Red Light Wives (2 page)

“Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, tramp,” the woman yelled with a husky voice. Her companion, as pregnant as I was, and looking like she wanted to cuss out the world, handed her friend her purse and waddled in my direction. Her huge belly rode high on her body.
She's carrying a girl
, I thought. Baby girls rode high in the belly, baby boys rode low. The old folks I knew had been telling me that for years. I was carrying a boy, but I was going by what my sonogram had revealed, not what old Reverend Dixon's grandmother had told me at church a few weeks ago.

“So, bitch, we finally meet!” the pregnant woman yelled, standing in front of me with her thick, ashy brown hands on her hips. An ugly red rash covered half of her face and both of her hands. She looked like a spotted piñata. People going in and coming out of the store slowed down to watch. I recognized a couple from my neighborhood, and a nosy woman from the church I used to attend. The woman addressing me didn't seem to care about the attention she was attracting. “You done fucked up, you skanky whore!”

It was the middle of April. In Barberton, Mississippi, our sleepy, dusty little town near the Delta, that meant the weather was warm enough for females to be prancing around in shorts. And wearing shorts was something most of the women I knew didn't think twice about doing, no matter how ridiculous they looked. The woman standing in front of me couldn't have looked any worse if she'd tried. Neither could her companion. Each had on cheap, ugly, well-worn shoes and flowered shorts, revealing hairy brown legs that looked like logs. The one who was not pregnant had the nerve to have on a silver ankle bracelet. It was wrapped so tight around her stout ankle it looked like a tattoo. The pregnant one had on a sleeveless, faded plaid maternity top that would have slid off her body if she hadn't had so many safety pins holding it together. There was a white scarf—no, a diaper—wrapped around her head. A diaper! And it didn't even cover all of her frayed cornrows. Both of these sisters were screaming for a makeover.

Even with all of the confusion going on, I was still smiling. I held up my hand and took a few steps back. On top of everything else, I could feel sweat forming in my crotch. It rolled down my thighs, making me feel like I was peeing on myself. “Look, ladies, I don't know either one of you sisters, and y'all don't know me, so I advise both of y'all to get the hell out of my face,” I said. My smile finally disappeared. A small, excited crowd, with amused and anxious looks on their faces had gathered a few cars over.

“You just a low-down, sleazy Black bitch!” the pregnant woman's companion screeched at me. “Goin' around fuckin' other folk's man.” Each time she opened her mouth to speak, a huge silver stud clamped in the center of her tongue bobbed up and down.

“I…what did you say?” Larry Holmes was the
only
man I had been with lately. “Are you talkin' about Larry…Holmes?” Instead of answering me, Mrs. Holmes sucker-punched me in my stomach. I stumbled, then fell to my knees. My head slapped the side of my car. I didn't see stars, but I blacked out for a split second. Before I stood back up and opened my eyes, I saw colors that I didn't know existed.

One of the few things that my busy daddy had taken the time to teach me was not to take anybody's mess. “Lula Mae, if you goin' to go down anyway, go down fightin'.” Daddy had told me that more times than I could count.

Something told me that I wasn't going to get out of this parking lot until I duked it out with this beastly woman, so I dropped my purse and sucked in my breath. There was a foul taste in my mouth. I could feel the sour bile rising in my throat. I was not at that time, nor have I ever been a big woman. Even almost nine months pregnant, I weighed only a hundred and thirty pounds. The woman who had jumped me was about my size, maybe half a size larger. With the same hand that I had jacked off Larry with in the shower, I socked the side of my attacker's face as hard as I could, knocking her to the ground. The palm of my hand stung like I'd been scalded. It was just like that scene in
The Color Purple
when Oprah knocked out the mayor with one punch.

Popping up like a weed, my attacker brushed off her clothes and told me, “I'm goin' to put somethin' on you a doctor can't take off.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that the number of drooling spectators had doubled. I heard a few disembodied voices comment about some “dude's wife” and “his whore” having a showdown.

