empty fridge in your lonely little bachelor pad.” She grabbed hold of my lapel. “At least let me make it homey for you, since you insist on living there.”

  “I’ll get a nice apartment soon. I just haven’t had a chance to look. I’ve been building our stable, in case you haven’t noticed.” She nodded, knowing I’d been busy. “We’ll go apartment hunting for me tomorrow instead of grocery shopping. Okay?”

  She wrapped her arms around my waist and said, “I probably won’t see you until tomorrow, knowing you.”

  “Maybe,” I said as I felt her breasts push up to mine. I held her in my arms and gave her a long kiss in the shadow of the doorway. At last I pulled myself away from her warmth. “I’ll catch you later.”

  Bunny headed toward the entrance of the Hilton in her unbuttoned luscious knee-length mink. Perfect breasts pushed up in a tight black dress dazzled onlookers. Valets and bellhops watched Bunny’s breasts bounce with each step she took up the stairs toward the lobby. Her defined calves caught my eye as her stiletto-dressed feet marched toward her date.

  When Bunny was out of sight, my mind returned to the obsession which had plagued me since our arrival in San Francisco. Would I run into Carmen tonight?

  I decided to head over to the Why Not to look for her. Hopefully I wouldn’t witness her flirting with the rich, Ivy League dude. My TL buddies had informed me she’d been sitting at his table recently. This concerned me.

  Carmen’s older sister Phyllis, a beautiful and talented lady of the night, had been the D.A.’s favorite pastime for years. Gossip had it however, that Phillip was secretly in love with Carmen. Besides these rumors, I was clueless on how Carmen was feeling toward me or what she was up to.

  Feeling gloomy, I hiked toward the Why Not. Carmen had been giving me the cold shoulder, not returning my calls. I was sure that she had heard about my new position as a pimp. The currents of gossip flowed through the Tenderloin like sewage to the ocean.

  The olive was glowing in the neon martini as I arrived. Hesitantly I checked myself out in the smoky glass. My elegant wise guy attire gave me confidence as I adjusted my charcoal-gray fedora. Bravely I cracked the heavy door open and peered into the smoky dungeon of pigs. Much to my dismay, Carmen was nowhere in sight.

  I did spot Clancy though, holding court with a group of rookies at a table filled with glass steins of beer. At the sight of my old suitor, I quickly ducked back out the door. If a simple pair of slacks had upset Clancy, my new suit would give him a coronary.

  Disappointed at not finding Carmen, I turned my mind back on my favorite pastime: business. Passing Compton’s, I turned the corner of Turk and Taylor, the crossroads of the Tenderloin. Half-undressed hookers, door-lingering hustlers and wandering johns decorated the neighborhood. Pan-handling, folk-singing hippies strummed their guitars at the curb.

  I decided to cut across the alley behind Eddy Street to see if any of our girls were flaking off. The ten-and twenty-dollar street walkers we employed had a tendency to get distracted; shooting up behind dumpsters or taking extended doobie breaks. Playing heavy-handed pimp was not my style, but letting my girls know that I was watching was just good management.

  The long alley was empty and dark. Up ahead, I saw the silhouette of a girl walking by a row of large trash bins. I could see flowing black hair down a light colored coat.

  Headlights of an approaching car highlighted her thin frame. She screamed as two black dudes suddenly jumped out of the car in front of her.

  One of them rushed up and said, “Now we got you bitch!”

  In the headlights, I could clearly see the men. It was Giuseppe, an old running buddy of mine from my early days in the TL, and his brother Prince. The beautiful Asian hooker stood stark still. They moved in on her with a sadistic glee on their dark faces.

  Prince was a six-foot-five, horse-faced pimp who ran the Fillmore district’s crew of psycho punks. The Fillmore boys were a gang of pimps who beat, tortured and starved their bitches if they didn’t produce enough. I was not happy to see them in our territory.

  Giuseppe, Prince’s kid brother, was a pockmarked crank-head who flaunted his convict, iron-pumping physique in tight, black silk shirts. His massive chest was covered with gold chains that caught the headlights.

  Giuseppe stood next to their prey grinning. His oily, bald head glistened as he spoke with exaggerated facial expressions. “Run for it, bitch!”

  He grabbed the Asian girl’s hair as she started to flee.

  Terror shot through me as I heard my own breath coming fast. Sanity told me not to move as I watched. I was no match for an ex-con. The Asian girl’s face showed the fear I was feeling as she got kicked in the ass by Prince’s large foot while his brother grasped her hair.

  “Get walking, bitch. You’re supposed to be sucking dick, not strolling through the alley!” Prince shouted.

  She answered back pleadingly, “I had to pee. I was taking a powder break.”

