by Jeri Estes
The dragon lady raised one pencil-thin eyebrow and replied like a bored, haughty queen, “Those gowns are part of my craft, honey.”
“Joy Luck, one of these days…. Pow! Right to the moon!” Scope gave an order with a flying finger, “Show Jesse and Junior to the bedroom.”
The geisha wannabe, with a deadpan expression on her face, said, “Follow me.”
As if following a hostess to our table, Junior and I followed the buxom beauty to the other end of the room. The bedroom was tiny with a twin-size mattress on the floor. On the mattress lay a pair of silver, sequin-studded gowns and a rhinestone tiara. The royal headdress rested on top of a large red, open suitcase-style makeup box.
As soon as the Asian queen left and shut the door, I sighed in relief. I whispered to Junior, “I can’t believe Scope fired off his rifle right in the middle of the living room. He’s fuckin’ crazy.” I nervously huddled closer to Junior, making sure we weren’t overheard. “There’s something wrong with this whole fucked-up picture. This place looks like a set out of a bad Fellini movie with these tacky-ass wigs, dresses and bras piled high on this filthy, zebra-striped bedspread.”
Junior whispered back, “You got that right, boss.”
“Shit, Junior, Scope’s creepy dick of steel and his cold ice queen are giving me the willies. I think I saw Joy Luck in the drag show over at Finocchio’s the night they performed acts from Madame Butterfly. This is not a fucking professional environment. I expected a little more class for ten grand. I’m making a life-and-death decision here. You know and everyone on the streets knows, I’m a lover, not a killer.”
Junior echoed, “Me too, boss.”
“I don’t believe in hurting people, let alone killing them. I just like to make money, man. I’m a good Catholic girl, dammit!”
Junior echoed again, “Me too, boss.”
I was glad my henchman was backing me up. “This is some serious shit here. We’re talking hell…forever! I got to figure out who I’m dealing with.” I paused to gain my composure and said to Junior, “We all know that to understand anybody on the street, you got to know what they’re hooked on.”
Junior nodded and said like a true street veteran, “That’s for real, boss. You don‘t know the drug, you don‘t know the person.”
I got real quiet and said, softer than a whisper, “That dude’s hooked on blood.” Junior and I immediately made the sign of the cross.
Junior, wide-eyed and breathless, said, “Yeah, what’s up with the bloody lips?”
I replied, “I know by the way he caresses the barrel of his gun, he kills for enjoyment. Plus, he dropped his price too fast and too easy. That tells me that the dude’s addicted to killing.”
Junior got quiet and said what all street people say when they’re confused. “Cool.”
“He would knock both of our asses off, just for fun. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about witnesses. If I’m going to hell for killing someone, it won’t be to feed a blood-jonesing tree jockey.” That made up my mind. “I’m not killing anyone and I’m not hiring his white ass,” I decided aloud. “I’m just not sure how I can get us out of here without pissing him off, though.”
“I don’t know Jesse, but I do know you can talk your way out of any situation.” Nervously, she added, “Boss, I‘ll back your play. Should I take out my piece?”
Before I could answer I jumped, along with Junior, at the bellowing voice of Ted Summer in the hallway. “Joy Luck! You dickless bastard, get your ass downstairs with the rent! The owner is on her way over! You’re a week fucking late, bitch!”
Junior and I held our breath, expecting Ted, who obviously had shot some bad smack, to get an unexpected gift, courtesy of ‘Nam. Grateful for Ted’s interruption, we looked at each other and like firemen at a fire drill dashed out of the bedroom, through the living room and toward the front door. We both stopped for a moment in full flight as I turned around to graciously excuse myself to the young man who was hurriedly disassembling his large rifle and placing it in an aluminum briefcase.
I caught the assassin’s obviously displeased metallic eyes staring at me. I felt like he was speaking to me from behind the cross hairs of his rifle scope as he said, “Catch you later, Jesse.”
I replied with a tip of my hat, “Respect, man. You got that right. I’ll get back with you tonight. I don’t want fuckin’ Ted to put us together in here.”
He gave me an all-knowing nod as if embarrassed by the intrusion.
