by Jeri Estes
I felt bile rise in my throat as rage and disbelief simmered in me. Asian Pearl asked, “Fuckin’-A, Jesse, what took you so long to scare those motherfuckers into letting us go?”
I was jarred from my shock of picturing Linda’s tortured body, trying to comprehend what had happened. “What did you say?”
“Jesse, what took so long to get the word out on the street that you had hired the Gomez Rexsaurus? Didn’t you know we were in trouble? We always show up for a good date.” As Asian Pearl continued talking, I started putting the pieces together. “When Prince showed up, he told Giuseppe, ‘There’s been a change in plans. Let the bitches go. I don’t want to swallow my balls with my own blood. Rumor has it that the chick with a dick is hiring Joe Gomez on her crew.’
“Prince couldn’t wait to get his sorry ass over to Giuseppe’s crib. That phony wannabe player acted like he didn’t know we had been kidnapped. Prince threw his brother under the bus, coming into the basement like the cavalry yelling, ‘You let these bitches go! Why did you go against my orders? Never fuck with Jesse’s bitches!’ Then he slapped his punk brother alongside his head.”
Pearl picked up my Zippo off the table and lit a cigarette. She inhaled deeply and, as if exhausted from telling the story, gave out a sigh as she exhaled. She raised her glass high in a toasting gesture and said, “Here’s to Joe.”
I was irritated with the hard-eyed whore who I knew did not really respect me. Pearl was a low-button snob, the kind of person who had contempt for the privileged. She thought someone was weak simply because they did not assault their enemies. I told Pearl, “I had my troops out looking for you. I would have freed you soon. He will pay for this, trust me.”
She merely replied, “Thank God for Joe Gomez. It’s about time you finally hired somebody with balls.”
“I’m calling Little Bastard and Rascal to come over and take you both back to the house.”
Pearl without argument said, “Okay.”
“Linda, honey,” I said, “I want you to take a nice warm shower. You can put on my terry cloth robe that you’ll find hanging on the back of the door when you get out. Just give me your old clothes and I’ll throw them away for you. I’m calling Junior to pick you up some underwear and a nice new dress. Go get cleaned up and make yourself at home, okay? Are you hungry? I can fix you something to eat.” I studied the girl, who was now silently crying. As I wiped away a tear, her pretty bottom lip quivered.
Childlike, she asked me, “What do you have to eat?”
“Good question. I don’t know what I have to eat, but Carmen always stocks my refrigerator up with all kinds of goodies in case we get the munchies. When Junior gets here, I’ll have her fix you a little something.”
Impatiently, I said to her, “But first things first. Go take your shower. I want you to be nice and clean for when the doctor visits you. I’m sending Dr. Elena over to Tara of the West to take care of you. I don’t want those burns getting infected. Don’t worry; she’ll give you something for the pain.”
Then, shooing her off the couch like a mother hen, I said, “Go on now. Do what I say.”
I lit up a Pall Mall, took a deep drag and started to think of a game plan. A heavy weight lifted from my chest as I picked up the phone and called Junior to tell her our girls were home and safe. I heard her groggy voice answer, “Hello, is that you, boss?”
“Yeah, Junior. I got some business for you to take care of.”
Chapter 25
THE CONTRACT
Little Rosie sat curled up in a chair with her red-painted toes sticking out from under her black mink coat. Humming along, she was as mellow as the Nina Simone music playing in the background.
A tarnished silver roach clip sat on the table in front of Junior, a stub clamped between its teeth. Next to it, casually lying out, was a large round wad of cash wrapped in a thick rubber band. Junior’s soft face caught the light of a flickering candle on the coffee table.
The room felt like a warm safe cocoon, draped in a pink haze from the dim lights and the tint of my rose-colored shades. I listened to the soulful singer and sat on the couch with my feet up, resting next to an open shoebox filled with weed. My lighter was inside the box’s lid, along with a small amount of cleaned grass and a pack of Zig-Zag papers for easy access.
