the nicest pimp ever

Our friend, Kevin, was nice. Really nice, as far as pimps go. He was a Gemini, but I’d never met the evil twin. I hadn’t done anything outta pocket yet.

My stable sister, Breezy and I had just come back from a lucrative, week-long, working-vacation on the Las Vegas strip. By working the streets we didn’t have to pay the house a cut, so we brought home twice as much. By working through our vacations, we could keep our jobs at the Moonlight in Carson City, while continuing to earn during our time off—so no lapse in cash flow for Kevin, our friend, an industry euphemism for pimp.

Kevin was clever. He’d made it seem like it was all our idea. So I guess he wasn’t as goofy as his crazy eye-teeth, straightened, shoulder-length hair, and all those 14k gold, King Tut necklaces made him look. Some pimps go for fancy hats, a gold tooth, maybe, or a cane. It’s branding. Tut was Kevin’s trademark, and I was all about it. I was crazy about him. I’d been obsessed with ancient Egypt for as long as I could remember.

When you’re a high-school dropout, it’s hard to get an apartment. When you’re also a hooker, it’s impossible. You don’t have landlord stuff, rental histories, paystubs, credit, so they won’t rent to you regardless of how much you make. But, by some weird twist of landlord logic, they will rent to pimps. So pimps procure apartments for whores, which helps consolidate power over their bitches, because when your name’s not even on the lease, they can throw you out on a whim, and leave you homeless in the street with nothing but the tube-top on your back.

Kevin drove us down to Vegas in the Coup de Ville. Breezy and I waited in the car while he went into the office of a motel at the end of the strip and got us a weekly room with two queen sized beds—for economy and security. Kevin said if I did well this trip he might get me my own place in Reno. So I was motivated.       

In Sin City, I cleared thirteen hundred in a single night, a lot of money back in 1980. Around five grand today, adjusted for inflation. And that was just one night. So even though we did end up getting busted by those fake-Texan vice cops, it was well worth it. We cleaned up.

I was wearing my teal, sequined spaghetti-strap dress the night they handcuffed us and threw us in a paddy wagon full of hookers. They took us down to the station at two in the morning where we were strip searched and booked. Breezy used her one phone call to call Kevin collect and have him drive down to bail us out, but by the time he got there, six hours later, he didn’t have to. Early that morning before breakfast, they released everybody in the holding cell—which made sense. Why waste money feeding all those hungry whores?

In the late afternoon, Kevin pulled the Cadillac into the driveway of a ranch-house on the outskirts of Reno, where he lived with Breezy and his first girl, Mercedes, and her eight-year-old son, a trick baby. It was complicated, and I wasn’t moving in there any time soon. The car rolled to a stop. Breezy headed straight for the house, left me sitting there, unsure what to do.

“Should I come in?”

“Well,” said Kevin, “unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless…” he teased.

“What? Kevin!” 

“Unless, you’re ready to go see your new townhouse!”

“You got me an apartment? No way!”

“Sure did, baby.”

“For real? No you didn’t. My own place? Oh my God, I’m so excited!”

“I wanted to surprise you. Why don’t you follow me over there in your car.”

“Right now? I don’t believe it! Wow—sure.”

My white Volvo was parked in the cul-de-sac. I made a loop and followed Kevin. At the highway though, he turned right, heading north, farther away from town and my excitement was clouded by doubt. Where is he taking me? Out in the middle of nowhere! What if I don’t like the apartment? I was particular about aesthetics, about architectural details. I knew what I liked. Old houses. Places with history. The most important thing to me was the soul of a place. And that takes time to develop.

We drove through the forsaken landscape, the same scruffy sagebrush and low rolling hills scrolling by like the background of a Hannah Barbera cartoon when out of the dust on the horizon, it materialized. The colossal development slated to become my home. As we approached, the details came into focus. My chest tightened. Hundreds of identical, putty-colored units crowded together like a sprawling colony on a hostile planet. Repetition and desolation as far as the eye could see. The overcast sky erased the shadows, robbing you of a sense of direction. There were no landmarks in this labyrinth of curved streets, the landscaping had not yet been installed. No tree nor shrub broke the bleak conformity of the complex. I could get lost here, I thought, just driving around and around in a circle without even knowing it.