The stoic dragon lady opened the door with the enthusiasm of a Chinese restaurant hostess and let Junior and I depart.
The musty smell of the hallway was a welcome relief from the heavy incense-laden room with the two whack jobs enjoying their romantic rendezvous. I made a beeline for the stairwell with Junior, anxious to get back to the safety of the Tenderloin streets.
Chapter 28
THE BOOKKEEPER
With Junior at my heels we arrived at Nick’s cab. He seemed relieved to see us returning without a gang of shooting pimps chasing us.
“Take me to the flower stand on Powell and Market,” I said as we jumped in.
“You got it,” replied Nick.
He threw down the meter and slammed on the gas. Within moments we arrived at the cable car turnaround at the bottom of Powell. Nick pulled up to the little open-air flower stand.
I grabbed the cold chrome door handle and told my cabbie, “Pick me up at my bookkeeper’s apartment an hour from now.”
Junior began to follow me, ready to jump out. I touched her shoulder and said firmly, “Junior, hold it. I want you to go back to the house. Call my bookkeeper and let her know I’m stopping by this morning.”
Junior raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Jesse, you’re not thinking of walking through the Tenderloin by yourself, are you?”
“Junior, lighten up. No one or their brother is going to be out at this God-forsaken hour. It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”
I took out my piece, feeling the cool butt of the mother-of-pearl handle in my hand. I quickly passed it behind the front seat to Junior. She reluctantly took the snub-nosed .38 from me. “The last thing I need,” I explained, “is to get hassled by a pig on the morning beat who doesn’t know me.”
Junior, who knew what I was like, just shook her head. In a tone of resignation she said, “You got it, boss.”
I flashed Junior a big grin. With a short wave goodbye, I said, “Its cool man, I’ll be fine.”
When I exited the cab, the scent of the flowers hit me before my feet hit the cement. The radiant jewels of nature stood in silver tin buckets on the sidewalk. Dainty white-petalled carnations and bold yellow sunflowers waited to be chosen. Their brilliant joyfulness shouted to the world, “Life is good!”
A pang of sadness came over me as I stood admiring the fresh flowers. I remembered happier times when I would pick each flower with care for all my ladies before making my rounds. Walking through the Tenderloin, I would visit my girls, carrying their favorite flowers like a route salesman. I would drop by to pick up the cash and talk a little trash.
We’d share a drink to celebrate surviving one more night without getting busted. It was a good routine and I enjoyed listening as my girls gave their report on each trick turned. We’d smoke a joint and laugh over some of the strange-ass shit that came down while working. One thing was certain; weird shit always happened when you were out hookin’.
As I approached the flower stand, the lively hustle and bustle of the mid-morning crowds lifted my spirits. I listened to the happy cling-clang of the cable car as it rumbled down the track. Above me, screeching sea gulls swooped through the air between the tall buildings.
I arrived at the little sidewalk flower stand and was greeted by Feather, the cheerful hippie florist. “Hello, Jesse.”
The pretty girl’s light blue eyes were upstaged by the bright purple and blue, tie-dyed headband wrapped around her forehead. Sprouting out of her wild mane of frizzy blond hair, a single beaded braid fell
down the side of her face. At the end of it, a roach clip dangled, adorned with a vibrant feather. Instantly, my eyes where drawn to her long, colorful peacock earrings that danced in the sunlight. She always wore them in honor of her idol, Janis Joplin, who she believed was a wild beautiful bird. Feather’s bold earrings gave birth to her street handle.
I replied with a broad, warm smile, “Good to see you, young lady. You’re prettier than the flowers in your hand. If you got any better looking, you could get arrested, child!”
The hippie chick giggled the same little giggle of any lady who receives a sweet little spoonful of a woman’s favorite drug; flattery.
“Fix me up a dozen of those crimson roses, would you sweetie?”
“Jesse, did you get yourself into the dog house?”
“Nope,” I answered.
“You’re not here to buy supplies for your flowers and flattery formula?”
I laughed as she made reference to my “Jesse love formula.”
Though she’d heard it before, Feather asked, “Tell me how that formula works again?”
