And so it began. On the quad, news traveled faster than sound or light, crossing barriers between groups. More people approached her.
It surprised Pearl that anyone cared what she wrote or that they wanted to tell her their stories, someone who did not fit in. Things had been a little easier when she had been ignored and could listen to the women talk. That all changed when Lainie asked to read what Pearl had written. She was curious about what it was like to be a prostitute, or a fugitive, or a murder, or a thief. She couldn’t exactly walk up to a stranger on the street and ask for their stories, and she was definitely not going to hang around the police station or Central Booking. Once was enough.
Using curiosity as an excuse to pry into people’s privacy could end in bruises or worse. She liked being alive, even on the quad. It wasn’t too cold most of the time and it was always clean. She helped clean it.
There were doubtless worse places—there always were—and she did not want to see them. It wasn’t too bad on the quad. It was easy to see how someone could get used to life in jail and how they ended up coming back; however, she was not one of those people.
Writing, especially writing about people, did give her something to do, and it was something she enjoyed. She didn’t realize how much she had missed it. Except for that one time in Florida, she had not written anything worthwhile, and nothing personal. Writing now was a way to fill the time and keep a hold on her sanity. It was becoming so much more. Someone had to write it all down and save these stories. Someone had to take the time.
Books had been her only window on the world, not that she had been sheltered since she left home. There was the one guy in Florida who asked her to write his story, the guy who claimed to work for the Mafia. That ended badly. It had been her one brush with danger, outside of the usual problems of living in a big city. How she got out of that one was a mystery. Someone had been looking out for her the night she found him.
Living in fear and looking over her shoulder was not her idea of a good time. She should have called the police, but someone already had; she passed them on the road after leaving Lorenzo lying in a pool of his own blood. She intended to call her boss at the Ft. Lauderdale police department when she got home. As soon as she heard the wail of sirens in the distance, it was obvious she had been set up. No one would believe she had found him dead, so she got in her car and left, determined to talk to the police chief in the morning. He would not have jurisdiction in Lauderdale Lakes, but he would know what to do.
Now why did I suddenly think of that? Could that be how the madam got her name and information to set her up in New Orleans? Was J.D. involved with the people Lorenzo had feared? Pearl shook herself.
Her imagination was getting the better of her. That was months before J.D. showed up and the papers said the police caught the killer. No one ever knew she had been there.
Lorenzo had always been so careful about meeting in neutral public places, like the library or the bar where they met. They met in the park and at the little mystery bookshop a few blocks from the boarding house where she lived, always public, always visible, and Lorenzo always sat facing the door or with his back to the wall when there was more than one door. He reminded her of Wild Bill Hickok, except Lorenzo didn’t play poker with her. So why had he left a message to meet at his apartment?
After weeks of taking notes and using the typewriter at the library to transcribe it all, she had let down her guard and began to trust him. It never occurred to her that what he told her carried even one grain of truth. It was a job, one she enjoyed, and it added money to her savings account. After that night, she was not so sure any more. Gooseflesh raced along her arms and down the back of her neck.
Gram, the goose just walked across my grave again.
“Can we start now?”
“Sorry?”
Elke handed Pearl a sheaf of yellow paper. “Do you need a pen?”
“No, this will be enough.” Pearl shook herself free of the past and followed Elke. The grooming and gossiping girls on the stairs made room for them to sit down. “Here?” she asked. “It’s not very private.”
“Yes. They all know,” said Elke.
The women all talked at once, scrambling around them on the stairs. Some offered to brush or braid Pearl’s hair and others offered food. “No, thank you,” Pearl said. Someone stroked her hair. Pearl reached back and stopped the hand. Several women chattered at her, urging Elke to begin and breaking in with remembered details. Elke obviously had told parts of her story before. Pearl held up a hand. “Please, one at a time.” They settled down.
“I was with Franco the night the police come. I was so scared, not knowing what to do. Franco say trust him. I was not sure I should trust him, but I shake it off. It was a mistake.”
