I had that nice sleepy feeling you get after really good sex with someone you barely know. Except I knew him and we hadn’t had sex. Lightfoot was on the phone making deals from his king sized bed, arranging things that needed arranging. I lay cuddled into one arm smoking cigarettes, drinking cold beer, picking imaginary lint off his spotless cowboy shirt and trying not to think about the night before. Or about being broke. About being bruised. And unemployed. Again.
But, Lightfoot had things that needed taking care of. We headed back into the city for a some drinks and some business. The Porkpie looks like any sleazy Times Square bar, with windows so dirty you can’t see in from the outside, lights so low you can barely see in from the inside. But the Pie operated as the unofficial pimp union hall. They hung out, traded secrets, perfected their game, bragged and showed off new stock. It was the place to size up the competition, make alliances, trade stock, kill time. Just a short dark bar with a worn green felt pool table and a bank of black pay phones, the Porkpie was the place to go if you were looking for a new pimp. Or had a bone to pick with an old one. Every man there had girls on the street.
Every woman there was a whore.
Except me.
Baby pimps hung around the thin edges, worn copies of Iceberg Slim’s bible sticking out of their back pockets, soft, from handling. Kids with nothing more than attitude, the dream, an ill-fitting three piece suit, some hair relaxer and a stupid girlfriend, trying to learn by observation and eavesdropping, hanging around hoping to sweep up crumbs, bits of wisdom and experience from the Sweet Daddys and Gorilla pimps. They’d all seen Superfly a dozen times or more. The Porkpie offered a sort of apprenticeship program.
A few vodkas in, the swag man shows up rolling a 7th Avenue clothing rack piled with dresses, g-strings, gold chains, rings and frilly things that had fallen of the back of a truck somewhere. Doug hands me another vodka & a pair of rust corduroy jeans that match his shirt. We’re going to look like one of those ridiculous couples that coordinate their outfits. But we’re not a couple, really. I was married, I had a husband I wasn’t really available up until yesterday. He’s trying to cheer me up. The vodka cheers me up. Always.
“It’s almost eight, Doug. I’m hungry. Didn’t I hear something about buying me dinner earlier?”
“Relax, little girl.” He ran his hand over my ass.
“I thought we were gonna drop the little girl thing.” He smiled at me.
God, he looks good.
“What’s the rush? If you still had a job, you just be closing up now.”
“Yeah. But I don’t have a job, or any money and if I did still have a job I woulda ordered something to eat during my shift.”
He slipped his hand down my ass, to the space between my legs and gave me a gentle push. “Go try those on for me, then I’ll feed you.”
“Doug…”
“Go on, little girl, I want the boys here to see how good my girl can look. They gonna eat their hearts out.”
I was sore and cranky from the beating I took from Red Wolf. Was that only yesterday? There was a nice strawberry bruise on my right cheek. I wasn’t sure a pair of pants was going to make me look good. Really, I needed food. Sleep. More Vodka.
I went into the bathroom to change.
I took the glass of vodka with me.
Nothing really ever changes.
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Posted September 10, 2009 at 7:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty money, pimps, Times Square, whores. Bookmark this post. Follow any comments @ RSS feed for this post.
