Brooklyn Brothel (3 page)

“So I take it, your man has told you all about Betty?”

He made sure to accentuate the word
man
. He was clownin’ me, and thought I didn’t know it.

“No… who’s Betty?”

He adjusted his mirror to eyeball me. “She’s the madam. A stern madam who doesn’t take any shit. Just be sure to follow her rules.”

I felt the pit of my stomach get queasy. When Mike spoke about, Betty his voice lowered like somethin’ from a horror movie. I ain’t neva seen a dude big as Mike speak with so much respect ’bout a woman. I leaned all the way back listenin’ to Mike rant about Betty for the next twenty minutes. Suddenly, I didn’t want to talk anymore.

Before I knew it, we had crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and neared my new home for the next seven days. When Mike slowed the pace, it prompted me to raise up a bit. I
lowered my head to get a good view of the block. It appeared to be a normal lookin’ street. No hookers on the street like I envisioned. Instead, huge Brownstones lined the block. They weren’t like the single family homes I was used to back at home. They were attached, yet distinctive lookin’. Finally, Mike stopped in front of house #8823. I scribbled the address down just in case I had to call the police on Betty’s crazy ass.

When Mike opened my door, he asked me for the $50.00 fare. I immediately worked up an embarrassed grin across my face, ’cause I had no idea I would have to pay for the ride. “Will I see you again,” I pleaded. “’cause I gotta make some money first.”

“It’s okay,” he assured, “you’ll see me around. I do a lot for Betty. I drive the girls coming in and out of town, and run errands for the business. But don’t worry, I’ll collect from Betty. She’ll collect from your pimp…I mean your man.”

He grinned, shortly after his eyes asked for my forgiveness.

There was nothin’ fancy or impressive about the outside of the house itself otha than the well groomed landscapin’ out front, and maybe the dark, all-brick facin’. Betty’s place was the end house on the block, so the windows to the right of the buildin’ had garments hangin’ from them. I assumed it was where my co-workers lived.

A few neighbors on the block sat on their stoops makin’ me feel like shit. They watched us closely and shook their heads in the process. I was almost sure they knew what was goin’ down. One older Italian woman started rubbin’ one finger against another rapidly, hittin’ me with the shame on you signal. I wanted to curse, call her all kinds of names, and tell her to get all those damn figurines out her front yard.

Mike edged me along, tellin’ me not to pay her any mind. He said Betty’s spot just happened to be in a mostly decent Italian neighborhood, and that they were extremely conservative.
We walked up five sets of stairs to the front door, and rang the bell. The more we waited, the more my heart felt like it had fallen into my shoe. I wanted to call Bo so badly. Finally, a voice sounded across the intercom.

“Yesssss,” the voice sang sweetly.

“It’s Mike. I got your dinner,” he said.

I thought,
what the fuck
?
The dinner
?

Before I could even try to figure that shit out, a petite, Dominican woman with a long wavy ponytail opened the door and ushered us in. She smiled at Mike and introduced herself to me as Serita. The space inside seemed much larger than what I expected. In the center of the house stood a staircase with access to the stairs on the backside, and a large paintin’ of a naked white woman on the front of the staircase; I assumed the Brooklyn bootleg version of the Mona Lisa. To the right, there was a large office area where only a desk could be seen from where I stood. To my left, it seemed like some sorta lounge. Red velvet couches lined the wall, along with lighted, scented candles. My eyes searched for any girls, or anyone dressed like a prostitute, but there was no movement.

“Right this way,” Serita instructed, snappin’ me from my detailed investigation.

Mike remained in place as I took off behind Serita toward the office. I wondered would I really see him again. Betty’s appearance took me for a loop when I turned the corner. She reminded me of Della Reese from the movie
Harlem Nights
. She appeared to be in her early fifties and was overly intimidatin’, with her big, bodacious tits, and oversized stomach to match. She obviously got her influence on style from the old days. Her lipstick was bright red like mine, and her rosy rouge sat caked up on her cheeks.

