Suddenly, John came back into camera range, popped something into his mouth and took a drink from a glass that might have been half-filled with bourbon. He said to Boudra, “I just took a Viagra. I want you to suck me hard again and then I’ll do your back door.”
The Boudra on screen said, “I can do the first, but not the latter, as I told you before. But, I have a friend who does anal. Let me call her and we’ll walk down a flight of stairs. I’ll introduce you. There’ll be a small extra charge, but it will be worth it.”
John swung his hand, slapping Boudra’s face hard, knocking her sideways on the bed. But she rebounded with amazing agility and speed, and suddenly stood beside startled John. There was a clicking sound and Boudra had the cutting edge of a switchblade resting on John’s johnson. “I said no, and I said I have a friend,” she told him, politely but firmly.
John looked angry but wisely decided to back off. He proceeded to dress, although he took his time putting on boxer shorts, over-the-calf black socks, charcoal gray slacks, dress shirt with thin vertical stripes, a blue blazer, and wing-tip shoes. He folded his tie carefully and placed it in a side jacket pocket. Then, he looked with contempt at Boudra who had put on her robe but still held the knife.
“You’re just a whore, how was I to know,” John said, snottily.
Boudra replied, calmly, “No foul, no harm. You want me to call my friend?”
“Perhaps another time,” John said, haughtily, as if he’d suffered a great insult and injustice. “I’m not in the mood now. And, I doubt that I will be doing business with you again, my dear.”
“I know you won’t.”
“I’m sure we’ll meet again, someplace where I have the advantage.”
Boudra called Jemmy on the intercom to tell him a customer was on his way out of the building. Then, she opened the apartment door for John, but stood clear of him as he walked into the hallway.
Marshon put the DVD player on pause and said, “He use a credit card?”
Boudra pulled a receipt from her pocket and handed it to Marshon. He urged the women in the building to push their customers to use a credit card. Each of them had a credit card machine in their apartment that registered the charge on a laptop Jemmy kept in his office. He’d made an exception with Boudra. He looked at the receipt, which charged $1,500.
If John would only pay in cash, that was acceptable provided the transaction was recorded by the hidden videocam. Either way, there was no question about revenues and no chance of a dispute between Marshon and the women. These procedures guaranteed trust both ways.
After an eye-opening discussion in his apartment one evening, the women and Marshon agreed to a basic price sheet. A hundred bucks for President Clinton’s favorite nonsexual act, $300 for conventional sex lasting less than fifteen minutes, and a $1,000 minimum for extended periods of time, certain amenities, and various perversions and specialty acts. However, they agreed that the experienced hookers had latitude, mainly to increase the prices significantly if there was any indication that John would pay more. They could quote attractive weekly and monthly rates so long as John initially paid for these services up front.
Eight working girls lived in the building. Marshon always kept one apartment open on the third floor for special guests. On any given night, six girls usually were on duty, the other two having taken a day off. Although some did better than others did, they each averaged $1,800 a night, twenty-four nights a month. Accounting for about six weeks’ vacation per year, the working women collectively grossed nearly $3 million annually. Marshon’s royalty was thirty percent, or nearly $1 million gross, not counting the $8,000 a month the eight women paid in apartment rent, but that went into a retirement account for his Nanna and Uncle Clyde. But, net isn’t gross.
The women each netted nearly $350,000 a year working in the building. Some freelanced during days off and vacation time, and substantially added to that amount. Out of his share, Marshon paid for the building utilities and maintenance. A recent conversion of the entire building to central air cost nearly $80,000. Marshon also provided security and made payoffs to the police and health department and all other relevant city, county and state officials who had the authority to intervene in their business. Still, he cleared over half-million each year, which made it a worthwhile business. That didn’t count a high six-figure income from the sale of “insurance policies.” Overall, the “apartment business” was the equal of The Wheel, from an income point of view. It was a toss-up as to which was potentially the most dangerous.
Marshon nevertheless conceded that Jemmy was right. It was a disgusting, embarrassing sideline and he seldom talked about it to anyone. Of course, it wasn’t a secret. Once, a dice player at The Wheel referred to him as a pimp. Minutes later, that gambler lay on the floor, his face bloody and swollen. Jemmy Shoemaker stood over him. They banned the mouthy gambler from The Wheel for three months. Although no one openly applied the pimp label to him again, Marshon's reaction said volumes.
Since the beginning of time, all societies had viewed sexual activity as essentially animalistic. If unregulated and unrestrained, it would lead to constant conflict and chaos, as men fought over women and rape raged out of control. Sex was necessary for reproduction of the species. For purposes of control, however, it was condoned only within the bounds of marriage. Marriage became an important aspect of maintaining social order. One man and one woman bound together until death do them part. Like all manmade and God-given laws and social conventions, these efforts to control the sexual impulse have been only partially successful. The crimes of rape and the social stigma of adultery are as old as mankind. Prostitution is alleged to be the world’s oldest profession, although that’s debatable.
