Low Road

by Eddie B. Allen, Jr.

  The cost of a house in Detroit averaged about $13,000 in 1956. Young folks like Donnie and Marie had become eager to work and start families. There had been a demand for new homes, and they were built at a rate never to be matched in the metropolitan area. The typical new house was about 1,300 square feet and had three bedrooms. Picture windows could be found in the living areas, and garbage disposals became standard kitchen features. Symbolic of its economic blessings, the metropolis had its share of mansions. Henry Ford’s and that of Lawrence P. Fisher, one of the founding brothers in the Fisher Body Company, were both built at a cost of $2.5 million. And David Whitney, a lumber baron, had a gated, palatial estate near downtown. Constructed in 1894, it remained proudly facing Woodward Avenue. Detroit was proving a good place to succeed, and it was about time for the next generation of Goines adults to partake in that success. But Marie had been unable to help her brother, as he had helped her. She had found herself just as relegated to the sidelines of his junkie life as the rest of the family. Often, they could do little more than wonder in amazement. Like the day when she happened to intercept the package of weed that had been sent to Donnie in the mail. Naïve as she was, she didn’t even recognize the contents of the delivery as anything illegal. If there was one thing she and his other relatives could count on gaining from Donnie, though, it was awareness of what was going on in the outside world. In the world from which they had long sheltered themselves when they were having formal dinners with desperation and despair on the opposite side of the door. Now, smack was pushing Donnie toward it.

  Fiend.

  By the time he was only twenty-four, Donnie had accepted the notion behind the word. Where drugs were concerned, he couldn’t deny himself. Smack would be his companion for life. He didn’t control the habit; the habit controlled him. Without looking into professional help or treatment that would restrict his freedom, he determined to at least do good by making an example of himself. One evening as he prepared to fix, he got the idea to call Joanie in for a demonstration. Still just a child, her innocence exceeded even that of prissy Marie. She was growing up a Goines during the time when Joe and Myrtle were well settled and had not been a witness to the way they once drank whiskey, partied, and socialized. Now they worked during the day and went to bed early. All Joanie knew was that her brother, the same nice young man who had presented her with the red silk kimono he brought back from overseas when she was small, had developed a serious problem. The twelve-year-old was wide-eyed as Donnie began the process of self-medication.

  “Don’t you ever let me catch you doing this, Poopty,” her brother said, as he cooked the powdery, white substance. Joanie watched, mesmerized as he held a burning match beneath the metal spoon, turning the powder into a clear liquid. This would be a lesson she could never forget. Donnie was saying “I love you” through a strange ritual of self-sacrifice. It would eventually kill him anyway, he figured, so he might as well make it count for something. Joanie tried to look at the floor.

  “Watch, Poopty,” Donnie told her. The gentleness in his voice might have sent a chill down her neck, except that she knew he cared for her. So why was he making her watch such a strange thing? Joanie’s eyes didn’t wander. They took in the full scene, as Donnie pushed the needle through his pale flesh. Suddenly sleepy, he raised his head toward his baby sister one last time before drifting off. “Poopty…” he started. “I promise … if you ever get this monkey on your back, I’ll kill you.”

  It was a more effective presentation than she would ever receive in school. Contradictory as Donnie’s message was—to insist that she heed his words rather than his actions—it penetrated her young consciousness. If this was the demon that so completely controlled her brother, she wanted no part of it. Self-injection was not a sight that came comforting to Joanie. Nor did the thought of chills and nausea, cramps, or pissing on herself when side effects from the drug, or withdrawal reactions, seized control of her bladder. Through her formative years, she would watch Donnie shoot up numerous times. He’d go in search of a scarf, a string, a stocking, anything he could find to tie around his arm, and then look for a juicy vein. Next, he would use a homemade syringe, fashioned out of an eyedropper and a discarded needle, which was easily obtained from Myrtle’s insulin tubes. He attached the needles to the tip of the dropper and would proceed to retreat from reality. Joanie would watch, disgusted, as blood seeped into the tube, blending with the heroin, and Donnie would pump the concoction back into his arm. His handsome face would contort from the pain of the injection, then relax as he drifted toward the oblivious high he sought to achieve. It was a lot for a young girl to take in, to say the least. Ultimately, however, it served its purpose. Joanie may not have decided what she wanted to be when she grew up, but at least one thing became clear: She never wanted to be a dope fiend.