Kevin pulled into one of the empty driveways. I parked on the street. How can he tell which one? I marveled, getting out of the car. And where was everyone? The wind rushed between the buildings as I walked up the driveway to the entrance. “Well,” he said, grinning, flashing his eye teeth, shirt unbuttoned to the navel—to showcase the Tuts. “This is it, baby. Your new crib!” He fished a key out of his leather blazer and unlocked the hollow-core door. “I got you a two bedroom.”

 Paint fumes assaulted me inside. I stood on a small vinyl entry-square, in a sea of commercial grade carpet.

“Ready for the grand tour?” He was so eager.

“Sure.” I followed him.

“So this here’s the kitchen,” he said. “Brand-new appliances. Top of the line! Dishwasher, garbage disposal, ice-maker…”

I couldn’t imagine needing an ice-maker.

“Here you got your breakfast bar,” he continued. “Dining area. Patio…” He opened a sliding glass door that led out onto a concrete slab-in-the-dirt where I was supposed to do what, entertain?

My throat was closing. “This is something else, Kevin.”

“Glad you like it! Nothing’s too good for the Katt. You’re my top earner now, girl!” He led me into the living room, “Wall-to-wall carpet. Throughout.”

“I noticed.” I forced a smile.                      

“Here’s your three quarter bath,” he went on, opening the door at the bottom of the stairs for a quick sneak-peek. He was clearly keen on the place, and I knew that most people, normal people anyway, would agree with him, so I almost felt guilty. Like an ingrate or a snob. “Let me show you the upstairs.” How seamlessly he could have transitioned to realtor.

At the top of the stairs, I was met by the smell of fresh caulk. A door to a dimly-lit room with mini-blinds and mirrored closet doors stood open. “For when I get you a new sister.” He laughed, but it didn’t really seem like he was joking. My stomach turned. The other door was closed. He paused in front of it, then broke into a slow grin. “This, this here’s your bedroom,” he said. “Now close your eyes. I got you a little surprise.” I shut my eyes and he led me by the hand. “Ok, open!”

I was stunned. There it was. My dream bed. Standing alone in the room, just as it was when I discovered it, at an antique shop in Lake Tahoe on our first date. The Victorian, rosewood bed, like me, painfully out of place beneath the popcorn ceiling. I was speechless. There it was in all its glory. The stained, century-old mattress. The exquisite, hand-carved roses, stately bedposts topped with pine cone finials. I teared up. Unaccustomed to kindness and overcome with gratitude, I forgot for a moment that I’d paid for it all myself. “I don’t believe it. You went up to Tahoe and got this for me?”                          

“Yeah, baby. I got a U-Haul when you were out in Vegas,” he beamed. “And look,” he pulled back the vertical blinds. “There’s even a balcony. How do you like that?”

“Oh, thank you! I don’t know what to say. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.” How romantic, I thought, that he even remembered the bed. He’s so thoughtful. He must really like me. Seems like I’m becoming his favorite. I threw my arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his mouth.

“Easy, baby! Watch the hair.”

“Oh Kevin, you’re the best friend ever!” I raised an eyebrow and lowered my voice. “Should we break it in?”

“You know we gotta break it in,” he said, stripping off his shirt, “Come here, girl!”

The bed seemed fragile. Like if you got too carried away, it might snap. Beneath the harsh overhead lamp, Kevin mounted me and all those heavy, tiered, King Tut heads started swinging on their gold, rope-chains. Sweat beaded up on his smooth, caramel chest. I ran my fingernails down his back and tried to make eye contact. He buried his face in my neck. A few grunts and a groan later, he collapsed on top of me.