Its profit potential wasn’t open to debate, though. Whenever Marshon felt disgusted and ashamed, he remembered that he would feel the same emotions if he were working for Richey, picking maggots out of a carton of soup cans. Besides, he soon planned to bring to a close this aspect of his life.
“You get any information on this guy who slapped you?”
Boudra handed him the report from the company that performed the background search. Marshon had been so impressed with Boudra’s methodology that he occasionally used the same approach.
He had other ways to identify his customers. If John insisted on paying cash, the women activated the camera. In case the transaction wasn’t caught on camera, the woman would ask John to please wash his dick in the bathroom before they got started, which always helped put the customer at ease about the fear of disease. While he was in the bathroom, she would quickly go through his wallet looking for a name and address, preferably a driver’s license. Marshon insisted they all keep a pad and pencil in a drawer of the nightstand so they could write down the information.
Of course, a suspicious and careful John would take his billfold with him into the bathroom. In that case, the working women on Marshon’s payroll would ask to see some identification, like a driver’s license, to make sure John wasn’t a vice cop. In this event, Marshon told them to remember John's last name and the street he lived on. Don’t try to memorize the house number, he’d told them. That’s too hard. The women also pumped their customers for essential information, such as where he worked, what kind of car he drove. If John didn’t give the information up the first time, he always did later when he became more comfortable.
As a backup, Marshon had surveillance cameras mounted outside on the building and a nearby light pole. The video often caught the license tag numbers of cars parked on the street. Cabbies who dropped off customers knew Marshon would pay an extra ten to twenty bucks for any relevant information. Very seldom did he and Jemmy fail to get something on a John that could be used to track him down later.
There were several reasons Marshon wanted to know everything he could about his customers. It helped him weed out cops, friends of cops and known police informers, as well as competitors, especially jealous street pimps. If the building customers included elec
ted officials or high-ranking government employees, or their friends and family, it was a form of insurance for Marshon to possess this information. Finally, Marshon sold an insurance policy to building customers if they caused trouble, attacked the women, or cancelled their credit card charge before payment was made. It was a method of keeping order and meting out punishment when warranted.
Marshon looked at the address Boudra had on her troublemaker. One hundred and eighty-seventh street in Sherwood Forest, a suburb. An area catering to the nouveau riche.
“His name is Charles Krebs and he owns one of the largest insurance agencies in the city,” Boudra said. “Arrogant bastard.”
“So I could tell. I didn’t know you had a switchblade.”
“It has ended trouble before it could start on more than one occasion.”
Marshon may have thought about lecturing Boudra on the use of private force and pointed out that Jemmy took care of troublemakers, but she wasn’t the type that took to lectures. Besides, he knew there were some situations in which John could disable a woman before she could get to the panic button. John could do enough physical damage to end her career.
“You remember the conversation we had a few days ago in the hallway?”
“Yeah, you mentioned the future of the business in this building.”
“First, this is a confidential conversation, between you and me. I don’t want to hear it repeated by anyone else. If I do, we won’t do any business in the future.”
Boudra nodded. “I like all the rules stated up front, so there’s never any misunderstanding. Along that line, let me address a couple of issues that always come up when I talk business to people who know what I do for a living.”
“I know what you do for a living.”
“You know the act and you know the business end, but you don’t know much about me,” Boudra said, in a tone indicating her statement wasn’t open to debate.
“Okay.”
“I’m a whore. You’ve certainly watched me fuck enough. But, that’s just movement. Most men still have some questions. These are the answers. No, I don’t find it degrading and disgusting. It’s a natural function. I just do it more often than other women. It doesn’t stretch me out down there or make me jaded about men. I’m not a drug addict, nor do I have low self-esteem, although I sometimes get bored and depressed. I’m not a nymphomaniac. My father and/or uncles did not rape me as a child. I had a fairly normal childhood, did well in school and went to college intent upon eventually getting an MBA. I have a tested I.Q. of 125. Yes, I occasionally come during sex, but I would never fall for a customer, mainly because they are all liars and cheats by virtue of the fact that they fuck me for money. I look upon sex as a learned occupational skill I use to generate income. And, it’s been very profitable. I’ll net close to half a million this year, counting my income from a whale or two here and there who wants to hire me for a week, or travel with him to some exotic location.”
“I don’t take a cut on free-lance action out of the building,” Marshon confirmed.
“Where else could I make that kind of money, Marshon? I’m twenty-five and I’ve been doing this for three years since I dropped out of college. Another year, year-and-a-half, I plan to get out of the life and complete my studies or open a business. This is temporary. It’s all about the money, right?”
“Most things are,” Marshon replied, thinking again about Skinny Walker’s philosophy.
“Anything else you want to know about me?”
“You ever had to use that switchblade?”
“Nope, the threat has always been enough, but I imagine the day will come, in which case it could backfire on me and I’ll get cut up. That’s one reason I’m always on the lookout for an exit plan.”