“How did you meet him, Elke?”
“He was a friend of my roommate. She put us together.”
Pearl listened.
“You write this down now? Do I speak too fast?”
“Not at all. You speak very good English.” Elke smiled. “You talk and I’ll write it all down later. Right now, I just want to listen.”
Elke nodded. “All right. This morning they tell me I go back to Germany tomorrow. I do not have time. When they take me back, I will not be allowed in America for a long time. I do not want to go. They do not give me choice.”
Elke would not be allowed to return for seven years—if at all. She had outstayed her visa.
“I wanted so much to stay here, to live in New Orleans. I wanted to get a regular job and find a rich husband. It would be easy. I wanted so much.”
“Don’t we all,” some of the women chorused. “It ain’t that easy, no, and that’s for true.”
“No, not easy. No one hire me without ID. I cannot get ID because I am not a citizen. It was easier before my visa was no good. I find little jobs, but could not make much money, so I find other ways to make money. My roommate tell me how.”
As they talked, some of the girls admitted to doing drugs, snorting cocaine when it was offered and smoking pot. A couple of the women sold pot. “We don’t sell the hard stuff,” they said.” A few of them had scarred tracks in their arms like Lainie. “Ain’t smart to be doing drugs when you’re a working girl, no.”
“That for true.” A dark-haired girl with startling aquamarine eyes leaned forward. “Most got babies to feed.”
“It was same for me. Work long hours for little money. I could not pay my share of rent and my roommate, Linda, tell me pay or get out. I have no place to go.”
“That when they gets ya, boo. They gets ya ever time,” said someone behind Pearl.
They were ordinary women doing what came naturally. Some had worked in offices and had skills and some worked on the oil rigs until jobs got scarce. “Can’t live on what most jobs pay,” the dark-haired girl said. “I got used to making two, three thousand a month. Minimum wage don't cut it. I got expensive tastes.”
Elke brushed the hair away from her mouth. She looked directly into Pearl’s eyes with tear-filled eyes. “I wanted to stay so much, so I do what Linda say.”
“What did Franco say about that?” Pearl asked. Elke’s hand shook. Pearl reached out and took it in hers. The German girl’s hand trembled. She started to pull back. Pearl let go and put her hand on her knees.
“I’m sorry. I do not wish to hurt your feelings.”
“You didn’t, Elke.” Pearl patted her shoulder. Elke took Pearl’s hand and kissed it lightly and then linked her fingers with Pearl’s.
“I did not know what to do. I have no one to ask.”
“Is that how it started?”
Elke nodded. “Linda say it would be only for a little while. I could earn money to hire a lawyer and be legal. I would not have been in trouble if Duncan had not hurt me.”
“Who was Duncan?”
“Chef at Jax Brewery. He promise to marry me and we live together.”
“I thought you were with Franco.”
“No. Duncan is before Franco.
“I meet Duncan at a party at Jax Brewery. I was with another man I meet at work and Duncan came out to talk with the people wearing his big white hat. When the other man go to the restroom, Duncan comes over and talks to me. I liked him. He asks for my number and calls me that night. That is how it begins.
“When I met his daughter, his daughter did not like me because I am not American. Told Duncan I would use him and take everything him . . . to the cleaners.” Elke squeezed Pearl’s hand. “It was not true. I loved Duncan. He did not love me.
“He say so one night after a big party for that karate guy in the movies.”
“Chuck Norris,” the brunette said.
“Yes, the hairy one with blond hair. He asked me to dance while Duncan danced with his daughter, so I did. Duncan got angry. He tried to punch . . .”
“Chuck”
“Yes, Chuck. He missed. He hit me,” Elke touched her cheek, “here.” Tears glittered on her cheeks. She sniffed. “He did not say he was sorry. He grab my arm and we left. When we got back to the house, he told me ‘get out’ and took back his ring. That is when it all started. That is when I did what Linda say and went on dates, lots of dates. And then I met Franco and . . . .”
