Airtight Willie & Me
Read Airtight Willie & Me Online
Authors: Iceberg Slim
Chapter 1: Airtight Willie & Me
Chapter 2: To Steal a Superfox
This volume is dedicated to time.
It gives us memories, fine wine, and wrinkles.
But the only thing worse than getting old is not getting old.
So here's to time, dear reader, yours and mine.
May you have many more wrinkles, a lot of fine wine,
and memories to last two lifetimes.
B
ack in the days when bad girls humped good bread into my pockets, con man, Airtight Willie and pimp . . . me . . . lay in a double bunk cell on a tier in Chicago Cook's County Jail. I was having one bitch kitty of a time tuning out the interracial sewer-mouth shucking and jiving and playing the “dozens” from cell to cell on our tier.
“Lee, your mama is a freakish bitch that hasta crap in a ditch 'cause she humped a railroad switch.”
“Hal, your raw-ass mammy had bad luck. That drunk bitch got platoon-raped in an army truck.”
Airtight Willie leapt off his bunk screeching and made it a “dozens” roundelay. “Dummy up, you square-ass punks. Both you muthafuckahs got mamas so loose and wide they gotta play the zoo to cop elephant woo.”
I was winding up a stone and a day. I would hit those cold-blooded streets four brights (mornings); hence, whoreless! I mean, I was desperately trying (in the flare of matches they lit across the courtyard) to monitor the shuck and jive of the whores and jaspers (pimpese for lesbians) as they ate each other out and banged their pygmy cocks together.
I figured by culling the bullshit coming from across the way, I might pick up a dropped name and a line on at least one three-way money tree. Maybe she'd be winding up a bit. Maybe some joker had
blown one. Maybe I could fly one a couple of my magnetized copping kites (high-voltage letters) when I hit the bricks and steal a HO!
Slippery Airtight Willie, on the bunk above me, had slid into mind reading sure as he was rotten.
I saw his mongoose face peek down at me as he said in his molasses drawl, “Slim, I ain't complimented nobody no time before. But I gotta say you ain't nothing but a foxy dude to stop playing for skunk bitches like them over there and deciding to play the con with me in them streets.”
I said sleepily, “Yeah, Willie . . . A ho ain't worth a thimble of poo-poo.”
Willie, needing a partner to play the con, had given me a six-weeks crash course in how to stop and qualify (any money to play for? . . . ever been flimflammed before?) a mark, put him on the send (he goes to get his money), and how to rip him off with cross-fire dialogue between us.
I sure needed to play Willie's game. At least until I got the bread to lay down on a far-out ride (maybe a vintage Rolls, fur trimmed), B.R. (flash cash), and threads to dazzle and lure whores to within stealing or “turn-out” copping range.
A match flared in a cell across the way illuminating two broads sixty-nining while a third broad, wearing a crude dildo fashioned from a toilet brush, humped dog-fashion behind one.
An excited chump, on the tier above us, apparently was baring his stiff problem to the trio. He screamed through the open windows into the unusually warm January night. “You long-cunt bitches, gander this big, black pretty I'm holding and eat your freakish hearts out!”
A shrill-voiced broad lopped off his fake balls. “Dave Jones, this is Cora Brown. You old snaggletoothed fag. You know I know that thing you flashing wasn't nothing in them streets but a handle for dudes to flip you over with.”
I thought about some of the harrowing disadvantages in playing
con. A felony bust if caught. A morgue slab if a cutthroat mark woke up before he was “blowed off.” And most unpleasant of all was the epidemic scuttlebutt that grifters often got bone tired and foot sore searching for a qualifiable mark.
Willie validated his moniker and soft shoed onto my wavelength again. He crooned, “Slim, I got a lot of confidence in you. I'm gonna angle my ass off as soon as I get in the wind this morning scoring for transportation and other nit shit we gonna need. Howzit sound, pal-of-mine?”
I barely heard him because I was trying to pluck out from the din across the way a line on a café-au-lait fox. She was fingering into the crimson slash in her jet brush to drool the voyeur chumps upstairs. She was boasting how she'd cut her old man loose during visiting hours that very day.
I said, “It sounds sweet, Willie . . . And sweeter is when we start taking off those big stings! . . .”
As I fell asleep, I heard young joker hollering he was a helluva pimp.
The ball-lopper across the way shrilled, “Joe Thomas, bullshit everybody but Cora Brown. I heard you ate everything except the nails in Little Bit's shoes all night last summer. At the time, she told me, she was holding enough bread to burn up a herd of wet cattle. She gave you a buck for grits and greens. No playing, chump! Dummy up!”
The icy morning of my release, my teeth chattered in the sleazy thin benny belonging to some slight-of-hand bastard in property. He had switched me out of my stable-trimmed, leather-whore catcher. I was a hundred yards down California Avenue when the sudden blast of a horn behind me almost tinkled me. I got in the snow-dappled heap. Willie grinned and passed me a half-full, half-pint of gin.
He said, “Kill it.” Then he looked me up and down. A moment later, he said, “We gotta go and score for decent bennys and bread to make up a playing boodle.”
He briefed me how on the way to a medium-size department store on State Street. We went in through different entrances. I dug Willie in position to score. My arm swept perfume bottles off a counter with a great clatter as I collapsed to the stone floor. I performed an attention-grabbing, flop-tongued epileptic seizure that sucked men's wear empty of personnel.
