Stilettos and Steel

by Jeri Estes

  My eyes adjusted to the lack of light as I held my breath against the stench of urine, vomit and booze. I sidestepped a pool of puke and sat down on the narrow side bench. I lowered my aching head into my cuffed hands, using them like a filter, and took a small breath. I tasted my own blood that continued to seep down my face onto my fingers. I was not concerned about my head wounds or the blood I was losing. I knew my wounds would heal. What disturbed me was that I was losing myself. It had never occurred to me to walk away from the fight. Surrender was no longer an option. Winning and staying on top was now at the core of my nature, regardless of its price.

  I heard the engine start and felt the jolt of the wagon as we started down the street. I spread my feet far apart on the filthy floor to keep my balance. If Prince were in front of me, I’d kill him with my bare hands. I was trapped alone in a container built for human waste because of a jealous punk and his kid brother. My life was a living nightmare, and the most terrifying part of the dream was the sweet taste of hate after I plunged my knife into the fat belly of Prince’s flunky. I now understood the gut-level rage of war and felt compassion for my older brother fighting in ‘Nam.

  The small mesh window in the back door allowed a little light to stream through. All alone, I mused on the dark detour my life had taken of late. Realizing that I had hit the lowest point in my life, I felt utterly exhausted. I closed my eyes and rested as we lumbered through the streets.

  I was jarred by the lurching stop of the paddy wagon. The door handle squeaked as I got up and walked to the rear of the truck. The welcoming sun greeted my shame as the doors flew open.

  Officer O’Reilly said in a fatherly tone, “Are you ready, young lady?”

  I nodded my head and said, “Yeah.”

  “Okay, let’s get you stitched up.”

  Wounded by his kindness, I mumbled, “Right on,” quickly forcing my voice to match the stoic mask that fell over my face like a hood.

  I was covered in blood, and my suit and shirt were ruined. My clothes smelled like the interior of the paddy wagon, and my own body odor assaulted my nostrils like cheap cologne.

  I put my foot down on the ribbed steel steps as I descended from the back of the Black Mariah. Seeing the caked blood spots on the tips of my newly shined black shoes hurt me worse than my head. My wrists were killing me, and the open gashes decorating my crown were clamoring for attention. Officer O’Reilly held my arm to help me keep my balance as he escorted me through the emergency entrance’s electric doors.

  The faces of the distressed brightened as they saw me enter the waiting room. I was sure they were thinking that whatever their diagnosis might be, it beat going to jail. I avoided their stares of morbid curiosity and self-righteous contempt.

  Just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse, a portly, middle-aged male pig named Charlie walked into the emergency room. He said to Officer O’Reilly, “I’ll take her from here.”

  Officer O’Reilly released me to the changing of the guards.

  “Come on, high roller,” said Charlie roughly as he jerked my arm, causing my wrists to hurt and a sharp pain to streak across my head.

  My new escort was sporting a three-day old beard and a tire-sized belly, wrapped in a bad attitude. His whole deportment spoke of self-importance. Charlie’s slovenly uniform harnessed his watermelon belly that swung like a wrecking-ball as he led the way.

  We entered an examination room at the end of the hall. Dressed in green surgical scrubs there stood a wafer-thin nurse with mousy-brown hair. “Hey, Charlie, looks like you’ll have to uncuff this one.” The nurse spoke to the cop in a harsh voice like I didn’t exist. “Get her up on the table. Make sure she’s lying on her stomach!”

  “All right Sally. I’ll uncuff her, but make it quick. She’s a live one. And be careful that this dyke doesn’t hit on you.” Charlie pointed his finger at me in warning and said, “Behave, you fucking queer!” Then he turned around and left the room.

  After Charlie’s last remark, I studied the nurse’s wrinkled face which held a perpetual scowl and thought, “Yeah, right. I can’t wait to fuck Sally. Like all gay people, my secret mission in life is to turn all heteros into queers.”

  Disgusted, I jumped up on the exam table and lay on my stomach. I wondered, “Where the fuck is my lawyer?”

  Sally angrily barked orders through pursed lips. “Hang onto the rails! The doctor is very busy. He doesn’t have time to numb your head.”