A large gallon of Red Mountain wine, a favorite throwback brand from my days of poverty as a runaway, dominated the center of the table. Tonight, the nostalgic bottle was encircled by long-stemmed crystal glasses that proudly displayed the nasty-tasting cheap wine. Just like my old days on the streets, we talked trash, laid back and passed the grass.
Junior was slouched in the brown leather recliner until a hot loose grass seed burned her crumpled white dress shirt. Her serenity disrupted, she quickly brushed off the front of her shirt. “Oh, shit,” she said as she sat up, “I like this fuckin’ shirt. Damn it, now I got a seed hole.”
Amused by Junior’s mishap, Little Rosie giggled. “You butches are all alike. You can’t keep a shirt clean to save your life. What would you do without us femmes? Who would take care of you dumb dykes, hm?”
“That reminds me Junior, where the fuck’s Carmen? Maybe I should send you to the Drake to make sure she didn’t marry that motherfucking D.A.”
Rosie laughed at that last remark and said, “Jesse, that femme’s not going to marry any rich john. Carmen wants to tie your ass down. She doesn’t like sharing you with me. Carmen doesn’t realize that you and I got an understanding. She’s probably getting herself all dolled up so she can walk in here like the Queen of Sheba.”
As soon as she said that, we heard a knock on the front door.
“Thank God she’s here,” I said. I jumped up and walked across the room in my stocking feet, excited to see Carmen. As I swung the door open, I said, “Hey baby doll, what took you so long.” To my amazement, I looked directly at a large black hand holding a big red velvet pouch. I heard a male voice say, “Didn’t know you cared, baby.”
Startled sober, I looked up and saw Prince’s pockmarked, ugly horse face. It had an unusually friendly expression on it. Prince smiled, exposing crooked stained teeth and a gold cap that color-coordinated with his neck chain. Chuckling, he started toward me. Like a lady being led in a dance, I was forced to step backward so as not to have the six-foot-five giant step on my feet.
Prince strutted through my hall with the attitude of my long-lost brother coming over for Thanksgiving dinner. Loudly, as if making an announcement, he said, “I brought you girls a little gift. I’ve come to join the party and I’ve left my brother Giuseppe at home. I brought you bitches a six-hundred-dollar bottle of scotch!”
Rosie and Junior shifted in their chairs, trying to conceal the fear and rage they were feeling toward our intruder. The energy in the room went from mellow heaven to terror-ridden hell as we were all caught with our weapons down.
I regained my cool first, falling back on years of training, and remembered my manners. I gave Prince the traditional street greeting, “What’s happening, man?”
I took the bottle of scotch that was obviously a peace offering. Junior, like a dutiful wife, got up and took it from my hand. The tension in the room was as thick as the fog on a cold morning in the bay.
Prince arrogantly tossed his black Afro-head back and gave a sneer, looking nastier than usual. In a hushed voice wrapped in contempt he said, “I’ve come to make amends for my brother snatching two of your bitches. That fool thought the corn-fed country girl was in love with him. He’s whacked on speed. Giuseppe wanted to make Linda his old lady. The ho said no, so he burnt her pussy.”
“What the fuck did you say, Prince?” I asked in disbelief.
“Let’s not fuck with each other,” he retorted. “I’ve come to talk business. Shit, bitch, enjoy this bottle of top-shelf scotch. Consider it payment for the damages done to your bitch.”
The cobra of rage asleep in its basket rose within me. In a heartbeat the cobra erupted and struck Prince. “Take your
fuckin’ bottle of scotch and cram it up your ugly ass! Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!”
In a flash, a shiny long blade appeared beneath my eyes, as it pierced my t-shirt between my breasts. I felt the cold steel tip as it rested against my skin. Breathless, too terrified to move, my friends looked on.
I fixed Prince with an evil stare. “Try it motherfucker!” I yelled. The force of my words shook him. Prince stumbled backwards. He looked like he knew I was crazy. He checked to see if Junior or Little Rosie had drawn their guns.
Stepping backward in retreat, he held his knife tightly in his hand. Like a cornered lion he roared, “You’re dead, motherfucker! You’re dead, motherfucker!” Prince kept pronouncing my death warrant as he steadily retreated to the front door, continuing to yell his threat in the hall as he fled.