  That comment caused Giuseppe to drag her towards the open car door. She fell and tried to hold onto the bumper as he pulled her over the asphalt.

  Prince bent down in front of her as he grabbed her foot. Giuseppe pulled her hair as Prince held her. She kicked with her free leg and screamed, “Let me go. I’ll not do it again!”

  I held my breath as I saw the flash of a six-inch blade shoot out from a switchblade Prince pulled from his pocket. He pushed the tip of the knife against her pelvis as Giuseppe laughed, twisting her hair in his large fist.

  Desperation and terror filled the gir
l’s face as she eyed the knife. Prince cackled and said, “Maybe I’ll pop a hole in your bladder, then you can piss right here, bitch!”

  Giuseppe joined in the fun. “Let’s throw this lazy-ass bitch in the trunk. Maybe we’ll swing by the dump.”

  They started laughing in unison.

  I didn’t have a piece. I was a lover, not a fighter. I knew if I intervened, they would cut my throat. Giuseppe looked completely wired. His eyes bulged out as he grinned, showing his excitement. The more she squirmed, the happier he got.

  With a disgusted grunt, Prince let go of her foot, and she stumbled trying to get up. Giuseppe yanked the screaming whore to the rear of the car. I heard the trunk slam and the front door close. In a moment, a large purple El Dorado passed in front of me as I hid in the darkness.

  The fear etched on the young whore’s face lingered like heavy fog. I remembered my own countless nights of degradation as a streetwalker. I said a silent prayer for the girl in the trunk.

  Pimping was the ultimate power play. My most powerful tools of persuasion however, were charm and sex. Humiliation was a barbaric technique that I vowed I would never resort to. Yet tonight had shown me one thing: I had to protect my turf. I couldn’t cower behind a garbage can like a frightened little girl. I decided to head over to the bordello and tell my old friend Marie about the Fillmore boys moving into our territory. I was curious to hear her take on it.

  I hurried out of the alley and hailed a cab. The scruffy-bearded driver asked, “Where to?”

  Jumping into the back, I requested, “Take me to the big yellow Victorian on Bell Street in Chinatown.”

  The driver spun away from the curb. I sat back, thinking about what I’d seen. I needed protection, and I needed the kind of badasses who could provide it.

  Chapter 9

  MARIE

  I gazed up at the grand yellow Victorian house. The stately wrought iron fence surrounding it was dotted with large red roses. As I inhaled their sweet scent, I felt like I was coming home. I unlocked the heavy ornate gate, pulled it open, and ventured up the brick pathway to the bordello.

  The wooden steps creaked under my weight as I stepped onto the charming and spacious veranda. Red geraniums greeted me, potted in their freshly painted planters. Beside the front door was a white wicker porch swing. Its plush, rose-patterned cushions offered southern comfort. The large varnished oak door had an elegant brass plate engraved in romantic cursive script: Tara of the West.

  I knocked: three short fast raps. The heavy peephole cover squeaked as it was opened. I looked directly into the eye of my friend Marie. She was a streetwise hooker with the looks of Liz Taylor and the brains of a Wall Street stockbroker.

  “Who’s there?”

  Aggravated, I replied, “It’s Jesse.” I appreciated her precautions, but I was in no mood for them tonight.

  “What’s the code?”

  “Twelve, twelve. Give me a break, Marie. It’s freezing out here!”

  She replied in a pleasant southern voice, “Hold your horses, honey.”

  The heavy deadbolt turned and the large door opened. I greeted Marie with a quick nod, feeling really annoyed for having to stand out in the cold.

  As she bolted the door behind me, the large rock on her finger caught the light from the foyer chandelier. I felt the soft plush Persian rug compress beneath the soles of my shoes. Like the johns that came here, I was soothed in style.

  Marie smiled, her velvet blue eyes delivering a hint of divine rapture. Large diamond stud earrings sparkled against her curly black hair.

  Reluctantly, I smiled back at my friend. “I gotta talk a little business with you, but let’s have a drink first, okay?”

  Marie indicated an adjoining room. “I’m completing ‘The Madonna’ and it’d be nice to have some company.”

  Marie was a passionate artist, and she loved to show her latest pieces of work. She displayed them in her own personal studio which doubled as the dining room. A devout Catholic, she volunteered her talents by painting the saints for the local parish. Mary Magdalene was her favorite.

  Marie gave me a hug, softly kissed me on the cheek and said, “Let’s go in the dining room, honey. I want to show you my latest. I’ll fix you a drink.”

  I followed Marie through the large house, passing the luxurious parlor. Rich leather chairs sat across from each other in front of an open fireplace. Between them stretched an ivory-white polar bear rug. On the marble mantel, sterling silver frames showcased the ladies of the house. An elegant gold baroque chaise lounge and sofa surrounded an antique mahogany coffee table. The beautiful bay windows were framed with long, green, velvet drapes.