  As I answered, “Okay,” I heard the doctor come in. He barked a few medical orders to the nurse. He vigorously examined my head and then cursed. “I thought this was a woman! More filthy Tenderloin trash…disgusting!”

  I closed my eyes and waited for the pain. A teardrop sneaked silently down my cheek. Like a friend it hid from their view. Slowly the tear crossed my face before it fell to the floor without a sound. I swallowed the sobs wailing inside, so as not to give the contemptuous voices above me any satisfaction.

  Their contempt wounded deeper than the orange pliers.

  Chapter 30

  CARMEN POR VIDA

  My escort cop Charlie stayed by my side as we exited the elevator and went to the property room. I was handcuffed again, having gotten a few moments’ reprieve from having to wear the bracelets during the fingerprinting.

  The bright fluorescent lights of the lobby gave the room before me a surreal, cold look. The furniture and the posters on the walls had the same ambiance of every institution catering to the unfortunates of the world. Like a county hospital or the welfare department, the room had a starkness that let you know that nothing pleasant happens here.

  The walking-dead pigs, bored to death by the routine of receiving criminals, greeted us with indifference. As they crossed the room, the cops bantered with each other, smug in their superiority to the lowlifes in their care. Shadowed by the tall, straight-as-an-arrow, spit-and-shine man, I felt powerless and tired. The tower of license-to-kill muscle made one more sly remark as he opened the door for me to the small property room. “Jesse, the captain of homicide said to put you in the drunk tank. Guess he doesn’t like chicks with dicks,” he chuckled as he uncuffed me.

  I shot him a “Fuck You” glare and rubbed my wrists, relieved to be free of the police jewelry. A thin, emaciated cop with a limp shuffled up to the window and said from behind the counter, “Take everything out of your pockets and any jewelry you have on and put it in this tray.”

  I replied in a low defiant voice, “I got the drill.” I felt my Zippo in my hand and was reluctant to leave it with the weasel-faced, pale cop. I removed my gold money clip that held a large wad of Bennies from my pocket. I held it with my lighter, along with some loose change and put everything inside the wooden tray. I reached behind my neck and unclasped my silver Saint Christopher medal with its unique little square face and gently placed it in the container. Then I took off my gold cross with the diamond in its center and caressed it between my fingers. I read the inscription on the back: “Carmen Por Vida.” The cross was a gift from Carmen and she told me it had been blessed by the Pope. Carmen had purchased it at a secondhand store in Oakland, but I still believed her.

  After I signed for my belongings I was given a small handwritten pink receipt. Charlie then took me by the elbow, guided me out the door and we walked side by side down the stark corridor.

  We came upon an open office with a tiny desk and a large matron sitting at it. She reluctantly levered her burdensome body out of the chair and said to me, “Well, if it isn’t Jesse the pimp. Welcome to HELL!” After emphasizing the word “hell,” she grinned.

  “Thank you,” I said, pleasantly smiling back. When I heard her voice, it occurred to me that I had met her somewhere before, but I just couldn’t place where it was.

  She then said to Charlie, “I’ll take her from here,” as she opened the door to the cellblock.

  I left my date for the day and followed the older woman with the short, stiff hairdo. The brunette had streaks of silver in her hair at th
e temples, making her head look like a football helmet with racing stripes.

  The matron’s practical black, thick-rubber-soled shoes squeaked as she led the way with a key in her hand. I avoided the eyes of the cellmates as I made my way through a gauntlet of misery. Still, I was curious to find out who the matron was, so I asked her, “Excuse me, ma’am, do I know you?”

  The gruff woman replied, “We both admire the same lady, Little Rosie. God only knows why she likes you.”

  Then I realized she was Little Rosie’s woman trick who always sat at the end of the bar, drowning her frustration in beer and pretzels. She shook her head in disgust and opened the cell door.

  I heard an excited, “Jesse!” come from the cell’s back, bottom bunk. I recognized the Afro-headed youngster, whose street name was, “Nikki the Grape.” She sat up in excitement, overjoyed to see me. “Jesse the pimp! How cool! It’s you, man. Is it really you, man?”

