The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 22 : Back To The Big House

The way the new pads worked out was that every time I was at the Big House, the top girls crowded that way. Every time I was at the Blue Heaven, the top girls sloshed back in there, pushing a load of lesser sisters back out on the street. I don't remember how it got to be the Big House. Maybe Radell called it that one time and it stuck. Maybe lots of black bitches love the idea of living out on the old timey plantation. Maybe they felt like they missed out somehow, even if they didn't know how to say it. The studs sure as sugar don't like the whippings or cotton picking any, but the bitches maybe loved the greater part of sitting around the house yakking at each other and getting rammed by the plantation owner's young pretty sons now and again. I remember one time Phyllis drove out there with musta been a hundred pounds of chain and two buckets of locks in her boot. She wanted all the other visiting bitches that didn't live there put in chains, for a research project she said. There were at least eight or nine bitches there besides her and June. Pepper was back at the Haven holding it down, they worked it out that there was always one or the other of them back there.

Phyllis was mean enough about it, too, hobbling their feet together close and catching their arms on the length running to their necks so it was uncomfortable any way they squirmed. Those dumb bitches creamed so hard from just being taken for a walk around those old peach trees it made me think swipes are extras in the pussy world. After that first time they wanted to do that kinda horsing around every week almost, and then they started doing bonfires at night. Before the year was out they were doing regular plays, like at the Burlesque, only better, with choice suckers disguised in those white robes like it was the peckerwood night-time fashion then, with the big dunce hats over their necks. They had everything, fake hangings, burnings, real whipping and a who-o-ole lot of sucking dick.

Those jokers were willing to pay a fortune to be there, and it gave me an idea. It was almost like every joker there counted as if he's with each of the bitches by himself. Say you get a stud and a broad in bed together. It's worth maybe three bones, or a fin, if the stud is colored. If the stud is white though, that's a saw or a double saw straight up. But if there's all the comforts of the first floor of the Blue Heaven all around, that's more like three saws. It can still be grown from there. If instead of a simple white joker you find a big shot it can be a bill, hell if the bitch is June it can even be three or five bills. Fine. Not every bitch is June and not every stud a bigshot. What I discovered was that if you get two dozen jokers with a dozen or even a half dozen bitches in chains doing the whole confederate plantation trip, each of those suckers figures half dozen broads at a double saw each as if it were all for himself! The dozen suckers drop between them fourteen, fifteen bills easy, and if they're two dozen they drop twice as much. That's the same time, and it divides up to the same bitches. You take a mediocre cocksucker from doing maybe a saw an hour to doing three or five bills no problem this way. It's easier on her, too. She sure as spit don't have to become no June, neither. You don't have to go qualifying the suckers as much. It's a license to print money, like instead of the baker selling a load of bread for thirty cents, he shows the loaf of bread to a hundred people for a quarter each. At the end of the day he's got the loaf and twenty-five dollars, he'd have to be a sucker himself to sell it before he's run out of suckers to show it to!

That's how I figured out show business. Next day I went to a shyster lip and register Big House Talent Incorporated. I got myself into the representation side of things. It's easy. All you have to do is go up to a joker that you know is in the biz, like a producer, or a theater owner, or a financer, or anything to do with it. How do you know ? That's easy, the bitches tell you. That joker you ask "Hey Mack, how's about the treatment's free tonight ?" He'll say "Gimme the poison and take me to the baby", maybe not every time, but you don't need it to be every time. You don't need it to be even half the time. If it's now and again it's good enough. Then you say "Give this kid a break. Have a heart. Put her on the stage." He'll do it, too. Cocksucker's right there, showing as much of her 32s as she can get her lips off of. How could he not put her on ? She puts him on well enough.

Bitch'll have to be dressed, which is a kinda drag, but all the jokers that see her dressed secretly wanta freak with her. It's worth that free treatment in spades, fifty times, and then if the bitch turns out to have any talent, which most of them cocksuckers do anyway, she can really clean out. A good show girl can make a million bucks a year, if she's lucky and works hard, but let me tell you sucker no whore that ever worked the Blue Heaven don't work hard. I'd croak her, hell, she'd croak herself before she worked soft, there's no way.