When she cleared her throat, I got antsy wonderin’ what she would say. My eyes darted to her silver and black
colored hair. It was pinned up, and had a few curls danglin’ down the back of her neck.

“Sit down,” she told me in an unfriendly tone.

I rushed to sit in the chair directly across the desk from her. She shuffled a few papers, purposefully not givin’ me any eye contact. Although she hadn’t said much, her personality seemed cold, not welcomin’ like Serita’s.

“Umh…,” Betty grunted, keepin’ her face downward. “So you know you’re here on a pass from Sugar G, right?”

“Umh. Uuu-m-mh,” I stuttered.

“I never personally met your pimp, Bo Rich, just talked to him on the phone a few times. But Sugar has vouched for him. Consider yourself blessed.”

She finally glared up into my face while interlockin’ her hands on the desk. Her voice was deep and raspy, I guess to accommodate her big-boned, two hundred and seventy plus pound frame. Every word she said to me seemed like it came from deep in her gut. I continued to sit shiftless like a teenager caught up in the principal’s office.

“Now we make a lot of money here. And we protect our girls,” she added, giving me another evil eye. “What’s the name you going by anyway?”

“Co-Co,” I blurted out.

“Well, Co-Co, you work from noon to midnight every day. And free time is every morning, and two hours every evening.”

I nodded like an asshole after every sentence, ’cause Betty had me wantin’ to shit on myself. With every word she spoke, her face would wrinkle at the sides of her mouth. She stood up abruptly, only for me to jump back into my seat. I watched her walk around the room swayin’ her solid weight from side to side.

“Respect is everything around here. Number
one, Respect this house. Number two, Respect my rules. Number three, Respect my clients and number four, don’t bring no damn drama to this house, no diseases either. Break any one of those rules, and I will personally have you and your pimp dealt with.”

I wanted to let her know Bo was my man, not my pimp. But I figured she would tell me to shut the fuck up. Nobody would believe that anyway. So I just sat resemblin’ a robot, noddin’ away.

“Everybody needs a passcode to get in here, so don’t get no crazy ass ideas. And just so you know… that,
I got your dinner
shit Mike used a few minutes ago, wont work.”

“Oh…I didn’t.”

“Shut up!” she shouted. “I’m not done. All girls who come here are invited or connected somehow. They come from all around the country. Understand you are
not
here to make friends. This is a competitive environment. Fuck as much as you can. As long as you on your back, you good. Lemme say this…you got my last bed for this week, so earn your stay.”

She stopped to stare at me for a while, then allowed her eyes to zoom in on my outfit. “I hope you got something sexier than that.”

“I do.”

“You got any diseases? Your pimp didn’t send a health certificate.”

“I’m all good. No AIDS, no STDS…nothin’.”

“Umh… umph,” she uttered like she was still suspicious. “You gotta good look, nice full lips for sucking dick. You might be alright. Plus, you got that sexy Cindy Crawford looking mole on your face. Men should like that shit.”

“Mike said brown skin does well here,” I said proudly.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she shot back. “I said you might be alright.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, Mrs. Betty.”

“First of all, don’t call me no fuckin’ Mrs. Betty and secondly, drop the innocent, Miss Nice Girl routine. If you came here to fuck, you not so innocent.”

If her words could cut, I’d need a blood transfusion within minutes. We sat in the office for another half an hour while I listened to more do’s and don’ts, and more degradin’ comments. I was so hungry from not eatin’ since I left Pittsburgh, but was afraid to let my stomach growl freely.

Finally, she got to the nitty gritty; the pay.

“Everything is a split with the house. This is an in-house, so we got expenses. If you wanna be welcomed back you gotta show us what you got. You make up your own prices within reason. When the guys come in, charge according to what services they want. Serita can help you with that.” She eyed me. “Tips are yours. Turn in what’s owed to me by midnight every night.”

“Got it,” I said, tryin’ to sound confident.

“You’ll know if I’m happy at the end of the night, ’cause I come in here and smoke one of these here Cuban cigars.”

