Pandora's Box Read online

  For the umpteenth time, Reds reprimanded herself for not holding on to some of the money that had come so easily when she was young. Five and six hundred dollars a day was the norm back then, on an exceptional day she made at least a grand. Now she pulled in fifty dollars a day—if she was lucky. That’s what she had been reduced to and Reds despised herself for being so stupid.

  She couldn’t put up with the shit much longer. These new breeds of wild-ass young girls, with their don’t-give-a-fuck heathen ways, were taking over the business, trying to push her aside. And the customers didn’t treat her much better; they gave her disdainful glances that suggested it was time she was carted off to the glue factory.

  Reds cut her eyes at Miquon, and marveled at the sight of her. Miquon had devoured one bar of chocolate and was champing down noisily on the second—this one, a Hershey with almonds. It didn’t matter that she was crude and grossly overweight, Miquon believed that her youth alone gave her an edge over Reds and Dominique. Back when Reds had started out, someone like Miquon would not have been hired to work inside a massage parlor. She would have been forced to walk the streets. For reasons, unknown to Reds, Gabrielle did not discriminate; diversity prevailed at Pandora’s. Gabrielle hired women of all sizes, colors, and shapes—something for everyone.

  CHAPTER 4

  Reds dozed off and was startled awake when the doorbell chime announced another patron. Without bothering to check hair or make-up, she hurried to the door. Dominique and Miquon were unavailable, both were engaged in a session—Dominique’s third and Miquon’s first. Reds feared that the two women would hear the doorbell, and greedily dart out of their current sessions to join Reds at the door.

  There were only a few hours before the shift ended, and Reds still hadn’t had a session. With spirits low, she managed a sexy stance and cheerful greeting when she opened the door to a grimy old black man in dated, ill-fitting clothing. Reds stifled a snicker; the wretched figure she saw huddled in the doorway would be an easy mark.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked.

  He looked her over, long and disapprovingly.

  “Yeah, a long time ago,” he replied, unsmiling. His shoulders were hunched from the cold, hands stuck deep down in his coat pockets. “Does Tina still work here?”

  Panic washed over Reds. Even he, a cruddy old geezer, held her in low esteem. She simply couldn’t go home broke again. Come on you dirty old motherfucker, she thought, it’s the wee hours of the morning, and freezing cold. You know you’re desperate and horny, so please stop wasting time!

  “No, she’s not here anymore.” Reds didn’t know who the hell he was talking about. “But why don’t you come on in anyway. You can see me.” She motioned for the man to come inside. He looked around warily and didn’t move.

  “What about Sheba? Does she still work here?”

  Reds wondered if he was referring to Sheena? It was possible. Sheena had a clientele of weirdos who stopped by occasionally. It was possible but Reds didn’t dare inquire further.

  “Nobody by that name works here.”

  “Where are the other girls?”

  “I’m the only one here tonight,” she said lamely. Her eyes bounced back and forth nervously from the old man to the closed session doors. Reds couldn’t afford for Miquon or Dominique to pop out now and provide the old fool with options.

  “Come on with me, honey. It’s cold out there. You need some of this body heat to warm you up!” Desperation shone in her eyes as she attempted to tantalize the man. She moved her hands seductively over her slack, misshapen body, and threw in a half-hearted wiggle.

  Reds tugged at the man’s arm.

  The old man stiffened. “I don’t know…I wanted to see Tina or Sheba because they both know me, and uh, understand what I need.”

  “Tell me what you need; I’ll take care of you.” There was a higher pitch to her voice.

  “Well, it’s in this here bag.” The old man pulled a crumpled brown paper bag from the deep pocket of his tattered coat.

  Reds braced herself. He probably had a doubleheaded dildo or something just as fucked up and weird. It didn’t matter; she’d seen it all.

  “Come on with me,” Reds said firmly. She practically strong-armed the man as she guided him to the only available room and quickly shut the door. Instead of handing over the fee when Reds requested it, the old man nervously scanned the room, as if he expected something or someone to pop out of some hidden place. She blinked, irritated. It was becoming increasingly difficult for Reds to contain the rage that was building.

