Stilettos and Steel

by Jeri Estes

  “Yeah, most likely,” I replied, still uneasy. “It’s probably just a fluke.”

  “I would mention tonight’s episode to Bunny though. You’re lucky they didn’t rob you.”

  I bristled at that comment. “I know how to take care of myself. I’ve been walking these streets for years.”

  “That’s before your shoes cost more than most people’s rent,” she pointed out.

  Solemnly, I pondered Marie’s admonishment as she put away her paints and tools.

  “Jesse, you need to get yourself a piece,” she went on. “I think it’s time you got a bodyguard too.”

  “I’m a lover, not a fighter, girl,” I said, though I’d had the same thought.

  “I remember, honey,” she said with a worried smile. “I’m going upstairs to get you a little something. I’ll be right back.”

  I watched as Marie left the room. She was wearing faded denim overalls, but she could quickly change into a sexy dress and look like a million bucks when it came time to greet a john. She had voluptuous breasts which she would expose like greeting cards in low-cut décolletage.

  She would always place her soft hand on a john’s chest as he entered the foyer to stop him for a moment. She demurely looked up at him with an expression of complete adoration. She would give the standard greeting, “Welcome to Tara of the West. Come on in and stay a while…we guarantee you‘ll leave with a smile.”

  Her eyes told the john, “You’re so handsome, you’re so tall, you’re so smart, and you’re so strong. I know you’d be truly happy with your cock in my mouth.”

  Her seductive, husky voice entranced the trick. She knew that each hushed word she spoke allowed her to hike up the price as the john became harder and harder.

  Marie returned with a gun in her hand. She placed the pearl-handled snub-nose .38 on the table in front of me.

  “Take this, baby. Careful, she’s loaded. This beauty’s got me out of more than one trick-gone-bad.”

  I picked up the gun and studied it, feeling its surprising weight in my hands. Reluctantly, I put it into my pocket, knowing she was right.

  Marie slotted her paints into the wooden case on the table. She looked at me and recited an old street saying, “The nicer the nice, the higher the price.”

  “You got that right,” I replied.

  Our moment was jolted by a loud knocking at the front door. Marie walked over to the kitchen doorway and called out in a musical voice, “Ju Ju, Jujubees, would you come in here, please? I need you for a minute.”

  The flamboyant Filipino houseboy stepped into the dining room. His white Eisenhower jacket emphasized his svelte waist and firm ass. Jujubees was both as sweet and as obnoxious as the candy that gets stuck in your teeth. The only time the young man moved with any urgency was when he wanted to show his vexation at being treated like a houseboy.

  In an annoyed tone he asked, “What is it, Miss Marie?”

  “It’s the door, Jujubees,” she said in an exasperated tone.

  “It’s probably that g-string floozy.” Jujubees did a Barbara Stanwyck turn and sauntered away.

  There was another loud knock as Jujubees called through the door, “What’s your code?”

  “Two, four, six and I’m not a trick,” answered Little Rosie in a thick Latina accent. “Open the door, you fruit! My nipples have frostbite!”

  Marie looked at me and smiled, “Looks like Little Rosie caught your scent.”

  Sassy Jujubees let in a foxy Puerto Rican in four-inch heels.

  “I smell Aramis. Where’s Jesse?” Rosie demanded.

  “She’s having a drink with Marie in the dining room.”

  The sound of clicking stiletto heels grew louder as Little Rosie made a beeline to me. Rosie was a hooker who moonlighted as a topless dancer. She had the hots for me and was the first lady to join my stable.

  “Hi, my pretty little chi-chi mama, looks like you got off work early,” I said.

  “I never stop working. Don’t be silly, papi,” she said as she snapped her fingers.

  Rosie’s intoxicating brown body was poured into a low-cut leopard dress, revealing a bodacious bosom that made her a fortune. Rosie’s stylish bouffant hairdo towered above gigantic gold earrings. Her bright brown eyes playfully challenged me. “Don’t you give your baby girl a kiss when she comes home from work?”

  Her well-shaped face and strong nose were softened by round cheeks. Full lips painted in bright pink lipstick seemed frozen in a perpetual little girl pout.

  “Mellow out, Rosie. Join us for a drink and a joint,” Marie put in.

