Stilettos and Steel

by Jeri Estes

  “Respect. Respect, man.” Junior voiced the ultimate street accolade. “You got some heavy players in your pocket.” Her face showed little expression as she continued. “Jesse. I grew up in the Oakland projects. My mom had to work two jobs to keep a roof over our heads. I raised my younger brothers and sisters by myself.”

  Junior’s proud bearing was softened by a natural refinement. Her body language and small hand gestures revealed calmness. Junior seemed to possess the strength of a Mexican Indian and the elegance of a Spaniard.

  She took a pull from her cigarette and spoke reflectively. “I fought every day of my life till no one would fuck with us.”

  “I’m impressed,” I commented. “My henchman will need to be a good bodyguard. Sounds like you got that part of the job down.”

  She nodded, casual but tough underneath, I could see.

  “I know how rough Oakland is. I grew up in the San Fernando Valley. You ever been there?”

  “No, I’ve never left the Bay Area. Marie told me you were from the country.”

  I laughed to myself. Marie’s adopted snobbish West L.A. attitude toward the Valley was very funny considering she was originally from Georgia.

  “Junior, the San Fernando Valley is beautiful. It’s suburbia, with rows of tract homes, surrounded by miles of open fields, orange and walnut groves and horse ranches. Everyone who lives there looks like they stepped out of Ozzie and Harriet or Father Knows Best. It’s filled with nice middle-class families with good wholesome values, including mine.”

  “Sounds really nice,” Junior said. “You must miss it.”

  I shrugged. “I do. But I don’t miss acting straight. I lived a sheltered existence in an all-white neighborhood. I never even saw a real hobo or met a black person. The only blacks I ever saw were on the Amos and Andy show. We definitely didn’t have queers or gangsters.”

  “We didn’t have any whites in my neighborhood,” said Junior. “We do have some queers in Oakland. We keep it to ourselves so as not to get killed.”

  “Sounds pretty fucked,” I said commiserating. “I’ve been in the TL for over three years. Let me tell you something, Junior. Turning tricks for even six months in the TL is like doing two tours in ‘Nam. You get hard in a hurry. Now that I’m in management, it’s a lot nicer but even more dangerous.”

  Then I turned the subject to why we were meeting in the first place.

  “So, are you any good with a gun?”

  “Yeah, I pack a .38,” Junior answered assuredly.

  “Cool, I have a snub-nose .38 myself,” I said, moving onto my next question. “Do you have an old lady, Junior? ‘Cause you’ll be married to this gig.”

  Junior answered, “I can be your shadow twenty-four, seven. I don’t have time for a girlfriend.” A nervous tinge entered her voice. “I wanna be totally honest with you. I tried to go straight a couple of years ago and ended up pregnant. I have a little girl. My mom is raising my daughter for now…I guess its best… But she’s constantly threatening to report me to social services for being a homosexual.”

  “That’s a drag about your mom, but having a kid is cool with me, Junior. Marie mentioned it. If you end up on my crew, needless to say, you’ll make good money. What’s minimum wage now? A buck an hour? When your mom sees cash, she’ll get liberal real quick.”

  Junior smiled, appearing more relaxed. She took a long drag off her cigarette and snubbed it out.

  I put my hand over my cup as Karen approached with a fresh pot of coffee, “No thanks, Karen. Just bring me the check, please.”

  She pulled the check from her apron pocket. As Karen held it toward me, she gave me a mock wink and said, “See you later, Jesse.”

  “Just give me the check, bitch,” I said playfully as I snatched it from her fingers.

  Karen laughed, “Just kidding.” She made an about-face and left our table.

  “Let’s go, Junior,” I said standing up. “I gotta get over to the Grapevine bar and pick up some cash. Little Rosie, one of my best whores, dances there. She’s a Latin pistol that makes a jalapeño seem mild.”

  Junior smiled, took a last sip of water and grabbed her briefcase. I dropped three bills on the table.

  Junior and I walked through the crowded restaurant toward the exit.

  We passed a table packed with trash-talking queens, eating French fries and sipping Coca-Colas. The TL mommas’ dazzling earrings flung about with each flamboyant head toss and bejeweled gesture.

  I tilted my Stetson and sweetly said, “Good afternoon, ladies. Don’t let Miss America see ya, or she’ll die of envy.”

