Red Light Wives (11 page)

 

It didn't take long for me to get desperate enough to go out on a few dates that Carlene set up. She made me agree to give her a thirty percent cut. At first, it was easy. Almost fun. Carlene and I didn't tell Clyde Brooks, the man who was behind the escort service, about me going on dates, too. I had not met him in person yet, but he sounded pretty scary over the telephone so I didn't want to piss him off. Besides, Carlene went out on a few dates herself that she didn't report to this Clyde, so she had my back and I had hers.

I was twenty-four and the only man I'd ever had sex with was my husband. Sammy had never asked for anything too extreme or out of the ordinary in bed. I had a lot to learn about what men wanted. And because the ones I was dating were paying for it, they expected to get whatever they wanted. Even something as outlandish as me pissing on them! I was surprised, and pleased, to occasionally run into a man who was happy just to have me give him a hand job in the front seat of his car on his lunch hour in the alley behind our building.

I'd been dating strange men for about a month before I actually had to fuck one. And he made it worth my while: four hundred dollars and some new clothes from the boutique he owned. I just didn't like all the lies I told Mama about where all the money was coming from.

“Baby, I am so proud of you. A thousand dollars in one day just for modelin'. I always knew your good looks would pay off,” Mama told me, admiring the new furnished apartment we'd just moved into. We even had a view of the San Francisco Bay, a fireplace, and an alarm system. “That Naomi Campbell better be watchin' her back.” Mama grinned, running her brand new vacuum cleaner over the thick carpet on our living room floor.

I smiled and agreed with Mama.

“Rosie, I want to go to Vegas. Book me a suite at that Mirage this time. I might run into Gladys Knight. Besides, them drinks at that Bellagio place was too weak, and I didn't see nary celebrity.”

The more extravagant Mama got with her demands, the more dates I had to go on. “Mama, I just sent you to Vegas last week. You lost more than three thousand dollars playin' those slot machines.”

“So what! I wanna go again. We rich. What good is it for me to have a supermodel for a daughter if I can't enjoy it!” Mama roared. Then her voice got real low. She coughed and rubbed her chest. “I mean, how many more times will you be able to do nice things for me?”

I sent Mama to Vegas the very next day and she lost another two thousand dollars.

When the building we lived in was sold a month later, I started looking for us a new place. It was Carlene's idea for me to put Mama in an apartment complex for seniors and get a place of my own.

“You'd make even more money if you had a place where you could take tricks,” Carlene advised. “You wanna share my place with me? I live in the same neighborhood as Robin Williams.”

I declined Carlene's offer to be roommates, but I did move into my own apartment on Silver Street. No movie stars lived on this block, but it was a nice, quiet, and safe place for a single woman. However, I couldn't bring myself to bring tricks to it. Fucking in the same place I lived in didn't appeal to me.

I furnished my apartment with odds and ends that I picked up secondhand, because I didn't plan to stay in it long. For some reason I believed that eventually Mama and I would return to Detroit. I missed Sammy, and it was so painful I couldn't even bring myself to call him up. But I did send him notes every now and then, with no return address. I just prayed that he would still be there for me when I straightened my life out.

I don't know who tipped that Clyde man off about Carlene and me going on dates with some of his wealthy tricks and keeping all the money. One of the drunken women, Carlene assumed.

Clyde stormed the office on Howard Street cussing a blue streak. Carlene just laughed and told Clyde to lick her pussy, but she promised to give him all the money she made on her next five dates. After he cooled off, he started raving about how pretty I was. Instead of firing me, he “offered” to “manage” my “career” for a third of my trick money. Since I had already wet my feet, it wasn't hard for me to accept his offer. Especially since I was already giving Carlene thirty percent of the money I made.

“And just to show you what kind of man I am, I ain't goin' to ask you for none of the money back that you got from my clients,” Clyde told me with a cheeky grin. He followed that with a mysterious threat. “If you decide you wanna work as a outlaw, you just might get yourself into all kinds of the trouble with the man. I play cards with everybody on vice.” Turning to Carlene, he said, “Don't I, Carly?”

“He sure do, 'cause I seen him do it.” Carlene nodded, blowing on her nails.

To this day, I don't know if Carlene had set me up so that I would feel I had to work for Clyde. She didn't seem too upset with him and was acting mighty casual about Clyde finding out our dirty little secret.

I went on my first date for Clyde that very night. To make sure I had a good time, he sent me to Mr. Bob, the easiest trick in San Francisco and one of the wealthiest. He spent thousands of dollars each month on women. And since he preferred Black women, Clyde took full advantage of that. Once a month, he would let this Mr. Bob have the woman of his choice for free. But the joke was on Clyde. Carlene told me that even when Clyde sent Mr. Bob his freebie, Mr. Bob paid the woman anyway. “And Clyde don't see nary penny of that money,” Carlene told me. “See, it's all good.”