  I entered my cell and heard the dreaded, “clank” as the jealous matron blew me a little kiss from her plump lips. “Have fun, Jesse.”

  I had been reduced to the lowest accommodations with the bottom of the street hierarchy. Much to my disgust, I was sharing a cell with Nikki, a notorious teenage winette. Thrilled with my arrival, she started talking a mile a minute as I sat down on the lower bunk across from her, holding my head in my hands. I heard her chattering faster than a chicken pickin’ corn. “Damn, Jesse, I can’t believe you’re in the drunk tank. Good to see you, man, I’m honored. But you’re a VIP. Why aren’t you in the felony tank?”

  I reluctantly replied, “The head dick doesn’t like me. I’m not very popular with the matron either. She’s a trick of Little Rosie’s and probably resents paying for what I get for free.”

  A flicker of compassion entered her warbly voice. “Did Prince’s boys crunch your head? You look like shit. Damn, they chopped your fine-ass-hair off! I can see your skull!”

  I pleaded to my excited cellmate, “Can you cool it for a minute? My head is killing me.”

  She then slowed down to take a breath. In the moment of blessed silence, I asked my bunk buddy a question. “Do you have a smoke?”

  She moved faster than her chatter as she reached under her pillow and pulled out a small pouch of Bull Durham, a cheap-shit tobacco, along with a pack of Zig-Zags. Nikki licked, talked, twisted and rolled the tobacco in a blur. She looked at me wide-eyed. “Damn, Jesse, your shirt’s covered in blood. What the fuck happened?”

  I took the wet, hand-rolled cigarette from her and gave her the rundown. “I had a disagreement with a gentleman. I’ve been booked for attempted murder. I hope the son-of-a-bitch lives. I had to stab him at least a dozen times before he dropped.”

  Nikki lit my cigarette with trembling hands, holding the wooden match in her pencil-thin fingers. The tremors in her hands were previews of coming attractions if she didn’t get a drink in her soon. The young girl sitting across from me, who never had a legal drink, was slowly backing into the DTs.

  “Jessica Rawlson, you have a visitor!” shouted the matron.

  That was quick. Gladly, I followed the guard to the visiting room. The small enclave housed a black phone on top of a wooden counter. Pulling out the chair, I sat down in front of the security glass.

  Carmen approached the other side of the glass, looking like a pop star. Her hair, styled in a flip, fell under a hot pink mod cap. Knee high, leather go-go boots added to her self-assured stride.

  We each picked up the telephone receivers in front of us.

  “You look really beautiful, especially in this joint, baby doll,” I said to the unexpected visitor as she sat down in front of me.

  “Well, I can’t say the same for you Jesse,” Carmen replied.

  “Oh, this is nothing,” I said, trying to hold my aching head high. “You should see the other guy.”

  “That’s what I heard,” Carmen commented with admiration.

  “I’m surprised to see you, girl,” I said sardonically. Hope I didn’t pull you away from your favorite john.”

  “There’s no such thing as a favorite john, silly,” Carmen assured me with a warm smile. She glanced up to the top of my head. “Whoa! You look like Friar Tuck after a bad day.”

  I gave her a wry smile and just nodded. Studying my girl, who sat dolled up, rich in rags and freedom, I realized the tables had turned.

  “Jesse, it seems like you could use a little assistance,” Carmen said softly. “Bunny’s called Norman and they’re working on getting your bail lowered. But your lawyer’s not certain he’s gonna be able to get you out of here.”

  “Great. Fifteen years over my head for my last bust and now this,” I groaned.

  “Bunny is doing what she can, but I think I’m the one who holds the keys,” Carmen said with a sly smile. She dangled her influence with the D.A. in front of me like a huge carrot.

  If the walrus died, bail might not even be an option. “If that’s the case, let’s get me released,” I said impatiently.

  “Well, now that I think about it, maybe it won’t be so easy to pull off.” Obviously, my girl was holding out. She wanted me to apologize.

  “All right, baby doll. I’ve been a complete asshole,” I confessed. Carmen remained silent, as if in deep thought.

  “You’re the only girl for me. I need your help.” My squirming was accented with a true sincerity. I definitely needed her help.

  “How long do you think it will take your D.A. boy to get my ass out of here?”