  I was smiling at their giggles when, like a red light, I stopped in my tracks at the sight of Carmen coming through the front door. The sexy femme approached like a queen strolling before her court. She politely paused her walk as she held my stare. Her body let me know she was happy to see me as she slightly bumped the table next to her.

  I smiled and said, “Baby doll! You look great!”

  Carmen halted in front of me, glanced over at Junior and said, “Thank you, Jesse. You look nice…like you’ve had some help picking your wardrobe.”

  Obviously, she’d heard about my involvement with Bunny.

  “Carmen, I’d like you to meet a potential business associate of mine. Junior say hello to Carmen.”

  Junior said, “Hello.”

  Carmen and I stayed fixed on each other, like boxers in a ring, not too close out of mutual respect. I led with my chin. “Would you like to get together for a drink? I mean, if you got a moment.”

  Carmen’s auburn hair fell loosely around her elegant neck. It was adorned with a new single diamond stud on a thin gold chain. She did not deign to reply.

  “How about a cup of coffee right now?” I pleaded.

  With that last request Junior flinched, seeing how Carmen’s look of indifference wounded me. Carmen’s eyes showed a slight sign of warmth at my pain.

  “I have plans for today,” she replied.

  Pride fanned breath into my wounded ego as I nonchalantly said, “So do I today, come to think of it. Let’s keep in touch.” I tipped my hat to the lady as I headed toward the door.

  Chapter 11

  THE HENCHMAN

  As we stepped out onto the sidewalk, a nippy breeze announced another chilly night ahead.

  “What a fucking fox!” Junior blurted out.

  “Yeah, she’s my fucking fox. That’s Carmen, my old lady, she’s just pissed at me.”

  “Oh, damn! That’s your Carmen. Marie told me all about you guys. I’m so sorry!”

  “Forget about it.” I had a gangster moment and tapped her on the shoulder. “Let’s go, Vato.”

  Junior and I, looking like two executives after a hard day’s work, sauntered up Taylor Street toward the Grapevine. We passed a couple of men lingering around the sidewalk newsstand.

  Tommy, a stocky bomber-jacket clad newsstand man, shouted out as he sold papers, “Hey Jesse, can you drop by later tonight?”

  “You got it, Tommy,” I shouted back. Turning to Junior, I said, “Tommy’s one of our tricks. He probably wants to arrange a date at the house.”

  Tommy was selling a paper to Johnny Fuck-Fuck, a small-time pimp. The wannabe whore master was wearing an ugly mustard yellow suit and a white fedora. Cheap fake gold chains ran down his open golden lamé shirt. White patent leather shoes hadn’t helped his recruiting efforts.

  Johnny shot me a dirty glare. Standing next to Johnny was a tall dude dressed in denim. The pasty-faced guy had long red hair and full mutton chop sideburns with a thick mustache. The mutton chop chump yelled, “Hey, pussy pimp! Who’s the cunt with the briefcase… your secretary?”

  Johnny Fuck-Fuck broke into a loud laugh. Puckering his lips, he made a loud kissing sound and grabbed his crotch. “Come on, girls, its big enough for the both of you!”

  I said in an undertone to Junior, “Let it slide, man. Johnny Fuck-Fuck’s chump change.”

  “Which asshole is Johnny Fuck-Fuck?” J
unior inquired in a very irritated tone.

  “He’s the one in love with his cock. I don’t know that mutton chop punk.”

  Junior laughed as we turned the corner. Her height nearly matched mine, allowing us a comfortable stride.

  “What’s their fuckin’ problem?” asked Junior.

  “Well, I noticed lately some of the straight guys don’t like that I’m making so much money,” I replied.

  That didn’t surprise her. “Why is that dude called Johnny Fuck-Fuck?”

  “He’s a chump-change pimp that has a couple of skanky old whores. Sometimes they lose their way from Fillmore and end up on Turk Street. He shoots pool at the hall over on Market Street,” I said jabbing a thumb in that direction. “The dude has Tourette’s. Every time he misses a shot he yells, “Fuck! Fuck!”

  Junior laughed.

  Out of nowhere, Mutton Chop shot past us. In a flash he grabbed Junior’s briefcase and raced off.

  Her olive cheeks reddened with rage. “Hey, come back here!”

