by Lexie Ray
This was probably going to turn out to be one salacious story.
I led Fitch upstairs, to the boarding house. A team of cops worked up and down the hall, opening doors and going through the contents of each room. This part made my breath catch in my throat, made tears spring to my eyes.
Don’t, I wanted to tell them. This is all we have, I wanted to scream, pulling them from each room and securing the door.
But I didn’t. I was sure the only reason I wasn’t being hustled out the door and into the back of a squad car, pants or not, was because I didn’t try to run or cause any trouble. I had to stay calm.
It was the hardest thing to simply walk calmly to my room as cops rooted through dresser drawers, bagging up handfuls of pretty lingerie sets, finding little stores of money girls had been hiding from Mama, browsing through DVDs and beauty products and magazines and other personal items.
It would seem pathetic if I tried to defend any of this, tried to keep the officers’ hands off of my sisters’ precious possessions. Each item meant so much, even the seemingly meaningless ephemera posted on the doors. Every door represented the girls who lived behind it, our names in cutout letters or artful collages or printed nicely on posters. After Blue had left, she’d given us all caricatures she’d drawn of us. Most everyone had posters of Hollywood’s hottest on our doors. Pumpkin and Daisy had photos of kittens and puppies. They were simple representations of our souls, and the cops were invading them.
This part wasn’t illegal, I wanted to rage. This was our lives, our homes. There’s nothing to see up here.
Instead, I clamped my jaw shut and continued to walk.
When we got to my room, I cringed. The door had been kicked in, the magazine clippings of ballerinas and runway models torn and fluttering in the breeze of my open window. A cop was going through my dresser drawer.
“This is my room,” I said, my voice shaking with emotions I was having trouble defining—anger, shock, fear, and a fierce protectiveness.
“Can you give us a minute?” Fitch asked the other officer. “This woman is cooperating, and she wants to get changed before she comes with us.”
“Trying to get a final taste of Mama’s nightclub?” the officer ribbed, but left.
I looked at the mess he’d made of my things, my neatly folded shirts and pants scattered.
My jewelry box had been upturned over the top of my dresser, but I was relieved to find nothing missing. I probably would’ve come unhinged if I couldn’t find my necklace.
I lifted the fine gold chain up and fastened it around my neck, the little gold heart settling just between my breasts.
For now, this was my prized possession, even if it only represented my true treasure.
The treasure I couldn’t have yet.
“Ma’am?”
I’d almost forgotten about Fitch and jumped at the sound of his voice.
“Sir?”
“I don’t mean to rush you,” he said, averting his eyes from the line they’d been traveling to see the heart pendant—and my breasts. “But the longer we’re in here, the more flack I’m going to get from the rest of the guys.”
“This isn’t where we sleep with the customers,” I said. “This is the boarding house. Where we lived.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Fitch said sadly.
I looked back helplessly at all my clothes. What did I wear when my life was ending? Was there anything appropriate?
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Fitch said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I realized a little belatedly that I was crying.
“I just don’t know what to wear,” I said, though that was the least of my problems. The nightclub getting raided wasn’t even the worst of my problems.
“Whatever you’ll be comfortable in,” Fitch said. “I don’t know how long you’ll be at the station.”
He walked past me and stared purposefully out the window, giving me the privacy he thought I needed to get changed.
So many people had seen me naked already that I was pretty sure a cop wouldn’t matter. Still, it was a nice gesture and gave me the focus I needed to start doing what had to be done. I started going through my decimated dresser drawers, looking for the right outfit.
I settled on my favorite pair of jeans—a light wash of denim that had been worn down by so much wear that it was soft to the touch—and a jersey knit teal blazer atop a plain black T-shirt. The blazer looked nice and professional, but it was as comfy as wearing a hoodie. I slipped a pair of matching ballet flats on and looked at myself in the mirror, hanging on the back of the door.
My kinky hair stood out in a very hip afro all around my head. It’d taken ages for me to develop enough confidence to wear my hair naturally, but there it was—my curls in all their glory. The blazer was enormously flattering, and I fastened one of the buttons to further emphasize my tiny waist. The bottom of the blazer flared out, mirroring the way my hips jutted. I slipped my gold heart pendant beneath the black T-shirt so that just a bit of gold chain could be seen on either side of my neck.
I needed that heart to hang right over my heart.
I turned back to my dresser and smeared on some light makeup. My eyelashes were already long, but I liked to play up their almond shape with mascara on both the upper and lower lashes. A little bit of shimmery eye shadow helped bring out the depths of my deep brown eyes, and a sweep of lipstick outlined my full lips. I never wore concealer or powder. I’d been blessed with smooth, mahogany-colored skin. Even throughout puberty, I’d never seen a zit.
“Ma’am?” Fitch was still turned dutifully toward the window.
“It’s Shimmy,” I said, blotting my lips with a tissue. “And I’m ready.”
Fitch turned and looked at me.
“You look very pretty,” he said politely.
“Thank you,” I said. “Is it okay if I pack a bag?”