The law says the agent, which is what they call the pimp in showbiz, gets fifteen percent. The law don't matter though, any good bitch will roll over any scratch to her sweet Daddy. There's those who don't, fifteen percent or so of them, but then comes the beauty of it : they're never the ones that make it big. They're the ones that dry out on the vine halfway. All Daddy gots to do is stop pushing for her, and there she goes, with a loud plop, back in the slop bucket she farted herself up from. I said there's the beauty, but I liked. It ain't there, it's here : say a princess on the stage makes a million bucks singing and dancing dressed for those sissy prissy folks that's into that sort of silly stuff. The mack scores a hundred fifty grand, that's good enough. But she's a true blooded whore. It's all his. The whole million, all through. What does he do with it ? He takes the whole million from her ? To do what with it ? Go to the bank, ask them to change it for him into all fins and saws, then hose it down in snot and push it up Wabash avenue all rolled up in a ball ? Maybe some pimps somewhere upstate or in the boonies do just that. What I do is invest it. 100% legitimate. To do that, you gotta put it in a name, and I don't like putting anything in my name. Her name's good enough, which means he don't even have to take anything from her. Just tell her what to do with it for him, that's all. Ain't that the bitch of them all ?

Sweet didn't have that million dollar apartment building in his name, but in the broad's that earned it for him, and by the time the hundred piece score was drawing to a close I didn't have the millions in my name either. They were all stocks and bonds and jewelry and real estate and oil wells and logging opperations and laundries and theater chains and whatall more, and all in the broads' names. That's the only way to do it right, and that way if Pepper figured we need more bitches with laundry work experience in the joint she'd just pick up the phone. It makes everything easier, having your bitches all around you. Don't it ? Here's the thing : if the bitches are naked, they're better than dressed, less work to plow that swipe into them. And if they have a short, better than if they don't : you never know when you need pick up. And if they have a pad better than if they don't, you might want to put something there, a hot package of some sort. And if it's theirs all the better, nobody else can get in. If your bitches have airplane wings coming out the ass all the better, they can fly for you, and if they have an oil well or a grocery chain all the better, they can piss gasoline and shit kosher sandwiches any time you want them to.

The pimp who thinks the whores are his mortal enemy ain't got the first word through his skull of pimping by the book. A bitch loves nothing more than to hold up her Daddy. She's a whore because she wants to be useful, to do good, to serve. She wants that more than anything for herself. The joker that breaks that in her ain't worth spitting to put out if his dumb ass was on fire. The stud that gets it through his skull has one care in the world, from noon when he wakes up till morning when he falls asleep : how to make those bitches as powerful as they can carry. Nevermind being as sweet as the scratch and no sweeter, that's a chump crack. Always make a bitch as powerful as she can carry. No more than that, so she doesn't break up under herself, but not much less, either. No less than she can figure, anyhow. It never pays to wait for anyone to turn rat, alright. It's even worse giving any bitch a good reason to be salty, and there ain't any other good reason beside that.

The system like we had it figured worked well enough, but it was far from perfect. Take that Ella bitch you've no doubt heard of. She spent six weeks on the bottom floor before Phyl kicked her up the stairs. Phyllis and Pepper had a time to themselves about that one, too! It was the first bitch Phyllis kicked up. Pepper got pissy plenty. They bickered about it when I wasn't there for weeks afterwards. The bitch was on the first floor half a year before I figured to talk about her and found a joker that'd listen. It took years after that until she caught on. Three, four, I don't remember, the bitch spent a long time humping her ass off each night while filling in combos and recording small bits and backings a coupla times a month. It was good for her, I'm sure, but it wasn't anything like some bitch'd figure herself she got talent, walk in the door, climb up the stairs and then walk out the roof on a red-and-green carpet straight to god. If it was gonna happen I couldn't tell when they walked in, and it never happened in one breath like that, not by a damn sight.