I lit a Benson and Hedges, Menthol 100 with my 22 karat, gold-plated lighter. Looking up at the Navajo-white ceiling, I felt more alone than ever. Like I used to after a one night stand. Like something had been taken from me.

We cleaned up in the master bath, got dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen. “Can’t stay long,” he announced. “Gotta take care of some business. Just wanted to give you your key, so you can get yourself situated. I’ll try and make it back over here later on,” he said, laying a key on the counter.    

“You’re leaving me? All by myself?” My stomach panicked. I’d never lived alone before. There had to be something I could say to make him stay. “But, you said you’d take me car shopping.”             

“Now girl, there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be than right here with your fine ass. Tomorrow we’ll go look at cars. Promise.”

“Is there even a phone?”

“Not yet, baby, next week.”

“Kevin! You can’t just leave me all alone out here in an empty apartment. I’ll go stir-crazy!”

“Tell you what, I’ll bring your things up.” He peeled a few twenties off a thick bankroll and returned them to me. “You go into town. Get some sheets and stuff for the crib. Get yourself some snacks—and pick me up a bottle of Hennessy. I’ll try to come back tonight.”

“You’ll try?” I pouted. 

Through the aluminum window, watching him unload the car, a queer, desolate feeling came over me. I held back tears as he pulled out of the driveway. I’d be dammed if I was gonna let him make me cry. He would never understand my loathing of aluminum windows. I tossed my cigarette butt into the garbage disposal.

Before I drove into town, I wrote my address in my little black book—like that would help. At the mall in Reno, I bought pillows, a sheet set, a satin-trimmed blanket and two towels. Not eager to rush back to an empty apartment, I took my time, stopped at Long’s Drugs for cigarettes and a couple of magazines and ended up buying a scented candle. For ambience, and to combat that weird, chemical smell in the room. At Safeway, I picked up some cheese and crackers, plastic silverware, and paper plates. The cashier looked deflated. I almost felt sorry for him. I wasn’t above flaunting my figure to facilitate underage alcohol purchases, so I flashed him a Doublemint smile and walked out with Kevin’s cognac and some California Coolers. It was almost too easy.

After several laps around the darkened compound, I found my place. The driveways were still deserted. None of the lights in the units were on and it hit me. No one lives here.

I went in, locked the door and switched on the fluorescent lights in the kitchen. I put the bags on the counter, took a cooler out of the four pack, then put the rest in the empty fridge with the cheese, I took the bag with the linens and magazines and headed up to my room.

It was quiet. Too quiet. I could hear the beating of my own heart. An anxious, restless feeling crept up on me. I tried to fight it, to fill it, maybe with something upbeat. Like The Cars. I popped Candy-O into my cassette deck and set to work, singing along as I brushed off the ancient mattress with my hands. I had the first corner of the bottom sheet fitted to the bed when I noticed a coarse, straight black hair, lying right there on the striped ticking. I pinched it. Held it up to the light. It was Kevin’s alright. I lay it on the windowsill for safekeeping. Which made sense, because you never know when you might need to cast a spell.

Once I had the bed made up, I sat in it, drinking a wine cooler and chain-smoking. I flipped through the Frank Frazetta illustrations in Heavy Metal Magazine, the bodacious barbarian babes, then moved on to the articles in the Scientific American in an attempt to occupy my mind. I read about the atmosphere on Venus and about genetic engineering in mammalian cells but still couldn’t ward off the loneliness, the all-consuming sadness, that sinking-feeling.

I opened the balcony door. The scent of sage wafted in off the desert, refreshing in contrast to the noxious vapors. I left the door open to air the place out and started running a bath. I stripped down to my belly chain, then sank down into the pre-fab tub and tried to relax, but I couldn’t. I felt like I was trapped, isolated in a desolate motel room, like in one of those Edward Hopper paintings. It was terrifying. I got out of the tub, towel dried my long, dark hair then put on my aqua, Bob Mackie peignoir and went down to the kitchen. I dumped some Triscuits out onto a paper plate, sawed through some Tillamook cheddar and Pepper Jack with a flimsy, plastic knife then opened another cooler. I stood at the counter, nibbling, but it was hard to get the food down, the way my stomach was twisted up. Where was Kevin? I told him not to leave me.