  Stirrings were heard in the hall. Dominique or Miquon had finished her session. Reds shot a frantic glance toward the closed door, and then thoroughly angry, enraged eyes turned his way. How dare he continue to act up after she thought she had him tucked safely away from the feline predators who lurked outside the door? No one could blame her if she suddenly just lost it—just went off on the man.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked with forced control.

  “Are you gonna wear those shoes?” he asked, looking contemptuously at her feet.

  Ostrich feathers adorned the top of the pretty black satin pumps she wore.

  “What’s wrong with my shoes?”

  “Tina and Sheeba always wore high heels. Those itty bitty heels won’t work.” His face was clouded with worry.

  “They won’t work!” What did he want her to do? Walk on his back with spike heels? Reds mentally scanned the items in her bag. There was a pair of thigh high boots with a short, narrow heel, and a pair of silver slippers, but no fucking high heels. She tried not to wear them anymore.

  Her thighs, covered with unsightly spider veins, had begun to resemble a Rand McNally map, and recently, to her dismay, she’d discovered that the red, blue, and green broken veins were now traveling down to her lower legs. And as if that wasn’t enough, her gait was unsteady when wearing high heels, causing her to place last in the race to the door.

  The high heel thing was just another of the many frightening indications that she was getting too old to continue in this business.

  In search of high heels, Reds dashed back to the lounge. She groped inside Sheena’s workbag, a faded Tommy Hilfiger copy, and pulled out a pair of black and gold stilettos. BINGO! Perfect whore-wear!

  “Now before I pay you my money,” the old man cautioned when Reds returned, “I think I better explain what I want you to do.” He shook the paper bag. “I got in this here bag a jar full of all kinds of insects…” With slow, deliberate movements, he drew the jar from the bag. As if he were about to display the Hope Diamond, he beamed with pride.

  “Wait a minute! What do you have in there? Insects? You mean bugs and shit?” Surely, she misunderstood him. Reds stood frozen, waiting for some clarity. She wasn’t ready to accept that the money she expected to receive had just sprouted wings.

  “Now you get ready,” he continued. “Cause I’m going to open the lid and let all of ’em out and I want you to step on ’em—squash ’em before they can get away.”

  Her mouth fell open in astonishment. “What the fuck is your problem? I’m not stepping on no fuckin’ bugs, you crazy mothafucker.” Reds pummeled the old man with one of Sheena’s shoes. Escaping the sharp heel of the shoe, he ran out the door and almost collided with Miquon as he scampered down the hall.

  “Damn, Reds, why’d you let that bum in here?” Miquon asked in a voice filled with wonder. “Times couldn’t be that hard. I just know you wasn’t in there trickin’ with a vagrant. Didn’t you recognize him? That’s the man who be hangin’ outside the Reading Terminal—begging. If he don’t get no money, he gets mad and starts threatening to throw bugs on people.” Miquon shuddered. “What’s wrong with your nose? Couldn’t you smell his funky ass? Mothafucka bumped all up on me—got me itchin’.” Miquon scratched herself dramatically. “Now I gotta go get some alcohol and disinfect myself.”

  Reds stumbled back into the lounge and slumped in her seat. She should just quit, she
told herself. Leave before things got any worse. How could she have even considered a session with a derelict? Thoughts of her glory days swirled in her head.

  Her customers used to line up to see her, they wouldn’t settle for anyone else. There had been Caribbean vacations paid for by her johns, front row seats at championship fights, the red Corvette, luxury apartments, the full-length ranch mink coat, and oh so much money, booze, and drugs.

  Her accomplishments had been an example of what a working girl could achieve. But now her existence served as a warning to every girl in the life, that if she didn’t get out before it was too late, she’d end up just like Reds.

  Reds felt a lump forming in her throat, and tried to will it away before the warm tears that filled her eyes streamed down her face.