Marshon nodded vigorously, indicating he fully understood her life plan, which was not unlike his. “Thanks for the honesty, Boudra, and the insights. You should also know that I’m not in this business because my lifelong ambition was to be a pimp. I actually bought and renovated this building originally thinking I might move The Wheel in here. Might not be a bad idea the way things are going, but I still plan to be moving on soon. The building will continue to operate as is, but I’ll need someone to run it.”
“What about Jemmy?”
“Great guy, lifelong friend. If he wants it, he gets first choice, but he is a bit disillusioned about this business.”
“I’d hope so.”
“And he ain’t exactly a great businessman. He doesn’t believe in negotiation. The main challenge to whoever runs this building is to neutralize those people who threaten to shut it down for one reason or the other. Most of these people and their rationale are as hypocritical as our clientele is. Truth is, they’re all blackmailers, regardless of their justification. People who take bribes and use their public office for individual advantage ain’t any better than gamblers and whores, in my opinion.”
“Well, that makes both of us feel better, doesn’t it, Marshon?” Boudra said, sarcastically. “What are payoffs on this operation running you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Six figures.” He didn’t want to be specific at this time.
Boudra nodded, but said, “On the other hand, that’s manageable if you’re taking in nearly a million from your thirty percent share for the work we do on our back — or sometimes our stomach and knees.”
Her bluntness and knowledge caused Marshon to smile. Nevertheless, he made an obligatory effort to justify his cut, and put an end to any rebellious thoughts. “Like I said, gross ain’t net. If you all were on the street, many of you — maybe not you, Boudra — would be splitting fifty-fifty with a pimp, who might regularly beat you up, and string you out with drugs. He wouldn’t provide much protection against the police and violent customers. You wouldn’t have the safety and comfort of this building, or health care, or financial advice and business opportunities. Don’t forget that I regularly cut all of you in on any extracurricular income, like we might generate from Charles Krebs. I don’t have to do that, you know. Anyone don’t like the whole deal here, the front door’s open.”
“Can’t argue with any of that, Marshon. At least we understand each other a bit better. I can do the job of managing this place,” Boudra said, “and continue to pay your royalty, although that would be open to negotiation if you’re not actually here. Your thirty percent share would be too high, then. On the other hand, I can also find a way to work with Jemmy so he’s happy.”
“That would be a solution that might please everyone. Plus, you’ll need him, both for security and some of the payoffs. Whether you like it or not, he can deal better with some of these people.”
Boudra shrugged her agreement, and then added: “I might run things differently.”
“How?” Marshon asked, truly interested.
“Put on skits that might range throughout the building, going from apartment to apartment according to a script. A progressive stage play about sexual perversion. For example, John might come into one apartment just as the man of the house is leaving. John is disguised as a plumber. He winds up inspecting the wife’s plumbing. Then, he moves to another apartment where the teenage daughter also needs his attention. Mom interrupts them and is outraged, but it turns into a threesome. I got some other ideas of a similar nature. You get the idea. A progressive stage play.”
Marshon chuckled, thinking of Richey’s idea about instituting a Folies Bergère-type performance in the apartment. If Richey didn’t go with him, Marshon might appoint Boudra and Richey as the apartment choreographers, and Jemmy as muscle.
“John would develop a sense of camaraderie with the hookers, and maybe other male customers, too. A couple of them could pretend to be burglars and rapists, you know.”
“I’m certain something like that would be very popular.”
“We could sell season tickets for, say, fifty grand per person for twelve performances a year. To start. Each performance could last an entire weekend. We could accommodate a dozen gu
ys each weekend, on top of the regular action.”
Marshon looked stunned and could only shake his head, not as a negative gesture but to indicate he was dumbfounded. She might pull it off. There were surely fifty well-heeled sex addicts in the city. Marshon did the numbers in his head. It could bring in an additional $2.5 million. The women would literally work themselves to the bone!
Marshon stood and walked to the kitchen bar, where he poured himself another cup of coffee. It was too early for him to make a commitment, but Boudra’s presentation actually convinced him that she could best run the apartment business. “I enjoyed the conversation, Boudra. Let’s talk again. I’m in the early stages of all these considerations. First, I gotta deal with some problems at The Wheel. Then, I’ll get back to you with a business proposition, okay?”
She stood and said, “Whenever you’re ready, Marshon.”
“Oh, one more thing. I’ll deal with Charles Krebs, and there will be a dividend for you, as usual.”
∞ ∞ ∞
Two days later, Marshon drove slowly through suburban Sherwood Forest, peering out the driver’s side window at the house numbers. Locating his target, he turned left onto a driveway leading into a three-car garage. He stepped out of the BMW and closed the door, pleased with the solid sound it made, indicating superior workmanship. When he’d been deciding about the color of the car, Jemmy and Widja said it should be black, as a symbol of racial pride, but he thought it more appropriate that the car be the color of the folks who had paid for it by buying his insurance policies.
The Money Game Page 12