“You’re saying, in a couple years, we could each be making a quarter million or more a year?” Deja asked.
“If we stick to street women, a quarter mil would be the upper limit,” Michelle said. “If we go into high‑end call girls, massage parlors, online sex talk, that sort of thing, it would be a million each.”
“I can see it now,” Deja said. “Mimi’s Steam and Cream. Sauna and Sex. Blow jobs and back rubs for the man on the go.”
“You’re counting for expenses?” Nikky asked.
“Of course. It costs money to make money.”
“This is all good and dandy,” Nikky said, “but how in the world could we do it?”
“Look,” Michelle said, “we have the skills, the tools, and the trust among us to make it, big time. I have the cash to get us started. Nikky, you’re already a manager, so you have the management skills to set everything up and you’re also experienced in how to manage people on an everyday basis, once your systems are all in place. You know, inspect what you expect, on one side of the coin, and then on the other side, help them with their personal stuff like territory and transportation.”
“Sure,” Nikky said. “Managing hookers is probably not a lot different than the fools I work with now, except for maybe bailing them out of jail. Hell, yeah! I can also set up systems for running the business end, things like bookkeeping, controlling overhead costs—a whole bunch of back‑office stuff.”
“Right, and you”—Michelle turned to Deja—“you can help the girls be more glamorous and classy. Fix how they dress, and get their hair and makeup right. Also, we need you to deal with the medical stuff to keep their asses clean and healthy.”
“Uh‑huh . . .” Deja said quietly, then, warming to the idea, she added, “We’d have the best‑looking girls on the streets. I can get with my momma, because she’s a nurse. For sure, she’d help me with what to do on the health stuff.”
With a small smile on her lips and a grateful twinkle in her eyes, Michelle nodded. “I was thinking of starting in the hood, so we can get to know how to work the girls, the johns, the police, and all of the things we won’t think about until they actually happen. And we can learn about who’s running different parts of L.A. As soon as we get everything humming along, smooth‑like, we should expand. Keep our base close to home, but add to it. I want to go into the richer places like Brentwood and Beverly Hills.”
“Of course that would be the next step,” Deja said. “You know those Beverly Hills millionaires and hot shots will line up to get some sweet, Black pussy.”
“Exactly,” Michelle said. “I also think we should recruit some classy White girls, too.”
“Why would a classy White woman want to work with us?” Nikky asked.
“Because we’ll run the best, cleanest, safest operation in the whole state,” she replied. “If we treat our women right, the others worth anything will come to us.”
“I’ve read about how housewives are getting into the business, working for extra money and fun,” Deja said. “They sure as hell won’t get involved if they aren’t treated right.”
“What do you think? You guys interested?” Michelle asked.
“Interested? Hell, yes!” Deja answered. “I need to get out of my dead‑end job and I have no idea how. This could be my ticket out.”
“Damn skippy! Me, too,” Nikky said. “But, only if you plan on being the head of the organization. I’m all right with managing the day‑to‑day and the back office, but I don’t know the first friggin’ thing about how to start or build a business. And, someone has to back my play with real protection for the girls.”
“I have the protection issue covered,” Michelle said. “I’ll personally take care of any serious problems to start. I talked to Brandon and he can help me hire a few muscle guys for the day‑to‑day issues.”
“No shit, you’re for real about this?” Deja asked. “You mean, we’ll really be in business together?”
Michelle held up her glass. “To our business.”
“To our business!” Deja and Nikky chimed.
The three women clinked their glasses.
Twenty‑Eight: Under New Management
STILETTOS, CLEAVAGE, MICRO‑SKIRTS, and clashing perfumes dominated the room. The occasional loud laugh or exclamation of “No shit,” “That muthafucka!”, or the clatter of bracelets moving up or down wrists punctuated the dozens of conversations, snippets of language that were all distinctly female, but none lady‑like.
Sheraton Inn’s conference room had held a variety of events, even the notorious Pimps Ball a couple of times. But this was a first. Over a hundred blatantly obvious streetwalkers milled around, and one nervous manager commented to Michelle that it was fine, as long as they didn’t work the hotel.
