Chances

  They heard her scream two minutes later, a sharp panic-stricken scream from outside in the street.

  Gino moved fast, bounding on the balls of his feet, Catto and Pinky Banana beside him.

  Zeko the Creepo had little Miss Cuteness pinned up against the wall. She was squeaking like a frightened rabbit while his hands roamed all over her. Her white blouse was ripped down the front, revealing her bosom.

  “What you doin’, Zeko?” Gino asked softly.

  “Not your business—punk.” Zeko scowled.

  “Yeh? Well, I’m makin’ it my business.”

  Zeko thrust toward the frightened girl. “I’m not greedy. When I’m through y’can all have a turn.”

  “Get away from her, y’slimy creepo.”

  “Fuck off, Gino.”

  They were fighting before anyone knew it. Struggling and rolling on the ground. Kicking and clawing at each other.

  Gino was younger and shorter than Zeko, but stronger. He threw a good punch that busted Zeko’s lip. Blood came pouring out.

  “Y’dirty stinkin’ little rat,” Zeko snarled. He reached into his boot and produced a knife.

  They were both back on their feet now, warily circling each other. Pinky Banana and Catto had been joined by a neighborhood crowd who screamed for blood. Some were shouting for Gino, some for Zeko.

  Gino didn’t hear anything. He had one eye on the knife, one eye on Zeko’s every move.

  Zeko lunged suddenly, the knife cutting a vicious slash down the side of Gino’s cheek. The blood was more profuse than the pain.

  “You cock bastard!” Gino yelled. And the fury came over him, the all-enveloping black fury that he had felt the time he was attacking Brother Philippe. Zeko wasn’t Zeko any more—he was that lousy Paolo. Suddenly his strength was boundless. He grabbed Zeko’s knife arm and twisted and twisted, not even hearing the sickening crack the arm made, nor Zeko’s screams of pain. Pinky Banana and Gatto had to drag him off the howling Zeko.

  “I think you broke his arm,” Catto announced, not exactly sorry at the thought.

  The haze slowly lifted from Gino’s eyes. He shook his head, unsure for a moment where he was or what he was doing. He stared down at the whining Zeko. “Next time it’ll be your head,” he warned. He looked around for the little blond girl who had started all the trouble. She was long gone. Just like a dame.

  “We’d better go over to the hospital—get your face fixed up,” Pinky Banana suggested.

  Gino touched the dripping blood on his cheek. That’s all he needed, a stinking scar. “Let’s go,” he said quickly.

  They put ten stitches in his face at the hospital. They asked a lot of questions too, but Gino wasn’t saying anything.

  Zeko was brought in as they were leaving. The two of them exchanged baleful glares but no words. The law of the streets was keep your mouth shut. Neither of them intended to break it.

  Two days later Gino was working in the repair shop, lying under a propped-up Packard, when a stranger visited him. The stranger’s shoes came into view first. Two-tone patent. Very racy.

  “You Gino Santangelo?” A voice from above the shoes inquired.

  “Who’s asking?” He slid out from under the car.

  “Never mind that. Are you?”

  Gino’s heart pounded just a little bit faster. Standing above him was Eddie the Beast, right-hand lieutenant of the notorious Salvatore Charlie Lucania.

  He gulped, tried to conceal his nervousness, and stood up, wiping his oil-smeared hands on filthy trousers. “Yeh, I’m Gino Santangelo,” he managed.

  Eddie the Beast didn’t hesitate. He smashed a punch into Gino’s stomach, doubling him in two.

  “That’s for Zeko,” Eddie said calmly. “He wanted to send his regards on account of the fact that he’s lying in the hospital with a busted arm and cannot convey them personal.”

  Gino straightened up, every street instinct telling him not to fight back. So he stood there, stared at Eddie, and said, “That’s his bad luck, he asked for it.”

  Eddie laughed. “We heard you was one tough little punk. Looks like the word was right. Come on. Mr. Lucania wants to see you.”

  Pinky Banana’s eyes bugged out of his head.

  “I’ll be back soon,” Gino told him, keeping his voice light. “Fix it with the boss. Tell him I got sick or somethin’.”