He shook his head. “This is all evidence, for now,” he said. “Just take your purse.”
I swallowed and grabbed it before he escorted me out of my room.
I wondered if that would be the last time I’d see it. It would more than likely be the last time I lived in it. Walking back up the hallway and toward the stairs, I thought about all the fun I’d had with all the girls. When we weren’t working, it sometimes felt like a big slumber party. We gossiped about our customers, talked about movies and music, danced like there was no tomorrow, did makeovers on one another, and genuinely had a good time. With so many girls living in the same place, you’d think that drama ran high.
Besides the normal tiffs of who was borrowing what clothes or shoes, it was virtually non-existent. There was so much potential for drama while we worked downstairs in the nightclub—and in the other upstairs—that the boarding house was like a haven. It was the place where we could relax and be ourselves instead of the oversexed versions of us that we donned when we worked.
All that was gone, now—the sisterhood of the boarding house, the work in the nightclub, all of it.
Cops still milled around downstairs, hauling boxes and bags from Mama’s office, taking photos of the nightclub, examining the bar and stage. I glanced at another doorway, located behind the bar. That led to the other upstairs, where we’d go with customers to do the illegal business of Mama’s nightclub.
All customers had to do was pick one of us and agree to a price that Mama set, and they were free to do what they’d like with us upstairs.
Tips we made from waiting the tables in the nightclub were decent, but the sexual element was what made the real money.
It was also the reason the nightclub was getting raided. Prostitution simply wasn’t legal in New York.
Maybe selling my body was one of the things I wouldn’t miss about this place. I’d had my reasons for doing it, as I was sure so many of the other girls had, too.
I’d led many, many a customer up those stairs, to that long hallway that mirrored the one in the boarding house, opening one of the doors into a sumptu
ous bedroom and bathroom, turning the lights down low, stripping down to the fine lingerie set we always wore beneath our uniforms, and using my body as a means to an end.
All that was over, now, but so was the method I was using to get what I really wanted.
My treasure. My heart.
“Do you want to put your jacket over your head?” Fitch asked, glancing at me as we approached the entrance. There was still a sizeable crowd outside.
“That’s okay,” I said, giving him a small smile. “I guess I don’t really have anything to hide anymore. You don’t have to put cuffs on me, do you?”
“No, ma’am,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s my understanding that you’re the victim here.”
I puzzled over that statement as we walked outside, and into the mess. Shutters whirred and clicked as photographers documented my entrance into the fray. Reporters jostled each other just beyond the police tape, shouting questions at me. All I could notice was that the pavement was wet, as if it’d recently rained. I couldn’t make myself peer into the windows of other squad cars, trying to see how many of Mama’s girls were waiting in them. What if I locked eyes with Mama herself? I hesitated in my fear, stumbling to a stop, clutching my purse as if it were a shield. Fitch took my elbow gently and maneuvered me to a squad car.
“You’re not in trouble,” he said again, “but I am going to have to ask you to get in the back of the squad car. Standard procedure.”
“I understand,” I said, even if I didn’t. How was I not in trouble? I’d willingly sold my body. It was, at the time, my only option, the only way to work toward my end goal. I could name a couple of girls who had genuinely been victims, if anyone asked me.
Cocoa, who’d been forced to jump from the second-story window of her room to escape Mama, who was shooting at her.
Jazz, who hadn’t wanted to do anything but survive, forced to give herself to whomever Mama chose.
Many of us were just victims of our own circumstances, unable to land on our feet, having to use Mama’s nightclub as a crutch to keep hobbling along. It wasn’t a natural way to live, but we all got used to it, selling our sex. If a person spent enough time in a place, doing the same thing over and over again, she’d get used to anything.
I settled into the back of the squad car and Fitch shut the door behind me. He got in, up front, and started the car.
“A lot of people have a lot of questions,” he said. “You can, of course, choose what you want to answer. You’ll meet guys from the vice squad, guys from internal investigations. Most of them aren’t going to be nice guys.”
“I have a lot of experience with not-nice guys,” I assured him, looking out the window at the outside of Mama’s nightclub. In the daytime, it wasn’t much to look at. The windows were darkened, and there wasn’t even a sign designating what it was. Our business had been dependent on discreet word of mouth.
But at night, the place lit up. Bouncers manned the door, and a long velvet rope separated the line of people waiting to get in the nightclub. There was always a line, always people trying to get in.
Maybe I’d never lay eyes on the place again. It was hard to know how I felt about that. I knew that I would miss the other girls, but I couldn’t imagine I’d miss the work.
I supposed I’d miss the money that I was supposedly earning, even if Mama sat on it all. She’d been obsessed with it, there at the end, which was why she took to sleeping in her office. That’s where the safe was, where she kept all of our money for us. For a time, all we had to do to get money was ask for it. But recently, she’d been more and more wary of letting any go.
“We’d all appreciate it if you were as honest as possible in answering the questions,” Fitch continued, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror before throwing the car into gear and rolling forward.
“I’ll tell you whatever you need to know,” I said easily.