Then a heavy fist landed along the side of my face, making me see stars for sure. Since my hand was already in a fist, I did what I had to do. Larry's wife seemed surprised when I punched her in the nose. Blood squirted, her eyes widened, and she started kicking at my legs. Within seconds, my calves and ankles felt like they'd been run through a wringer. Just as both women tried to pin my arms behind me, a hefty security guard came running out of nowhere and pulled us apart.

I was too angry to feel any more pain. Even with all that was going on, I realized the truth. But I still needed to hear it. And I heard it loud and clear. “This bitch has been fuckin' my man!” the pregnant woman hollered, spit flying out of her mouth like fireworks.

“Look, I didn't know the man was married,” I managed, my fist still balled and ready to strike again. “If you knew about him and me, his ass is the one you need to be kickin,” I snarled. I think I was more upset with Larry than I was with his wife because for the first time I realized what a pig in a poke he really was.

“Oh, don't you worry none about my husband, bitch. His butt is mine. You better worry about yourself and that bastard you carryin'!” Mrs. Holmes yelled. She rubbed the spot on her face where I had hit her.

The way my baby was kicking, it seemed like he had joined the fight. But I was not interested in continuing something I'd already lost. All I wanted to do was get home, compose myself, and maybe pay an emergency visit to Dr. White's office to make sure my son was still okay. But every time I tried to get in my car, both of the women blocked my way, still cussing at me and trying to hit me in my stomach again.

The security guard was practically useless. He got scratched, punched, knocked down, and kicked by all three of us. The crowd roared with laughter. Some instigating teenagers chanted, “fight, fight, fight.” Then, while Mrs. Holmes and her ferocious friend stood there entertaining the crowd, cussing and calling me out of my name, a beefy-faced policeman showed up to sort out the mess.

To add insult to injury, Larry's vicious wife attempted to have
me
arrested for assault! But the nosy sister from the church I used to attend was the first of several people to speak up in my defense. They told the sweaty cop who had really started the fight.

“Ma'am, do you want to press charges?” the cop asked me, wiping sweat off his face with his cap. The battered and bruised security guard was peeping from behind the cop.

For a moment I considered this option. I would have been getting back at Larry's wife and Larry, but after thinking about it for a minute, I decided it wasn't worth it. I was better off just getting Larry out of my system for good. This was the last straw.

I shook my head, limped back to my car, and drove like a bat out of hell. As soon as I got home, I started pacing my living room floor like a tiger, waiting to get my hands on Larry. I called his job; he was “unavailable.” I called his cell phone, he didn't answer. And he didn't call me or come to see me that day, or any other day.

The next time I saw Larry was at the hospital when I gave birth to his son. When he came to see his wife in the room across the hall from mine, he glanced in my room with a blank stare, like I was a stranger. It was hard for me to accept the fact that he was the same man who had told me over and over that he loved me.

Words could not describe the pain I was in. Physically, I felt fine. But my mind felt like it was on fire. I had never been so betrayed and used before in my life. The rage I felt was so severe, every man in that hospital looked like Larry to me. I glared at the husbands of all the other women sharing the room with me. Even old gray-haired Dr. White's presence upset me. I almost bit his head off when he came to see how I was doing.

“Lula, you seem awfully tense,” the kind old man said, backing away from my bed.

“And I'll be this way from now on,” I hissed.

I
'd been on five job interviews in the last week. So far, not a single person had called me back. I could type, but I hadn't passed any of the typing tests, and I didn't know shit about all the new office software. Until I improved my skills, getting a job in an office didn't seem like a possibility.

The restaurants wanted waitresses with experience. And the pocket change that the department stores offered was not enough for me to support a cat, let alone me and three kids.

Interview
was a fancy word for what I was about to do. Thanks to Joe running out on me and the kids, I was about to involve myself with a man who made his money setting up dates for horny men with desperate women like me. At least three hundred dollars a date, I'd been promised. I told myself that nobody I knew would ever know. And I swore that I would only do it until I got on my feet, or until Joe came back.