“Take your time, Elke. I’m listening.”
Twenty-Two: ELKE
She was running out of options if she wanted to become an American citizen. Elke’s visa had expired and there was no one to take care of her since Duncan threw her out. Linda’s suggestion was all she had, and it was not much of a suggestion.
“Duncan,” she sighed.
There were times she still missed his warm yeasty smell. She did not miss his temper. He might have looked like Richard Pryor, but he was mean as a snake and not so funny.
Duncan had introduced her to good wines and food—and sex—and she liked it all: expensive clothes, the best restaurants, concerts, private parties, shoes and lots of jewelry. He had taught her food could be as exciting as sex, or make sex better, more intense. Food and sex was an unbeatable combination.
Elke did not want to end up in jail: bad food, too many women and too much brutality. Her passport would give her away, so she could not use that for identification, leaving only a couple of places that would hire her and pay her cash every day. She could either stand outside one of the bars or the showrooms and fan the door and talk people inside or she could turn tricks. Most of the bars and showrooms hired men. A woman was not supposedly savvy enough or loud enough to entice customers inside. Men did not want to see her dressed. They wanted to see her take her clothes off, and even on Bourbon Street that was illegal, at least in the middle of the street. Elke was not a good dancer, and was not going to strip for men to watch. They would not hire her anyway, no ID. Prostitution was different: one man at a time, no audience and no ID.
There were people who would help her get back to Germany; she did not want to go back. There were no jobs and no one she cared about there. America was the land of opportunity, if she made her own opportunities. She had wits and was pretty. It would be enough
The girls on the street in or near the French Quarter, where most of the action happened, were brassy and brash and had no class. Whores wore garish costumes with hems up to their crotches and necklines that plunged so low they were practically naked, tottering around on six-inch heels over the worn cobblestones or dancing in the bars.
Her clothes were stylish and well made and her heels, although not so high, were high enough to take advantage of her long and shapely legs. Good thing she had a fondness for sexy lingerie. That would be an asset. Considering how many men she had woken up next to after a few too many cocktails, how hard could prostitution be? If she earned enough money, she would be able to find a rich American husband and her troubles would be over.
Smarmy middle class businessmen in rumpled suits wandered drunk around the French Quarter. They had lots of money and still expected Elke to be generous with her time and her talents; she did not do free. Men on vacation who slipped away from their wives on the pretext of seeing a boat or gun show were the best clients. In and out with little fuss, when they could perform after a too many daiquiris or Hurricanes, and they usually left a generous tip. Quick and easy money.
She made friends with some of the local girls. They watched her back and she watched theirs. They were an impromptu union of career girls with similar interests and varied tastes. Elke learned which types to avoid and which policemen could be trusted for a quick tussle in bed or a blow job once or twice a week. Keep the boys in blue happy, and the boys in blue would leave her alone.
Linda, her roommate, talked Elke into dancing in a bar where they did not check IDs. Elke was nervous at first and did not think she was good, but the men gave her money. That was good. No time was lost getting a room, taking care of business and getting back to hook up again. It did not take long to get over her embarrassment, but she never got over the feeling of being dirty. That is what happened when men pawed and stuffed wrinkled and dirty dollar bills down her crotch or cleavage. She had to save enough money to get married and become an American citizen. As good as the money was, she preferred the street to the bar, and neither was as good as catering to a select list of high rollers with simple tastes.
Wardrobe and jewelry were essential. Some of the best antique and jewelry stores were close to her corner, the happy hunting grounds. With a room in a five star hotel, she would be in business with the carriage trade. She traded sex for jewelry and managed to gather a few wealthy regulars. Some men took her to fancy restaurants, the opera and exclusive concerts, only the best, but there were not many of those. She kept her eyes open and her mouth shut. Business first. So she paid her dues and worked as many hours as she could stand—or kneel, or bend over or lie down.