I scanned the area where her finger pointed. She had several cases of cigars lined on the shelves against the custom built wall; along with awards that showcased her name, Betty Strutherford in large letters. I couldn’t make out what the certificates and awards were for. She was a Madam, not a certified professional.

Betty sat her flabby-ass on the end of her desk, and fondled a cigar in front of me. “Co-Co, if I don’t smoke my daily cigar, know that there is a problem. It’s what makes me feel successful at the end of the day.”

Again, I nodded.

“Last thing,” she said, lifting her body at a snail’s pace. “All your business takes place upstairs. So don’t let me catch you snooping around down here. Serita is the house mother
who sees everything. I call her, Snake Eyes. And know that as nice as she appears…that bitch will snitch on you.”

My head titled back to see if Serita was in the doorway. She wasn’t but a shadow was.

Betty continued, “2 A and B is where you girls sleep. 2C is our great room where the girls lounge and wait for customers to be brought up. Those are your two areas. You can use the kitchen on this level, but it better be spick-and-span when you finish. My suggestion…order out…or eat at the corner. But before midnight! It’s just like when you were in prison…we got lock down here, too.”

She gave me a fake, devilish-lookin’ grin. The woman was incapable of smilin’.

I was into my feelin’s wonderin’ why Bo had told Betty my business. She didn’t need to know that I’d been locked down. I rubbed the back of my neck, and glanced at the clock tryna hide my true feelings in front of Betty. The clock read 9 p.m. I guess when Betty noticed the troubled look on my face, she figured that was enough torture for one night. She pushed the phone in my direction.

“Call Bo and let’em know you got here safely. Tell’em you’ll start tomorrow. Then Serita will get you settled in your room.”

Betty walked ova to the door to summon Serita. I needed more privacy, but figured what I was gettin’ wouldn’t get any better. I punched Bo’s cell number into the old-fashioned phone hopin’ he would answer.

“Yo, yo,” Bo answered real slick-like.

“I made it,” I whispered.

“That’s my girrrrrrrrl.”

He appeared to be in a joyous mood. I could tell he was out and about from all the noise blarin’ into the phone. I wanted to ask him what the fuck had he gotten me into, and why he told Betty I had been locked up. Instead, I spoke
nicely for fear of Betty.

“I’m gonna start tomorrow,” I told’em.

“What the fuck!” he shouted. “Time is money. The bitch Betty told me you was ’posed ta start today! I’m gonna call’er tomorrow. She owe Bo Rich some damnnnn money!”

“That’s on you, Bo,” I whispered, then turned to see if Betty was still in the doorway. She had her back turned, talkin’ to some guy in a black suit.

“Bo, seven days, that’s it, right?” I quizzed.

“You questionin’ my integrity?”

“No…I’m not,” I said sharply. “How’s it goin’ with findin’ us another girl?”

“Lemme handle da business ova here. You get off da phone and make that money.”

“Okay…love you, Bo.”

All I heard was…Click.

Chapter 3

“Co-Co, Co-Co!” an
overly anxious girl named Cinnamon shouted in my ear. “Wake up! Wake up, girl!”

I jumped from my bed thinkin’ there was a fire or somethin’. Luckily, I’d met Cinnamon the night before, ’cause when I woke up in a panic from her shakin’ me half to death, she woulda got punched if I hadn’t recognized her face. It was normal for me to have violent flashbacks from my prison days. I tried to change up my ways, tried to be the sweet, calm, and understandin’ Chantel my mother barely raised, but it was hard. I still kept a part of that prison life with me; the part where I had to fight bitches on a regular to defend myself. The part where I had to get raunchy and talk nasty just to get my fuckin’ point across. Then there was the trust factor. There were no girls who could be trusted in prison, none that I confided in back at home, and there were none who could be trusted in Betty’s brothel either.

“What’s up? What’s the emergency?” I asked.

“Girllllllll, it’s ten o’clock,” she said, with her plus- sized hips.

Cinnamon was slender, yet had a bodacious set of hips and an ass just as plump as mine. She was a typical black girl, with a stylish, ear length hair-do, and long eyelashes; fake of course.