  Rosie shot me a teasing glare and said, “Chat, chat, chat, smoking dope, just sitting and a-chatting…when you could be upstairs in my bed.” Rosie gave me a big wink. She slowly turned around, bent over and stuck out her behind. The playful seductress slapped her sexy ass and said, “Just think. You could have this instead.”

  Marie and I burst into laughter. I had to admit, she had a point.

  Rosie was the first femme who showed me the ropes in the art of making love as a baby butch. The passion we experienced years ago after a quick pickup at Maud’s bar still burned intermittently.

  Rosie seductively took off her shawl and flung it over her shoulder. She moved to hug me and said, “Jesse, I need to slip into a hot bubble bath. Come join me. I have a hidden stash of Jack.”

  Rosie was familiar and fun, like a taste of home. Guilt gnawed at my conscience a little. My heart was reserved for Carmen, and I couldn’t let anyone else in. Tonight though, I could use a little light entertainment. “I think I’ll take you up on it, foxy lady,” I answered as I got up and followed her toward the stairway.

  “That’ll be nice if you two spend a little time together,” Marie called after us. “Maybe Rosie will be sweeter to Jujubees tomorrow.”

  As we reached the top landing, Marie called up, “Oh, Jesse, I have someone in mind for that henchman job. We’ll discuss it on the veranda in the morning.”

  Chapter 10

  RAT-A-TAT-TAT, JESSE’S BACK

  I strutted down the crowded sidewalk of my old neighborhood in the Tenderloin. The fading afternoon sun caressed my face and a cool breeze carried mingled sounds of the city as I made my way toward Compton’s Cafeteria.

  I maneuvered through the familiar, violent underbelly of strip joints, bars, cheap hotels and liquor stores. Colorful queens peppered the neighborhood, dressed to the nines in high heels and high hair. Lesbians dressed like men boldly walked in public, holding hands with their femme girlfriends.

  The Tenderloin was different from most red-light districts because it was a Camelot for homos. It offered freedom to dress in drag, which was against the law. That freedom was regulated by the dirty cops. The “Tax Squad” allowed the queers to prostitute as long as they stayed in the gay ghetto. Of course, when the mood struck them, the pigs cracked a lot of heads and made big bucks shaking down the homos, hustlers, hookers and dealers. Like the cops said, “Clubs were trump.” Legend had it that the Tenderloin’s name came from the prime cut of meat which the dirty cops could afford to eat after collecting all of their bribes.

  I passed my old home at the Camelot Hotel. It was a seedy joint next door to a Turkish bathhouse. Sweaty, smiling gay boys exited the baths as johns of every variety cruised down Turk Street. The procession of “bargain shoppers” reminded me of my streetwalking days before I met Bunny.

  I thought about how far I’d come since my grand entrance back into the city. I had paraded through the streets of the Tenderloin chauffeured by Bunny in her pink Caddy convertible. Proudly, I displayed my recently awarded rank of gangster pimp.

  Like a top-notch head hunter, I’d gone to work implementing my new employee recruitment plan. I offered bonuses and perks that were irresistible to any prostitute. My new girls encouraged their friends to follow. Like hair stylists, the hookers brought their clients along, too.

  To secure my position as a thriving gangster, I was in need of a henchman. Today, I had an a
ppointment to meet Diana at Compton’s. She was a young lady from Oakland who was interested in the shield position. Diana’s street handle was “Junior” and she had come highly recommended by Marie.

  “Jesse, look for a Latin butch dressed in black, carrying a briefcase,” Marie had told me.

  The cafeteria on Turk and Taylor Street was my favorite place to rendezvous. It was a convenient meeting spot in the heart of the Tenderloin. Any time was a good time, since it was open twenty-four, seven. The corner was a mecca for every variety of street people, including the young runaways who panhandled in front of the restaurant.

  Compton’s had large windows that ran the full length of the cafeteria, which made it an ideal location to check out the street action. The cooks and servers were immune to the hard drag butches, dolled-up femmes, flamboyant queens and army of hippies and bikers that lingered inside over cups of coffee. Besides the folks talking shit into the wee hours of the morning were the tricks who scurried in and out before going next door to the conveniently located Camelot Hotel. The employees and patrons nonchalantly watched the endless transactions of the commerce of sex and drugs that took place in the brightly lit eatery.