Most nights at the Big House we didn't horse around the grounds, barefoot bitches trampling the grass between the trees. Most nights we gathered in the big room downstairs, by the big fireplace going steady if it was Winter, or not going at all in the Summer. We'd sit and yak nothing with cocktails or fizzy wine or just coffee, horse around now and again. Phyllis got a big book of all mixed drinks there are sometime, and together with the joker behind the log at the Rhumboogie went through everything in there. They had me nearly plastered just from small sips out of every golden-hued thing they tried, but eventually when I woke up the next day she had it. She told me so, triumphant, "Daddy, say 'sweetslit go fix me a drink' like you say to that bitch." I did, she ran over holding her runt palm under her runt ass like it were something, then came back and Joseph's sweet Mamy she had it! Coin throw and Vieux Click-o, she said. That's from French, it just means old. They's got to make everything more complicated than it is, those French jokers, I don't care they're from St. Louis or where. I wasn't much for rye or bourbon before, but that gold fizz wasn't half bad! The runt told Lulu, too, next they laid eyes on each other. She cracked "Ha-ha, bitch, I got it now!"

Phyllis was a lot like that, she got her kicks rustling the other bitches up. She didn't mean anyting by it, or not that much, and it's how the others saw it too, most of the time. Some of the time though, she'd really get under their skin. One time, after Chris told a flock of them the story of her old life in the old house she was in, and how the house mama got it from the broads, they ganged up on Phyllis with pillows and whacked her till she cried uncle. She was a freak for that, I don't figure she ever liked laying any stud who didn't rough her up. When the bitches did it, she'd go wild. That was the thing with her, she was a bitchy bitch ragged up on a broad she liked, to make that broad hot. To make that broad blow her down and then sit on her face. She was best pals with all the broads did that with her, but Pepper ain't ever turned jasper, so Phyllis just aggravated her to hell with the best of intentions, or at least the freakiest of them.

The thing they liked most though was reading. There was a whole pile-up of old books all over the walls, I don't know how many. I ain't ever tried to count them all. If I had a slat a book it might've been ten grand I guess. They'd pick something, then one bitch'd read with everyone else quiet to listen. Nine cases out of ten when it got dark it was "Oh Daddy, Daddy... can we read again ?" "Yes, please!" "Please Daddy, please, can we ?"

I don't remember what all they read, mostly stories from old England when they had their Continental Congress war long ago, and from when France had a king and places far away in the East. I remember one that was about how life went in those old days, before there even was a plantation or niggers in the world. The way those jokers had it set out, they built all their towns up on a hill. Smaller too, back then. Nothing like Chi at all. Then around it they'd build walls. Not walls like for a house, but tall and thick enough a joker could take a stroll around town on them walls. They had to, too, because they'd come battling each other and try to rustle up cattle and bitches and whatall. So the jokers with the wall hid inside and closed the gate and then threw rocks and boiling oil on the other jokers left outside.

The way they had it sorted out back then, only so far was any sucker a real man as he owned a plot inside them walls. The bite on it was pretty steep, too, to pay for maintenance on all that masonry. The rest of studs who didn't have no shop or bar or nothing inside, they was like niggers. They had no say, just sent them out to fight the other suckers when they came by. And for the broads, they had a special kind of cop, like a belly cop. Whenever that heat rustled up a broad with her belly out, they'd inquire where she'd copped it from. If the broad was married good enough, but if she wasn't they'd take her in, to clip her wings a little, by the edges like. Often the joker who had knocked her up, if he felt for the broad, would put in notice at the precinct. Then the pigs knew the score, and just put the scare in the uppity bitch a little, like a mack man does with runaway wives and whatnot, when the whitey husband hires him to it. Sometimes though, even if the broad had never freaked off with some joker who was hot for her, he'd put the notice in just the same. What'd the heat care ?

That kept their bitches in line sure as sugar, because if no one came forward to claim the deed in her, they turned the heat up on that bitch. They tied her down to every pole in that town and whopped her naked ass. Then moved her on to the next pole, did it over. They ain't had no uppity, talk back bitches back in that time or nothing. It was all "yes Daddy" straight up all the way. Ain't no bitch in them old days hear her Mama say anything 'bout not whoring out or going to school or to keep a job, neither. Them bitches were born turned out. I don't figure they had that Bible con going strong like it is now back then, that's for sure. Just straight up talk and good living all the way to Heaven.

If a bitch tried and confessed to some muckty muck who hadn't said anything himself, they'd tear her apart with iron hooks like in the stockyards, for calumny and blackening the name of a good man. If she confessed and it was just some boy, not a big wig like he had to be, they'd chain her by the tavern, what they called The Roost back then. She'd often die in that freak fest, the chained up bitch. They'd fuck her to death chained to a wall in the back. The boy himself though, they did in a special way. They had like a box, and they'd clip it at the root of his rod and up in front clipped out his skin. Then they poured concrete in. He could still take a piss, but I don't know how he'd ever scratch his balls. The sucker had to walk around with a two piece bit between his legs from then on. Unless he found some stone cutter or something to hammer down his cube offa him, though what was left of a joker's balls when that was done I ain't seen written down.

