Chapter 1
The black girl swung her tight ass in large, inviting circles as she strutted through the night-time air of downtown St. Louis. Her wide smile was almost as bright as the streetlight above. Her large breasts strained against the sleek material of her tight silk blouse. She stopped to light a cigarette as she leaned against the light post. A black and white police cruiser slowly drove past. She winked at the cops and they smiled back, and kept driving.
A large beige Oldsmobile pulled to a stop next to her. The electric window silently glided down. The door swung open and the black girl carelessly tossed her cigarette into the gutter before sliding her expensive ass across the smooth velour of the Oldsmobile's front seat. The door slammed shut and the car cruised off and was swallowed up by the night.
The side-walk remained empty but for only a second. Another girl, dressed just about the same as the first, sauntered up to take her place under the street light.
In another part of town, a very different kind of woman was getting ready for work. Laura Davis was brushing her long blonde hair. She stopped to look at the smiling photo on her dresser. It was of her husband, Alex. Six months earlier he'd been sent on a covert assignment to Chili and simply disappeared. He worked for the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States-or more sipmly, the CIA. Laura had no idea if he was alive or dead. She tucked her sleek blonde hair under her blue cap and then reached for the .38 police special from atop her dresser. Laura Davis was the second woman cop ever hired by the city of St. Louis.
Fleet Street in St. Louis was once the finest street in the city. But that was in the days of horse drawn carriages and ladies with fine long dresses and broad floppy hats. On Sunday afternoon, they used to stroll down the avenue and show off their finery to their neighbors and friends.
Today, the neighborhood is not so nice. On the corner where the fashionable hat shop used to be is a liquor store. And out in front of that store is a select group of patrons who can usually be found there every night. They sit on trash cans and logs, drinking "Night Train" and other brands of cheap wine and complaining about how the mail is slow in bringing their welfare checks.
There is still a like to show off. But they no longer stroll on Sunday afternoon-they stroll every single night of the year. They stroll in their short dresses, their high heels, their smooth nylon stockings, and their low-cut blouses. And when a man drives by real slow, they look him straight in the eye, purse their lips and smile a smile that tells him all he needs to know. From there on out, it's simply a matter of price.
Some of the girls work by themselves, but these are usually the lower class whores, the ones who'll go with anyone, anytime, for almost any amount of money. And when the police pick them up, they simply cool their high heels in jail for a couple of days. Since they work for themselves, there's no one who gives a damn about putting up their bail.
The real "lookers" have someone that takes care of them-their "old man" they say, other people call him a pimp. He takes half of the money they make, sometimes more, beats them up when they're lazy and intimidates them from quitting. But on the other hand, should they be arrested, he's right there with the bail and should a customer take things a little too far and damage the merchandise, he's sure to suffer swift and terrible retribution at the hands of the pimp. It's an arrangement that most of the girls like.
A good pimp makes a lot of money and becomes a powerful man in his little community-he drives a flashy car, wears fine clothes and expensive jewelry. He is definitely a man to look up to, a man to respect. But the best pimp in the Fleet Street area, with the best stable of women, was not a man. Desdemona Valentine was definitely not a man. Oh, she was a pimp, alright, but one glance was all that was needed to see that she was all woman.
She wasn't a black woman and she wasn't white. She was a mulatto and had all the best features of both races. Smooth caramel colored skin, a slightly flattened nose, beautiful brown doe eyes, straight, soft black hair and a body that could bring a dead man back to life, all combined to make Desdemona one of the most beautiful women in all of St. Louis-indeed, in all of the world.
Desdemona, though, didn't walk the streets-her girls did. They were the finest street walkers in all of St. Louis, too. Girls of all sizes, shapes, nationalities, and races. Desdemona made sure her girls got top dollar, too. No common street sluts, these girls. Desdemona's were the finest that money could buy, with prices starting at $20 for a straight blow job and going up to a hundred and over for "the whole works." At the top of the ladder was Desdemona herself. But it'd cost a man $500 to see her spread those smooth brown legs. And some people paid that price. Desdemona kept a little black book with their names inside and what specialties and perversions they were fond of. The Mayor of St. Louis' name was in that book. The state senator's and one or two other congressmen were, also. One of her more frequent customers was Clyde Crow, the chief of police. For obvious reasons, Clyde received a happily given discount.