The three of us rushed to the door like football players heading for a tackle. Little Rosie and Junior’s bodies pressed behind mine as the three of us slammed the door closed and bolted it as if we were trying to prevent a break-in, after the fact.
Rosie ran through the hall back into the living room as fast as her short little legs could take her. Out of her purse she pulled her Derringer. Following suit, Junior leaped to the coat rack, pulling her .38 out of the waiting holster.
My shaking hand grabbed the cold closet doorknob in a death grip as I turned the handle, desperate to get my gun. My hand embraced the cold steel. The adrenaline running through my body like an electrical current, slowed down enough for me to breathe. The three of us huddled in the hall, guns drawn and hammers cocked. We all stood there and shook. As I turned around, I realized, “Oops, I fucked up.”
Rosie had her pearl-handled Derringer in one hand and the other on my arm. Her sharp nails pressed into my flesh. “Aye, aye, aye, you got the Fillmore boys’ mark on you! He’ll put a contract on your head! ‘You’re dead, motherfucker’ means you’re gonna get whacked! Are you okay?” she asked.
Junior echoed her, “Jesse, are you okay?”
I heard their voices over the rushing whoosh filling my ears, like an ocean of fear making me immobile and unable to respond.
Junior tried to get my attention. “Boss, are you okay?”
Finally, I snapped out of my paralysis. I replied to my terrified crew, “I’m fine. Fuck ‘em if he can’t take a joke.” For all my brave words, though, I knew the struggle for control had escalated. I should have realized after Linda was burned that I had to answer back.
I was a lover, not a fighter, but I sure had a fight on my hands now.
Chapter 26
G-STRING CHEETAH
Prince didn’t take long to back up his threat. Joe Gomez took the first bullet and fortunately survived. He, Rascal and I had walked out the back door of Chuckkers, when out of nowhere, a black Lincoln pulled up. The doors flew open and bullets rained out. At the time, I hadn’t really taken Prince’s threat seriously. As the bullets ricocheted off of the dumpsters, however, I realized that I did truly have a contract on my head. Gomez bravely took a bullet in the shoulder, rushing in front of me to protect my ass.
After winging Joe, Mutton Chop tried to jump back into the passenger side of the Lincoln. Like a raging bull, though, Rascal picked up a trash can lid and smashed it over the chump’s head. The clang on his head echoed through the alley. In a thump, he hit the ground. Enraged, Rascal then picked him up by the throat and smashed his head right through the passenger window of the Lincoln. The car tore down the alley with the Mutton Chop Chump stuck in the window, his limp, dangling body scraping the ground.
For the past week, my crew and I had been under siege. Our fortresses were the now heavily guarded Chinatown bordello and my apartment.
Security demanded that my crew stay off the streets until we could launch an offensive. My soldiers bunked together and kept off the streets. Guards were posted at the Chinatown bordello, my apartment and at each key crew member’s residence.
My ladies and I were dealing with the hardest part of siege warfare; confinement. We were all sick of being cooped up.
The grumblings of Little Bastard as she talked to her restless sidekick, Rascal, faintly drifted into the living room. They were standing guard in the hallway, and my crew of bikers stood outside the building keeping watch. All of my bodyguards were armed with sawed-off shotguns, .45s, blades and chains.
I had issued an order to the street hookers to hide while we were under siege. They bunked with their sisters in trade, the bordello girls, at the house in Chinatown. To prevent further kidnapping, it was safer for them to wait out the battle there.
My dreary boredom was interrupted by my phone ringing. I picked it up and heard Carmen’s voice at the other end.
“What are you up to?” Carmen inquired.
“Hi, baby doll,” I said, relieved to hear her voice. “I’m doing nothing but watching the clock go by. Just playing gangster and hiding out.”
“Poor baby. What’s a pimp to do?” Carmen teased.
“Tough it up, girl,” I answered.
Carmen’s alluring voice continued, “I can come over and keep you company. We can play gangster together.”