Proudly, I recited my own personal tonic for the occupational hazards that went along with pimping. “Fuck-ups are followed by flowers and flattery, which always lead to a makeup fuck. Unfortunately, I have been so busy dealing with that pockmarked, wannabe pimp and his limp-dicked brother; I haven’t had time to fuck anybody.”
Feather gave a deep belly laugh. “That’s a shame. I’m sure your girls miss fighting with you.”
Flowers were my favorite weapon in my raid of hearts. My clean-up formula was a tried-and-true method for reinstatement of my lover’s strained feelings of affection. I knew that enough flowers and flattery followed by a powerful make-up fuck made my women beg me to fuck up again.
In my mind’s eye, I pictured my old Taft High math teacher writing on the blackboard in heavy chalk:
Jesse’s Love Formula: FU x FF = MF.
Handing her a twenty, I said, “Catch you later, you flowery fox.”
I heard her giggling as I turned and strutted away. The sound of, “Hey Jude” from Feather’s transistor radio carried down the sidewalk. I smiled at a businessman in his sharp, dark blue suit and thin tie who walked toward the flower stand. I was so happy to be outside, even the Brooks Brother dude looked like a human being instead of just a trick.
I weaved in and out of the stream of well-dressed perfectly coiffed retail mamas, avoiding stuffed Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bags. Even the sated look of contentment on the ladies’ faces, as they clutched their expensive fixes of instant gratification, was a pleasant sight to behold.
As I made my way down toward the TL, the vibrant city scenes of normalcy helped cleanse my memories of the sewer of humanity I had just visited up at the Camelot. I noticed Linda from Missouri winding up the sidewalk. She was dressed like a full-blown hippie. Linda had traded in her lacquered bouffant for soft, long locks that ran down her back. Flowers weaved throughout her hair. Her hooker dress had been replaced with patched Levi’s and a peasant blouse. When she saw me, the Missourian stopped dead in her tracks. Like a child playing hooky, she looked surprised to see me.
I suppressed the desire to tear into her. “What the hell are you doing out here, Linda?”
“I was protesting the war. All my hippie friends are in Union Square and I was helping out,” Linda replied.
Compassion suppressed my anger as I replied to the spaced-out, shell shocked hooker. “We had a talk about this, Linda. I’ll let it go this time. Come walk with me, I’m on my way to my bookkeeper’s. You can just wait and we’ll go back to the house together.”
Her face filled with dismay. “How far away is it? I’m so tired from walking all day. We marched halfway to Chinatown.”
“It’s just around the corner,” I assured her. “You can rest at the coffee shop next to Harriet’s building. It’s right on Eddy and Taylor.”
“All right Jesse,” she said, “but I’d rather go home. I’m really tired.”
Not wanting to be saddled with the corn-fed wannabe hippie, I flagged an approaching cab. “Now get in this fucking car and stay put in the house. You’re off duty until we talk again.” I handed Linda a twenty as she hopped into the back of the taxi.
I walked on, holding the bundle of roses wrapped in green cellophane snugly under my arm. Meandering through the TL was the most pleasurable way of taking care of my business. I wondered if Jackson the shoeshine man would be at his stand on Eddy Street at this pre-noon hour. He was the unofficial gossip columnist, the Rona Barrett of the Tenderloin. Jackson was also on my payroll, so any information that came to him would come to me.
It worked the other way too. A bit of trivial gossip strategically placed in the right person’s ear could be very profitable. They listened to Jackson’s seemingly harmless, casual chitchat between the rhythmic snaps of his shoeshine rag. He was a very helpful spy and the perfect transmitter of street news.
Jackson’s job description also included sales, because his stand was a referral base for johns. The man had an understated demeanor, making him an artist at instant intimacy. When he was shining a man’s shoes, his relaxed attentiveness had the same effect as a hairdresser has on a woman.
As I approached, I noticed him fiddling with the little transistor radio inside the shoe stand. The small silver radio rested on a cigar box and was softly playing next to three large, elevated, stuffed-brown leather seats. As he adjusted the volume on the radio, the harmonized voices of the Four Tops grew louder.