  “Maybe ya just might,” Eddie inserted ominously.

  Somehow Gino wasn’t nervous. He didn’t feel that anything bad was going to happen to him. On the contrary, he felt on the verge of some great good fortune.

  Charlie Lucania greeted him in the back of a black Cadillac sedan parked nearby. He looked him over carefully, then spoke rapidly. “Heard lots about you, kid. Some good, some bad.”

  Gino remained silent.

  “You got a temper—that’s O.K. I got a temper. You just gotta know when to use it. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

  He nodded.

  “I like t’have good people around me. Bring ’em in young, train ’em, get some loyalty goin’ You understand me?”

  Again he nodded.

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen,” he lied. He still had a month to go.

  “That’s all right. That’s good. S’long as you got moxie ’n guts.” Lucania leaned forward. “I picked Zeko to do a job for me. You put him out of action. I’m gonna go easy on you. I’m givin’ you his job. Next Wednesday night. Eight o’clock. Eddie’ll give you the details.”

  Lucania leaned back. The conversation was over as far as he was concerned.

  Gino cleared his throat. “Er, look. I’m glad of the chance… but I don’t ever want to find myself in the can again.”

  Lucania threw him a lazy look. “You a good driver?”

  “The best.”

  “So you won’t get caught.”

  Eddie the Beast opened the car door. “Come on, punk,” he said, grinning. “Out.”

  It was then Gino realized he had no choice.

  Carrie

  1927-1928

  The man stared at Carrie, and she stared back at him with huge frightened eyes. He was a big negro, well over six feet. But it wasn’t his height that frightened her, or his considerable bulk. It was the size of his penis.

  She had “entertained” him twice before, and each time he had nearly ripped her in half. She had complained to Leroy, crying and bleeding on both occasions. He had jeered at her for being a baby. She wasn’t a baby. She was a prisoner.

  “I don’ feel good,” she said to the man, blinking back tears.

  “Sure you do, honey,” the man replied, easing off his trousers. “All the ladies feel good when they see what I got for ’em.”

  Oh, sweet Jesus! What had she done to deserve the life she was being forced to live? Since the fateful night when Leroy had raped her she had been kept locked up. Not a moment’s daylight or freedom had come her way, just a perpetual stream of men, and Leroy to collect the money, and grandma Ella to bring her food, sheets, and towels when she remembered—which wasn’t as often as it should be.

  Leroy had rented the room next door, and that’s where she had been imprisoned. A human machine, just there to service the men who passed in and out.

  At first she had tried to say no. But Leroy had beat her until giving in seemed to be the easy way out.

  The man had now removed his trousers and long woolen underpants, and he stood before her, shirt flapping foolishly down, not covering his large organ.

  “You… you hurt me with your thing,” she managed. “Isn’t there some other way?”

  The man thought for a moment; then a smile spread over his asinine features. “I could spread it over your little titties and then put it in your mouth,” he suggested.

  Anything was better than having to take him between her legs. She nodded numbly and peeled off her slip. She was painfully thin, faded marks of Leroy’s beatings remained, and her legs and arms were like sticks. Her large breasts remained, and the m
an grabbed them roughly, rubbing his penis across them.

  She shut her eyes and wished she could cover her ears. The man’s groans were not something she wanted to listen to. She tried to think about the past, the good things that had happened in her life: Mama Sonny. Philadelphia. Her job at Mr. Dimes’s fine house on Park Avenue.

  The man was forcing his thing into her mouth now. It tasted of urine and sweat. She wanted to object, but it was too late; she was unable to speak. He was pushing back and forth, rubbing against her teeth, which longed, spitefully, to bite him.

  She had never done this before. Would he push all the way down her throat and choke her?

  She gagged, and he withdrew slightly. Then he was clutching onto her breasts as though they were two melons to be squeezed for ripeness, and he was moaning loudly and chanting some sort of prayer.

  Then he was climaxing, and great spurts of salty thick liquid were flowing down her throat.

  She thought she would be sick. But instead she swallowed, he withdrew, and it was over.

