CHAPTER ELEVEN
There’s No Place Like Home
Wade learned a lot about Moet in a short period of time. As if he was piecing together her biography. Moet was a dancer, yes, but that was second only to her being a nympho. She either loved sex, loved being with different partners, or at least she was practicing amateur video producing. More of her video library allowed for some new discoveries. Sometimes Moet would cry out her partner’s name, other times there was role playing that provoked idle talk. Meanwhile, she was never at a loss for partners. Debbie (aka Caramel) and Valerie (aka Sadie) turned out to be those in Moet’s famous threesome. One tape even recorded a foursome. It was Cinnamon and her two friends, Foxy and Mo. Cinnamon and company took turns satiating Moet as if they were lining up for a religious confession of some kind. Wade saw the event as a celebration for Moet, because from what was on video—a birthday present?—Moet was the only one being satisfied. Plus, everyone wore party hats and edible party outfits. There was lively music and a spread of party favors about the floor.
Besides the occasions with other women, Moet also had sessions with Ken, the gazillion-dollar baseball star, and Bobby, the fisherman from the South Street Seaport. Those tapes and escapades were helpful in providing Wade with images of the various associates in Moet’s life, and yet they were also uneventful in the way of hard evidence. However, there was a controversial engagement with Douglass Jr., Mr. Gilmore’s son. The video was short lived due to some vile name calling and a physical struggle which followed. The last image left on that video was of Moet throwing a potted plant at Douglass; then came a backhand across Moet’s face sending her in the direction of the camera. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when Moet got even more physical, shoving Douglass with all her might and shouting, “Fuck you, daddy’s boy!” Then she swung a lamp that hit his wrist and the action was on from there. The video camera toppled over and fell to the floor. And there it was, Wade’s first motivated lead; a disagreement which began with “who would do who,” escalating into a battle of the naked egos.
The video and TV screen went black after the camera hit the floor, leaving Wade to assume this was the latest video tape. Maybe the camera broke. Maybe not. He’d have to figure that out. If the camera broke, then that was obviously the last videotape. Suspect. If not, and other videos were shot subsequent to the argument, then Douglass Jr. was off the hook. Maybe. It was also that tape which compelled Wade to revisit Moet’s home for an intimate investigation. No forensic specialist. No flatfoots or rookie investigators. Wade needed to see things for himself.
At the Barnes Avenue home, Wade was already familiar with the layout. The block was a development of identical 2-family homes. They were all done in white, aluminum siding and had short driveways with short, manicured lawns. A model home at the head of the block was set up and furnished for new prospects to see. A sign hung outside, close to the sidewalk: NEW HOMES—INQUIRE WITHIN.
Every home was no older than 6 months, with new ones being built on adjacent blocks. The latest model automobiles occupied various driveways. Mercedes. BMW. Utility vehicles. No fences. No apparent need for security other than the private agency on regular patrol. The development was a diamond in the rough. A very suburban essence, smack dab in this overcrowded section of the Bronx.
Wade’s discussion with the realtor was productive. Moet had lived in the house for no more than 4 months. Before that, she was on the waiting list for a year. To get on the waiting list, you were interviewed and scrutinized and then required to lay out a $15,000 deposit. The 2nd payment of $15,000 was due upon occupancy and a 1st mortgage of $1,500 a month was payable thereafter.
A sore thumb for the development, the sunny-yellow police tape was still stretched from border to border around Moet’s home. As Wade parked out front he decided that if he didn’t do it, the police line might stay up until trees grew around it. There was no more need for a police watch on the home—that ended during the first week of the investigation. Furthermore, there was tremendous aggravation still lingering. Moet’s first floor tenants were paying her $1,100 a month rent for their 3-bedroom dwelling. And now that Moet was gone, not only were the renters burdened with various sessions of police questioning, but there was also the question of who to pay the rent to, not to mention, of course, that damned yellow police line. So much drama.
Wade made his way up the steps that led to the entrance of Moet’s half of the house. The late Moet, that is. After balling up the stretch of police tape, Wade fit in the key he obtained from the property manager. He pulled open the front screen door, unlocked the second, and easily slipped in the entry. He climbed a long stairway that was plush with golden shag carpet. The daylight beamed down on the passage through the skylight above, illuminating his ascension to the top. Somehow, this climb was different for Wade, since having seen a number of videos and knowing Moet as he did, this dead person’s home seemed a lot more familiar than it might otherwise. The detective humored himself, thinking about the guests that Moet had entertained (the various men and a bunch of dancers), and wondering why there wasn’t semen seeping from the walls. Moet could have had a party every night, and if she did, it could’ve easily competed with the action at Fool’s Paradise, just miles away.
Back to business, Wade passed through the kitchen, not really expecting much there. It was organized and appeared to be infrequently used. New pots hanging over the counter. All the accessories and cabinets were new and, except for a shelf of various dried spices and seasonings, the cupboards were bare. There was a freezer still packed with frozen dinners, some Cornish hens and many varieties of seafood, salmon, shrimps and crab legs were piled and stacked in every possible space. Wade thought briefly about Bobby the fisherman and how his premier video might impress his wife. Did she know that he liked to wear flowered panties around his neck and a pink ribbon in his hair while being spanked and straddled like a horse? Did she know that his favorite expression was “meow?” Wow, Wade thought of how easily he could get his own freezer filled with free fish for life. And while he was on the free-resource trip, he spotted that same set of cookie jars positioned on Moet’s kitchen counter. They reminded him of his earlier visit and the day he found what appeared to be her savings.
There was at least one sleepless night when Wade dreamed of coming alone to the house after she was killed . . . he dreamed of finding the $120,000 that she had compacted in her cookie cans . . . he dreamed of keeping it, and of how his life would change ever so immediately. Who would know? After all, wasn’t she dead? For now, Wade thought about karma and that perhaps the circumstances were meant to be as they were. So he wouldn’t have to ask or think or wonder what to do with the money. It was kept from him as an issue that he did not have to address.