Fighting back temptation, I said, “It’s best for you to stay at Phyllis’s. I’m a target, and I don’t want you to get hit by being too close.”
“Junior and Animal can escort me… we’re all bored to death,” Carmen whined. “How about I drop by and have dinner with you later on?”
“That’ll work,” I said. “Until then, I’ll just suffer alone without you, baby.” I hung up and got back to my morbid musing.
My unhappy whores were behind the walls of Tara of the West. Heavy-hearted and restless, the ladies realized that if they left the house, they would leave with their old escort; fear.
The only hooker who seemed unaffected was, oddly enough, Linda from Missouri. Marie had informed me that she would disappear mysteriously for hours. She seemed restless and excessively withdrawn. Marie wanted me to talk to her, and Animal was bringing her over any minute.
I heard Animal’s deep voice as he greeted my butch enforcers outside. I quickly went to the door to let Linda in.
The wholesome whore looked solemn as she greeted me, “Hi, Jesse, Marie said you wanted to talk with me?”
“How are you feeling?” I asked. “Come sit down. Let’s chat for a minute.”
“All right, Jesse,”
Her plump face radiated a youthful freshness. Glossy jet black hair was piled high in perfect lovelocks. Her clear blue eyes stood out against her flawless skin. She wore a simple blue dress that complimented her slightly full figure.
“I would offer you a drink, but as you know, we’re all on the wagon.”
She sat down across from me as I relaxed into the couch.
“Linda, I’m concerned about you taking off. It’s dangerous as hell. What’s going on with you?”
Linda instantly broke into tears. Her voice had a petulant tone as she said, “Why are you on my ass? I’m still bringing in money.”
“This has nothing to do with money, Linda. It has to do with your security and our resources right now. I don’t want you leaving the house.”
“Since when do you care what happens to me?” she asked, evading my eyes.
I snapped back, “I don’t know what you mean by that comment. Just fucking follow orders.”
Her tears dried up and she gave me a hateful glare. “You’re just on my ass because I’m fucking straight. Pearl said if I was gay and you were banging me, I would have never gotten kidnapped in the first place. We didn’t have any protection like your other girls.”
This was the first I’d heard of this. “I don’t need to explain myself to you, Linda. Pearl is a streetwise warrior bitch who didn’t want security. So next time if you have a problem, talk to me.”
“All right Jesse,” she said as she got up.
“Good, I’m glad we have an understanding,” I said softening. “Promise me you won’t go anywhere without letting Marie know. You
’ve been through hell and I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
The hollowness in Linda’s eyes disturbed me. Considering what she had been through, I assumed she was still recovering from it. I walked her to the door and told Animal to take her back to the house.
I was jonesin’ for a stiff drink and a joint. Yet, I had to follow my own orders. I put an Otis Redding LP on the stereo and settled back into my vapid ennui.
Soon, Rascal’s high-pitched voice resonated through the door, interrupting my reverie. “What are you doing running around unguarded, you pinche loca!”
“Don’t fuck with me, Rascal! I have something important to show Jesse,” my sassy spitfire spat back.
Opening the door, I said, “Come on in, Rosie.”
The mammoth dyke shot Rosie an evil glare.
Rosie smugly said, “Mira cabron, I’m special.” She strutted through the door of my apartment, wearing her mink.
I said to my bodyguards, “What the hell. Crazy femmes… by the way, Carmen will be over later.”
Rosie laughed at my dutiful-husband remark. “Carmen, Carmen, Carmen! You need to spend a little time with your favorite chi-chi mama.”
Her impish look made me smile. “I could use some entertainment,” I replied truthfully.
“Aye, papi. I was gonna shoot that faggot Jujubees if I had to stay five more minutes.”
She placed a large bottle of champagne, which had a large gold bow on it, down on the coffee table. Throwing her hands to her chest, Rosie proclaimed, “My art is suffering. My dancing is going to hell. Use it or lose it, baby!” Like an elegant Flamenco dancer, Rosie clapped her hands and stamped her feet.
She headed to the bar and poured herself a water glass full of rum. Just as quickly, she filled a glass with Jack and handed it to me.