  She had prevented him from splitting her in two. That was something, wasn’t it? She should celebrate, really. After all, it was her fourteenth birthday.

  Grandma Ella died eight months later. Only Leroy didn’t bother to tell Carrie for three days. She was virtually starving when he came to see her.

  “Get dressed,” he said, shoving a dirty old dress in her direction.

  “I need some food,” she pleaded. “How can you just leave me locked up here with no food? I could die and—”

  “Shut up, girl,” Leroy said roughly. “My mama took a trip to heaven and all you can do is whine ’bout yourself.”

  Her eyes widened. “Grandma Ella died?”

  “Grandma Ella died?” Leroy mimicked. “She sure ’nuff did—an’ I ain’t hangin’ round here any longer. I’m gonna take me a trip out to California.” He rolled his eyes. “Sunshine an’ good times—here comes Le-roy!”

  She stared at him. “You mean I’m free?”

  Leroy chuckled. “Girl, you are my ticket to California. I’m sellin’ you.”

  Carrie backed away from him. “You can’t do that.”

  “Oh, no? Jest you watch me, girl. An’ you better behave yourself or I might jest slit your pretty little throat afore I go.”

  Leroy meant what he said. He dressed her, fed her a greasy plate of fried chicken, and holding her firmly by the arm took her to a nearby house, where a big fat woman prodded and poked her as if she were a piece of prime roast beef.

  “Lissy, you-all will not regret this bargain buy,” Leroy announced. He took hold of Carrie’s dress and ripped it from her body. “See these titties, these legs, that juicy little box.”

  Carrie squirmed away from his touch.

  “How’ll I know she’ll behave?” Lissy questioned suspiciously.

  “Oh, she’ll behave,” Leroy said airily. “She don’ know no other job. She loves it. Jest keep her fed an’ locked up. You won’t have no trouble.”

  “I don’t know….” Lissy was unsure.

  “’Course you do. She’s young. You’ll make a fortune with her.”

  “How much you want?”

  “I thought we agreed a hundred dollars. You’ll make that back in a matter of weeks—then it’s all profit.”

  Lissy narrowed businesslike eyes. “Fifty, Leroy, that’s as high as I’ll go.”

  “Shee-it!” Leroy was angry. “You backin’ down on me?”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “Make it seventy-five.”

  “Fifty.”

  “Sixty,” he whined.

  Lissy relented. “Fifty-five an’ it’s a deal.”

  They shook hands and money was exchanged. Then Leroy was on his way without so much as a goodbye.

  Lissy stared at Carrie. “You’re too skinny,” she stated. “Gotta fatten you up. Come with me, I’ll show you your room. An’ a good bath wouldn’t do you no harm.”

  Life at Lissy’s establishment was an improvement. Meals were regular, the johns were better, and the room she was kept locked in was luxurious in comparison to what she was used to.

  There were other girls there too. At first she wasn’t allowed to even see them, but after a couple of months, when she had more than earned back her price, Lissy relented and gave her a few sweet tastes of freedom.

  She would have run. But Leroy was right. She had nowhere to run to. She was a whore now; nothing could change that sad fact. There was no going back to Philadelphia or a job with Mr. Dimes. Whoring was her life, and as one of the other girls pointed out, if it was to be her life why didn’t she make money out of it too?

  Shortly afterward, she approached Lissy. “I want a share of what I make,” she insisted.

  Lissy laughed. “How come it took you so long to ask?”

  By the age of fifteen, Carrie had saved herself a nice little stash of money. With her big breasts, long dark hair, and oriental eyes, she was really something to look at.

  Lissy understood when she told her she was moving on. She wasn’t happy about it, but there was nothing she could do.

  Carrie took herself to see Florence Williams, one of the biggest madams in Harlem. She lived in a beautiful apartment off 141st Street along with three special girls, and after one look at Carrie, Florence was happy to give her a room. The deal was she would get twenty dollars a john, and out of every twenty she would pay Florence five for her rent.

  The room she had was a dream. A comfortable bed with a white cover and matching telephone. In the corner was a china washbasin and beside it a pile of clean towels, kept that way by a maid who visited the room after every customer.