So why am I thinking about it now? Wade asked himself. And then, after making a mental note to see Bobby, Wade perished the thought. But not before he felt his feet soaking into the wall-to-wall carpet in the hallways, the living room and the bedroom. He flicked on the light in the bedroom, adding to the thin rays that already penetrated the partially closed blinds. Now Wade was feeling as if he’d come on to a movie set long after the crew had gone. He turned towards the closet and fingered through a healthy collection of costumes, negligees, bras and thongs, all neatly hung and coordinated by color, sequins, fluorescent, jet black leather and chiffon. It was all there—enough to corrupt a couple of high school cheerleading squads. Wade couldn’t deny the thoughts; there were so many sexual fantasies that this closet contributed to. So much from just one woman. She must have been a walking, talking fantasy fulfilled.
The queen-sized bed was made of solid, black Formica, with drawers underneath and nightstands as wings. Wade pushed his hands down on the mattress as if he were an educated consumer, and the mattress gave in, absorbing his touch. There was a rolling reaction that only a water-filled tube would give. Wade sifted through the various drawers and then plopped himself down on the bed, evaluating the room. When he realized that he was actually laying on the stage—the stage—he immediately jumped up to his feet. He moved to the vanity, adjacent to the bed, assuming that this was where the camera often sat. Wade lifted his hands so that they were inches from his face, and connected his thumbs and forefingers to simulate a viewfinder. As if he was a director, checking for a point of view, Wade squatted down into a deep knee bend until he felt that he’d achieved his goal. Realizing the ideal position, Wade stilled himself, recalling hours of video footage. Switching his imagination on and off. On and off. And then again, he had to close his eyes a few times to make this happen. To make out what he was seeing now, nervous about what he’d seen on video. Either way, Wade was focused on the bed, its nightstands and a window in the distance. He inhaled the flowery scent in the air which escaped from the open closet and with investigative eyes, cut through the room’s stillness.
“The answering machine!” Wade heard himself speak out loud, knowing that something was missing. It was in the videos, so why wasn’t it in the room now? Wade searched the drawers again. Now on his knees, he moved a pair of velour slippers from the floor underneath the nightstand. Feeling around with his hand, he located the thin, electronic box. Wade figured Moet had hidden the machine just before one of her trysts. Why else would it be stashed away? And who did she need to keep secrets from anyhow? Wade’s mind flipped through images of the major league player. Then Bobby. Lord knows who else, Wade concluded.
The machine was still blinking intervals of eight. Eight messages. Wade adjusted himself to sit on the floor against the bed, and pressed “PLAY”.
“Bleep . . . Hey, Mo. I’m coming in on a seven-thirty flight on Tuesday. Maybe you can meet me at the airport. Beep me. Love ya.” The male voice was masculine, sporty and abrupt. He was casual and spoke with a comfortable, presumptive tone. Wade figured the call was from Ken. And so far, Ken was the last on Wade’s list of A-subjects to see. Usually airborn, and a jetsetter, Ken’s interview was still pending. Wade knew he’d eventually catch him before or after a home game. Two messages which followed were propositions for private parties. The voices were unsure and insecure, and it seemed as though Ken and the other callers didn’t realize that Moet was long buried in the ground. Then again, there were no dates on these messages. However, Wade’s thoughts continued to reach; the calls could be the perfect cover-up for someone’s alibi. As usual, Wade didn’t let much pass.
“Beep . . . tell you what, you bitch. I’ll teach you . . . you think you’re miss hot shit, huh? Well, I got somethin’ for you!” The line went dead. Wade replayed that message a few more times, making sure to write down every word. Angry. Vengeful. Young. Male. Wade noted all that he could, not knowing whose voice it was—but presuming that it was related to the video he watched. There were 3 consecutive hangups without messages. One last message.
“Beep . . . Girl, I don’t know what that shit was about but I was scared to death! I had to get out. What is going on? Why don’t you answer? Where are you? I’m going back home—this shit is too wild for me. I can’t take it. Call me at seven one eight, four five eight, eight—” The tape went dead without transmitting the remaining digits. The voice was hysterical . . . a female. Go back where? Had to get out? What was Moet into and who was the girl calling? Wade spun so many ideas in his mind and his heart beat just as fast. These were two critical calls that should have never gotten past the police who took inventory on Moet’s house.
After a more thorough look through the room, Wade returned to the living room for a more critical evaluation. He sat on the butter-soft, white leather couch that was long like a stretch limousine. He sat back and observed the various authentic paintings, the entertainment center and the rack of CDs that were organized in a carriage that was curved like a vertical cobra. Just as Wade began to feel comfortable, he noticed that his grip in the armrest was unstable, like it was broken. When he looked closer he saw that the armrest was a variety of items. A few remote controls for Moet’s rack of electronic devices. A paperback book and the infamous palm-corder. It was the type which accepted small cartridges. There was one still lodged inside. Wade uttered a sigh of relief, thinking that he’d moved a step closer to some solutions. He set it in his lap and switched on the power. The tape was used almost to its end, so Wade pressed REWIND hoping to watch the tape right there, through the eyepiece. There was a clicking sound that indicated the tape was stuck, rotating slightly back and forth. Wade pressed STOP. Then PLAY. No dice. He pressed RECORD. The tape moved and a red light went on. The camcorder was not working correctly, except for the recording command. In a rushed paranoia, Wade pressed STOP a number of times to be certain not to destroy the tape in the chamber and whatever was previously recorded on it. It did stop. And Wade was relieved, thinking of how to view the tape without the palm-corder. He pressed the EJECT button. The sound of a click and pop was followed but the side panel extending and freezing the tape inside. Wade was now at ease, carefully removing the tape. He dropped the tape in his jacket pocket and placed the palmcorder back in the armrest caddie. Viewing the tape would be easy enough. He found a cassette adapter in Moet’s collection of commercial videotapes. And also pocketed that. Then he called it a day.