Most of the women ignored the coffee, tea, and water service that sat on a table by the back door. Instead, a few feet away, a very busy hotel staff bartender hosted a free‑flow bar that served beer, wine, and sodas. Very few sodas were served.
Even in the indirect diffusion of light, the bangles, bright costume jewelry, and wild hair colors sparkled, caught the eye.
A three‑person professional speaker’s table, complete with a white, pleated edging, sat in the center of the front area. Off to the side stood a podium, while rows of cushioned, white‑draped chairs filled the front half of the room. Sitting at the table, Deja and Nikky relaxed and watched the crowd for a while.
Nikky’s loud, shrill whistle cut through the chatter. She stood and, speaking into the microphone, addressed the crowd. “Hello, everyone. Move up and find a seat. It’s time to get this thing started.”
Within a few minutes, most of the women were seated.
“All right, listen up,” Nikky continued, “we have a lot of shit to explain. It’s best if one person at a time speaks so everyone can hear what’s said the first time.” In response, a number of small conversations broke out. Another shrill whistle filled the room. “Hey, I said listen up, not start talking to your friends! Now listen the fuck up.”
The room quickly settled.
“All right,” Nikky said, “in case you don’t know who’s who, I’m Nikky. You’re here to meet Michelle, who’s here to tell you where things stand in the hood, and where you stand with us.”
At her introduction, Michelle walked over from where she’d been leaning against the wall, distinct in her bland street clothes. She wore low‑rise boots, bootcut jeans, and a V‑neck T‑shirt under a dark blue blazer. A microphone clipped to her blazer’s lapel left her hands free as she stood in front of the speaker’s table to talk to the crowd.
“Some of you already know me”— Michelle made eye contact with a few of the women—“but most of you don’t. So here it is: I’m the one who kicked Sugar’s ass out of the hood. She’s gone. Gone for good, and won’t be back—ever. Some of you might be down with Sugar, so you don’t want to deal with me. You’re welcome to hit the door at any time; nobody will ever make you stay.”
“What, you’re in charge of running shit in the hood now?” asked a tall, thin, light‑skinned woman in a gold spandex miniskirt and crop top. “I don’t gotta listen to this shit, you know.”
“What’s your name?” Michelle demanded.
The woman cocked her head, pursing her lips. “Real name or street name?”
“Either one.”
“Latoya, or Honey on the street.”
“Okay, Latoya, or Honey on the street . . . you’re right, you don’t need to put up with no shit. Not from me or anybody else. I don’t, either, and I won’t. So make your choice right now; either shut up, or take your bony ass out of my meeting, and when you find some manners, you can come back and ask for a job. Now, which is it?”
“No, I didn’t mean I didn’t wanna hear nothing. I was just saying . . .” The woman ducked her head, busied herself lighting a cigarette.
“Anyone else?” Michelle looked around.
A fe
w women said, “No,” while others shook their heads. Most didn’t respond though, meeting her with flat, non‑committal expressions.
“I’m taking over running hooking in the hood, both on the streets and call girls.”
“I didn’t know there was any call girls around here,” came a voice from the middle of the room.
“They’re a new part of the business. Some of them might be you ladies, here, in this room. Some will come from out of the area. Before you start asking more questions, let me run down the rest of the program. I’m sure I’ll cover most of your concerns.
“First, can I offer protection?” Michelle said. “Yes. Protection is fully covered. It’s a big issue, and I’ll come back to it several times.”
“You bet your ass it’s important,” said Latoya, Honey on the street.
Michelle ignored her. “Will Trevon, the guy who took over Lewis and Jackson’s top spot, be interested in our business? No. Will he cause us any trouble? No. Can we count on him for backup if we need it? Yes, but we’re not going to be calling for his help. You’ll have the full protection you need without being mixed up with the drug business.”
“How’re you gonna do that?” someone called out from the back.
