Click I Hang Up The Phone

Butcher, Baker: The Untold Story, Part 5

What I needed was an escape hatch, away from the topless and bottomless clubs. Away from the street. There was one, nearby. In most cities, we have our own after-hours clubs. Sometimes it’s just a house or apartment, with everything taken out except for tables and chairs. There were drinks – cognac, Grand Marnier. And time away from the pimps. Every place is different. In California, you don’t mix girls and pimps after hours. Pimps have one after hours place, and the girls have another. In Anchorage, everybody’s at the same place, with the pimps in one room, the women in another. It was like a vacation — there wasn’t even a phone.

I started going to the after-hours club because I could finally go there. I’m working at Kitty’s. We’re dancers, we can go to the after-hours. That wasn’t happening when I was working the street, you know? 

Now, the after hours club in Anchorage was just a house. It had a kitchen and a living room, but everything was taken out except for the tables and chairs. In the back were bedrooms, where the doors were taken off and then converted to rooms with tables and chairs. And the pimps would be upfront talking and the girls would be in back. They would bring us drinks, you know, like cognac or whatever we wanted. And that was like society for us. No phones, just conversation and a little preening.

One of the women I met there was Peggy. We just started hanging out together. We sort of clicked, you know? She was short, looked small for her age, and was cute with curly hair. She was almost kid-like. Like if the guy’s a pervert, he might go for that kind of thing. Anyway, she told me she worked at Gentlemen’s Retreat, which was a massage parlor. I got the impression that she was tight with the owner which, to be honest, started giving me ideas. I’m thinking about moving over to a massage parlor because dancing wasn’t making enough money.

Plus, of course, the whole Hansen thing. Yeah, I’m freaked out. He’s on the prowl. He’s loose. I know I can’t be a dancer no more at Kitty’s.

And then something new comes along. My hindsight tells me Peggy was in there somehow, talking about me. 

Because one night, this older guy comes into the afterhours club; he’s got these rocks, he’s just encrusted in diamonds. And he knows who I am. Well, he’s got a massage parlor and he gives me his card. I know I could be a wife-in-law, no bother. I’d be on the low list; I can work with no hassles. I already know Peggy, who works at his place. That could take a certain amount of pressure off, right?

About that wife-in-law thing… when a pimp has multiple women in his stable, a rough hierarchy dictates the status of each woman. The top-ranking woman, who runs things in the pimp’s absence, is called the “bottom bitch.” The other women are collectively referred to as “wives-in-law.” To a certain degree, these other women are interchangeable, even expendable. 

Now, Billy Joe was not attractive. He was ugly, about 5’10”, 225 pounds. A big guy, gold chains, big old gold nugget rings. He was maybe fifty, even sixty years old. I was just surprised, though, because he had a lot of girls. And right then I decided I was going to take the offer. 

On The Phone

You know because, that’s like, right up my alley. I go out, I work, I stack up about $1,800 bucks. And I go, I knock on the door at Gentlemen’s Retreat. And there’s DeeDee, Janice, Peggy. All of them are there. And Billy Joe? He’s in the back. I tell him, I say,” I want to choose.” And he says, “OK.” I call Nate. I call him and I tell him, “Guess what? I want you to talk to somebody.” Billy gets on the phone and says “I just want to let you know she chose me. And she’s not with you no more. Don’t call her. Don’t do nothing.”

A couple of days go by and Nate is on the phone. He says, “What’s up? “ I said, “Not you, bud.”

Cindy Paulson

Now Nate was not the kind of man to just let it go. He says to me in that payback voice, “How you gonna be with that old ass man? You’re a hoe. Now you back in a massage parlor? You better not be giving that motherfucker my money.”

I told him, right then, I told him. “You left me for dead. Don’t call me no more. Don’t talk to me. Lose this number. You know, kick gravel and travel bud. You are nothing to me.” 

Click, I hang up the phone. I’m feeling safe, but reality says I wasn’t. Maybe that’s why I didn’t read the papers. Too scary. The cops kept finding dead girls. I could have been one of them. Hell, I could still be.

With Nate out of the picture, though, I finally have a massage parlor. I feel like I’m safe from all the tricks that come in there. It’s well established. It’s well known. I have everything. I’m cool. Billy Joe knew all about the thing with Hansen and didn’t care. I live at the Big Timber, top floor. Yeah, I don’t worry. ‘Cause most of the time I’m staying at the parlor. Safe. 

This period was, for me, a beacon of relative security. There was always a Billy Joe between me and Hansen. Billy’s girls were a buffer and my adopted family. If there was a downside, it was ready access to “street” pharmaceuticals. The early 80’s were the heyday of cocaine. I was not shy about self-medicating. It came with the turf. But that’s another story. You just can’t phone in that one, you know?

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