That wasn't all they did. They had one big sewer, made of bricks. If a broad was really saucy to their taste, or if she didn't confess or nothing, they'd put her in a special bit. They had a foot-tall wall in there, going down right by the middle, through the muck. They fitted a special brick around her neck, and they walled her in that wall, head on one side, ass on the other bent like the bitch was about to take it from behind. She took it, too. They had a thing called the Pillar of Escape, which was a pile-up of rats in a box, with a tube just wide enough for a rat. They ramed that inside of her, as deep as it went. Then they put coals atop. The rats dug out their way to escape through her guts. Back then it said they had ten miles of sewer with wall like that, could've taken five, ten thousand broads. And it did, too! All the top jokers in that joint compared one another for how many whores they had to their credit down below! Some's had as many as more than a thousand broads done in the muck by rats like that! I thought of Top and Sweet, with their paltry score of two or three. They'd have been laughed outta that town, that's for damn sure. And theirs they sent to the booby hatch! Ain't no comparison, nohow.

About this time Miss Peaches croaked of old age. Sweet shook his skull when he told me. His eyes were sad. I remembered that overgrown cat as an old lady, still gorgeous in her mink coat and fur bootees he had custom ordered for her. I remembered her farting that first time we sat eyes on each other in the Roost. Glass Top long got out, but he didn't have the heart anymore. I dropped a coupla bills on him from my side. I asked him where he's headed ? He said out West, to Seattle. He had a broad down there he was going to square out with. I told him "Top, when you're in Seattle you go find a place called The Casino. It's on Washington and 2nd, you can't miss it. You tell the log jockey you're Glass Top and has anyone left a message ?" He gave me a sad look out of his beaten down dog eyes. "You ain't gonna croak old Top now, are you Iceberg ? We was pals a long time. I ain't salty with you. I wouldn't want no whore nohow." I told him "Damn old fool, I ain't about to send you lugging down long scratch. What's wrong with you! Pick it up on consignment, fool." I had Pepper wire him twenty grand. I heard he took it and opened up a cleaning business, did alright.

Poor Sweet had lost his glory. He looked a hundred years old, though he couldn't have been fifty. I don't know he was even forty. His backbone was the old white broad who owned the building, she must've been seventy by then if she was a day. He had just beat a murder rap, for killing some pretty jerk from St. Louis who had insulted him in the Roost. The poor chump said Sweet's an ugly, gray-ass bastard. Sweet drew on him and shot him dead. The kid wasn't even packing a rod. Sweet kicked the dead joker all the way into the alley. He pissed on the corpse. The pigs knew they'd never get a testimony. They didn't want a murder case to keep unsolved on the books for fifty years. The jury came back with death by misadventure. I figure it got close enough.

Sweet was laughing. It sure put him in a good mood to tell me about it. It had cost him a fine bundle of lettuce to beat the rap, too. He told me he got a wire that Red Cora got life for croaking another whore down in Pittsburgh. I figured she's probably happy as a shit-house rat, locked up in a hole with a fresh supply of soft bitches hauled in every week. Before I left I went for his john. The gold-painted silk screens were long gone. The door had a padlock on the outside. He came behind me, grinning, and said, "Pal, my crapper is out of order." I went downstairs to the john in the lobby. It was now turned into a bookie joint. On the way out I asked old Patch Eye why Sweet didn't get his toilet fixed. He looked even older than Sweet did. Poor Patch Eye could barely stand. I don't know if he ever did. He just sat in a corner, shaking his head all the time. His voice was but a whisper now. "Ain't nothing wrong with the crapper. That cold bastard has his two whores locked in there for fucking with his scratch. They been in there three days."

I walked toward the car. Some pretty young bitch was waving eagerly. She'd been waiting for me in that short an hour. She didn't need to piss or nothing. I think it was Dottie maybe, I don't remember. I wondered how long Sweet would keep his whores in there, and how long a whore could live on just toilet water.