  “About as long as it will take for you to respect me, Jesse,” Carmen quipped back.

  I was at a loss for words. Regrouping, I assumed she wanted to hear some girly-girl shit. Maybe talk about my innermost feelings. Carmen demanded that she was number one emotionally with me. Women came with the pimping game. But she would not share my heart.

  “Oh yeah, I got it. We’ve been having a hard time lately. Like Liz Taylor and Richard Burton, right?”

  Carmen finally smiled, watching me work so hard.

  “You’re the first lady of my heart. I just get crazy because I got too much passion for ya,” I told her.

  “We’re in a love-hate relationship, Jesse. I read about a couple like us in Dear Abby.”

  “Oh, really?” I shot back. “What was the article’s title?

  Two queers walked down rocky romantic road?”

  Carmen’s eyes grew misty—she had been thinking while we were parted. “Jesse, we could leave the Tenderloin. My parents will take us in.”

  “Are you jonesin’ for the square life? Like the weekend queers do? Is that what you’re saying, Carmen?” I inquired softly.

  “Maybe you could go to barber school,” Carmen mused out loud.

  “I’m working on something, but it sure isn’t barber school.”

  Carmen looked like she was going to break down crying. “You look awful, Jesse. It hurts me to see you like this. Phillip’s waiting on my call. I’m gonna ask him to help us.”

  The crinkles in her face cleared as something suddenly caught her attention. “Jesse, slide the base of your telephone aside. I want you to see something.”

  Pushing the phone, I read, “Jesse and Carmen por Vida,” carved into the wooden counter.

  “My feelings are still the same, Jesse.”

  “When did you do this, girl?” I asked with a broad smile. “I didn’t know you were a jailbird.”

  “Three years ago I got busted for panhandling. How do you think I got the bus fare to come and see you from Oakland? You didn’t know it, but I was still in high school.”

  “I should have been too,” I said admiring the carved letters. “We’ve come a long way, baby doll.”

  “Yeah, but we’re still in the TL.”

  “It might be fun to play house in the suburbs,” I suggested. “After all, that’s where I’m from.”

  “Jesse, I know that no one ever leaves the Tenderloin,” Carmen said with resignation in her voice. “This is the only place they’ll let us be together
. But I love knowing that you’ve thought of leaving with me.”

  I wondered if outside of the Tenderloin, our love would die from having to live in the shadows. The fantasy of a happy ending was too good to trust.

  “I love you, Carmen.” I gently put down the phone as she turned and walked away.

  The matron escorted me back to the slovenly day room. I passed women sleeping on newspapers, strewn across the cement floor. A couple of inmates, playing cards and talking shit, looked up at me with respect.

  I found an empty bench, sat down and smoked a cigarette. My head was pounding, but my mood was better. Carmen and I had a bond that couldn’t be explained. It ran through me like the cells of my body. Comforted by that thought, I put my head down on the table and fell asleep.

  My nap was rudely interrupted by a rough slap on the back. The coarse voice of Helmet Head cried, “Wake up bitch! Captain Clancy would like to have a chat with you!”

  I was led to a dimly lit, cluttered cubbyhole directly behind the glass-partitioned day room, where I could still hear the chatter of the confined ladies. The big man in a white shirt, with rolled-up sleeves and a cheap pen sticking out of his pocket, smiled tightly at me. “Well, Jessica, how are you enjoying your accommodations? I’m sure you’re hard at work trying to recruit a new stable.”

  Remembering my lawyer’s advice, I said nothing. Clancy took a short stubby pencil indented with teeth marks in his paw. His thick fingers, with curly black hair between the knuckles, scribbled my name on top of a yellow legal pad. The hair on his fingers matched his wiry, black Brillo-Pad toupee. He tossed the legal pad at me, like a ball to a dog, expecting me to catch it as he barked, “Write your own fuckin’ statement down!”

  He leaned forward and intently stared at me. “Let me help you. Just write you stabbed an innocent man twelve times and that you’re sorry. How about that? And just for the record, Jessica, it looks like he is going to die. So guess what? You’ll be looking at manslaughter or murder in the second degree instead of assault with a deadly weapon.”