Some compassionate soul rammed a metal glasses case into my mouth. I peeked through the forest of legs at Willie. He had liberated two bennys off hangers and was nonchalantly till tapping (rifling a cash register) men's-wear bread. He blurred through a side door. I recovered, mouthing baroque gratitude. I walked my eyes heavenward. I profusely thanked J.C. and the mob surrounding me (as per Willie's instructions) as I oozed away to the sidewalk.
Our bennys were good fits. But the scratch from the till was too thin to make up a viable boodle. On Clark Street, Willie pulled to the curb and leaped from the car. I got under the wheel.
Willie walked, with head down, toward a florid fatso in ritzy togs, coming down the sidewalk, bent against the hooligan wind. Two feet from the target, Willie spat a gob of spit into the wind and fouled the front of the dude's impeccable benny. I watched Willie rush to him, with jaws flapping apology. He feverishly wiped the dude clean of spittleâand his billfold from the well (inside breast pocket).
As I was driving toward the Southside, Willie stopped arranging a wad of play money to say, “We got five hundred frog skins to make up boodle that will give the suckers blues with a toothache . . . Say, we better blow some of the pressure in our balls into some jazzy fox to loosen up for the marks.”
I said, “Man, I don't dig no bought snatch, and I'm too noble to beg for it.”
He busted out laughing. “Slim, I'm gonna hip you how to bang the choicest pros with no pay, no bed!”
We parked a half hour while he ran down his poontang swindle. In the Seventies on Cottage Grove Avenue, he told me to pull over
and park in front of the Moon Glo Bar. I did, and dug on the vision he had dug. He caressed his tinted fly.
She hustled her Pet-of-the-Year type curves toward us. Her face was copper satin, pure electric, like those ball-blasting Aztec broads on the calendars printed in Spanish.
He opened the car door and said hoarsely, “Ain't no way we can do better than her. Don't forget the cues we rehearsed, and remember, you're stone-deaf and dumb. You're a champ chump from the Big Foot Country (Deep South), and you're creaming to get laid.”
I enjoyed an interior smirk. Remember? A few con items? Willie, the rectum, was apparently unhip I had memorized an arsenal of howitzer motivators I'd kept on instant alert inside my skull. I'd barraged them daily for three years to persuade a ten ho stable to hump my pockets obese.
Willie suddenly hammered his fist down on my hat crown. I glanced into the rearview mirror. My lid was telescoped into a pork-pie, cocked stupidly on the side of my long head.
He said, “Now you look the part, pardner.”
He sprang to the sidewalk, whipping off his hat. His face was booby-trapped with pearly con as he rapped his opener. She darted a glance in my direction. He had cracked comedic shit on her to set me up as flim-flamee and her as fuckee. She giggled her epic ass off.
She scooted across the seat close to me as Willie boxed her in and shut the car door. I yo-yoed my Adams Apple as I imagined a mute bumpkin would, if pressed against her pulse-sprinting heat.
Willie said, “Sharlene Hill, this is Amos . . . Did you say yur last name was Johnson, buddy?”
I nodded and wiped my brow with the back of my hand.
She giggled and said, “Hi, Bootie, Cootie.”
Willie leaned across her and said, “She boss cute enough for that hundred dollars you want to spend?”
Slack jawed, I nodded vigorously. Then I frowned and got pencil
and pad, rubber banded to the sun visor. She watched me laboriously scribble, “You go first” and pass the message to Willie.
He chuckled and said, “Amos, we don't have to do it that way. I've known Sharlene since she was a baby. I'm ready to take the oath before the Supreme Court, she ain't got no bad disease like they told you down home most all the fast ladies up here is suppose to have.”
I put my handkerchief across my mouth and turned my head away to cough so he could wink at her and say, “Course, if you just gotta test my confidence in her cleanness, you have to give her two hundred in advance.”
I swept my eyes hungrily over her awesome thighs, exposed by the hiked-up pink suede miniskirt. I nodded furiously. She took my hand and glued it against her throbbing vulva as she rolled her belly.
Willie said, “You gonna pay her from the money in your shoe, or should I pay her from this money I'm safekeeping for you?”
I pointed toward him. He reached into his overcoat pocket and removed a blue bandana-wrapped wad holding five hundred in fifties, tens, and a hundred-dollar bill. She stopped her belly motor. She freed my hand and watched him untie the knots and count out two hundred.
It was my cue to get a severe fit of coughing and spitting. I turned away and stuck my head
out the window.
Willie tied up all the cash again before her eyes. Then he leaned toward her ear, blocking sight of the money for a mini-instant. The index and middle fingers of his right hand shoved the cash down the left sleeve of his overcoat. With magician speed he simultaneously grabbed and palmed the bandana with play money, stashed in the same sleeve.
He pressed the dummy into her hands as he whispered, “Beautiful, let's rip this chump off. Put this whole grand in your bosom right next to your boss lollipops. Meet me right there in the Moon Glo in ten minutes after we cut you loose . . . for the split.”
Her green neons were sparkling excitement when I took my head out of the window. Willie was airtight all right. He wouldn't even spring for the motel fin to rip her with some kind of class.
I drove around the desolate southern perimeter of the city while Willie mule-dicked her and blew off his jail cherry with the exclamation, “Oheeeeee! Slim! I'm gonna nominate her box for the hall of fame!”
But there was something about the cloying stink of their juice stew and the sloppy, kissy sound his slab meat made withdrawing that turned me off.