  CHAPTER 5

  The widely held myth that the rain brought tricks out in droves again proved true. On Thursday it rained, and no one was surprised that business was booming. The morning shift ended with eleven sessions on the books. The second shift had just begun and already there were seven sessions logged. Victoria had three of those.

  “Where are you keeping your money?” Rover asked as Victoria handed over the house’s portion of the fee.

  “In my purse.”

  “Make sure you don’t lay it down. These girls have sticky fingers,” he warned.

  She had made two hundred dollars, including tips, from the three sessions. It would appear that it was money earned easily if compared to the time and toil necessary to acquire the same amount in a more conventional way. But from the soul’s perspective, it was the hardest money Victoria had ever earned, and to have it stolen was unthinkable.

  The troubled look that crossed her face did not go unnoticed.

  “You can be straight with me, Pleasure. You’re new to the business…am I right?” Rover’s tone was gentle, his expression, fatherly.

  Victoria nodded, lids lowered.

  “Believe it or not, I’m a nice guy,” Rover began. “But I had to harden my heart toward most of the girls here. Being a nice guy has got me burned more times than I care to admit. Once upon a time, a hard luck story would get me right here…” With a balled fist, Rover thumped his chest. “Not anymore. This place is filled with nothing but cold, conniving women. Most of ‘em don’t start out that way, but that’s how they always end up. Believe me, I know.”

  “I don’t intend to work here longer than I have to Rover.” Victoria paused, then feeling compelled to confess, she blurted, “My grandmother left me some money, and I did something incredibly stupid and…”

  “That ain’t my business.” He held up a silencing finger. “Just straighten out your problems, and put all this behind you as soon as you can. You’re a nice girl and I’ve seen what this business can do to nice girls.” Rover paused. He shook his head sadly. “It destroys ‘em.”

  Victoria thought Rover was laying it on a little heavy. She appreciated his concern, but did he honestly believe she was stupid enough to stick around long enough to be destroyed?

  “There’s something else I forgot to mention.”

  Victoria smiled tolerantly. “Yes.”

  “Fast money can be addictive.”

  Victoria looked at him quizzically.

  “That’s right. After the girls get used to having that high from quick cash, they lose patience for waiting around to be paid every two weeks. I’ve seen it happen. They go back to the work force and after about a month or so, they’re right back here.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Rover. Between the two of us, I’m not an inexperienced young girl. I lied about my age.”

  Victoria noticed that Rover didn’t bat an eye. “I’m thirty-three,” she confessed. “Coffee is my only vice; it’s not likely that I’ll develop a new addiction at this point. I’m going to be fine, Rover,” she said, patting his arm. “Now where can I keep my money?”

  “I can lock it up in the safe if you want,” Rover offered.

  “Okay.”

  “But it’ll cost you. I charge $2.00 a night.”

  Victoria shrugged. “Sure. Okay.”

  “Oh! Another thing I forgot to mention. Gabrielle wants me to get twenty bucks from every girl who gets a session. We’re taking up a collection toward the funeral for Bethany’s baby. She works here. It’s a damn shame that innocent baby had to suffer.”

  A chill went through Victoria. She didn’t ask how the baby died. She didn’t want to know, fearing that the unhallowed environment of Pandora’s Box was somehow associated with the baby’s death. Victoria made a mental note to call and check on Jordan as soon as the one pay phone was free.

  “You can give me the money now or you can pay at the end of the shift.”

  Victoria handed Rover twenty-two dollars and put the rest of her money into an envelope to be placed inside the safe.

  In addition to managing the massage parlor, Rover had turned the office into a mini-mart of sorts, selling everything from candy, condoms, and cigarettes to pantyhose and feminine hygiene spray. And from his vast video collection, the girls often rented movies to take home or to view in the lounge when business was slow.

  “By the way, are they giving you a hard time?”

  “Who?” Victoria asked, distracted. Her thoughts were on Jordan.

  “The girls don’t like it when a new girl comes in and makes all the money. So you watch yourself because they’ve been known to pull some real dirty tricks—the stories I could tell you.”

  “I’m all right. They don’t seem particularly friendly, but I can handle it.”

