Watch Yo Teef

They say it’s hard for a pimp but extra hard for a ’ho.

In the Gutter, that’s just two sides of the same delightful coin. Like the kind you hold in your fist by the roll-full before you smash someone's teeth in.

Watch Yo Teef by Russell Johnson

They say pimpin’ ain’t easy, but for me it always was. Twenty years in the game, I never had no problems turning a girl out. And I never, ever, let one Georgia me. Back in the day, my track used to run from Third Street all the way down to Jefferson. Lovely, long-legged ladies, working every corner in between. I had sisters, snow bunnies, even a little dash of Hong Kong Phooey here and there. It was like a rainbow coalition of coochie struttin’ up and down the strip. The best stable in the city. Sure, every now and then some young stud would try to move in on my action, but I’d just go bust him in the mouth. If that didn’t work, then I’d croak the motherfucker. I had the total setup—the pad, the wheels, the bling, and plenty of scratch. Life was good.

But that was then. Now the game’s changed. The competition done went corporate—big businesses with bullshit websites, edging out the old-school street hustlers. Ain’t no nervous Johns rolling through the hood searching for snatch, when they can fix a meet from the safety of the Internet. Wasn’t long before my girls deserted me, the Impala got repossessed, and I had an eviction notice stapled to the door.

So there I was, down at the greasy spoon, putting a hurtin’ on some corn beef hash, wondering, What the fuck? What was I gonna do? My skillz no longer paid the bills. And I started flipping through the want ads of all things, the newsprint smudging my fingers, when I came across an ad that bitch-slapped me across the face, job so goddamn, motherfucking perfect. After all, screwing people is what I know. This place could use a man with my talents.

*

Thirty minutes and one bumpy-ass bus ride later, I was up on the 21^st floor of a gleaming glass building up town, pushing into the conference room of Markem & Howe, Attorneys at Law. There was a long marble table with leather sling-back chairs. The Man was there. He was fat. Wore a red bow tie and suspenders that were about to snap. Got all pasty-faced and started barking for the secretary to call the police. Sitting next to him was a sweet little thing with a short blonde sassy haircut, wearing a gray power suit and doing it justice.

“Sup girl?” I said, plopping down in one of the sling-backs, kicking my feet up on the table like I owned the place. The last little fool in the room was a pimple-nosed kid, probably straight out a law school, there applying for the entry-level job that had caught my attention. He had one of them pad-folios—whatever the fuck that is—and looked like he was about to straight piss his pants.

The secretary ran for help. I told ’em all to chill, I was just looking for a job. “The ad said you was wantin’ someone to handle collections,” I said.

“Uh … that … a … that’s … right,” the round man responded. “We … do a lot of bank work here.”

“Well, then you in luck, fat man. ’Cause collections happens to be one of my specialties.”

The man tugged at his shirt collar and squirmed in his seat, his eyes darting toward the door. “Well, perhaps you have a resume you can leave with us,” he said.

I smiled wide, showing them that gold tooth. “Shit, man, you better open up the obituaries you want to read my resume.”

The pimple-nosed kid made a nervous sound, something between a gasp and a hiccup.

“I’m for real man,” I said. “I can help y’all.” They looked uninterested. “And not just collections neither,” I said, trying to think of something else. Then it hit me. “Let’s say you got a beef with somebody, right? Like one of them lawsuits. You need some info they won’t give up. What you gonna do?” 

The P.Y.T. spoke up. “Well, we first have to meet and confer with opposing counsel and if we can’t work it out, we file a motion with the court.” 

I slapped the table and everyone jumped. “See baby. That’s what I’m talking ’bout. I can be your ‘meet and confer man.’ But I ain’t gonna axe ’em. I’m a show up with a lead pipe and they gonna give it up, or I’m a bust those chicklets out they mouth.” 

Just then the secretary’s voice buzzed over the intercom. “Mr. Markem, the police are on their way,” she said. The pretty little lady and Poindexter both looked relieved. But the fat man must have been a veteran of many a discovery dispute because he just sat there for a minute tapping the table with his pen, considering the situation. 

“Hold on just a sec, Margaret,” he said. “Let’s not be too hasty.” 

Russell Johnson is a lawyer who got so sick of discovery disputes that a few years ago he began writing crime fiction. Since then his stories have been published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and Thuglit.