On the way back to the 45th precinct, Wade recalled the quarrel with Moet and Douglass Jr. Gilmore. He decided at that point to take a detour to New Rochelle.
Progress and Regress
The Gilmore empire was growing, indeed. After 18 months of rough edges and fine tuning, Fool’s Paradise had become a staple in New York’s adult entertainment industry. Advertisements were playing constantly on the city’s most listened to black radio stations. The printed adaptations of the radio spots were running weekly on the big metropolitan newspapers, The Daily Post and the New York News. The club and its varied showcases seemed to be on the tip of everyone’s tongue. From celebrities in film and music, to jocks in radio and sports, the personalities lined up to adopt and endorse Fool’s Paradise as their weekly dose of entertainment. Even Ed and Dre, who (at the time) were hip hop’s dynamic duo of television and radio, made the club a shining star by discussing their “in the club” experiences on their daily radio broadcasts, reaching in excess of 2 million listeners daily.
“Give me a sweatshirt I can wear on MTV, dude. I’ll wear that shit proudly, for all to see,” Dre told Douglass. Indeed, the subject of different voluptuous dancers made for interesting content on radio and TV. But all of those mentions accumulated to lift the club to sky high popularity. National magazines showcased the club in 2 and 3-page editorial spreads, while booking agents for the most famous porn stars called constantly to have their clients showcased exclusively. Accordingly, revenues and profits flowed in streams and then rivers, with no end in sight. Gilmore reinvested more and more, soon building an additional bar, additional offices, and he improved the sound system and special effects lighting. Many became aware of the influx of cash which Gil controlled, and idea-men frequently walked through the entrance looking to get their piece of the pie. There were contractors, handymen, graffiti artists, emcees, comedians, snack vendors, bubble gum machine vendors, soap dispenser vendors, payphone salesmen, and self-acclaimed specialists of every kind. Peddlers. Consultants. You name it and they came runnin’. Remarkably, the majority of these treasure-chasers were accommodated. Gil seemed to like doing business with the tiny, unsubstantial types who had never previously proven themselves.
“Let’s give the guy a shot,” he’d tell his son. “He talks a good game, so let’s see if he can back it up. Doesn’t hurt to try.” Douglass had heard that story over and over again, wondering when the balloon would bust—all of these hucksters feeding off of the house that he helped to build. But he didn’t need to wonder much, since it was happening right before their very eyes.
In the flurry of activity, most of it controlled by Gilmore himself, there was no way to see just how much the entire empire was being attacked. From the inside out, and from the outside in, Douglass realized some of the more obvious and indiscreet activity which happened mostly behind his dad’s back. He sometimes had to maintain a stricter-than-most demeanor whenever he was in the presence of club staff, although the attitude wasn’t a happy one. Douglass had to fight the show of emotions and be that only true Teflon that kept the establishment strong. And although Gil expressed recognition and pride in his son’s experience and business savvy, sometimes turning to him for advice or support on certain business decisions, the bottom line was clear. Douglass had no control of the final decisions and little if any influence over the staff. Staff members became comfortable in their positions, testing their limits in various ways without any serious policies in place. Bartenders continuously over-poured drinks, making them stronger than required. Bouncers saw to it that certain people (like their friends and friends of friends) were admitted at no charge, avoiding the ten-dollar admission. Some bouncers were even brazen enough to accept a percentage of that admission themselves from those they didn’t know. If a bouncer wasn’t getting over in that way, then he was stealing cases of beer through the rear exit. Those who weren’t outright thieves stole time instead, drinking alcoholic beverages on duty or smoking weed in the men’s room, blatantly defying the “no-drugs” rule in the establishment. Hence, the bouncers projected nothing but a false sense of security. The club was better protected by the electronic alarm at closing time. If the negligence, corruption and incompetency of the club security wasn’t enough, the bartenders were also stealing. Often pocketing money instead of ringing and recording the transaction on the cash register. Some even operated their own business, their own hustles on the side. To top that off, the dancers were becoming more aware of the various opportunities in the club, capitalizing on the freedom to carry on with their own cons. If not that, dancers were at least showing up for work late. They were appearing on stage late, if at all. They frequently left the club with men who made get-rich-quick offers for bachelor parties or sex. Sex with the customers. Sex with the bouncers. Sex with the boss. At a minimum, hundreds of dancers bounced through the entrance of Fool’s Paradise; and of those employees, the boss was sexually involved with dozens of them. They’d come and they’d go like clockwork. Most times, the encounter took place right there in his office, behind closed doors and his busy, money-making nightclub. This all may have been satisfying for his ego and his loins; but for the future of this establishment, these activities led to nothing more than the poor, decaying moral of this million-dollar business.
Douglass grew ever arrogant with each passing day. His observations of the activities in the club, when brought to his father’s attentions, were met with a casual attitude.
“If it ain’t broke don’t fix it,” he’d say. Gil simply neglected the hard work that Douglass put into locating, developing and marking Fool’s Paradise. Yes, Gil certainly established the original Gilmore’s, its following and a decade-plus of continuity. But when the heat was on, when the locals in Mt. Vernon put pressure on the business—not forgetting the police raids or the neighbors complaining—it was Douglass who suggested the move; it was Douglass who found a new location and suggested the new club name Fool’s Paradise. And it was Douglass who brought that new energy that could keep up with the competition. Douglass virtually reinvented the flames of the legendary Gilmore’s, and those flames blazed. Because of Douglass, that watering hole in the wall from Mt. Vernon turned into an institution that was welcomed by the big city, with its big city rules and big city potentials.
