Chapter 6
Desdemona Valentine slammed the BMW into third gear as she was tearing down Plains Drive at 60 mph. She always drove fast and liked it. She didn't worry too much about tickets, either. Getting them fixed was no problem.
The Commodores were screaming out of the four speaker stereo. "She's like a brick-house! She's mighty, mighty, just lettin' it all hang out. She's like a brick -house!"
Washington, sitting in the passenger's seat was singing along with the music, rocking back and forth in the leather seat. When the song was over, he turned the volume way down.
"I think that new white chick, Patti, is going to be a real gold mine. She did $1400 dollars last week. And all class Johns-they be calling each other up and turning her on to friends and shit like that. She real young and you know how they like that young stuff. And she real good too-I mean she a fuckin' and suckin' natural type bitch. like this was the work she was made for. I mean she so good, feel so fine and tight, that I find myself going over every now and then to try a piece."
Desdemona looked over. "Don't you go wearing out the merchandise, Washington."
Washington grinned, his white teeth lighting up his black face. "Oh, don't you worry none 'bout that. I just be fine tunin' the merchandise. Now, what I been thin' is this. I know we usually like to give the girls a little experience on the street to season them-but I think this one be so good we keep her on call only. I mean there's an innocence about her that just be driving these white businessmen crazy. I think in another month or so we be able to move her into our first rank of ladies. We have to see, of course, but I think she can be trusted."
The first rank of ladies, was the group of hookers that Desdemona reserved for her very special clients. These were the local dignitaries, politicians, and very wealthy businessmen who wanted the youngest, the cleanest and the most discreet girls in town. And were willing to pay for it.
Desdemona slowed down as she approached Fleet Street. "Well, if you think she's that class of lady I'm going to take your word for it. That's one of the reasons I pay you all the money that I do, for your judgment, for your black nigger judgment."
Washington grinned from ear to ear. It felt good to be appreciated. He never thought he'd ever be able to deal with working for a woman. He thought that it was impossible for a real man to be bossed around by a chick-but Desdemona was different, the lady had balls.
Desdemona drove slowly down Fleet Street, like a queen surveying her kingdom. She was checking on who was working and who wasn't. Who the new girls on the street were, who the new pimps were and if any of them were going to be causing her any problems or cutting too heavy into her trade. She definitely was queen of the street, but she didn't mind a little competition-it was the American way, after all. But she liked to keep an eye on things anyway, just to remind everyone who ran the street. Everyone on the street knew her and there were respectful nods of the head as she drove past. Washington wasn't the only "gentleman" in her employ. She had a few others she called upon from time to time to take care of business. These she called her "enforcers". And they came in very handy.
About a year earlier a slick pimp from New Orleans tried to establish operations in St. Louis. Desdemona wouldn't have minded, except for the manner he was going about doing it. That nigger, thought Desdemona, was gonna be the goddam Colonel Sanders of whores.
This New Orleans pimp brought only the dregs of his stable up to St. Louis. The junkies, the transvestites, the violent and hard cases, the ones that were hard to control, the ones that didn't take too good care of themselves and ended up too often with the syph, the clap, or herpes.
Desdemona simply couldn't stand for this nonsense. If whores were walking the streets of St. Louis, robbing their customers and giving them diseases, it was going to make life a lot harder for everyone in the business.
Some poor clown would get off work at the factory, pick up one of these cheap New Orleans whores, fuck her at the XTC Motel and then go home and give his wife a little present of herpes. Or the Clap. And she wouldn't know about it for another two weeks. And neither would he. Three nights later he might pick up one of Desdemona's clean girls and give her the same diseases. And Desdemona wouldn't like that.
The first thing Desdemona did was send Washington over to talk over things with him. The New Orleans pimp then made a very large mistake. He had three of his thugs beat the living shit out of poor Washington. Put him out of action for two weeks. Well, not only did Desdemona think of Washington as a friend, but having him off work for two weeks and having to have to pay his medical bills did not make her very happy.
She could have had the police take care of things and get the St. Louis pimp and his girls off the street. She had enough connections to see that they made a selective crackdown on prostitution. But that would have been too easy. And maybe the New Orleans pimp wouldn't have gotten the message.
So Desdemona sent her "enforcers" over to have a chat in their own special language. But first they were to pay a visit to the thugs who had worked over Washington. Since they were simply doing their jobs, the enforcers let them off easy. No broken bones. But they hurt bad enough to steer clear of St. Louis for a long, long time.
When Desdemona's boys knocked at the door of the New Orleans pimp's hotel suite room, he was very surprised to find that his body guards were nowhere. The "enforcers" simply strolled into the hotel room without saying a word. He knew who they were from and why they were. He ran to the dresser for his gun, but never made it.