I went back upstairs, lit another smoke and started to pace, back and forth, back and forth, and while I was smoking and pacing, I started to think. And when I started thinking, I started to think about leaving. Running was second nature to me now.

“Bolt,” a little voice said. “You don’t like it here? Just leave.”

But I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Kevin. He was so handsome, the foxiest guy on the dance floor at the Peppermill. I was proud to be by his side. He was so much fun. And so nice.

But, if he ever got wind I was thinking about leaving, my life would be in peril. I knew that much. I was still young and naive, but I understood enough about The Game to know that trying to leave is as outta pocket as a whore can get. You want to see a pimp get ugly? Just try and leave. After he’s put down first and last month’s rent on a townhouse for you? Paid off a frivolous, rosewood bed? He’s invested in you. Bitch, he owns you.

If I decided to leave, I’d need an iron-clad escape plan. I’d be on my own, and I’d have to keep my big mouth shut. No matter how much I liked her, Breezy was still Kevin’s spy. Whores don’t have friends.             

I went downstairs to check the clock, again. Eleven fifty and lonelier than ever. I was dying to call Kevin. He’d been gone for hours. I’d have given anything to hear his voice—any voice, for that matter. What was taking him so long? Was he lying to me? What kind of business does somebody take care of at midnight?

I went back upstairs and out onto the balcony. The night was still. The desert air was crisp, the moon, full and bright. I lit a cigarette and watched the smoke climb towards it, and I knew. I was abandoned. He wasn’t coming. I felt it in my bones. That fucker wasn’t coming.

Hurt, angry, I stripped out of my peignoir. I took the candle and the hair from the window ledge and went back out into the cool, blue night. Pinpoints of light pierced the dark canopy that spread across the galaxy. I lit the candle with my golden lighter and stood, skyclad in the chill, staring into the flame. As my eyes relaxed, my focus blurred, my mind dissolved into nothingness, and I found myself sinking, sinking into a liminal state somewhere between asleep and awake. I raised my face to the moon. Lifted my arms and opened my mouth and a spontaneous spell issued forth:

“Artemis, Diana, Goddess of the moon

                                    Solitary huntress beautiful and fierce

                                    Protectress of wild things

                                    your daughter suffers

                                    Here, alone in the desert.

                                    Accept my offering. Hear my plea.

                                    Bring me Kevin, or set me free.”

I dropped my arms and waited, shivering in silence, for a sign.

After minutes or hours, a coyote in the distance began to howl. I held the hair over the flame, watched it burn, twisting and curling, transforming into a pale worm of white ash, ascending into the night sky. I held Kevin’s image in my mind’s eye, gazing into the candlelight a moment longer, then pinched out the wick.

I left the balcony door open and went inside. The smell of singed hair lingered in the darkened room. Bedposts cast long shadows across the floor. I lay in the rosewood bed, allowing the moon to wash over me, caressing my skin with her cool touch, bathing me in her pale light.

First thing the next morning, I reached for a cigarette. I took a drag and looked up at the acoustic ceiling. This is my worst nightmare, I thought. I can’t stand it. It’s worse than a ghost town, not just uninhabited, never inhabited. A virgin ghost town. It’s spooky. I barely made it through one night. I had to figure something out. Even if it cost me my dream bed. 

A noise startled me downstairs. Like someone was trying to get in through the front door. I sat up, rigid.

But of course, he had a key.

“Kevin?” I hollered from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah, baby. It’s me.”

“Oh, thank God! You scared me,” I said, slipping into my peignoir. “Just a minute, be right down.”

“Sorry I didn’t make it back,” he apologized.

“What happened? I was starting to worry.”