  We entered the large formal dining room and I took a seat in the ornate high-backed mahogany chair at the head of the table. Feeling like King Arthur in his court, I waited for my Genevieve to fix my drink.

  Carefully, I placed my cigarettes apart from the open containers of turpentine and paint-smeared rags on the newspapers covering the table. I shared the table space in front of me with a foot-and-a-half, partially-painted statue of the Virgin Mary, tubes of paint, a painter’s palette and a variety of brushes.

  “Jesse, are you hungry?”

  “I’m just a little hungry, what do you have?” I replied like a tired husband to a doting wife after a hard day’s work. I knew exactly what the menu was. It had been the same for years, but there was no harm in asking.

  Marie announced, “I just happen to have some southern fried chicken and some fried green tomatoes. I only used a little batter, because I know you’re a Californian and you like healthy foods.”

  I gave Marie the same reply that I always did. “Yes, dear. That’s just fine.”

  Even though our romantic interest in each other had been short-lived, we always acted like an old married couple. She liked to serve, and I liked to be served, so it worked out just great.

  Marie left the dining room like a faithful wife rushing to fulfill her duty of feeding me. She would return in a minute with fried chicken and fried green tomatoes on a large rose-patterned English porcelain platter.

  I looked over at “The Madonna” and said a silent prayer, “God help me eat this fried chicken and green tomatoes once more.”

  I heard Wolfman Jack announcing one of my favorite tunes from the radio in the kitchen, “Cherry Pie.” I closed my eyes, envisioning a large piece of freshly baked hot cherry pie. I would have preferred a slice of that instead of chicken again.

  I heard the scuffling of shoes on the hardwood floors and opened my eyes to see Marie carrying the traditional platter with her “love offering.”

  “What would you like to drink, honey?”

  “Jack and water.”

  I saw the familiar expression of shock on Marie’s face as she replied, “Oh Jesse, don’t be silly. I know you love Southern Comfort, and that’s what you‘re gonna get.”

  Marie headed over to the Tiffany decanter set on the antique butler’s table. Her elegant fingers, adorned with a six-carat diamond ring, removed the crystal top and slowly poured the rich dark amber lifeblood of the south over ice.

  Peace and comfort enveloped me as I gazed up at the crystal chandelier. “Good God, Marie. How did we ever end up rich?”

  Marie shrugged and let out a little laugh. “We sold a lot of ass, baby!”

  I laughed and slowly ate my food. She picked up her paintbrush and applied light blue to the Madonna’s robe.

  Marie had a toughness that lay beneath her southern belle act. When Marie first entered the life, she’d had to turn cheap five-and ten-dollar tricks on the streets of Hollywood. Her patience and motherly instincts toward the girls in the house surpassed all understanding. I believe that’s what made her such a great madam. I had instinctively chosen powerful women to encircle my life as business partners and the smartest thing Bunny and I ever did was to hire Marie to baby-sit our stable. Bunny and I had zero tolerance for the daily ins-and-outs of running a bordello.

  I enjoyed watching Mar
ie methodically paint her statue. Her paint-smeared fingers meticulously applied the final touches to the Madonna’s robe with a long brush. While she worked, I reflected on the first time I saw Marie at a funky San Francisco hippie bar called, The Nest.

  Marie was slouched on the large pillows of an old sofa in a corner of the smoke-filled poolroom. She was wearing a midnight blue t-shirt with small mirrored sequins and faded denim bell bottoms. Her pretty bare feet with hot-pink toenails dangled over the armrest. Marie’s full attention was devoted to a Vogue magazine she was reading. When I entered, she looked up at me and blew perfect smoke rings. I was stunned by her dark blue eyes and long beautiful black hair. She was a mysterious young woman with chiseled features, softened by full lips, and her beauty captivated me then as it did now.

  I watched her paint with the brush in one hand and a Kool in the other. It was mesmerizing watching my friend get lost in her art. I felt a deep satisfaction knowing that Marie would never have to turn a trick again and that she could indulge herself in her greatest passion; painting Catholic art.

  I interrupted my friend’s concentration by asking, “Marie, have you heard any news about the Fillmore boys recently?”

  Marie carefully set her paint brush down on one of the open jars of turpentine and turned to me with a concerned expression. “No. Is something wrong?”

  “Prince and Giuseppe got pretty ugly with one of their girls in the alley behind Eddy Street tonight. They threw her in the trunk and took off. I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”

  She looked pained but said, “Don’t worry, Jesse. No pimp in his right mind kills a money-making whore. Maybe they were catching a stray.”