They worked him over real good, making sure to bruise almost every muscle in his body. They broke each of his little fingers and each of his little toes. Just so that it would be awhile before he could wear those tight alligator shoes he was so fond of. They put about fifty cigarette burns all over his bare ass, just so that it'd be a little while before he could sit down and still look smug.
And then, after having beat him unconscious, they gave him a very special present. One that would give him reason to remember St. Louis for some time to come. And remember it as a place he'd rather not go to. One of Desdemona's boys opened a small case that he brought along. From it he pulled a needle, syringe, and two small vials. Then they gave him a couple of shots. Ten days later, while recovering in his New Orleans home, the pimp began to develop the symptoms of both gonorrhea and syphilis. And he didn't know just where he got it from-except that it must have been in St. Louis.
And this is one of the reasons that, as Desdemona slowly cruised Fleet Street in her silver BMW, she got nods of deference and respect all along the way. But Desdemona was not in the best of moods on this night. Washington could tell just by the way she looked. Something was on her mind and it was something that wasn't making her terribly happy.
Washington knew better than to ask what it was. When she was ready, then, and only then, would she tell him what it was that was bothering her. He didn't have long to wait.
"Washington," she began, "we are going to have a talk. I got a problem. You got a problem. We all got a problem and I don't know what it is we're going to do about it. Let's have a drink and figure this out."
She parked the BMW in front of "Larry's Place", an exceedingly dark bar of which she was part owner. They walked in to the back and sat at their usual table. Susan, the waitress, brought their usual drinks without even waiting for them to order. There was, of course, no check.
Desdemona lit a cigarette and leaned forward, speaking in low tones. "The shit is going to be hitting the fan around here in not too long and I don't like it one bit. I've got the word from some rather well placed friends of mine that Fleet Street is supposed to be cleaned up before the upcoming elections. And my "friends" say that this time around there is nothing they can do to help me out. They say I'm going to have to fend for myself."
Her voice grew intense and angry. "Well, I'm not going to stand for this kind of shit. No way, baby! They don't fuck around with Desdemona Valentine . . . I've taken care of a lot of important asses in this city; I've stuck to my side of the deal-and now these mother fuckers think that because they got some problems I'm just gonna roll over and die, that I'm just going to let them close up my business without fighting back. Well, fuck them. Ain't no way that's going to happen."
She stuffed out the cigarette and lit another. "Washington, you know what Fleet Street means to me, you know what it was before I got on the scene and what it is today. I made this fucking street what it is today and I'm not about to give it up. A full goddamn seventy percent of my livelihood comes off this goddam street."
Washington was concerned. He'd never seen
Desdemona this upset before over something like this. She usually rolled with the punches until things on the political scene cooled out. This time he thought she really meant business when she said she wasn't going to take it, wasn't going to allow it to happen. Goddam, he thought, the bitch is going to take on the whole city. And he wouldn't be surprised if she won.
"So what we gonna do?" asked Washington.
"Well," Desdemona began, "it seems if you can believe this shit, that this clean-up is not coming down from the vice squad. Oh, they'll be in on it alright, when the shit begins to fly, but they won't be in charge of the whole thing. It seems that St. Louis has two lady cops. And these two lady cops have been given the job coordinating the clean-up. Now how do you like that kind of shit? They send a couple of bitches out to deal with me."
Washington couldn't help but laugh.
"What the fuck are you laughing about?" Desdemona asked, her eyes narrowing to two vicious slits.
Washington stopped laughing right away. "Uh, well, I think I saw these two cunts the other night driving down the street, real slow like. They eyes be bugging out like they landed right in the middle of Sodom and Gomorrah. If these be the bitches, I don't think we got too much to worry about."
Desdemona waived the waitress over to get her another drink. She didn't order one for Washington. "Yeah," she responded, "if that's what you think, then you've got your head up your black ass. I hear these be a couple of tough ladies. The other night, out in Rolfe Park, some psycho bagged a nurse. Fucked her every way and then some. She got away, but then these lady cops arrived on the scene. The cat is still in the hospital and he's mighty fucked. They squashed his nuts so bad that they'll never work right again." Washington grimaced as he imagined that.
"So," she continued to Washington, "let's not underestimate these, uh, lady cops. What I want you to do is find out all you can about these women. Find out if there's any dirt we can use against them. I wasn't to know where they live, who they fuck, and what the color of shit is that comes out of their assholes. You get the picture?"
"Uh, yeah . . . " Washington answered.
"Well, then. What the fuck are you doing sitting here. Get your black ass out of here and find out what I need to know. If they shut this street down there'll be a lot of people looking for work and I believe I'm looking at one of those people right now."
Washington left. Quickly. And swearing under his breath, remembering exactly why it was he hated working for women.
Desdemona ordered yet another drink. If it's war they want, she thought, then it's going to be war they get.