she walked to the car she gave the younger girl a smirk that told her all she needed to know. Regulars were what they all wanted; they made life so much easier, gave you a chance to relax - something you could never do with a stranger, especially with the mad bastards they dealt with on a daily basis.
‘Thank fuck she’s gone, Joanie. Her drinking is getting worse!’ Lena moaned.
Joanie sighed but didn’t comment.
‘That little girl’s on crack. Look, she’s fucking rocking.’
They watched her for a few moments before moving away.
‘McArthur’s a shitbag, ain’t he?’
Joanie nodded before answering, ‘Talking of shitbags . . .’
They laughed as their own pimp, Paulie Martin, chased the girl off, physically as well as verbally. He walked towards them then, his handsome face openly shocked.
‘That McArthur will be opening a fucking crèche soon, eh?’
‘That child was cracked out of her box.’
‘She’ll get a crack across the fucking head if she talks to me like that again!’ He was smoothing down his designer suit. ‘I want you in a parlour, Joanie.’
She smiled. It was better in the massage parlours though she was only asked if he was desperate and she knew that.
‘Okey-doke, how long for?’
‘Just get in the motor, will ya? It’s like pimping for William G. Stewart. No questions, just move.’
One thing in Paulie’s favour, he was funny and the girls appreciated his humour. It had lightened more than a few crap evenings.
He shouted over his shoulder, ‘Lena, you tell that little cunt McArthur if I see any of his girls within pissing distance of mine again, I’ll break his fucking neck.’
‘All right, Mr Martin.’
As Joanie was driven to East Ham she relaxed. This was a bit of luck and she was going to enjoy it while it lasted.
‘You look happy, Joanie.’
Paulie smiled at her and she melted. He was devastatingly handsome and knew it, from his thick black curly hair to his deep blue eyes. He was heavy-set and not as tall as he would have liked but he had something about him and whatever it was, it made women want him. In his game that was definitely a bonus. He had learned early in life that a smile and a well-timed compliment could get you anything you wanted from certain women.
Paulie rubbed her leg above the knee as he drove and Joanie smiled once more. He was a bastard but he was her bastard, so she forgave him anything. She knew he was giving her the scrapings but she was also wise enough to appreciate that that was about all she was going to get these days so she enjoyed it while she could.
She could still hack it with a certain type of punter, though. She had the cheap and cheerful look that appealed to the older men. Joanie was the pensioner’s friend, and she was glad of it. You rarely got a tip but it was over in no time so that was a bonus. In fact, she was perfect for a massage parlour in many respects. The men who used them were lazy and frightened of being seen kerb crawling: locals who tended to use the one nearest the pub, or out-of-towners who worked nearby and came in flashing their money and their false smiles. It was cheap as well; none of the girls was ever going to be in the hundred-quid-a-fuck market anyway so all in all it worked out fine.
Paulie was clever enough to know the kind of girls who would make him money: not too good-looking but not complete dogs either - that was all right on the kerb, but not in the comfortable surroundings of a parlour. Equally if the girls were too good-looking they frightened the men off; he had noticed that over the years. As Paulie told anyone who’d listen, most men rented a bit of strange so they could feel in control. Men without money and prestige were easily intimidated by women who were too good-looking, they felt that they had to be nicer to them. His girls, and he used the term loosely, were just the right side of
‘Thank fuck she’s gone, Joanie. Her drinking is getting worse!’ Lena moaned.
Joanie sighed but didn’t comment.
‘That little girl’s on crack. Look, she’s fucking rocking.’
They watched her for a few moments before moving away.
‘McArthur’s a shitbag, ain’t he?’
Joanie nodded before answering, ‘Talking of shitbags . . .’
They laughed as their own pimp, Paulie Martin, chased the girl off, physically as well as verbally. He walked towards them then, his handsome face openly shocked.
‘That McArthur will be opening a fucking crèche soon, eh?’
‘That child was cracked out of her box.’
‘She’ll get a crack across the fucking head if she talks to me like that again!’ He was smoothing down his designer suit. ‘I want you in a parlour, Joanie.’
She smiled. It was better in the massage parlours though she was only asked if he was desperate and she knew that.
‘Okey-doke, how long for?’
‘Just get in the motor, will ya? It’s like pimping for William G. Stewart. No questions, just move.’
One thing in Paulie’s favour, he was funny and the girls appreciated his humour. It had lightened more than a few crap evenings.
He shouted over his shoulder, ‘Lena, you tell that little cunt McArthur if I see any of his girls within pissing distance of mine again, I’ll break his fucking neck.’
‘All right, Mr Martin.’
As Joanie was driven to East Ham she relaxed. This was a bit of luck and she was going to enjoy it while it lasted.
‘You look happy, Joanie.’
Paulie smiled at her and she melted. He was devastatingly handsome and knew it, from his thick black curly hair to his deep blue eyes. He was heavy-set and not as tall as he would have liked but he had something about him and whatever it was, it made women want him. In his game that was definitely a bonus. He had learned early in life that a smile and a well-timed compliment could get you anything you wanted from certain women.
Paulie rubbed her leg above the knee as he drove and Joanie smiled once more. He was a bastard but he was her bastard, so she forgave him anything. She knew he was giving her the scrapings but she was also wise enough to appreciate that that was about all she was going to get these days so she enjoyed it while she could.
She could still hack it with a certain type of punter, though. She had the cheap and cheerful look that appealed to the older men. Joanie was the pensioner’s friend, and she was glad of it. You rarely got a tip but it was over in no time so that was a bonus. In fact, she was perfect for a massage parlour in many respects. The men who used them were lazy and frightened of being seen kerb crawling: locals who tended to use the one nearest the pub, or out-of-towners who worked nearby and came in flashing their money and their false smiles. It was cheap as well; none of the girls was ever going to be in the hundred-quid-a-fuck market anyway so all in all it worked out fine.
Paulie was clever enough to know the kind of girls who would make him money: not too good-looking but not complete dogs either - that was all right on the kerb, but not in the comfortable surroundings of a parlour. Equally if the girls were too good-looking they frightened the men off; he had noticed that over the years. As Paulie told anyone who’d listen, most men rented a bit of strange so they could feel in control. Men without money and prestige were easily intimidated by women who were too good-looking, they felt that they had to be nicer to them. His girls, and he used the term loosely, were just the right side of
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