  Cash and Bitches

  “You better damn well bet I’m sure,” Tiny stated. “We been watchin’ that numbers house for three weeks now, and I’m sure we can crack it…”

  … Buddy answered sharply, then added, “but this ain’t no toy, man. These people play for keeps. If we kick this joint over, we goin’ have to play it mighty cool after that, ‘cause they sure in the fuck ain’t ’bout to forget us.”

  “Aw, man,” Tiny said, “let’s worry about skinning that cat when we get to it. For now, we got to knock the fuckin’ joint off. After that, then we’ll worry ’bout spendin’ the cash.”

  —Daddy Cool, Donald Goines

  It became known as the “bitch slap.” And there was an art to it. A good number of street pimps employed the technique, yet fewer could truly claim they had become masters. While inflicting the recipient with some measure of pain was always the result, it wasn’t necessarily the main goal. This form of assault, when committed by a pimp on a prostitute, was mainly for effect. It was a display of dominance, both to the recipient and any observers. A pimp had to have it known at all times that he was in charge of his shit. No confusion. The slap was best delivered at a slightly downward angle, from a height with the palm about eye level. It was ideally given from a position with the arm bent close to ninety degrees and extended directly to the side. A quick, stinging bitch slap made just the right sound to get one’s point across. If a whore could hear the noise of her flesh being battered, she tended to take the reprimand more seriously. It wasn’t required, or always possible, that she be knocked to the ground; considering differences in size and strength, however, putting a woman on the floor was like a bonus. When other stablemates, or “wives-in-law,” were witnesses to such discipline, they usually took heed. A talented pimp knew how to say the words “You could be next,” without ever opening his mouth. It was about style and finesse.

  Physical discipline could be given for various reasons. A prostitute whose money was short could be a good candidate. If she brought her man less than what was expected of her, she was not on her job. Selling ass was no half-ass form of work. Another offense that could get a girl bitch-slapped was excess lip. No self-respecting pimp would abide a sassy-ass woman who didn’t know when to shut the fuck up. Then there was theft. A woman who stole money from her pimp committed the ultimate betrayal. After all, he took care of her, provided her with a bed to sleep in and pretty clothes to wear. Smart pimps, like any good businessmen, would reward them for their performance now and then, too. All the girls had to do was look good, which was what most women tried to do anyway, and know how to spread their legs. They could ask for money when they needed it. “Daddy” was the pimp’s title for more reasons than one. By the same token, a bitch knew when a nigger was inexperienced. A nigger who couldn’t slap properly was better off giving icy stares and menacing glances to keep his women in line. Otherwise, he might be tested more frequently than was appropriate for any respectable pimp. Even a loud and brash talker could convincingly suggest what fury he was capable of demonstrating if his bitch didn’t know how to act. But the worst thing he could ever allow was for a prostitute to begin treating him like
one of her tricks. That could happen subtly enough that he’d be taken without even realizing it, if he wasn’t careful.

  Donnie would have none of that, of course. He entered the pimping profession with serious intent. To hell with a job. He had always been best suited for self-employment, anyway. So why not make a living on his own terms? The odds seemed as good as any. Where he had suffered for his complexion as a boy, high yellow was more fashionable now. With the increasing knowledge that women found him attractive, his confidence that he could do what other woman-handlers in the city had done for years and years only grew. He had a charm about him, and at five feet eight, with a medium build, he was easy on the eyes. Where he was once self-conscious about his physical appearance, now he used it to his advantage. He developed his rap, that special knack for telling the sisters what they wanted to hear. If a brother had the look but could do nothing but stumble over his own tongue, he wasn’t about to make much of a lasting impression. And if he were shy, there would be little reason for a woman to think he was worth choosing as a pimp daddy. An air of confidence was as vital as air for inhalation. Donnie had golden brownish hair and eyes that most ladies found exotically attractive. They appeared to change color with his moods: a mellow blue when he was happy, greenish when he became excited, and a fiery brown with hints of gold when he was enraged. Through them he watched vulnerable prey and began to scope out recruits for his fledgling stable. Donnie became a master at picking up and handling women. They loved him and flocked to him like sheep being herded.

