Airtight Willie & Me Read Online Free Page B

her gorilla . . . He don’t allow the ho to even rap with nothing but suckers . . . and don’t forget he lugged her from New Orleans. Them pimps and hoes off’a Rampart Street got their own understanding of one another’s crazy shit and savvy of their thing together. One more time, Slim, let the ho be! Darling, I don’t want to cry like a cunt at your funeral.”
    Then Phil sighed. “Good luck, pally . . . Promise to bury you in a blue silk vine with a three-day wake.”
    We watched the stricken sucker stumble out to the sidewalk. He streaked back to the vestibule killing floor, where he kicked out the door glass panels. He scooted up and down the block, peeping into every joint and cranny. He was cavorting and hurting like his balls had been blow-torched. Finally, he sad-sacked into his Buick. He stomped the horses and blasted off to shake down the ghetto catacombs.
    Phil’s main ho, dwarfish Bitsy Red, and several hoes of his stable came in to set up the joint for the after-hours action and my birthday party. You know, stringing bunting and glitter crap around the mirrored joint.
    I said, “Phil, how long has that ho been down in this burg?”
    He said, “A week or so . . . Why?”
    I said, “A ho with her voltage is about due to hit the wind anytime . . . You know, with the heat and all . . . I better get in the streets now to make some kinda contact with the ho. How about laying some more fast rundown on me . . . like has her old man got any chump shortcomings. . . craps, hard shit, or what not?”
    Phil grinned. “Like every nigger mack fresh outta big-foot country, he’s sizzling for young white ho pussy . . . He’s sported his dick twice at Aunt Lula’s joint out at the lip of town . . . He’s a half a ‘C’ note trick . . . cons himself he can steal one with his jib and dick. You ain’t got to hit the stem to take your shot at that ho . . . Every pimp and ho in town will ease in here before daybreak. Please, pally! . . . Be cool and don’t make Jabbo Ross, that’s the gorilla’s moniker, waste you in here and sour my roller fix for my joint.”
    I said, “I’ll be cool, brother . . . Does Bitsy know the ho?”
    Phil’s Persian cat eyes ballooned with righteous indignation. Bubbles, the Dane, jerked her two hundred pounds to an ominous crouch.
    Phil’s contralto rap box quavered. “Slim, darling, you my main man, and I love ya. Ain’t no doubt you hip. I’d cut off my right wing and my swipe for you. But I ain’t gonna let you throw my bottom ho, Bitsy, in no cross with that crazy nigger Jabbo and that girl. Nigger, you got a chump yen for the morgue! You ain’t taking Bitsy on that trip!”
    I leaned to pat his shoulder. Bubbles issued a doomsday snarl. Phil whispered harshly, “Ho, everything is cool. Lay your bad ass down somewhere.”
    Bubbles sighed. She crashed down behind his chair and stared at me with malevolent eyes.
    I said, “Baby, you read me wrong. I don’t want Bitsy to cut into the ho with no messenger cupid bit. Maybe Bitsy is got some inside info on the ho. You know, personal scam that only a ho would be hip to.”
    Phil turned toward the bar and snapped his fingers. Bitsy looked up from dumping silver into the cash register. Phil’s head waggledher to our table. She sat down. I had met her in Cleveland. She smiled.
    Phil said, “Give my homeboy a rundown on Black Sue.”
    Bitsy said in a squeaky voice, “We did a lot of rapping ’fore Ross cut us loose . . . She’s twenty-two or -three . . . I think. Got a crumb crusher, a daughter, in a state foster home back in New Orleans. Her old man, Ross, ain’t had Sue but a year. The crumb crusher’s daddy was wasted in a card