“Something came up. I had to take care of some business.” He said it like I was some kind of imbecile. “By the time I got done, it was too late. But I’ll make it up to you, girl,” he smiled. “Brunch at the Peppermill? Come on. Get dressed so we can go find you a car.”

“You know the one I want, the one we saw out on the highway. Remember? That burgundy one with the rumble-seat, that gangster one?”

“We’ll go look, but no promises.”

“But that’s the only one I want. I hope they didn’t sell it,” I whined on my way upstairs to change.

“Put on somethin' nice.” he yelled up after me. “Can’t have my girls lookin’ all raggedy. I’ll be out in the car.”

I put on a floral, black silk, wrap-dress, and some pumps. The clouds looked like they meant business, casting shadows that hurried across the pavement. The wind blowing in from the mountains smelled like snow. I held the opening in my dress shut as it whipped the silk around my calves and got in on the passenger side. Kevin popped “Cruisin’” into the eight track and started to drive. I eased the seat back and watched the tumbleweeds roll by, in silence. I was still sore after being abandoned last night. Soon though, the smooth ride of a luxury car began to soothe me. Until Kevin piped up. “What’s wrong? Nuttin’ to say this morning?”

“I’m fine, Kevin. Just a little hung over. I haven’t even had coffee yet.”

He swerved abruptly. Pulled off the highway and parked on the shoulder. I panicked. “What is it?” I asked. He said nothing. Got out of the car. My heart pounded, my mind racing back. What the hell did I do? He couldn’t be that pissed, could he? Because I said there was no coffee.

I swung the heavy car door open and got out. Gravel crunched beneath my heels.

“I forgot,” Kevin yelled over the wind and the music and the car roof. “Got a loaded shotgun in the trunk!”

Holy shit! I thought. What for?

He walked around to the back of the car and popped the trunk.

“That’s a felony,” he said. “I’m gonna unload it in case we get pulled over.”

“Good idea,” I said, a wave of relief sweeping over me. For a minute I was afraid we were stopping for an impromptu, roadside ass-whooping. “Why’s there a gun in your trunk?”

“Why you ask so many questions? Me and some of the brothers hit a sporting-goods store last night. Not that it’s any of your business.” He took a tapered, khaki-colored canvas gun case out of the trunk and held it up. “Stole a case for my shotgun but I grabbed the wrong one. Mine’s a double-barrel shotgun, but the case I grabbed is for a single. It’s too small. The zipper’s stuck.” Two inches of wood stuck out past the butt end of the case. He anchored it inside the trunk and tried repeatedly to unzip the case, but the gun was crammed in there too tight and the zipper teeth were caught in the shearling lining. He thumped around in the trunk, struggling with it, tugging on the case this way and that, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Well,” he glared at me, “don’t stand there, starin’. Get your ass over here and help me!”

“I didn’t know you needed my help. What do you want meto do?”

He thrust the narrow, tapered end of the case at me. Two empty inches of canvas flopped over beyond the end of the barrel.

“Grab it,” he ordered. I reached for it with my left hand and grabbed the barrel. It pointed directly at my solar plexus. “Not the barrel, the material! Use both hands.”

That shotgun, aimed right at my heart, didn’t sit well with me. I thought of my uncle, killed by a shotgun in a hunting accident before I was born.

Kevin grasped the butt of the gun. “Now, you pull on that end. I’ll pull on this end—” 

“Wait,” I said, to both our surprise (I’d never spoken up before). I guess just then I decided I’d rather risk being beaten than shot. I loosened my grip on the end of the gun and pointed it away. “I’m sorry Kevin, but I really don’t feel safe doing this. I mean, why do I have to be on this end? What if it goes off?”

His expression darkened. “It’s not gonna go off.”   

“Yeah, but how do you know?”

“The safety’s on.” He glowered.

“It was on. But you can’t see inside the case. You’ve been tugging on it every which way. What if it slipped or something?”