I could hear Jackson singing with them, “Sugar pie, honey bunch…” and I caught myself singing along with him. “You know that I love you…”
I felt as slick as Stax as I glided up behind him. I interrupted our duet by giving Jackson an enthusiastic traditional street greeting, “Hey man, what’s happening?”
The old black man turned around to see who the backup singer was, and his face broke into a warm smile. His friendly glow caressed me like the sun’s rays rising in the east as they flood across the waiting earth. I felt a sense of peace that dispersed the last dregs of tackiness from my meeting at the Camelot.
“Hey, Jackson, how ‘bout a shine?” I cheerfully inquired.
Stepping up onto the raised platform, I sat in the middle seat, placing my feet in the stirrups beneath me. Up high in my chair, I looked down Eddy Street from my perch and felt like a fucking high roller. I pulled my pant legs up just a little bit, to protect the crease in my slacks and to expose my shoes.
Settling my beautiful black wingtips firmly in the stirrups, I bent down to watch Jackson work on them. He opened the can of polish and as fast as a Las Vegas dealer, applied the black wax in a fast circular motion with his fingers.
“I didn’t expect to see you, child,” he said as he worked. “I thought you’d have enough sense not to show your face on the streets.”
“These are my streets,” I replied, “and if I have to spend another fuckin’ day cooped up in my crib, baby-sat by a mammoth Amazon and her half-pint sidekick, I’ll kill myself and collect Prince’s bounty for my parents.”
A wide grin spread across the freckles on his high Cherokee cheekbones. He replied seriously, “Prince’s fucking people drop by daily trying to bribe me. They want me to set your ass up. That dude has a real hard-on for you.”
I nodded in agreement. “You got that right. The Fillmore boys have never cared about running the TL business before.”
Jackson continued, “Prince obviously can’t handle a woman showing him up. Word has it that you wouldn’t accept his amends. I heard it was good Scotch too. That’s what he’s really pissed off about, ’cause he’s a cheap motherfucker!”
“Maybe.”
Jackson went on elaborating on the situation. “Prince thinks that if the fuckin’ cops can run the TL and collect their fairy and dyke chump change, so can he.”
“I don’t care what the bastard thinks. He thinks just like the rest of America, that we’re not supposed to have any fuckin’ que
ers and if they do exist, they better be invisible. Jackson, this is 1969…we don’t have gays in America… hell, we’re just now discovering blacks!”
Jackson gave an extra sharp snap of the rag on my shoe. “A full-fledged turf war is not good for anybody. We’d all go broke. The heat is hip to this bullshit. Just the other day, Clancy gave me a twenty-dollar tip. I’ve shined that pig’s shoes for twenty years and never got a tip from him before. But then, he asked me how the relations between the gay girls and the Fillmore pimps were coming along.”
“Why would that cop give a shit?”
“Jesse, Rascal slamming Mutton Chop was one thing, but a turf war with dead bodies all over the news is another. Mayor Alioto and his city planners are trying to clean up the city and bring in new business dollars. The last thing they want is more bullshit coming out of the TL.”
Sarcastically I asked, “Since when is it news when a fucking queer gets killed?”
“Dead queers are one thing, but gay on black is different because it’s all about money. The city’s image is real important right now, especially since everybody wants President Johnson’s war on poverty dollars. Poor districts like the Tenderloin can get dollars along with other poor areas like Fillmore. Uncle Sam gives big bucks. That equals a lot of building contracts. The city fathers need all us poor folk to look like one big, happy family. They want to prove that each district is worthy of receiving funds.”
I understood his logic and I said, “This is not going to turn into a full-on war if I can help it.”
The shoeshine man nodded his head, approving. “Jesse, it’s best if we black folk, queers and mental cases just get along.”
“Jackson, I didn’t know you were so political.”
Jackson looked up at me. “If you weren’t so busy fucking so many women you’d keep up with the news.”
I chuckled and thought he was right, so I listened to what he had to say.
“There is so much fucking heat already coming down in this city with all of the Vietnam peace protests. The last thing they want is more fireworks. We’ve become a city of troublemakers. Did you know that San Francisco is thought of as this country’s number one bad child? Folks are mad ’cause we just don’t behave.”