  Before long, he was able to bring them under his control, ruling with an iron hand. He was reminded of the Korean prostitutes he’d enjoyed as a teenager. They had been young, tender to the touch, and eager to please. He got a bit of his money together and began to dress the part. He planned to outdo Goldfinger, Silky Slim, and other better-known Detroit pimps who came before him. Preferring suit colors like aqua and sky blue, Donnie began to gain a profile. And since like hustlers thought with like minds, it wasn’t surprising when he began running around with a few fellow outlaws. True partners in crime, like Walter, for example. Donnie and Walter went way back, having lived as roommates on a few different occasions. Like Donnie, Walter had served in Korea, though he was a few years older and had gone to the army before his friend enlisted in the air force. Later on, Walter and Donnie shared an apartment over a bakery on Dexter Avenue. Walter had worked for Dodge, but he took to hustling because he figured it would pay greater dividends. Yet, during their dry spells the two men found themselves with hunger and no way of feeding it. The pair would go downstairs and show all the charm and manners their parents taught them, in order to talk the store’s employees out of occasional free cakes and pastries. Although they were all for one and one for all at times like these, if his wallet was full, Walter had to be watchful around his buddy, or it might come up missing. He knew Donnie had a “jones,” as habits were called in those days; Walter just didn’t want to get in the routine of financing it. At one point, they took on weed-selling as a means of profit. Visitors would stop by their place asking for one or the other, hoping to make a buy. Walter had created his own special system for stocking packets of marijuana. He removed from their narrow, open slots the wooden sticks that served as handles for window shades. Then he carefully folded the weed and stuffed as much of it as he could fit from one end of the shades to the other. It was a crafty way of hiding evidence if the apartment was ever raided. But the whores came along and made it an entirely different game.

  As their ventures began generating income, Donnie and his partners would make a grand show of shopping downtown for expensive shoes and designer clothing. One day when they were out on one of their excursions near the Fox Theatre, during the era when it held the wildly popular “Motortown Revue” performances, a few of them nearly stopped traffic out on busy Woodward Avenue. They had been mistaken for the Temptations. With cash, a stable of bitches, and attention from admiring strangers, who needed a job? Hell, Joe had slaved in a cleaning plant in order to afford everything he bought the family. As Donnie shuffled between dope dens, whorehouses, and other places of ill repute, however, it seemed to matter little to him, if at all, that, by contrast, he had become nothing more than a common criminal.

  Bumper tag became the sport of choice. Late at night, Donnie and his buddies would fly their vehicles full-speed down Detroit freeways, metal-tapping the rear of each other’s stylish rides, often with girls standing, dangerously, through the open roofs. In many ways Donnie’s rebellious years symbolized the prime of his life. The 1950s and ’60s were not a good time for black men in America, if ever there was such a thing, yet he was taking destiny into his own hands with complete fearlessness and reckless abandon. “Turning out” women, as the process of recruiting them into the life of prostitution was called, became a meal ticket.

  Not even fatherhood could distract him from his work and mission. Alfonso, Donnie’s first American-born seed, had been conceived with a woman named Virginia Chambers. Donnie lived with her in the Hamtramck area for a time, right next to a funeral casket company. But the domestic setup didn’t particularly suit him. He moved on. Thelma Howard gave birth to Anthony, little Donald, and Christopher between 1960 and 1965. Still, Donnie was ill-prepared and ill-equipped to be anybody’s parent. He confessed to Joanie and Marie that he had, in fact, left a child over in Asia. That boy or girl would be forever disconnected, for better or worse, from his legacy, they all presumed. If Donnie knew it, he never even shared the baby’s name.