It was hard to dislike Clyde, even though he had cussed me out and called me a crook. But he had a sense of humor, and he was generous. He would let me borrow his Range Rover to haul Mama back and forth to the expensive stores she liked to shop at. I found out he was also a sensitive man when I told him about losing most of my family. He pretended he had something in his eye, but I had already seen the tears. Also, Clyde resembled my late brother Tyrone. The minute Mama met him, she started treating him like one of the family. Not only did Mama start inviting him to dinner and church, she encouraged him to get me as many “modeling” assignments as he could.

But when Clyde came around too often, Mama got suspicious. “Rosie, you ain't tryin' to date that man, are you? Is he doin' more than managin' your modelin' career?”

“Oh, you don't have to worry about me and Clyde gettin' together like that. He only likes White women.”

Mama sniffed and smiled. “I figured that. He seems like the type. Tell him to come have dinner with us this Sunday.”

Clyde showed up the following Sunday evening with a bottle of Mama's favorite wine. I couldn't tell which one did the most grinning: him or her.

“Sister Vaughn, you ain't got to worry about your baby girl. Modelin' is a cutthroat business, but I ain't goin' to let nobody take advantage of her,” Clyde told Mama, his eyes on me as he smacked on some of Mama's honey-dipped fried chicken. “She's in good hands now.”

“Thank you, son,” Mama purred. Then she turned to me with a scowl on her face. “And I don't care what he do to you, you better stay with him.”

Clyde had been managing me for more than a year when Ester brought Lula to him.

V
erna and Odessa arrived the evening after I moved in with Rosalee. They checked into a Travelodge motel instead of taking Rosalee up on her offer to stay at her apartment and sleep on pallets on her living room floor.

“It's bad enough that you sleeping on that woman's couch,” Verna said with a frown. “A queen like you ought to be sleepin' on a bed of feathers.”

I didn't remind my stepsister about all the times I'd slept on her garage floor when she had her lovers spend the night.

“You can still go back home with us,” Odessa told me, looking around Rosalee's sloppy living room. They had already inspected the rest of the apartment.

Rosalee and Ester were somewhere in Nevada. They were helping out some madam in one of the legal brothels that their man Clyde had a relationship with.

“I'm stayin' out here. Rosalee said I can stay with her and split the rent,” I insisted.

Verna, wearing a pair of bibbed overalls, blinked. “Somethin' is strange about that Rosalee,” she said, giving me a dry look. “That sister seems sneaky. She wouldn't even look me in the eye when I talked to her. Like she hidin' somethin'. Mmmm huh,” Verna muttered, rotating her thick, ashy neck.

“Girlfriend, you know them models gots to be strange to put up with all the shit they have to put up with. Men lookin' at 'em half naked and shit. But they do make some serious money,” Odessa said, waving her hand. She had gained at least twenty pounds in the last few months. Her hand looked like a brown cow's hoof. “If I wasn't such a big moose, and fifteen years younger myself, I might try to pose for a few pictures.”

“Don't let Rosalee's behavior bother you. She's got bad nerves and is just gettin' over a nervous breakdown.” I had learned that the right lies kept people from asking too many questions. “Modelin' is all she can do right now. All she has to do is look pretty, and she can work her own hours. Her psychiatrist says she's makin' progress.”

“Is modelin' what you plan to do? You done had a few traumas yourself recently. And you prettier than she is,” Odessa added, walking around Rosalee's living room, being nosy. She fixed her eyes on an address book on the floor next to a pair of dirty panty hose. “This place looks like a poltergeist got loose in it.” Odessa kicked the panty hose to the side, snatched up the address book and started leafing through it. “Well, I'll be damn. Ain't nothin' but men's names and phone numbers in this damn thing.” Odessa pursed her lips and gave me a strange look.

I snatched the address book out of Odessa's hands. “Uh, I don't know yet if I will do some modelin', too. Um, these men,” I said, waving the address book, “they are mostly photographers, bookin' agents, businessmen with clothin' stores and showrooms, and gay hairdressers. They hire girls like Rosalee.” That seemed to satisfy Verna and Odessa. They blinked and sniffed, but I could see that they were both still uneasy and curious. “I got a job interview lined up already.”

“When did you have time to be lookin' for a job?” Odessa asked. “And where at? I thought you told us you ain't been out of Rosalee's apartment since you got here.”