The Gilmore’s staff was somewhat aware of Douglass’s presence. But that virtual immunity prevailed in spite of him; that anything-goes attitude lived on in the establishment, with almost each and every employee out for themselves, could not affect his own protective shield. Douglass often maintained an attitude which checked or inhibited others from walking over him. He rarely fraternized with staff or dancers, since doing so might seem to condone their ongoing conspiracies. Instead—and this was entirely not healthy for the business, or his relationships with others—Douglass kept a skeptical eye on anyone whom his father had even remote trust in. In fact, these various challenges fueled Douglass’s own artistic arrogance—the sort that inspired creativity, productivity and mystique. The kind that said loudly, “Leave me alone and let me fly.”
Short of the uncontrollable capital gains and the unexplainable fever that Fool’s Paradise provoked as “the leader in adult entertainment,” nothing was going according to Douglass’s vision and intentions for a successful nightclub. Moreover, Gil kept his son at a distance from any proprietary interests or decisions having to do with the club. The frustrations continued on.
Porn Queens
Fool’s Paradise was poetically licensed when it came to healing its own wounds with good times, euphoria and thrills. The second year in the Bronx saw tremendous growth despite the club’s inner ills, mainly because of exclusive stage shows by some of the porn industry’s most notable black stars. Angel, Jeanni, Nina, Ebony and Heather were all featured at Gilmore’s and therefore also served to endorse the existence of the club, making Fool’s Paradise their second home.
When it came to promoting Gilmore’s, Douglass was the brand ambassador. In other words, he helped spread the word about the business. This escalated the stakes, and it helped to draw in bigger shows and names. He tried white porn stars and even Vegas showgirl types (complete with sequined pasties over their nipples). But the overall audience response wasn’t pretty, and in some cases audience members nearly tossed their drinks at performers. That was the last mistake Douglass would make when showcasing performers. Even if the audience was a mix of cultures, they expected women of color here at Gilmore’s. And not that color had anything to do with skin tone—just that there was a hunger for that down ’n dirty street savvy; that homegirl who knew how to shake her ass and bare all without shame. Ethnic girls with ethnic features—big butts, shapely breasts, wide, alluring and succulent lips. Even Latino and white girls with ethnic features worked well in the club. Those were the types that made Gilmore’s shine. Those were the types that the customers wanted to get to know, to watch, and, if they were lucky, get to grind up against the wall with. To bring anything less than what the customers wanted was a learning experience for Douglass.
At the time, the newest, hottest performer in adult videos was Dominique. And Douglass had to have her. With no readily available directory of phone numbers for porn stars, he did some light research of video production companies until he was directed to a Hollywood studio that shot most of Dominique’s films. She didn’t have a manager or agent to speak for her, so, bemused at the idea of having skills in hunting for and finding hot sex stars, Douglass managed to reach her directly by phone.
“I never been to New York,” she told him on the call. So instead of going through the usual routine that he’d grown accustomed to—agents, hotels and limousines—Douglass handled Dominique with kid gloves. For example, she didn’t know what to charge for a stage show. So, naturally, he suggested a price for her. Not to mention, Domonique was so green in the business that she didn’t even have a stage show to speak of!
“Don’t worry yourself, baby. Take my word for it, any lil’ wiggle and smile will work in my club. All the customers want is to see you up close, live and in living color.”
Naturally, the phone calls led to their meeting at the La-Guardia Airport arrival terminal. And even if he didn’t know what she looked like in her raunchy films, or even if he wasn’t the one spearheading the promotion of her appearance, Douglass couldn’t have missed Dominique standing in the baggage claim area of the terminal. She was larger than her movies projected her to be. Full of life, the porn star was not only taller, but more colorful in person. It could have been the heels on her yellow cowgirl boots, or the suntan that was common of westerners. But her presence seemed to call out to him, until moments later, for the first time in his life, Douglass was escorting a porno star!
Lanky, but stunning at first sight, with some obvious signs of breast enhancement (her breasts curved much too high and expanded too much at the sides), Dominique had an intoxicating, brilliant cocoa brown shine. Douglass could see that her hair was purchased, but he had to admit it looked good—natural and deliberately black and long, with the mane swooping down against her white leather outfit. The pants hugged whatever curves and calves she did have, and the vest was opened to permit an all-access view of her studded black brassiere, and the loop of gold that pierced her navel. Her loud appearance was completed by a yellow sombrero and those tassels that dangled along the sleeves of the vest.
Besides her packaging, Dominique was spunky and vibrant with enthusiastic eyes and a smile that seemed so willing to surrender. Then there was that pep to her walk and the adventurous attitude that had Douglass thinking that he’d commissioned a whore, since everything appeared so . . . for sale. But he easily dismissed it all as naive and dizzy.
Maintaining that trademark no-nonsense demeanor, Douglass chauffered Dominique to his home and designated her to a guest room. As though he was revealing a new pair of cufflinks for all to see, he then took his new guest out to eat, to some nightclubs, and even shopping. She was his ultimate marketing tool for all that men (shallow men, at least) loved in a woman. Big tits. Big, luscious lips, and big, alluring bedroom eyes.
At the time of Domonique’s visit to New York, Douglass was still steady with Mechelle, his live-in girlfriend. And she didn’t seem to have any problems with this other woman in his home. Besides, the idea of a porn star being so accessible in Douglass’s house was at least novel to the two lovers. Mechelle did no less than turned on the charm. She also turned up her own sexual motors, somehow wanting to prove to Douglass that she was just as good, if not better, than Dominique was; or maybe, quiet as she kept it, she was insecure about her place in Douglass’s life. But as hard as Mechelle tried, there was no need for persuasion. Douglass was a committed man and just not interested in fucking a porn star.
On the second morning during her two-week stay, Douglass made up a breakfast tray and carried it waiter-style directly to Domonique’s room. Still getting over a slight jet lag and adjustment to the east, Dominique was sprawled across the bed totally nude, and the door to the hallway was partially opened.