“I’ll explain that in a minute. First, let me finish what I have to say. I’ll only work with women who want to make good money; I won’t put up with no strawberries. I don’t expect you to stay clean, since a little chemical recreation is your private affair. Your being strung out is my business. If I see you’re strung out or if I even see tracks, you’ll be out on your ass. You may be working on your back, but you’ll still have class and represent both my organization and women in general.”
“Why would we wanna go with you?” asked a short woman with a small chest and an ass that put Nicki Minaj to shame.
“Lots of reasons,” Michelle replied. “One of the biggest is you’re either with me, or alone. From today on, we’re the only operation in Anglewatts. Any pimp who tries to do business here has a choice: He can either leave town permanently, or be dead. One more thing . . . your boyfriend had better be ready to die for his chance to take over. I grew up here, and I can almost hear the conversation where you guys crank each other up.”
“Did she really grow up here?” someone asked.
“Yeah, I remember her from school,” another voice answered.
“Like I said, I can almost hear it . . . Yeah, you can do this!” Michelle mimicked. “You goddamned right, I’m smarter than Sugar and that punk, D’andre!”
Several heads nodded.
“Don’t do it.” She said. “You’ll lose both your boyfriend and your job.”
“What about Jimmy?” asked a woman sitting in the front row.
Michelle repeated the question into the microphone for the women in the back. “Any of you working for Jimmy over on Western, you don’t work for him anymore. He moved to Texas this morning. If you’re in this room right now, then he left you behind, but you’re certainly free to go join him and his woman‑abusing ways.”
“How do you plan on keeping others out?” the same woman asked.
“Do you see Lewis, or any of his lieutenants here? No, you don’t. D’andre or his guys? No again. What about Sugar, Blondell, Dontrice? I already told you about Jimmy. When was the last time anyone spoke face‑to‑face with that half‑assed Quantel?”
The room erupted into many conversations, and Michelle let it continue for about a minute before she nodded to Nikky, who again let out a short, loud whistle.
“No bullshit. Nobody’s seen or heard from those assholes for a couple of days, right? So,” Michelle said, “take a second to think about who’s still standing. I’m the only one. And like I said, Trevon will take it poorly if someone goes against us.”
“Why will Trevon help you?” Red Stiletto Boots asked.
“We have an agreement. Let’s leave it at that. Work with us, and you’ll have deep, solid protection. On the business end, things are very different from what you’re used to. We’re funding emergency and retirement accounts that are strictly yours, and I’m negotiating with a local clinic for real medical support. A nurse will help with regular stuff. They’re up on your job upfront, so they’ll know how best to take care of you. And they’ll be discrete—no cops, no bullshit. Any STDs will be dealt with immediately to get you back to work fast.
“Now, back to protection,” Michelle said. “All of you will learn some self‑defense moves. Learning how to better protect yourself is non‑negotiable. Most of you think you’re good in a fight, and a couple of you are, but not the rest. I’ll make sure you’ll learn some basic defense.”
“Who’s teaching us?” asked a woman in red spandex pants.
“Me.”
“No offense, but you look more like a school teacher than a pimp. I mean, check out your clean complexion and buppy jeans. You’re wearing a blazer, for Christ’s sake. You don’t look so tough to me.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. Are you a scrapper?”
“I can take care of myself okay.”
“Great, you just volunteered to kick my ass.” Michelle strolled down the center aisle to the open area in the back. “Come on back here, where we have a little room.”
“No,” the woman said. “I‑I didn’t mean that.”
“Sure you did. Most everyone in the room does. You’re the only one who had the balls to say so. What’s your name?”
“Pam. People call me PJ.”
“Good to meet you, PJ.” Michelle gave her gun to Nikky. “As you can see, I’m unarmed, and I don’t carry knives. You can come at me with anything but a gun. Pull a gun, and Nikky will shoot you. Are you carrying?”
“Uh, yeah. In my purse.”
“Give it to Nikky. Here, let me take my jacket off first.” Michelle did and handed her blazer to a woman standing beside Nikky then she stepped into the center of the area between the back row of chairs and the room’s entrance.