  A maid! Carrie did not enjoy what she was doing, but it was certainly becoming more acceptable.

  The other girls at Florence’s were friendly. And what’s more, two of them were white. Carrie was soon to discover that half the customers were white! She was amazed. She had never imagined that white men would have to pay for it, seemingly respectable white men who probably had good jobs and wives and all sorts of advantages in life.

  The other girls laughed when she expressed her surprise.

  “Honey, white men a hell of a lot dirtier than some horny nigger,” Cecilia told her. Cecilia was tall and haughty-looking, the last person you would suspect would be selling it. “Niggers want to give it to you good, show you what a great big wonderful fuck they are. White guys… well, they like it strange. Tie ’em up and beat ’em like they’re doîn’ somethin’ real filtheee. Give me a good old spade any day.”

  Cecilia had skin the color of buttermilk, red hair, and long long legs. She spoke in a lazy southern drawl. The other white girl was all big wide eyes and bounce.

  And then there was Billie, a black girl who Carrie suspected was about the same age as herself, although they both claimed to be eighteen.

  Carrie thought Billie was real pretty, she liked her a lot. Billie had come up from Baltimore to visit with her mother and had gotten a job as a maid, hated it, and ended up selling it at Florence Williams’s place. “Beats the hell outa cleaning up after some fat lazy white bitch,” Billie drawled. She had a lovely voice, real nice and smooth, Carrie thought, especially when she would sing along with some of the jazz musicians on the Victrola. “You oughtta be a singer,” Carrie told her.

  “Yeah,” Billie agreed, “there’s a lotta things I oughtta be doin’—and one day I’m a gonna bust right out an’ surprise everyone.”

  “Sure you will,” Carrie agreed, “and so will I.” Only she didn’t quite know how. Billie had a dream. She had nothing. At least she was safe selling her body. She had no desire to go out in the world again and face people. They would all take one look at her and know immediately what she was.

  Sometimes she would wake in the middle of the night and curse grandma Ella and Leroy. Other times she would wake and force herself not to think about them.

  The days turned into nights, then back to days again, and Carrie really didn’t notice the differ
ence. It was as if she was in a permanent daze. Even the money she was managing to salt away didn’t mean anything to her. Each john blended into the next. Black, white, old, young, it meant nothing to her.

  Florence Williams summoned her for a talk. “You’d better change your outlook, little gal. These cats comin’ here for a good time. From what I hear you ain’t givin’ it to them.”

  One night, while Carrie serviced a john, there was a big commotion outside her room. Angry raised voices. Billie and a customer. And Florence’s calm tones trying to smooth things over.

  Carrie found out later that Billie had turned a client down. A real big negro by the name of Big Blue Ranier. A man with connections. He had been with Bub Hewlett, the man who practically ran Harlem.

  Florence was furious. “These guys are in real snug ’n’ tight with the cops,” she fumed. “You gotta learn who you can say no to and who you can’t.”

  Billie was unrepentant.

  The next morning as the girls sat around the kitchen eating breakfast there was a raid. The cops broke in and arrested everyone in the place. They were hauled off to jail in a paddy wagon.

  Within hours Florence Williams and the two white girls were released. Billie and Carrie were not. They were booked, charged with prostitution, and, after a horrible night in jail, taken over to the Jefferson Market Court.

  When Billie saw who was presiding on the bench she groaned. “We have had it,” she announced to a by now petrified Carrie. “See that old bitch up there? That’s Judge Jean Norris—she’s meaner than a plateful of turds!”

  Billie got off lightly, as far as Carrie could tell. Her mother appeared in court and swore that Billie was eighteen. Then the judge squinted at a piece of paper, said it was a health report and that Billie was sick, and sent her off to a city hospital in Brooklyn.

  When Carrie’s turn came, the judge gave her a real mean stare and asked all sorts of questions which Carrie refused to answer. The only thing she volunteered was the fact that she was eighteen years old.

  Finally, exasperated, Judge Norris said, “If you don’t care to answer the court’s questions, that’s up to you, young lady. I could be lenient with you, but because of your attitude I don’t intend to be. Three months. Welfare Island. Case dismissed.”