“Whoa!” Douglass barely breathed the exclamation as he took one real good voyeur’s look at her. His eyes bugged out to see how her breasts didn’t relax naturally, how they took on box-like shapes. For a moment he stood there at the doorway watching her. He could even see the healed incisions at the outer edges of her nipples, where her enhancement operations were executed. The gross gashes on this woman’s most precious jewels were suddenly aberrations to Douglass, confusing his foremost references of this woman’s humping, shrieking, sucking and slurping. And to think that Douglass swore he knew this woman so personally. But standing so close to her naked body, no makeup, or crafty camera angles, and . . .
Where’s all the hair!? A wig! Douglass quickly knew for sure that he really didn’t know this woman at all. And what he thought he knew was but smoke and mirrors.
Knocking at the door, Douglass kept a respectable distance with the plate of soft scrambled eggs. That sweet morning aroma no doubt helped him to wake Dominique. Lazily, the woman didn’t flinch or cover up; instead, she casually lifted herself, took the breakfast tray and began to eat and talk naturally, as if her body was nude like this 24 hours a day. During Dominique’s breakfast she managed to put Douglass on the spot.
“Okay . . . don’t hold it in.”
“What?”
“You look like you got a whole lot of porn-star questions. I can see it in your eyes. So, don’t hold it in. Ask away.”
“Well, to be honest with you, no . . . I’ve never really thought about it,” Douglass answered her reasonably.
“Your eyes are lying, Gilmore. You mind if I call you that?”
“They usually call my pop that, but—I guess it’s okay.”
“Well, Mister Gilmore, about your views, I can already understand your point of view,” she said. “I’m sure you have a bunch of whys and whats and hows in your chest; all those questions dying to get out. Come on . . . I get this kinda stuff all the time. Plus, I’m curious about how you see me.”
“How about if you start, Dominique. You tell me about how you feel as a porn star.” Douglass was careful. He could hear that she wanted to have a big discussion about this, and he leaned against the doorjamb to lend her that ear she wanted. He folded his arms like a shrink looking on.
“I didn’t actually grow up wanting to be a porn star. I like, wanted to be an actress and all. But I never thought I’d be acting . . . like this.”
“Do you like what you do?”
“Well, I really like sex,” she explained like a true fiend. “So there’s very little acting that I have to do. But before I do a shoot, I’ve like, gotta get loaded first.”
“Loaded?”
“You know. Like, I have to have, like, a six pack of Heiny or something. My first gig was like that. I was seeing this video producer back then. I was drinking, and one thing led to another. Next thing I know, I’m doin’ it all the time . . . with everyone,” she said, giggling.
Douglass stood dumbfounded, sneaking an eyeful of her each time she went to scoop food into her mouth, examining every area of her body as he listened to her go on about her 3 breast augmentations and her aspirations of crossing over into the real film market as a legit actress. Tough chance, Douglass told himself.
That encounter with Dominique wasn’t the first or the last time Douglass would be exposed to porn stars. In fact, these interactions came more frequently with each passing month. His favorite starlet was Heather. Except, where Dominique didn’t excite Douglass in the least, Heather did just the opposite. It was Heather’s movies that jaded Douglass as a teenager. Watching her films taught him what to expect from a woman and also how to reciprocate a woman’s attentions. Even as recent as a year before the club moved to the Bronx, Douglass was talking about Heather’s talent (especially her giving blow jobs) with college students who actively traded her tapes. Heather was that fine, fair-skinned cutie who indirectly lured him to want to see more and more porn flicks, until he eventually OD’d on the practice. And by the time the club opened, by the time those endless loops of X-rated films played constantly on the club’s giant screens, Douglass had seen it all. And still, Heather was that fantasy vixen who left very little to the imagination in her performing oral sex on selected male and female partners. With her sound effects and extremely passionate facial expressions, there was no doubt that she was not acting, and that she was enjoying it. On screen, Heather had perfect round shapes and curves, with no evidence of breast implants. She had those naturally large and erect breasts, and didn’t seem to need any excessive accessories such as wigs, or piled-on makeup. She also had those full, luscious lips, and captivating doe eyes. All of that packaged on such a flawless, petite frame was attractive to Douglass. Bigger than that, Heather was always so adventurous in her movies, with all of the form and flexibility that a gymnastics champ would envy. She was simply that wholesome, girl-next-door type that could never disappoint you, with an innocent, youthful appeal; and yet, underneath that good-girl mask, this was the raunchiest, nastiest sexual being on the planet—at least in this young man’s eyes. And nobody did it better in the fuck flicks as far as Douglass’s eyes could see.
Demetrious
After 2 years of weekly talent showcases, Douglass became less interested in the production of his Westchester Talent Competition. Often feeling burdened by the monotony of the same ole performers, singing the same ole songs and following the same ole routines of expression. The Wind Beneath My Wings, The Greatest Love Of All, and, of course, all of Mariah Carey’s songs. Week in and week out Douglass would have to go home and cope with those tunes conflicting with his sound sleep. Besides that, the amateur-talent end of his enterprise was outdone by his growth and consistency in the more interesting field of television and the maintenance and marketing of the family business, Fool’s Paradise. Inevitably, time constraints and the overall stress was taxing. So Douglass consolidated his interests. Most of his cash flow was now coming from the club, and that enabled him to comfortably finance his ongoing television show.
Even the TV show experienced its growing pains, shedding its skin and excluding amateur talent altogether. Abandoning that format, along with all of its mixed nuts of aspiring entertainers was a huge relief, and it simply left more airtime for a more focused effort; a platform for more popular entertainers and icons who were cumulatively and essentially creating a steady stream of substance and power in music, television and film. Now, the show could really live up to its claim:
“THE MOST ENTERTAINING 60 MINUTES ON TELEVISION.”
Anyone who assisted behind the scenes in the live productions now contributed and took on the responsibility of learning the necessary tasks of television production. Those who were once stage managers, ticket takers and organizers now trained to become cameramen, assistant directors and on-air personalities. The SuperStar team kept an “open door policy,” all the while allowing individuals with their own energies and input to join in on the good time.