Desdemona was but 24 years old and had her business matters firmly in hand. She had the best girls in town and she also had the best connections. Everything worked very smoothly. The police never bothered her or her girls and in exchange Desdemona would often assign a couple of girls to "take care" of the beat cops every now and then. Every now and then Desdemona, through her underworld connections, would supply the police with a tip that solved a particularly troublesome crime.
Yes, everything was as it should be in Desdemona's world. Business was good and problems were few. On this Saturday night, she sat smoking and looking out the window of her "office," the front table of "Herbie's Bar-B-Que Hut". One of her new girls, white, 16 years old, and straight from Minneapolis, was working the street light in front of the restaurant. Desdemona liked to keep close tabs on her new girls until they were
"broken in" and could be trusted.
The new girl was named Linda and she stood nervously under the street light. She was smoking a cigarette and feeling more than a little embarrassed to be wearing the tight red hot pants that Desdemona had picked out for her. This was her first night.
Desdemona smiled as she sipped her coffee. These young white girls who ran away from their safe, comfortable middle class homes up north were like a gold mine to her. They had pride. Their daddies and mommies instilled it in them at an early age. But they had no idea just how it would backfire on them later. Yes, these young suburban virgins were proud-too proud to call daddy and tell him to pick them up, too proud to admit after they'd run away that they couldn't make it in the big bad world outside. So they'd do anything not to fail, anything not to have to go home with their tails between their legs, even selling their young bodies.
Desdemona never had any problem finding these girls. Down at the Greyhound Bus Station they would just sort of stand there and stare with a sad lost look on their faces. A suitcase, maybe a back-pack on the floor next to them. Sometimes no luggage at all. It was as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. Desdemona would walk up, offer a cigarette and make some small talk. Break down the defenses one by one. Get friendly. Pretty soon she'd offer to buy a cup of coffee, from there came a meal, and after that a place to stay. The girls were always so grateful. At least, that is, until a few days later when they discover that the rent is never free, that when you get something in this world you have to give something up. And there are only a few things that a young girl has to offer.
A car pulled to a stop out in front. Desdemona watched as Linda leaned into the passenger window to talk with the driver. A moment later, she moved back to the sidewalk and the car pulled away. Desdemona angrily strode out onto the street.
"Jes what the fuck happened to that last John? He hear his wife phonin' him?" she demanded.
Linda blushed. "I, uh, well I thought he was too ugly.. . . "
"Ugly! Sheeitt!! You ain't lookin' for' a boyfriend, honey. You out to peddle yo' ass and make me sum money! Dat the name of the game, sugar. Money! M-u-n-n-y! I see you turn down another trick fo' any reason less than he got festerin' sores all over his mouth-I'll let Washington have you fo' a couple more nights!"
That threat was enough to get Linda almost to flag down the next car. Washington was the big buck black who worked for Desdemona as sort of a trainer for the young girls. He took the young virgins and turned them into seasoned professionals in a matter of days. He taught them how to use every hole they had, how to give a beating-and how to get one. When a girl was lazy, or disobedient, Desdemona would often turn them over to Washington. When the girls were turned over to Washington for disciplinary reasons, Washington was allowed to do whatever he wanted. Which was too bad for the girls, because Washington had a special softness for pain and suffering. He liked to see young white girls scream and moan and beg for mercy. He especially liked it when their little blue eyes would overflow with tears at the sight of his huge, rigid, black cock.
One threat was all Linda needed on that night. Desdemona smiled when she saw the next car stop and Linda hop right in. Yes, Washington was worth every penny she paid him. . . .