The women had gathered around them in a large circle, some standing on chairs to see over others’ heads.
PJ gave her snub‑nosed .38 revolver to Nikky, spun, and charged. In less than three seconds, the first round was over—PJ had been flipped flat on her back, looking up at the ceiling with Michelle’s knee pressed against her exposed throat and Michelle’s thumbnail a bare fraction of an inch away from her eyeball. Without any doubt, had the fight been real, PJ would be blind in that eye.
Michelle jumped up and away. “Okay, PJ, that probably wasn’t fair. You were expecting to surprise me, and I surprised you instead. Try again.”
PJ stood up and circled Michelle and the face‑to‑face dance began. Michelle smiled, open hands up in a defensive position like a boxer’s. Both women circled one another. PJ shoulder‑feinted twice, but Michelle didn’t respond. PJ’s eyes squinted. Michelle held her reptilian stare. And they kept on circling.
PJ pulled out a short knife from her bra and snapped open the blade. She feinted left, feinted a jab, and feinted another jab.
On the second jab, Michelle stepped in and grabbed her wrist. Spinning into PJ’s body, she flipped her onto her back. As she did, Michelle twisted PJ’s wrist and, using her thumb, stripped the knife out of PJ’s hand.
PJ lay on the floor, a knee to her throat, but this time, her own knife was poised above her eye. Not five seconds had passed before PJ she was looking death in the eye—again.
Michelle moved the knife slightly aside to make eye contact. “We good?” she asked.
“Uh‑huh, we’re good,” PJ answered.
Michelle stood, offering her hand to PJ, who accepted the help.
She handed back the closed knife. “You’d better learn how to use that thing if you insist on carrying it,” she said with a friendly smile. “I can help you with some training.”
Michelle stood there, clearly not tired or even breathing heavily; everything about her was relaxed. “Anyone else?” she asked in a lo
ud, steady voice.
No one said a thing—absolute silence.
Michelle put her jacket back on, then started to clap. “Okay, everyone . . . give PJ a big round of applause. She’s more than earned it.” At first, only a couple of people joined in the clapping, but then, as if a dam had burst, the room erupted in applause, shouts, cheers, and whistles, although whether the celebration was for PJ or Michelle, both, or for women in general, remained unclear.
Michelle returned to the speaker’s table. Nikky and Deja joined her. When the cheering began to die down, Nikky whistled three short blasts into the table microphone, and a little over a hundred happy hookers drifted to their seats.
The light‑skinned woman in the gold spandex miniskirt shouted out, “Can I ask a question?”
“Sure,” Michelle said.
“What do you do with a man? I don’t mean no disrespect, because you did some funky shit there with PJ, but what about some big, strong man?”
“Good question, and I’m real glad you asked it.” Earlier, Michelle had seen Angel come in, and they had the chance to catch up, having not spoken since Michelle dropped her off at her cousin’s in Bakersfield. All was good, and Angel agreed to tell everyone about her recent incident of getting beaten up by that guy in the street. “Angel, stand up, girl. Everybody, this is Angel. She was one of Sugar’s girls. A little while back, Angel ran into some trouble with a freaky john.”
Nikky handed Angel a microphone.
“Angel, would you mind telling everyone what happened?”
“Umm, yeah, hi, everyone. I’m Angel—I guess you already heard who I am. Well, anyway. I had this big guy—you know the type: big man, strong, real hard all over, and mean as shit. He wanted some kinky stuff I’m not into, so I said no. We were outside, in the middle of the afternoon in broad daylight, and he don’t care. Right in the street, he started kicking my ass.
“He knocked me down behind a van and I thought I was done for. No shit, I knew he’d kill me or send me to the hospital hurt bad until Nikky, here”—Angel pointed at Nikky sitting behind the table—“jumped in. I was dazed, but I think he knocked her down, too.
Get Even: A Michelle Angelique Urban Action Adventure Thriller Series Book #2 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Assassin) Page 21