Demetrius was just one of those who fit well within those channels. D (Demetrius’s nickname) more or less became involved and joined the team as a natural component of the operations. He was once a model in a fashion show at the Palace—the same venue at which Douglass staged his talent shows. However, a chemistry ensued between Douglass and Demetrius, even if they were virtual opposites. While Douglass had his foot firmly planted in the booty business, and this business was somewhat spearheading and subsidizing his direction in life, D was a born-again Christian. He frequently read the Bible and did all that he could to practice what he preached. Besides preaching (only amongst his friends), D studied nine forms of martial arts and a single form of abstinence. Douglass admired his friend for his discipline, faith and enthusiasm for his beliefs and practices. D had that absolute power of a man who, despite all, was determined to follow and believe. It was a ritual that Douglass could barely imagine, much less follow. He was too busy having fun; too much a product of his environment. Sex and cash.
Within no time, Douglass had incorporated D in his life and his home. D not only became a best friend, but in a way, Douglass saw him as his own personal ninja. The camaraderie also served to fill the void that Douglass was feeling—how he was missing that genuine security in his life. The police couldn’t provide that; he wasn’t into guard dogs; and he didn’t own a firearm. D, in so many ways, was that firearm.
When D moved in, it also created a buffer for him to catch up to his own lingering after-college financial loan responsibilities.
“They just keep calling,” he told Douglass when they discussed the possibility of D moving in. “They don’t even give you breathing room after college! They expect me to immediately get the job of my dreams and to cash in and pay that loan off.”
“So, your solution was to max-out a credit card?”
“It wasn’t like that. I was paying off the loan with the card while I was still looking for a job. Plus, I was still pursuing my modeling career, and—”
“Damn, D. It looks like you got swallowed into a black hole.”
“More than you know. See, while I was working that one card I was being sent approved cards from other—”
“Oh, YES! They sent me seven other cards. Soon, I started to just live off of the cards. Taking from Peter to pay Paul and whatnot . . .”
“Lord have mercy,” said Douglass.
“He is having mercy, now that I ran into you. You’re my safety net right now!” And so, D found refuge after a year of surviving on credit cards, and the creditors who had been chasing him. Douglass quickly situated D with a position at the club where he could make some unreported income. And, as it turned out, D was probably the best and most valuable member of the staff. D wasn’t hired in time to witness that corrections officer who stormed into the club that night, waving that gun like a madman. If he had, he would have likely snatched the weapon and delivered a forearm to the guy’s chest in the same move. Nonetheless, even D’s mere presence was acknowledged and respected by all.
It was during one of Heather’s engagements at Fool’s Paradise that this most unexpected relationship began. The Porn Star & The Preacher-Ninja might be an awfully long movie title, but it would be an appropriate one to describe this most unique occasion—how in this busy Fool’s Paradise (with a mob of porn fans begging for Heather’s eyes to find them, all of them in one way or another testifying their appreciation of her presence on stage before them), Heather almost lost her balance when she caught an eyeful of Demetrius for the first time. D didn’t notice her interest in him since he was on the job and so much a disciplined soldier of the Lord—uninterested in lusting after the flesh like the majority of patrons and staff in the club. He didn’t bother like most others to pay Heather the attention that her performance demanded. Even Heather wouldn’t know that D was simply performing his nightly ritual of focus that the job required. Heather also wouldn’t know that D routinely shunned propositions from the club’s top-shelf dancers. But for certain she was about to become another victim, already magnetized and set afire by D’s looks. Demetrius had that perfectly chiseled body of a stone sculpture. Not too big nor too small, he was something of a darker shaded Tarzan or Fabio. If not for his unconventional looks—the ponytail; that rough and aggressively wide step; and, of course, his unbreakable defensive demeanor—women could easily mistake D for one of the world’s most popular soap opera stars. And that’s pretty close to the way women treated, reacted to, and approached Demetrius; as if he was a movie star. Countless phone calls and jealous pursuits of fatal attraction were just some of the baggage D had to cope with. And if he wasn’t at home to receive a phone call, it wasn’t uncommon for Douglass to get cursed out for not uttering the answer the caller wanted: Yes, of course he’s here. I’ll get him!
But when Douglass gave them the truth, when he’d tell them “D’s not in,” that’s when they’d let it rip: “Yes, he is there!” “I know Demetrius is there. I know it!” And just maybe they did know on a few occasions, since there was at least one occasion when one of his stalkers was caught peeping into one of the windows of the Gilmore home.
“How do you deal with this?” Douglass asked D after he caught the peeping Jane.
“What can I do? I’m humble about it. Never arrogant. And all I do is try and steer them towards the Lord. Watch and see; some of these women need Jesus. And they don’t know it, but I’m gonna lead them to their salvation soon.”
“Wow,” Douglass said breathlessly, almost hypnotized himself by D’s faith and commitment. He’d already witnessed firsthand how, during shifts at the club, Demetrius had dancers in moments of prayer, sharing with them a dose of The Good Word, even with the contradictions; the porn images flashing on the giant screens and the dancers flashing their flesh up on the stages. Douglass figured the dancers to be phony about their interests, figuring they merely wanted to get up close and personal with the preacher himself. So, Heather the porn star had no idea of the load she was after. The conventional “boy meets girl” scenario wouldn’t apply here, no matter how many thousands of men lusted after her. If she wanted Demetrius for anything more than a moment of prayer, she would most certainly have to be the aggressor. And, bigger than that, the woman was even shy about approaching D herself. Instead (executing the irony), she approached Douglass to be introduced. Of all people, she was asking a carnivore (Douglass) to deliver her (the big fat juicy T-bone steak) to Demetrius (the vegetarian). But despite all that, Douglass assisted. Ultimately, Demetrius and Heather became close. She even became a regular at the Gilmore home. Douglass joined D on visits to Heather’s NYC apartment as well. Entertained by this drama—a porn star after his best friend!—Douglass kept his fantasies hidden, deep down and out of sight like a smothered flame. Now that Douglass’s main man was involved to whatever degree, according to his own ethics, Heather was off limits. He couldn’t even think of her in the ways that he once did.