  I spotted two hippies working the front entrance. I recognized one of them, an old acquaintance and occasional party buddy named Two Bits. Her wild blond frizzy hair shot out around her head like a tumbleweed. Bursting gold stars danced across her psychedelic hip-hugging bell-bottoms. Two Bits’ big belly protruded under her faded blue Timothy Leary t-shirt that advertised “Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out.”

  This sweet-spirited acid head was a fixture of the Tenderloin. She flashed the crack in her plump ass as she bent down to pick up a dime that a military-looking dude tossed at her from a passing car. Two Bits shot the dude a peace sign, and her turquoise and silver bracelets jangled down her arm. Strands of glittering love beads bounced off her big tits as she shouted, “Peace, man!”

  On the other side of the entrance stood a sad-eyed barefoot girl with long flowing red hair. The tattered hem of her long white dress, which was embroidered in pink peace symbols, fell down around her filthy bare feet. The hippie’s wafer-thin waist was wrapped in a thick rope belt that gathered the loose-fitting garment. The girl held a few colorful flowers by her side.

  She was Two Bits’ partner in crime and boldly broke the law by asking a passerby, “Can you spare a dime for a flower?” Two Bits kept an eye out for the pigs. She stood in fringed, blue-beaded Indian moccasins next to a coffee can filled with wilted flowers. The can held up a small sign which read, “STOP THE WAR!”

  I caught Two Bits’ attention with a greeting of, “Hey, man… got a dime?”

  Two Bits’ large acid-dilated eyes lit up in surprise. “Hey, Jesse! Man, is that you?”

  Giving a small bow and tipping my Stetson, I replied, “You got that right.”

  Two Bits’ face broke into a wide smile. “How cool to see you, Jesse!”

  “Nice to see you again, man. Glad to be home.”

  Two Bits shot me her traditional peace sign. “Let’s all come together right now!” Excitedly, she started rapping, “You’re the talk of the TL, Jesse. I heard you’re all rich now and you got your own big stable.”

  Playfully, I held an invisible Tommy gun, grinned like a gangster and said, “Rat-a-tat-tat, Jesse’s back!”

  Two Bits laughed gleefully. She motioned with her thumb toward the young girl. “This is my crash bitch, Tulip.”

  Politely I tipped my hat and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Tulip.”

  The wafer-thin chick shyly held out a small beaded red hemp change purse. With hollow blue eyes she implored, “Can you spare a dime for a flower, Jesse?”

  Two Bits smiled at me apologetically. “Sorry Jesse, she’s hungry.”

  “It’s cool, Two Bits,” I replied, pulling out my gold money clip pregnant with big bills.

  I handed Two Bits a ten spot and said to the amiable street urchin, “Please buy your pretty lady a nice dinner. Catch ya guys later. And Two Bits, I may have a job for you soon. I need a runner for messages and errands.”

  Stuffing the bill into her jeans pocket, the cheerful dyke blurted out, “Far out! I’m up for that, boss.”

  The heavy glass doors surrendered and I entered the all-night diner. Through the large plate glass windows I caught a glimpse of Two Bits and Tulip scampering down the sidewalk.

  The welcoming aroma of sizzling burgers, French fries and fresh coffee met me. Happily chatting customers sat in red-cushioned chrome chairs at Formica tables. In the background, the Everly Brothers’ “Cathy’s Clown,” softly played. Behind a stool-lined counter, two burly cooks in tall white chef hats busily filled orders. Uniformed fast-moving waitresses, holding heavy trays above their heads, glided down the shiny black-and-white checkered tile runway.

  Karen, a spunky Asian waitress, greeted me. She smiled, exposing a wide gap in the middle of her teeth. “Hi Jesse, your table’s open.” Her long, wispy hair was pinned with a small pink waitress hat. Displayed on her crisp white polyester uniform’s breast pocket was her embroidered name, under a neatly folded pink handkerchief. She escorted me to an open table.

  “Hey Jesse, guess who I just saw walking past?” Karen asked as if she held the answer to the $64,000 question.

  “I don’t know, Karen ... Janis Joplin?” I shot back.

  “I’ll give you a clue: feisty femmes!”

  “The feistiest femme I know is Carmen,” I commented casually.

  Karen’s eyes lit up. “You got it!” She poured my coffee, pleased to be the bearer of good news. “She was strolling down the street with her sister Phyllis a few minutes before you came in.”