  “Okay, just watch your back and make sure you don’t get too comfortable here.”

  When Victoria reentered the crowded lounge, she sat in the only available seat, next to a ginger-colored woman who appeared to be in her late twenties. She couldn’t recall having seen the woman before. In fact, there were quite a few new faces among the nine women who moved about in the lounge. Some were from different shifts and others worked weekends only. The weekend at Pandora’s Box began on Thursday.

  “You’re doing pretty good tonight, aren’t you?” the ginger-colored woman asked Victoria.

  Victoria nodded. “I hope it keeps up.”

  Wearing a leopard body stocking with leopard designs on clawed, sculptured nails, she looked like the stereotypical whore. She batted false eyelashes, a heart-shaped mole was drawn on her left cheek and a big blonde wig with cascading curls sat atop her head. At first glance she appeared hard, coarse, but upon closer inspection, Victoria was surprised to find beneath the layers of make-up, a child-like face with soft features, a little girl, dressing up as a lady of the night.

  “You’re new, aren’t you?” the woman asked Victoria.

  “Does it show?”

  “I overheard some of the girls talking about you. They say you stay in the room with your customers for almost an hour.”

  “What’s wrong with that? They’re paying for the time.”

  “We don’t roll like that around here; we try to get ’em out in a half hour or less. Let me give you some advice,” the woman said in a loud voice that invited everyone in the room to listen. “These customers will wear you out if you let them. You have to get them out of there as soon as possible. Otherwise we’ll lose a lot of business.”

  Eavesdropping, Miquon chimed in, “Girl, you can’t be tyin’ up the rooms on the weekend. A lot of money comes through on the weekend, and we all wanna make some dough. These tricks will walk right out if we tell them they have to wait for a room.” Miquon screwed up her lips and twisted her neck to punctuate her statement.

  Muffled laughter and murmurs filled the room. The other women in the lounge were eager to gang up on Victoria now that the conversation had turned into an open forum.

  Victoria’s face flushed. She didn’t like being publicly chastised. “How was I supposed to know that?”

  The woman in the leopard body stocking replied, “No offense, but we all assumed you knew what you were doing, bu
t it’s obvious you don’t. You can get burned out real fast around here. I’m trying to help you out while you still have that new girl thang going on.” Her full lips, outlined in black and painted a dark mahogany, parted in a smile. “By the way, my name is Jonee. You’re Pleasure, right?”

  Victoria wanted to sulk, but gave in. “Yeah, my name is Pleasure.”

  “I like that. Who gave you your name?”

  “Didn’t somebody named Pleasure usta work here before?” Miquon interrupted. “Don’t y’all remember her? Real skinny, looked like she was on drugs.”

  Victoria decided that she detested Miquon. “Nobody gave me the name,” she said, then turned away from Miquon and directed her response to Jonee only. “When I called, Rover asked for my work name. I didn’t have one, so I took the name from a bottle of cologne,” Victoria confessed, laughing. “And when I came in for an interview, he asked again. I knew I had chosen the right name when I noticed the word Pleasure in the title of a video lying on his desk.”

  “That figures. He’s such a pervert,” Jonee whispered. “It was probably one of his fag boy movies.”

  “Rover’s gay?” Victoria asked, whispering also.

  Miquon hovered, waiting for an opportunity to get back into the conversation, but the whispering excluded her. Clutching a few dollars and some change, Miquon stomped out of the room, headed for Rover’s commissary.

  “I don’t know if he’s actually gay,” Jonee said as she brushed a fallen blonde tress from her face. “All men are fucked up one way or another—especially in the sex department. Rover’s always looking at porn flicks with preoperative transvestites. His face is glued to the screen while he’s watching those chicks-with-dicks movies.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Jonee shook her head. “I’m not kidding. That’s how he gets his freak on.” Jonee paused. “Honey, those dudes look better than most women. They have big tits…plump, round asses…and the tiniest waistlines you’ll ever see. And then…bam…they be sportin’ these big, rock-hard dicks! That shit’s amazing. You never saw one of those videos?” Jonee asked incredulously.