San Francisco is one of the most exciting and glamorous cities in the world. It is a haven for everyone from the rich and famous to the lost souls who wouldn't fit in anywhere else. When you grow up the way I did, on welfare in a Section Eight apartment located in a neighborhood that the press calls a war zone, you miss out on a lot of things that this city has to offer.

I was born and raised in San Francisco, but I'd never been to Fisherman's Wharf until today.

I'd been in a few fancy restaurants with Joe, so I knew how to behave. I had on my most expensive-looking outfit. I'd spent an hour putting on my makeup and fixing my hair. And the way the waiters and male patrons in the restaurant were smiling and blinking at me, I knew I was looking good. What man wouldn't want to pay me a few hundred dollars for a date?

“You must be Rockelle.” The voice didn't fit the man. I turned around, expecting to see some slick-haired brother with a mouth full of gold teeth, a neck draped with gold chains, and a ring hanging off the side of his nose. He was older than I'd expected. On the telephone he'd sounded like a man in his late twenties. With the deep lines crisscrossing his high forehead and the crinkles around his small black eyes, he had to be at least forty. He was tall and trim. His thick short hair was coal-black, but I knew a dye job when I saw one. Even though he was smiling, there was a sad, tortured look about him. He was good-looking, but not what I would call handsome. I would not have noticed him in a crowd. In his expensive-looking black suit and maroon tie, with a smile dividing his caramel colored face, he could have passed for a banker or a funeral director, depending on how you wanted to interpret the situation.

“And you must be Clyde Brooks.” I smiled as he helped me remove my cashmere sweater in the lobby of Alfredo's. I held on to my sweater, draping it across my arm so it wouldn't get wrinkled or soiled. The price tag was still pinned inside, and I planned to return it to Macy's, like I did with all of the new clothes I bought lately. That scam, one I'd learned when I lived in the projects, made it possible for me to look like I belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine.

“I got us a booth so we could have some privacy,” he said in a strong voice with a hint of a southern accent. He led me past a few dozen hungry patrons sipping fine wine and munching on fancy Italian food.

“Thank you,” I mumbled, so nervous my voice cracked.

From a huge window I could see the yachts hauling the people who could afford them across the bay as great white birds flapped across the sky. I loved Italian food, but I'd never been inside a restaurant as elegant as Alfredo's, even though my mother had spent many of her years scrubbing and waxing its floors. A sad feeling came over me, and I suddenly wished I was anywhere but where I was. But I knew before I even left my house, that if I made it this far, it would be too late to turn back. Clyde cleared his throat and rubbed his smooth hands together.

“Well now. Let's talk business.” He paused as we slid into a booth in a corner. “My girl Carlene tells me you want to make some money,” he said in a low voice, sitting down across from me.

I hated booths and had always avoided them. The fifty extra pounds, most of it stacked up on my hips and ass, which I had to haul around like a sack of flour, made it hard for me to sit comfortably in a booth. There wasn't even enough room for me to cross my nervous legs.

“Uh-huh. But just until I get myself straightened out. That's all,” I insisted, quick and low.

Clyde nodded, but his smile was gone. “I feel you, sister. And I'm fin to help you do just that, if you do like I tell you.” He paused to drink from a large glass of red wine, diffusing a belch with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Now, how old are you?” he asked, neatly folding his handkerchief and dropping it on the table. He had nice black eyes with long black lashes to die for; a waste on a man.

Shuffling in my seat and blinking hard, with my cheap mascara stinging my eyes, I tried my best to sound like a young girl. “Twenty-three.” My voice came out sounding squeaky and weak. Minnie Mouse trying to sound like Tina Turner. Clyde turned his head to the side and gazed at me out of the corner of his eye, tapping the top of the table with a long neatly manicured finger. “Twenty-five,” I said firmly, coughing. He wasn't going for that either, so I told the truth. “Twenty-eight.”