  A light suddenly went on. “Man, she must be circling me. How cool,” I said. “There’re no secrets in the Tenderloin. They must know I’ve been hanging out here.”

  Smiling, Karen said, “Jesse, as you would say, you got that right.”

  My mood brightened up a thousand watts. “Cool, I’ll have the usual. I’m kinda hungry.”

  “Coming right up, Jesse.” She scribbled my order on a pad and winked a dark almond eye at me.

  I pulled out my trusted Zippo, comforted by its weight, and lit a cigarette. I sighed with relief, knowing my girl was close by. Carmen and Phyllis could have walked down any other street. But Carmen always knew how to get my attention.

  Karen came back with a dish of lukewarm ravioli and a stale French roll. She refilled my coffee and whisked away, off to put out other fires.

  I saw a patron dressed in black seated at the counter. She rested a dark leather briefcase against her polished square-toed boots. Sensing my attention as I approached, the young woman turned around.

  I was taken aback by her stunning good looks. Her thin, straight nose and sensuous full lips were exotically Spanish. Her light olive-skinned face was framed by short black curly hair.

  “Junior?” I inquired.

  “Yes. It’s nice to meet you, Jesse,” she said. A warm smile pushed deep dimples into her cheeks. Junior’s broad shoulders and trim waist were packaged neatly in a silk shirt and creased slacks. She was strikingly handsome with refined pretty-boy features.

  “Hi, Junior, I’m Jesse Rawlson. Pleased to meet you,” I said, warmly introducing myself.

  Junior took my extended hand, giving me a firm handshake.

  “Grab your coffee. Let’s go to my table so we can chat,” I said.

  “Okay,” Junior replied. She pulled out a fifty-cent piece, placing it on the counter. Grabbing her briefcase, the neatly dressed butch followed me. We sat down across from each other.

  “Why don’t you get something to eat, Junior?

  “No, thanks.”

  Pulling a pack of Pall Malls from my jacket pocket, I offered Junior a cigarette. She took it and said, “Thanks, man.”

  After lighting up, I slid Junior my coveted lighter. “Marie’s spoken very highly of you.”

  “That was nice of her,” Junior replied. Perfectly white st
raight teeth appeared magically from behind her stoic expression.

  Junior lit her smoke and took a drag. She clicked my Zippo shut. Politely, she placed it atop the red cigarette pack.

  I continued to study my potential new employee. Junior’s hands looked refined yet strong. Her short fingernails were manicured with clear polish. As she puffed, wisps of smoke drifted past her face.

  “Marie said that you’re a hard worker with street smarts.”

  Karen approached with a large metal coffee pot. She poured the steaming liquid into our cups and buzzed away.

  “I am a hard worker, Jesse. I hear you are too. Word on the street is you’re gonna be the biggest boss in the TL.”

  “Well Junior, I’ve had a jump-start most bosses don’t get. Bunny had bordello girls before I hooked up with her. I brought in top-of-the-line call girls for our escort service. And we also run a group of street-walkin’ Turk Street bitches. I make a percentage off everything our stable brings in.”

  “Marie brags that you’re a very sophisticated pimp. She said everything you touch turns to gold.” Junior spoke in a matter-of-fact tone and I didn’t get the impression that she was trying to flatter me with bullshit.

  “Marie’s a good friend of mine. We were lovers for a hot five minutes when I first hit the TL. Marie’s always liked a lot of diamonds, and I’ve always liked a lot of girls. With that combination, we’re better off as friends.”

  We laughed, and I went on.

  “Junior, to make big bucks, you gotta learn from the best. I implement corporate strategies. When I hire a hooker, I give her a sign-up bonus. Every good whore insists on getting paid first.”

  Junior chuckled as I continued to give her a thumbnail sketch of the business.

  “Bunny is a true hooker at heart. ‘More’ is that girl’s middle name, man! The bitch is rich, but she still personally services her V.I.P johns.”

  “Smart,” Junior replied. “She keeps an eye on her money.”

  “She has a client in every trade. John the banker is an Ivy League, old money man. He’s a creative dude when it comes to banking matters. Her big gun is Deadly Chang. He’s a mob boss that makes Capone look like an altar boy. What he can do for Bunny, we don’t want to talk about. You understand this?” I asked.