Fitch had said I’d be talking to guys in vice. That was understandable. This was a prostitution ring, after all. The mention of internal investigations was telling. He’d never been one of my customers, but I’d seen the chief of police at the nightclub before. The entire NYPD was likely in upheaval over the allegations, and the media would be having a field day if they caught wind of it.
I didn’t have anybody to protect except my treasure, and he was so far from this that I was sure he wouldn’t be touched.
At least, I was pretty sure he was. I hadn’t seen or heard from him in long years.
The ride to the station wasn’t too terribly long. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if it was. I was thoroughly lost in my thoughts, trying to overcome the shock of an entire period of my life ending. I hardly noticed as the squad car rolled to a stop at the station and Fitch helped me from the back.
The media had divided and conquered, a solid contingency waiting for us outside of the station. Fitch wove us through the crowd, reporters yammering questions at me.
“Are you one of Mama’s girls?”
“Did you sell your body for money?”
“How do you feel now that you’re free?”
Free? Was I free, now?
I’d only be free once I had my heart back.
Fitch led me past all the reporters and into the station. He took me to an interview room with glass walls. I tried to ignore the fact that it felt like a fish tank, that anybody passing by could watch me with the same fascination that people might have staring at an exotic fish at an aquarium.
“Can I get you something to make you more comfortable?” he asked, his face impossibly kind. “You could be waiting here for a few minutes. The guys have their hands full with a couple of recent intakes.”
I would’ve bet my last dollar that one of those troublesome intakes was Mama. I imagined that if I listened hard enough, I would hear her curses and shouts.
“I think I’ll be all right,” I said, settling into one of the leather swivel chairs.
Fitch looked at me for a couple of moments without speaking.
“I’ll be right back,” he promised, turning on his heel and going.
I studied my surroundings—a long wooden table punctuated by several of the same leather swivel chairs I was sitting in, blinds covering the glass walls—and study my nails. The red polish was chipped, but there was nothing I could do about it. I picked at it miserably, wishing at the very least I had another bottle to layer atop the color.
I turned out my purse, not even sure what all I had in there. Loose change skittered across the table along with a tampon, my wallet, a mirror, a tube of lipstick, and some crumpled receipts. To make myself feel better, I put on the lipstick, using the mirror to guide my trembling hand. I could do this. Everything was going to be all right.
The door to the room opened again and I looked up, expecting to see a bevy of hardened investigators with whiskery jowls.
Instead, it was Fitch, bearing gifts.
He’d gotten me a couple of fashion magazines, a large coffee and a handful of creamers and sugar packets, and a bag of chips, fruit, bottled sodas, sandwiches, donuts, and other goodies.
“What’s all this?” I asked, staring as he spread everything on the table in front of me.
“A care package,” he said. “You were making coffee during the raid, so I figured you haven’t had anything to eat yet. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just picked up a bunch of things at the convenience store around the corner. I thought you might like to have these magazines to help pass the time. I noticed that on your door, you had a bunch of models. Are you interested in fashion?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling numb with gratitude.
It would’ve been easier to deal with all of this sudden change if I could’ve simply withdrawn into myself. I’d done it enough during various periods of crisis in my life. But Fitch’s kindness was opening me up to the possibility of good people in the world, and it was almost the most painful part of the entire day.
“Well, I hope they don’t keep you here too long,” he said. “
Just holler if you need or want anything—and I mean anything.”
I could barely read the print of the magazine as my eyes blurred with tears.
I was, however, hungry, tearing into a bagel and slurping down some coffee. I liked it black because that was the way I’d learned to drink it, stealing cups of the stuff from banks and real estate offices and other businesses as a kid. There’d never been enough time to dress up my foam cup of Joe before slapping a lid on it and making a dash for the door.
My house never had enough, and coffee helped dull my hunger until I could scarf down a free lunch at school.
I’d made my way through a good portion of the bag of food before the door opened again. I looked up from a magazine to see a pair of suits, the tailored clothing not doing a good job of hiding what these men really were.
“You keeping yourself occupied, ma’am?” one of them asked.
I nodded, pensive. I wasn’t sure what I should be expecting and I didn’t have anything to lose.
The two suits sat down across from me, and I set the magazine down on the table.
“My name’s Snyder, and this is Bash,” the suit on the right said. “We want to ask you some questions about the nightclub.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to be as polite as possible. “Are you from vice or internal investigations?”
They exchanged a glance.
“Sounds like somebody charmed Fitch,” Bash said, eyeing all the various wrappings and bottles and goodies on the table.
“Officer Fitch has been very kind to me,” I said. “I’m sorry for prying. And I’ll answer your questions to the very best of my ability.”
“Let’s start with your name,” Snyder said.
“Shonda Crosby,” I said, “but everyone calls me Shimmy.”
There was another inscrutable glance between the two suits.
“What?” I asked. “Was that the wrong answer?”
Neither of them chose to answer that question.
“All right, Ms. Crosby,” Snyder said briskly. “How old are you?”
“I’m 22.”
“And, just for the record, you worked at the nightclub.”