His smile was back on his face. “What's your background?”

“Huh?”

“Where you from? You look kinda exotic.”

“Um, I got a little Irish blood, Italian, Indian on my mama's side. My daddy's great-grandfather was French. I got a lot of mixed blood.”

He nodded. “You and every other Black person in America. “Shit!” he grumbled, speaking like somebody from the ghetto. He gave me a hard look and tapped my hand. “Let's get one thing straight right now,
sister
. That biracial shit don't mean nothin' to me and it ain't goin' to get you no more money than my girl Rosalee, and she black as the ace of spade. I'm lookin' for women with class. I'm lookin' for women who know how to deal with men and make 'em feel good. I know girls who look like Biggie Smalls and they got regular tricks lined up like ducks. The men I deal with, all they care about is gettin'…” he paused and lowered his voice, “you know…gettin' took care of. They ain't lookin' to marry you so your pedigree blood don't mean no more to them than it do to me. Shit.” Clyde snapped his fingers and a young waiter in a tuxedo rushed over and refilled his glass with more wine. “What you drink?”

“I like red wine,” I managed, waving my hand in the air, balling it into a fist when I noticed three chipped nails. As soon as the waiter poured wine into the glass in front of me, I took a long swallow, pleased that I got an immediate buzz.

“Tell me a little bit about yourself, Rockelle,” Clyde suggested, blotting his juicy lips with a napkin.

I shrugged. “What do you want to know?”

“What do you like to do in your spare time? I like to get a handle on my girls. I need to know what kind of women I'm dealin' with.”

“Well…I like to read, watch movies.” I shrugged again.

“You into men?”

“Huh? What do you mean by that?” I asked stupidly, shuddering.

He laughed. “This is San Francisco, the gay capital of the world, and you are kinda husky. Some dykes make the best workin' girls.” He sniffed and winked. “I ain't got no problem with that.”

I frowned, insulted because nobody had ever questioned my sexuality before. “I love men,” I snapped. “But I've never…uh…
fucked
men for money.” I paused and took another swallow of wine. “Other than what I've seen in the movies and what I've read in books, I don't know how all this works,” I whispered, looking around to make sure none of the waiters or other patrons were listening. My ears couldn't believe the words sliding out of my mouth. I fanned my face with a napkin, hoping I wouldn't sweat too much and stain my clothes. I wanted to return the blouse and skirt I had on back to Macy's, too.

Clyde gave me a surprised look, holding up his hand and shaking his head. “I ain't said nothin' about you fuckin' nobody for no money now. Don't you be puttin' words in my mouth,” he said, giving me a look that could have meant just about anything. I couldn't tell if he was teasing me or testing me. Maybe he was being cautious. And in his business, I could understand why. He had just met me. I could have been anybody—from the wife of one of his clients to a vengeful relative of one of the women who worked for him. But I was the last person in the world he had to worry about. And with the financial mess I was in, I needed him more than he needed me.

“But Carlene said…” I muttered, groping for words.

“Carlene's a fool. She's from the old school. Spent her best years humpin' for a old battle-ax in Ohio of all places. If she was as smart as she thinks she is, she'd have been out of this business ten years ago with a million bucks stashed away in a Cayman Islands bank. Shoot.”

“What about the cops?” I mumbled, clutching my wineglass with both hands.

“What about 'em?”

“I don't want to get arrested. I would just die if that ever happened.”

“Girl, that's the last thing you need to be worryin' about. Ain't none of my girls never had no problem with the cops. Hell, I play cards with half of the dudes on vice. In a city like 'Frisco, they got a lot more important things to be investigatin' than a man and woman hookin' up to have a little fun. As long as you do like I tell you, you ain't got to worry about no cops. Now if you a hardheaded fool like Carlene and try to break the rules, you just might have a run-in or two with the man. You got any kids? You look like a breedin' woman.”