  Junior and I burst into a full sprint after him. The mugger weaved in and out of the foot traffic. Furious, we pursued the denim-jacketed freak, tracking his flying hair above the crowd. At the corner, the towering thief darted into the alley.

  Trash-filled dumpsters were parked under fire escape ladders which ran down the old hotel buildings. Water-filled potholes slowed my feet.

  They slowed down our target too. Junior lunged forward, flying through the air and landed on the winded chump. She anchored her hands into the back of his long mane and the dude’s head violently jerked back. Junior slammed him hard against the fire escape. She smashed the bandit’s face on the dumpster. The sound of cracking bones filled the alley as his nose broke. “I’ll kill you, pussy bitch!” he shouted. Blood spurted, spraying onto the dumpster as he struggled to get away.

  My determined comrade wrapped her arms around his bloody head. Like a champion bronco buster, Junior locked her legs around his waist and hung on for dear life. “Drop my briefcase, shit head!” She yelled at the top of her lungs.

  “Fuck you! You man-wannabe cunt!” he raged.

  The chump kept trying to fling her off, but Junior wouldn’t let up. Like a dirty street fighter, she gouged her fingers into his eye sockets with no mercy. He screamed through his blood-filled mouth, “Get off me, bitch!”

  She spat through gritted teeth, “Fuck you!”

  Junior rammed his head into the metal bin again and the dude finally collapsed to the asphalt. As he hit the ground hard, blood gushed from his broken nose and gashed forehead.

  “Lezzie bitch!” he yelled as he unsuccessfully tried to rise to his feet.

  Like a Rockette, she kicked him squarely in the head. He went sprawling.

  Junior pulled her gun out of an ankle holster in one swift motion. The deadly sound of the .38’s hammer cocking filled the alley. Junior put her foot firmly on his chest while leaning over him. She jammed the steel barrel tip up his nostril. The dude’s eyes flew open. He stared cross-eyed down past his shattered nose to the cocked gun.

  She demanded in a hard, calm voice, “Show some respect.”

  I glanced up and down the alley, checking for the heat.

  The sweating scumbag stared up at Junior and pleaded, “Don’t kill me, man.”

  Instead, Junior whacked him with the butt of the gun and knocked him out cold. Stepping off him, the street warrior neatly wiped the blood on her gun’s barrel on the dude’s jacket.

  “Junior, let’s go, man, before the pigs get here.”

  Junior tucked the piece back in her ankle holster and dusted off her pant leg.

  “Okay, Jesse,” she answered, picking up her briefcase.

  Junior’s slacks were dirty and torn at the leg. She limped for a second before picking up the pace as we hurried to the end of the alley. When we hit the sidewalk, we started walking slowly as if enjoying a twilight stroll after a hard day’s work.

  “It’s not all roses, Junior.” I joked, still catching my breath. “If it was easy to get to the top, everybody would be there. Next time, handcuff your briefcase to yourself.”

  Junior, also winded, replied, “That bastard was loco.”

  “He’s a jealous prick.” I pointed down at her leg. “The son of a bitch ripped your slacks.” I pulled out my money clip and handed Junior a Benny. “Take it.”

  “No, Jesse, it’s cool, I’m fine,” Junior answered as she raised her hand in protest.

  “I want you to get yourself some nice slacks,” I said firmly. “When people hang around me, they gotta look good.”

  Seeing my point, Junior shrugged.

  “You know what I like hearing from my employees?” I light-heartedly asked.

  “What?”

  “‘Yes, boss,’ and that’s about it.”

  She smiled good-naturedly and took the Benny.

  Chapter 12

  LITTLE ROSIE

  The sound of the Motown master, Marvin Gaye, carried through the black velvet curtains hanging in the doorway. Pushing them aside, I was greeted by the perfume of the Tenderloin: stale booze and tobacco smoke. Tables lined the base of the stage of the poor man’s North Beach Topless Club. Here, the patrons downed cocktails and watched Rosie’s bouncing brown boobs.

  As we lingered by the entrance, Little Rosie dominated the spotlight, dancing down the runway in the center of the stage. She moved enthusiastically, each boob jiggling to the beat as she jerked her arms up and down. Beneath Rosie’s bouffant hairdo, her large glittering gold-hoop earrings swayed as fast as her miniskirt-clad ass.