“When the police took me down to the precinct to get my statement right after Bo got killed, I met a sister who works in the personnel office. She told me they had an openin' for a receptionist. Don't y'all worry about me. I'll be all right. And if I won't be safe workin' with cops, I won't be safe nowhere.” I laughed.

“From what I read in the newspapers, these cops out here is just as corrupt as the thugs they arrest,” Verna said with a sneer.

“I'm stayin' out here,” I protested in as firm a voice as I could manage.

Verna shook her head and sighed. “Well, if and when you change your mind about comin' back home, all you got to do is let me and Odessa know. Your daddy's gettin' older, and his health is failin'. You need to be there for him anyway,” Verna said with a concerned tone of voice.

“I think your mama and the twins can take care of Daddy. I did as much as I could for him, Etta, and them twins when I was back there, and now it's time for me to do some things for myself,” I said firmly.

As happy as I was to see Odessa and Verna, I was glad when they climbed back into their rental car and returned to the Travelodge. But it was hard and sad, to deal with the fact that Bo's body was going back on the same plane with them in a box. I didn't have the strength to go back to Mississippi for my husband's funeral. It was hard, but I had to put all of that out of my mind. I had prayed for Bo's soul, and I knew that if he could, he would understand my actions. That was the kind of man Bo had been. I was so grateful that I had had the chance to show him how much I had cared about him by running off with him and becoming his wife.

That night when Rosalee got back from Nevada, she had so much money it wouldn't fit in the shoe box she tried to store it in. Even though she looked tired and worn out, she still went out with Ester and Rockelle on another date a few hours later.

Just before dawn, Rosalee rolled back in with another huge wad of cash. She tossed all of the money toward me on the couch, and it landed smack-dab in my lap. Something strange and exciting came over me. My face got hot, and my hand started itching as I caressed the money. That money represented all kinds of things to me—security, freedom, maybe even another chance to be happy. It had not been said outright, but I knew that from the very beginning, Ester, Rockelle, and Rosalee had been wooing me to join them in their escapades.

“Rosalee, do you think your man, Clyde, can hook me up?” I asked, squeezing the money like it was already mine.

 

Clyde's apartment was all the way across town in a big brooding stucco building on a street lined with exotic palm trees and expensive vehicles. It looked like Beverly Hills. I felt as out of place as a goat in a jewelry store.

I didn't like the fact that he had insisted on meeting me alone, but I had agreed to it anyway. I was just that desperate, and I must have been crazy, too. Never under normal circumstances would I have agreed to sleep with men for money. I had to have lost my mind. After losing Larry, my son, and Bo all in such a short period of time, how could I not be crazy? That seemed to be the best way to rationalize my decision. I was not responsible for my actions. I was more like a puppet. Yeah, that made me feel better. So, what happened to me in San Francisco wasn't my fault.

Ester and Rosalee had dropped me off on their way to a double date, explaining to me that all the sharp-nosed White men standing in front of Clyde's building belonged to the Russian Mafia.

“If any of them communist motherfuckers ever try to get in your face, just tell 'em you are one of Clyde's wives,” Ester advised, waving and grinning to the same men she'd just warned me about. I smiled at the Russians, but they gave me a hard, mean look anyway.

Clyde buzzed me into his building. As soon as I got inside his apartment door, he stood back and looked me up and down. “How old are you, twenty-four, twenty-five?” All he had on was a navy blue terry-cloth bathrobe and a pair of black suit pants. The butt of a gun was sticking out of the waistband.

“Twenty-eight,” I said, praying he wouldn't ask to see the ID that showed my age as thirty-three.

He smiled. “You sure don't look that old,” he told me, waving me to a couch. “You could have lied and told me you was twenty-four, and I wouldn't have doubted you.”

“I know. But I didn't want to start off tellin' you no lies.” I sniffed. For a moment, our eyes locked and that made me nervous.

“Lula. Now that's a fine old southern name you got you, too. You lucky your mama didn't stick you with a countrified name like Mae Alice or Alice Mae.”

“My middle name is Mae,” I admitted, feeling shy for the first time in my life.

“Well, don't tell nobody,” Clyde said, laughing. He took the sweater I'd borrowed from Rosalee and draped it on the back of a plush blue wing chair.

Clyde's place was nothing like the one I shared with Rosalee. He had expensive leather furniture, thick dark green carpets, a gigantic fish tank full of exotic fish, a huge television set with a CD player on top and a mountain of CDs stacked up on the floor. There was not an empty spot on one wall of his living room. It was covered with pictures of him posing with some of the most famous people in the world—Mick Jagger, Nelson Mandela, and even Mickey Mouse. Next to a poster of him hugging Halle Berry was one of him with a light-skinned young girl with blond hair. Despite a severely lopsided face, one bulging eye, and a scarred cheek, the girl was still beautiful.

