BEFORE THE DOPE BOY COULD TAKE OVER THE block, he had to contend with the pimps. They were the original hood superstars. Prostitution was the main means of getting money before coke dealing. People usually point toward Chicago and Detroit when they talk about pimping. I’m sure those cities had their share of Archbishop Don Juans, but Miami brought swagger to the hustle. Let’s face it. Where else can a woman strut around half-naked with her goodies exposed for most of the year? Bob Marley had to be high on the good green thinking about Miami when he wrote “Pimper’s Paradise.”
Like most hustles, pimping came down to who had the slickest tongue. A guy had to talk a woman out of her right reasoning to get her to walk down a strip selling her love below. There was an art to it. The prevalence of pimping can make someone speculate on those ironies rampant in the hood.
Imagine if those pimps could have got into city hall? I always thought pimps would have made good politicians. There isn’t much difference to the two professions. Both are selling you bullshit to get something out of you.
Paul Red and the Bel-Air Blondes made it look easy.
They were what folks could call signature pimps in the hood. Of course there were more too numerous to mention, but the way those two put it down was smooth like Hennessy chased with caramel drops.
Red always wore the brightest zoot suits. He showcased the hot pink, lime green, and of course the obvious red. His game was what people called mack-certified.
“Damn, damn, damn, damn!” Red would yell, walking up to a lady in a bar. “Looky here, woman, you got me intoxicated and I ain’t had a drink yet. I’m sure you fit that glass slipper!”
The lady would smile.
“Bartender! Please get Cinderella the house special. I got to whisk her away before Prince Charming comes looking for her!” boasted Red.
In minutes the two were locked in conversation. Red had the magic words. Some cats just had that golden tongue. You can’t teach someone how to mack. It has to be in his DNA.
Months later the same lady would be out on the strip in broad daylight shuffling down Seventeenth Avenue, all broken-down and destitute, another of Red’s whores. Money is a powerful motivator.
Women turned tricks in the alley behind my apartment. They turned tricks under the bleachers by the basketball court. Any discreet corner or shaded space became a john’s rented spot.
The Bel-Air Blondes were a crew of older pimps. They were always decked out in white. They wore their hair in processed curls and donned brightly colored shirts with butterfly collars and bell-bottom pants to accentuate their white suits. Their square-toe gator shoes were classic. They drove Lincoln town cars. Long, black, shiny Lincolns were their pimp caravan. With Curtis Mayfield crooning from their stereos they cruised the block checking on their ladies.
“Looking good, Ms. America. You know daddy likes his on the first of the month, baby!”
“Trust me, I got your rent, daddy!”
The pimps treated their trade with class. There was order and a code of conduct to the game. No pimp disrespected another pimp’s strip. Any disagreements were settled over a shot of cognac.
Most folks frowned upon the pimps and their whores. Tell me what’s different when a woman goes on a date with a man who expects to get sex after he pays for dinner? Women fly into South Beach from all over America, hoping to meet some rich guy in a nightclub. They dream of moving out of their boring desk job and into a mansion on the beach. Then they scheme on how to get knocked up to win the child-support lottery. That defines tricking if you ask me.
That was the more subtle way women tricked back in those days. Our women in Miami are what you might call traditional females. They are accustomed to being taking care of, if you know what I mean. Save that feminist, Ms. Independent crap for up North. In Miami, a man has to wine and dine a lady. Women got all dolled up on the weekend in hopes of finding themselves a man with money.
In fact, that’s how Miami ended up having so many strip clubs. Most of our strip clubs were regular clubs until women decided they would just take their tricking on the weekends further. Men went to happy hour to find what we call a shone today. A shone is a lady that a guy just wants to hang out and kick it with. Women wanted to find a man who could spend the most money. The pimps shined in that respect.
I looked up to them. Every boy in the hood did. Our admiration stemmed from basic economics. Whoever in the projects was self-sufficient without food stamps gained notoriety. The pimps were some cold, debonair cats, and theirs was a nonviolent trade, so to speak. They were from the old school of hustling and knew violence was bad for business. Drama isn’t good for concealing illegal activity. That’s why it’s so easy to weed out authentic gangsters from the fake ones. No true gangster wants to attract attention. It’s not the way the game is played. When gunshots rang out, the boys in blue sped down the avenue.
Most cops who patrol the hood know the drug dealers and hustlers. It’s a necessary and uneasy friendship. The cops let those crooks conduct business year-round. They only get involved when an innocent kid or a bystander gets shot in the cross fire. Do you really think the Miami-Dade police department launches an investigation when a known drug dealer gets put to sleep?
Hell no!
Good riddance. Let those niggers kill themselves.
The pimps understood that there could be some form of honor among thieves. They kept their whores happy on the finest drugs and gave each other the mutual respect earned over years of illegal living. However, when the powder came, the pimps lost their footing. Cadillac cars replaced Lincolns, and the hustlers behind the wheels were a more sinister and flashy breed.
I can still remember that Saturday night at Green’s Lounge when folks noticed the game was changing. Everyone realized that dope would soon bring out the worst in all of us.
Green’s Lounge was a typical down-South pub where black folk went to unwind. Booze, gossip, and good laughs were a mainstay. Ribs blazing on the grill and catfish frying sent a soul food aroma floating throughout the place. Lots of brawls always occurred at the lounge. The fisticuffs often interrupted the usual weekend bliss where old men sat playing dominoes and couples swayed to Marvin Gaye near the jukebox.
Amid that cool atmosphere cats would also get all fired up on devil’s water, aka moonshine, and start breaking stuff. Shortly after the fighting ensued, the bartender would calm the two winos down, and the good times continued. It was a place scripted in the usual down-South country drama.
I was an avid pool player. Even to this day I can rack ’em and knock ’em down better than the average pool shark. It’s one the few pastimes that I can truthfully say helped me escape mentally. On that particular night, I was beating the hog skin off the behind of some older cats.
“That boy right there the truth! I told y’all buddy got a mean pool game!” Smitty the bartender yelled.
“I’m taking all bets that he’ll whup you proper!”
I was kicking that old-timer’s ass.
Meanwhile, an old pimp was trying to get the attention of a guy at the bar. The guy whose attention he sought looked to be no older than twenty. He was flirting with a chick at the bar. She was obviously one of the pimp’s women.
“Hey, partner, you’re tying up little Ms. Lady’s ears with all the sweet talk. Good conversation don’t come cheap these days,” the old dude said.
The two kept on talking. The young guy shrugged his shoulders. For any older hustler in the pimp game the gesture was just as disrespectful as a smack in the face. The pimp didn’t take kindly to the insult.
“Partner, I ain’t gonna tell you again to ease up off the lady if there isn’t going to be a monetary exchange,” the pimp said.
“We’re just conversating! Why you got to be all in my business all the time!” the woman snapped back.
“Ho, your business is my business!” the pimp fired back, and slapped her.
The sound echoed throughout the bar. That lady got smacked hard. I thought her head would have tumbled off. The young guy stood up. He reached in his pocket, then threw a stack of hundreds in the pimp’s face. I wanted to run and grab the money that fell, but knew better.
“Motherfucker!” The pimp sprang on him.
Then all I saw was blood shooting upward to the ceiling. The young hustler kept jamming a knife in the pimp’s neck. Folks tried to pry him off the old dude, but it was too late. I never saw so much blood in my life. It was the first time I saw a man killed.
Something was happening in Miami. The pimps were losing their footing. Hoe strolls were soon becoming dope holes. The prostitutes turned into addicts. Pimps became hollow shells of their former selves. Those durable enough sailed the tide and made the transition to selling powder. Others succumbed to it.