I nodded so hard, the curls on the hair weave that I had spent so much time trying to tame, came undone and fell across my eyes. “Three. Two boys, six and seven, and a girl just turned ten,” I told him, tucking my hair back behind my ears. I hadn't had enough money to make an appointment with my hairdresser so I had to pray that none of my loose fake hair would fall off my head. “I like to spend as much time with them as I can.”

“What about Daddy? He know what you fin to do?”

“He's long gone. That bastard.” Just thinking about Joe made my blood boil. I had no idea where he had run off to with his bitch and all of the money from our savings account. He was from Canada and had relatives everywhere but on the moon. He could have been just about anywhere. And as corrupt as he was, I was sure that wherever that dog was hiding out, he was working under a fake social security number so the welfare folks couldn't track him down. “He was never much of a daddy anyway,” I wailed, trying to hide the pain in my voice with a dry laugh. I blew out a weak breath and hunched my shoulders. “It's just me and my kids now. I love them, and I want to give them everything they need. That's why…that's why I came to see you.”

“Well, if you a good mama to them kids, you ain't goin' to do nothin' that'll fuck you up with the cops. And, you'll behave yourself so I won't have to get ugly with you.” Clyde yawned and cocked his head to the side, staring at me out of the corner of his eye as he handed me one of the two menus on the table. “All I want you to do is make that money, honey.” He sniffed and gave me a mysterious wink.

“Uh, what else do you do?” I asked, smiling the same anxious way I'd done during my other interviews. My confidence level was pretty low, so I had to fake my way to the very end. I was ready to lie, kiss ass, act like I was interested, and do whatever else I had to do. “You are nothing like what I expected.”

“Say what?” he drawled, raising both eyebrows.

“I mean, don't men like you have jobs on the side, too? A front job to keep the IRS and the cops off your back? Or do you pay people off?”

Clyde leaned sideways and glanced around the room before responding. “In the first place, you been watchin' too many movies. In the second place, let's get one thing straight right now:
I
ask all the questions,” he said firmly, giving me a cold, hard look.

“Okay,” I croaked. I rubbed my nose and gave Clyde a curious look. “How many other girls work for you?”

“That ain't none of your business!” he snapped. “Didn't I just tell you that I was the one to ask all the questions, woman? A nosy woman is a woman lookin' for trouble.” He grinned, and that kept me from getting too upset over his outburst. As odd as it seemed, there was something charismatic about Clyde. I liked a man who was in control, even if it meant that I was one of the things he controlled. “I pay the cost to be the boss.” I had no idea what he meant by that and I didn't have the nerve to ask him to explain. “Do you hear me?”

I nodded and fixed my eyes on the top of the table.

“Order whatever you want, Rockelle.” He took out a pair of dark glasses and held them up to his eyes and shook his head. “I can see you like to eat.”

“I'll just have a small salad. I'm tryin' to lose a few pounds,” I said, sucking in my stomach.

Clyde shook his head again and sniffed. “You ain't got to be losin' no weight. I got enough bean poles in my garden. You a fine, healthy-lookin' sister. A lot of men like that. They want to ride a horse that they ain't got to worry about buckin'.”

I gasped so hard I hiccupped. “I thought you said I wouldn't have to sleep with any of these men.”

Clyde clapped his hands together and laughed, shaking his dark glasses in my face. “Girl, what you do on a date I set up is up to you and that man. I ain't askin' you to do nothin' you don't want to do.”

I looked around again then I looked straight in Clyde's eyes. “Are you telling me that these men pay your women three hundred dollars just to talk?”

An amused look appeared on Clyde's face. “I don't know what my girls do behind closed doors. That's the beauty of my game. I don't tell 'em what to do. Like I said, what you and your dates do is up to y'all.” He pursed his lips and gave me a thoughtful look. “I want you to dress with some class. None of them cheap Lycra frocks and none of them tight, see-through blouses.”