After a while, one of Elke’s favorite clients was a baby-faced officer with white blond hair and a sweet smile. The rest of him was not bad either. He made her fingers tingle, a sure sign that she was aroused.
Franco was tall, over six feet, and his hands were callused in all the right places. He took his time, and she didn’t mind how much time he took. Elke began to feel the stirrings of stronger emotions. She had been warned not to mix business and pleasure, but she ignored Linda’s advice. Franco got special treatment. She had been warned that Franco could get ugly; since he never got ugly with her or asked for anything too kinky, she did not listen. “He is so good to me,” she told Linda. “So gentle and kind. A good lover. He takes care of me first.”
“Keep on your toes, Elke.” She pointed to a scar on the inside of her thigh. “He did that. Be nice to him, but not too nice, and, if he gets angry, get out fast.”
Elke nodded, but her mind was on other things: Franco. Linda shook her head. “That’s how I felt when he first showed up. Don’t fall for him, Elke. He’s no good.” Linda hoped her friend would get off as lightly as she had, with only a small scar.
When Franco was off duty, Elke spent all her time with him. It was the only time she refused clients.
One night Franco called. “I have to work a double, cher, but I’ll be off on the weekend.”
“I will cancel my appointments. When will I see you?”
“Saturday morning. We’ll have a fine time. A real fine time. I promise.”
“Call me when you finish?”
“No, I’ll come by. Don’t wait up, cher.”
One of Elke’s regulars was in town and she had told him she was unavailable. One quick call and he was at her door thirty minutes later. Fifteen minutes later, Elke was on her knees in the center of the bed, black satin sheets rumpled and damp. Behind her, Paul from Dubuque sweated and strained while he alternated between pinching her nipples and slapping her backside. “Oh, baby, you’re so hot and tight. I could do you all night long.”
“Mmm,” Elke murmured, “I cannot wait.”
The door burst open. Franco stood framed in the doorway it. His scalp beneath the white blonde hair was blood red, his face a twisted mask of fury. �
�You’re under arrest.”
The customer fell off the bed into an ungainly heap of moist, hairy white flesh. Elke froze. Franco poked the gun in her face and kicked the guy in the backside. “Get out of here, buddy, or you go down to Central with this whore.”
Franco picked up the customer’s shirt and threw it at him.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, officer.” Paul hopped around on one foot while trying to zip his pants. His shirttail stuck out from the top of the zipper.
“I said move.” Franco raised the gun. “Five. Four.”
Paul picked up his shoes and tumbled through the door and onto the hallway carpet.
“Three.”
Paul got up, fumbled his shoes and left them where they dropped. Then he ran.
Franco slammed the door shut.
Thump-thump-thud sounded from the hall. The downstairs door slammed a moment later.
Elke’s heart thundered in her ears. She did not dare to move. Franco disappeared into the bathroom. Water gushed from the faucet and the pipes rattled and groaned. Elke held her breath and closed her eyes. A scalding hot washcloth landed on her backside. She stifled a yelp and kept still.
“Clean yourself up.”
Like a deer at the edge of a clearing, she waited for a moment, unsure whether to run or stay. She reached for the cloth, muscles tensed in case she had to bolt, eyes swiveling toward the door. Franco drummed his fingers on his holster. She dropped to the bed in slow motion, freezing every time her lover moved. When he did not move toward her, she swung her legs to the floor, stood and sidled along toward the bathroom.
“No! Do it here.” Taking jeans and a silk shirt from the bureau, he tossed them on the bed. “Hurry up. You’ve got a date down to Central.”
Turning away, Elke wiped herself. Tears bathed her face and she resisted the urge to wipe them away. She finished and folded the washrag, laying it on the chair next to the bed. Shoulders hunched, she turned her back on Franco, slipped on the shirt and buttoned it.
“Why so modest? Where was your modesty when that pig was riding you?”
Among Women Page 19