  I was pleased to see my girl hard at work. Junior and I stood watching her as she dramatically pointed her finger at the audience and sang along, “I heard it through the grapevine.”

  “Hey Junior, that’s Rosie up there shaking her little Latin ass. She loves dancing.” I waved a hand, indicating the crowd. “If the girls are happy, it reduces turnover and saves us the cost of training new ones. A gig like this provides us with a steady flow of new clients.”

  Junior nodded and said, “That makes a lot of sense.”

  We walked to the bar and sat on the tall barstools. Stacked bottles of booze sat on glass racks in front of the mirrored wall behind the bar. Black-and-gold labels dressed my companions in escape; like old friends they greeted me. The tall wild turkey and bold red-dressed English beefeater rubbed shoulders with a grinning pirate whose booted foot pinned down a keg of rum.

  The silver-haired bartender, Larry Tuttle, wiped down the mahogany counter. His bushy eyebrows rose above his sparkling blue eyes as he gave me a warm smile with all three of his teeth. The old man was neatly dressed in a white shirt and black bowtie.

  “Hey Jesse,” called Tuttle, “lookin’ good!”

  Tuttle prepared my usual: two shots of Jack with a water back. He opened the cash register, removing a fat envelope from under the cash drawer. Deftly, he placed the envelope down in front of me.” “Jesse, Bunny left this for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, casually putting away my week’s take into my jacket’s inner breast pocket. “Hey Tuttle, this is Junior, a friend of mine.”

  Tuttle’s wise old eyes sized her up. “Nice to meet you, Junior. What’s your poison?”

  “I’ll have a draft beer,” Junior answered.

  “Have a real drink, Junior,” I urged. “After your Cassius Clay act back there, it’s on me, man.”

  “I’ll have a scotch and soda, Mr. Tuttle.”

  Tuttle smiled as he mixed her drink. Over his shoulder, I studied my reflection below the booze bottles and adjusted my hat. I studied the crowd from my perch like a Las Vegas pit boss, counting tricks like cards.

  Little Rosie danced to the beat, pointing her finger accusingly toward me as she mouthed the words, “How much longer would you be mine?” The smile in her eyes let me know she didn’t believe them. I downed the shot of Jack and tossed her a grin and a wink.

  I tapped my finger on the wooden bar and said, “Hit me!” As
I finished off the second shot, the warmth of the whiskey slowly spread through my chest like a river of lava. I lit a cigarette and inhaled the calming smoke.

  “How the hell did you learn how to run like that, Junior? You’re fuckin’ fast!”

  “I have a Mexican mother with old-time Catholic values who can really handle a tree switch.”

  Chuckling, I replied, “I’m Catholic too, but my mom only had to give us the warning, ‘Wait till your father comes home.’”

  Junior sipped her Scotch and soda. “You’re pretty fast on your feet too, Jesse.”

  “I have an older brother who thought I was a punching bag.” I took a long drag off my cigarette. “In fact, I thought my name was “bitch” until I was sixteen.”

  We exchanged a smile of understanding.

  “Junior, I want to explain my business structure to you,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “Okay,” she responded, alert with interest.

  “Although your job will not require selling per se, it’s good that you understand how we operate.”

  Junior said, “I don’t know of any big-time women pimps. The only ones I‘ve heard of have just a few girls. There was a Fillmore dyke that was a pretty big player. Only problem was, she was found last month with her hands tied behind her back and a bullet in her head. They shot her execution-style and dumped her body behind the Turkish bathhouse. I guess they think queers belong in the TL.”

  “Yeah, I remember hearing about that—another dyke killed for pissing off the boys. Recently, a few of the Fillmore players have been spotted in our neighborhood. Why do you think I wanna hire you?”

  Junior chuckled, “Cabrons.”

  “Poverty is safe. You’re anonymous, invisible, not a threat to anyone. The more money I make, the more muscle I need.” That made sense to her, and I expanded the scope of the talk. “It’s simple. Prostitution is like the restaurant business. We have three streams of income generated by three categories of hookers. Our McDonald’s, fast-and-cheap, are the Turk Street bitches. Lawry’s Prime Rib, fine dining in a nice atmosphere: the bordello ladies. Fairmont Hotel’s five-star cuisine: our top-of- the-line call girls.”