“What?! You’re telling me that you had Heather . . . the Heather, in bed . . . naked? Right there next to you? And you didn’t hit it? Say it ain’t so!” Douglass’s whole body was choked up with exclamations, encouraged but twisted by the thought of one of the world’s most admired and desired video vixens, in his house . . . making herself available, but subjected to the frustrations of being embraced by a . . . preacher?!
Douglass could only silently sympathize with Heather.
I feel your pain, girl!
“Douglass . . . I’m not lying to you. I’m just not into sex without marriage. It’s unholy.”
“D . . . you’ve seen her videos. You had to! They play all damned day at the club!”
“I hardly pay attention to those freakin’ videos . . .”
“But Deee! Do you know that an army of men would love to be in your shoes? Including me??? Man, D . . . Heather being here is like history being made. It would suit me just fine if I was the indirect reason that she was here, one of the biggest porn stars in the business, and at least something went down. That’s like the President of the United States making a visit to a local McDonald’s, and all he buys is a plain ole milkshake. Man . . . He betta be buyin’ double this and double that, extra large this and extra large that! The Secret Service betta be doin’ their thing, too! Otherwise, what’s the point? D, you got the one and only Heather on your case! She’s like one big Happy Meal—a Big Mac, a Super-Quarter Pounder, extra large fries, and the thickest strawberry milkshake you’ve ever tasted! If she’s over my house, I wanna know at least that someone was up in that ass! I wanna know that clothing and sheets got wet! Because, man, the damn walls and furniture are watching! For real.” Douglass had to settle himself before he caught a conniption.
“I’m tellin’ you the truth, Douglass.” Demetrius was sincere, almost to the point of Douglass’s visible stomach cramps. But in Douglass’s perception, Demetrius was truthful, maintaining an expression that only close friends might share. And so it was legend; the river of phone calls, the outings and even the invite to one of her film shoots never resulted in that so-called inevitable outcome. And if ever there was a doubt, being neglected of something you really desire does nothing but draw you closer, making you want for more.
Vanessa Fever
If Heather represented the freshest new talent in the porn industry, then Vanessa represented the most experienced talent in the porn industry. And considering her status, it was a must (if Douglass had anything to do with it) for Vanessa to grace the stage of Fool’s Paradise. Vanessa was to the adult film industry what Mohammed Ali was to boxing. Considered the best who ever did it, this woman held the top belt, the reigning title and the standing ovations in the porn industry, and Douglass was determined to first, locate her, and second, to promote the hell out of the event until her name rolled off of more tongues than all the dentists in New York would care to smell.
Once Douglass found her—was there any doubt?—and once he persuaded her to come out of her semi-retirement, they reached a verbal agreement for a one-time-only engagement at Fool’s Paradise. Upon agreeing, Douglass immediately went ballistic with the street promotion. Not knowing the actual depth or extent of Vanessa’s appeal, or how she crossed traditional boundaries of race and nationality, may have helped Douglass. But it didn’t matter, since he pushed this event as if it was his last shining moment on earth; as if the Pope was about to play craps with Mother Theresa; as if the Statue of Liberty was about to strip naked. This was by far Douglass’s biggest event.
With Vanessa’s assistance, Douglass met with one of her former photographers. He had a case of more than 10,000 of Vanessa’s 8x10 photos. And they weren’t your average photos; edgy, but tasteful enough for general audiences. She was lying on the floor with her head up and eyes straight at you; she was wearing a black, see-through negligee. However, because of her position, her body’s shapes and curves faded into a distant silhouette. The intimate photos then went through one night of “autographing;” only it wasn’t Vanessa but Douglass who scribbled a personalized invitation with gold and silver metallic markers. Douglass marked down the critical details on each photo until his hand went numb:
“AN EVENING WITH VANESSA . . .”
The message was bold. It stated the place, time, date and there was a phone number for more information. Douglass handed these photos to every delivery driver he could catch. At red lights he would hop out of his car and pass two photos each to UPS drivers. (Of course, the additional photo was for a friend.) And that was the whole point, to get people talking about the big event. At the gas station, he’d pull beside FedEx drivers and reach out with photos in hand as they gassed their trucks; he did the same with garbage haulers, bus drivers, tractor-trailer operators, firemen, policemen, auto mechanics, factory workers and postal workers. Douglass visited army bases and reserve installations. There were visits to radio stations and free tickets given to various male radio personalities. Photos and complimentary tickets were also given to select professionals in the music and porn industries.
Beyond the person-to-person promotions, there was a shitload of mass marketing. Douglass printed Vanessa’s image to larger posters and tacked them to telephone poles from city to city. Very soon after the posters went up, admirers took them down to keep for themselves. So posting on the very same telephone poles became a daily routine, with hot spots and high traffic areas the major focus. Never slowing, Douglass also placed ads in the big city newspapers and he produced a television commercial for cable TV. If Vanessa was even thinking retirement, you couldn’t tell.
On the big night hundreds and hundreds of men converged on Boston Post Road. Anticipation hung in the air like thick smog from well before noon until the moment the club opened. Business flourished throughout the day, including the sales of last minute tickets, and there was an after work crowd that beat all previous capacity records. And Douglass was prepared for today, where even weeks ahead he had appropriated some of those long, blue police barricades on the morning after the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Thinking optimistically as always, he obviously had his own anticipations about the event. But the results superseded his wildest dreams. When evening fell, the line of men waiting to enter Fool’s Paradise was four bodies wide and two city-blocks deep. To be on the second block, looking forward over the sea of heads, was discouraging at best. From the look of things, it became evident that one show wouldn’t be enough. It wasn’t clear if Vanessa had plans to follow the event, but Douglass and his dad just held their breath. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.