“Uh, she work for you, too?” I asked, nodding at the picture of the blond girl.

Clyde blinked and cleared his throat. “That's my baby. My baby girl, Keisha. She's twenty-eight now,” he told me in a sad, soft voice. The girl in the picture didn't look twenty-eight and Clyde didn't look old enough to have a daughter that age. He cleared that up right away. “I was sixteen when she was born. She was sixteen when we took that picture.” That made him forty-four, but he looked ten years younger. Clyde was as dark as I was. The girl in the picture was obviously biracial. He seemed like the type to be into White women, but that didn't bother me. I'd dated a White boy in high school. My only concern was business.

“Oh. She live here with you?”

“Oh, no. She live in Oakland with my grandmother. See, my baby got all kinds of physical problems. She ain't responsible and need to be looked after twenty-four seven.”

“Oh. I'm sorry to hear that.” I sniffed and glanced around the room some more. There was a rose-scented fragrance in the air. The ceiling was so high, I felt like I had stepped into a glamorous cavern. “You from Oakland?”

Clyde shook his head. “I grew up there, but I'm from Mississippi.”

“So am I!” I gasped, feeling more at ease after hearing that piece of information. I took the flute of wine that Clyde handed me and sank down onto his huge leather couch. He sat on the arm next to me, looking me over like I was something for sale, which I was.

“So they tell me. Well, you in a whole 'nother world now. 'Frisco is a long way from Mississippi, and it's a whole different ball game out here. This city is one big-ass cash cow. You got to milk this cow 'til it can't be milked no more. With them juicy lips and pretty face, you'll do real good.”

“I hope so,” I muttered. My common sense was getting pushed farther and farther back in my weak, confused mind. “I really need to make some quick, easy money—but just until I find a real job.”

“Uh-huh. I know all about that.”

Clyde tilted his head and stared at me, making me squirm in my seat. I didn't want to squirm too much and wrinkle the pretty denim skirt I'd borrowed from Rosalee, so I steered the conversation in a different direction.

“You lucky to have your grandmother livin' so close,” I said, feeling sad because I couldn't say the same thing about myself.

“Oh, but that old sister is a real piece of work. I tried to get her to move over here to a nice house in the Sunset District where she would be a lot safer. But you know how impossible old folks can be. She raised me in that house out in East Oakland, and all her friends still live in that same 'hood. Girl, them ignorant-ass niggers and spies out there be just fightin' and fightin'. Next to the drug dealers, the richest folks in Oakland is the undertakers. I ain't about to deal with all that mess. And as much as I like my old 'hood, I ain't about to live out there and let them motherfuckers steal all of my shit!”

“Don't you worry about your grandmother and your daughter livin' in a bad neighborhood?” I took a sip of my wine, enjoying the strong tingle it gave me.

“I do. But I can't make 'em leave. I tried to do that for years and years. Granny Effie done told me that the only other address she's goin' to have is Heaven. I send Keisha to a camp for them handicapped folks when I can, but she don't like it. She wants to be right there in that old house with her granny.” Clyde paused, took a drink from his glass, and stared at the picture of his daughter. “The old folks in the 'hood help look out for Keisha.”

Clyde set his wineglass on the coffee table and rubbed his palms together, giving me a wide grin. “All right now. Enough of that small talk. Let's cut to the chase.” He paused and sniffed, looking at me with his head tilted back a little. “You a pretty woman, Lula Mae. Ray Charles could see that much. And, I like you.” He shook a finger at me. “You be good to me, I'll be good to you. My girls, they done told me all about your…uh, situation. You broke, done lost your husband, new in town. Girl, you need help.”

“Well, I just need to make some money real fast. A lot of it. I don't want to do…uh, date any longer than I have to. I just don't want to get myself into somethin' I can't get out of.” I couldn't figure out why I was almost whispering and looking around like I was expecting somebody else to pop into the room. I knew I was alone with Clyde. “Rosalee and Ester, and that fat woman Rockelle, they all said you would look out for me. Help me out. And that you wouldn't let nobody hurt me.” My eyes got big when Clyde removed that gun from the waistband of his pants and placed it on the coffee table. A narc I'd once dated had carried the same type of gun, so I knew Clyde's was a Glock. Verna thought that
Glock
was a stupid name for a gun. She figured that some macho man, preoccupied with his own cock, had chosen that ridiculous name because it rhymed.

I glared at the gun and scooted farther away on the couch. The barrel was aimed right at me.

“Could you put that thing away, p-please,” I stammered.

“You ain't got nothin' to worry about. Not no more,” Clyde told me. “Not as long as I'm packin'.”

He lifted the gun and waved it anyway.