  Donnie had genuinely achieved status in his family as the black sheep with a fair complexion. He became something they saw as truly outrageous. Myrtle didn’t know what to do with her boy. Joanie found him embarrassing at times. Marie had witnessed his pimp antics once when she was at home and never would forget it. She peered down the street after hearing a commotion, and there Donnie stood, out on a corner in the middle of the day. He was loudly cursing and chastising a young prostitute as the girl listened timidly, cowering in his presence.

  “What are you doing?” Marie yelled at her brother as she rushed outside and up the block. “Don’t you talk to her like that!”

  Suddenly the prostitute’s demeanor changed to one of aggression.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the girl yelled at Marie. “You better get out my man’s face!”

  In an instant, the prostitute was on the ground, the victim of a skillfully placed bitch slap. Donnie had struck her for speaking disrespectfully to his sister, the same sister who was scolding him for mistreating women. Joe was typically stoic and detached about the way his son carried on, except for one occasion when one of Donnie’s less attractive stable members dared to show up at the Goineses’ front door. Large and dark brown, she was the antithesis of what the old man considered attractive. “Booga Bear” might have been the term used by less-sensitive folks who described her physically. But Booga Bears needed love, too, so Donnie put her to work like the rest. The woman was unlucky enough to have Joe as her greeter when she stopped by the house in search of Donnie on that particular day. She might have found him if Joe had not taken one look at her, slammed the door, and walked away.

  Business had remained good for Joe Goines. Now well into his sixties, he had enjoyed the fruits of his labor and dedication. Dry cleaning had proved itself a worthy venture. He and Myrtle had been able to provide well for two children and would see that Joanie be given all she required until she left home. It was only a matter of time, after all, before she would marry and begin her own family. Joan and both her older siblings could truly say they had never wanted for anything material. For them to have had a need that went unmet could have only meant there had not truly been a need. In those later years, Joe began to find his own special ways to unwind at home. He had become a fan of Ray Charles, the blind pianist who was helping to develop rhythm and blues with his soulful performing and broad, expressive vocal and instrumental range. It was odd that Joe would take to the sounds of a performer who was l
aying the groundwork for rock and roll, but it turned out to be a musical release of sorts. Every so often, Joe would put on his ceremonial feathers and headdress. He called himself the “big chief.” As he enjoyed the pride of such moments, he would turn on the stereo, and Charles would sing “Hit the Road, Jack,” his playful and infectious hit about a contentious relationship. Nothing in the tune appeared to resemble Joe’s life or his marriage to Myrtle. It might have been his strange, sacred way of communicating with his Native American ancestors. Or it might have been the alcohol accompanying the music. Either way, he was left alone. It was Joe’s time to spend in whatever way that he chose to enjoy it. When time came to open the store and go back behind the counter at work, just like the sunrise, he was there. Donnie’s work, on the other hand, generally started after dark. He worked the streets diligently, establishing revenue sources wherever he could.

  Having returned home with Marie and her clan, while his mom’s new husband continued a military bid, young Charles Joseph Glover frequently found himself in his uncle Donnie’s company, and on the receiving end of unsolicited tutoring. Donnie wanted to school his nephew in the ways of the world so he wouldn’t grow up to be a square. As it was, nobody in the neighborhood bothered Charles or any of the family members, out of respect for the man who they felt would repay any evil in kind. Still, Donnie wanted to prevent the kid from becoming soft. And left up to Marie, Donnie figured, the result was inevitable. So on one occasion, he and a partner decided to take Charles on a little field trip to a whorehouse on the east side near downtown. After taking him inside and attempting to persuade him into God-knows-what, they recognized that the boy was nowhere near capable of withstanding such pressure. Charles bolted, frightened, and got away from there. He could hardly wait to tell on Donnie when he saw his mother. But the price of his nervousness would be paid for some time to come. Childishly, they nicknamed him “Faggot Joey.” After all, he had literally run away from pussy—and grown-woman pussy, at that. It was unheard of, and terribly laughable, in the pimping game.