As planned, Vanessa was chauffeured to the club in a candy apple red 1969 Rolls-Royce. The driver performed his duties, opening the passenger door for the legendary film star. She emerged in fur and sequins with breasts pushed up to the sky. A thunderous applause ignited the atmosphere, while wonderment, excitement, and heat all joined together like some magical tidal wave of joy and anxiety. Vanessa glowed bashfully and waved as if she was entering the theater for her biggest film premier. A red carpet zipped down the sidewalk, the roll conveniently ending at her feet. She stepped across the surface with an escort on either side of her, and she strolled up into the club’s entrance, disappearing behind the closed doors of Gil’s office. Quickly, a deal was struck for two more shows for a total of $1,800. It was only when the money changed hands that the problems began.
First, Vanessa bickered about the stage lighting being too bright, apparently inhibited about her aging and how the audience would respond. Next, she had her own cassette tape of music that was more nostalgia than relevant and current. Lastly, she had issues with who would be preceding her on stage. While the discussion worked itself out behind closed doors, the club was filled to capacity. The boom bap of the music, the various top-shelf dancers, and the intensity in the venue was all choked up in the same space. Dancers added to the euphoria with their best moves, colorful outfits, and the best money making attitudes they could wear. Meanwhile, this was the greatest high imaginable for Douglass, who was watching all of this shape up into the most successful promotion he’d ever managed.
The wait to see Vanessa up close was a thrill for all. Finally, any man in attendance who ever got his rocks off watching the Latin sex goddess with 5 stiff, naked men hunched and gasping over her open mouth . . . or with chains stretching her naked limbs in a dungeon setting, with a black leather masked man torturing her with whips and feathers . . . or with black, white and Latino men filling her every orifice. Finally, the mob inside of Fool’s Paradise would realize the legend in person. Vanessa, live.
For the die-hard fans who managed to get in and out of the club for all three shows, Vanessa delivered. It didn’t matter that she got up there and showed very little; it didn’t matter that she was over 40 years of age and hadn’t done a new film in years. She graced that stage with her own mysterious power. And they were more than satisfied. Even in her airborn kisses one could see that she didn’t need to contend with the younger chicks that preceded or followed her shows; in no way were they competing against her track record of enticing and exciting generations of men. If Vanessa was not a legend in the true sense of the word, then she was at least the trailblazer who was responsible for millions of dollars in revenue, and for the many, many ethnic porn stars who followed in her footsteps. And if nothing else, she was at least a chapter in the history of the sexual revolution; and the history of Gilmore’s.
While the crowds waited outside on the sidewalk for the 11PM and 2AM shows, fire engines roared and car audio systems pumped street beats, provoking a pre-party before the big one indoors. After each show Vanessa took numerous Polaroids with customers. She signed autographs, listened to fantasies and issued sweet kisses. It was history at Fool’s Paradise. On one hand, she affirmed her superstar status; and on the other, Gilmore’s received the ultimate endorsement from the ultimate legend. Now and forever, Gilmore’s Fool’s Paradise was sho’ nuff the leader in adult entertainment.
Detective Wade was also present on that big night, somehow knowing that he was getting closer, and that his culprit might also be present. He recorded all that he saw, more mentally than on paper.
And still, the Gilmore empire was under attack from yet another angle. Envy, jealousy and even revenge waited in the wings; all of those cats preying . . . watching, and looking forward to cutting into the success.
Tony—aka “Angelo”—was the wise guy within the Bianco crime family; or at least he wished he was. He was a low-level “earner” looking to become a “made member” by his efforts with Fool’s Paradise, hoping to bring home a big chunk of cake without too much strong-arming. His plan was first to get the vending machines in the establishment. And, so far, so good. There were already 5 machines in the club, all of them grossing more than a thousand or so dollars a week. The next step was to extend a small business loan. Chances were, according to his experience, that the business would eventually be late with a payment, at which time the interest would skyrocket. Tony was absolutely counting on that. It never failed, one business after another, there’d be that one late payment that would turn the seemingly fair business loan into one that the borrower could never pay off.
For Tony, however, all of those expectations went down the drain when Vanessa came to Gilmore’s. The success was incredible, and it didn’t start or stop with that one show. Men continued to pour into the club every night before and after the big show. New dancers were showing up, uninvited, and all of it was making Tony sick to his stomach. The money that the machines were making was mere pennies when compared to the bar and the door admission. The $100-a-day cash flow from the hoopshoot was but a fallen leaf from the virtual money tree that the Gilmores operated. There was no way that Gil needed a loan with all the money passing through his hands. On one particular Friday, Tony personally witnessed over $18,000 dollars in transactions at the bar. He sat there and nearly drank himself into oblivion, and the amount of pretzels he ate to soak it all up could’ve filled two family-sized bags. The sudden success and popularity behind a project that he was so close to would now only make his bosses mad at him for not capitalizing on such a windfall. He’d been sent to establish an “in” with the proprietor, and to keep tabs on the growth of the business for an inevitable shakedown. Instead, Tony was coming up with nothing. He was sitting on a goldmine, but with no real grip on a piece of the action. That had to change. And the thought of what he’d do to get it to change made him shiver. No matter what, Tony would make this work to his benefit and his capo would be proud.
Following the “Night With Vanessa,” Douglass celebrated, counting money for hours. There were over a thousand admissions paid on that evening. They paid $25.00 a ticket in advance and $30 at the door. The event made oodles of money. The bar made 3 times what the door receipts brought in. Douglass further celebrated his glory in day-long, uninhibited sex with Mechelle. He bought a decent car. And he made various investments in the TV show. Furthermore, it was vacation time. Off to California to visit Mom. Alone.