“It’s not gonna slip, you know what? Just give it here, you stupid bitch!” He snatched it away from me. “I don’t need your help. I’ll do it myself. Just back off!”

I backed towards the car, Smokey’s voice crooning through the open door. A storm cloud passed in front of the sun. Kevin pointed the gun straight down at the ground. He stepped on the flaccid canvas that stuck out beyond the end of the barrel and pinned it there with his foot. Then, using both hands, he grabbed the wood stock and yanked up.

The shot echoed through the foothills.

“Noooo!” I screamed.

There was a little pause, a hiccup in time, before Kevin started to yell.

I ran to him and looked down. Half of his boot was missing. So was his big toe, the toes next to it, and most of the arch of his foot. It looked like someone had taken a huge bite out of it. Blood was splattered all over the gravel.

Leaning on my shoulder, he hopped over to the passenger seat. Somehow, we got him in the car. I threw the shotgun in the trunk and drove him to the emergency room in Reno.

In front of the hospital, they hoisted him into a wheelchair.

“My foot!” he wailed as they wheeled him down the hallway. “I can’t believe I shot my fuckin’ foot!”

I tried to help get him checked in then realized, the only thing I knew about him was his first name.

You may as well go home, they told me. No one’s allowed in the operating room, and with an injury like that, he’d be in there at least a week. Get some rest, they said. Come back tomorrow during regular visiting hours.

The Cadillac smelled like blood inside. I cracked the windows and by the time I hit the highway, rain was coming down in sheets. I was coming down too, off an insane surge of adrenaline. I let out a huge breath. Good thing I said something when I did.

I can leave him at my leisure now, I thought, what’s he going to do? Hobble after me? Chase me down, beat me with a crutch?

“Who’s the stupid bitch now?” I said, a little too loud.

I felt bad for Kevin. I almost felt guilty, like I was kicking him when he was down. It must be excruciating, losing a foot, and now, losing me as well. I resolved to visit him on my way out of town. And also, to hold off on spell casting for a while.

Cross-legged on the carpet back at the townhouse, I polished off the Triscuits, drank the last cooler and tried to plot a way to keep that bed. But without a credit card I couldn’t rent a U-Haul, and I didn’t even have my own place anyway. Sometimes you just have to cut your losses. I’d make more money, I consoled myself. Buy another antique bed. I was still alive.

Upstairs, I started to pack. I couldn’t go back to Carson City, not with Kevin’s little spy there. When I left the hospital, I'd head out to the Mustang Ranch. Kevin didn’t have anyone there and from what I heard, the girls out there made more money anyway. Mustang Ranch was the big league, the highest grossing brothel in Northern Nevada.    

The high desert sky was a clear cobalt blue the morning I loaded up the Volvo. On the way to the hospital, I stopped by the drugstore to buy Kevin a get-well-soon card and some magazines. It was the least I could do. Standing in front of the magazine rack, I tried to imagine what his interests might be. They didn’t have a Player’s Digest, sadly. No Mack Daddy Magazine either or Runnin’ Bitches Quarterly. One title did catch my eye however. Guns and Ammo. I picked it up and flipped through the pages. Safety articles, really? I giggled. How apropos! There was a whole section of firearms publications, Shotgun News, Shooting Guide… I bought them all and headed over to the hospital.

I took the elevator up to Kevin’s recovery room. The door was open. He looked so peaceful, sleeping soundly, hair spread out on the pillow like a halo. I was going to miss him. He was the nicest pimp I ever had—and the last one. He was going to have one hell of a limp. Maybe he could work it into his brand somehow.

I left the magazines and the card on the bed-table and tiptoed out.

Karina Mayorga is UCLA alumna, non-fiction storyteller and tattoo pioneer from the Pacific Northwest, living and working in Los Angeles. Her feminist, absurdist, action-adventure survivor memoirs struggle with themes of trauma and triumph. She’s been published in Marrow Magazine. When not torturing people with needles at the studio, she can be found putzing around the garden, galavanting around town, and at kdelrey@mac.com .