Streets: Jayne Mansfield’s Falsies

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic


Tunya Rae learned about the economic opportunities of the world’s oldest profession and picked up a mentor—Tangilique Veeona Grigsby, also known by her working monicker as “Marilyn Monroe,” took
her under her arm. Tunya Rae was soon talking the talk, walking the walk, and negotiating the price of blowjobs, as well as vaginal and anal sexual intercourse with nary a whisper of actual sex in
exchange for money. Tunya Rae learned about the economic opportunities of the world’s oldest profession and picked up a mentor—Tangilique Veeona Grigsby, also known by her working monicker as
“Marilyn Monroe,” took her under her arm. Tunya Rae was soon talking the talk, walking the walk, and negotiating the price of blowjobs, as well as vaginal and anal sexual intercourse with nary a
whisper of actual sex in exchange for money. But, as Tuna Rae was to learn, that life is not without its risks, even after you leave it.

Submitted: February 24, 2018

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Submitted: February 24, 2018

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Jayne Mansfield was born in1964 as Tunya Rae Campbell to Norma Campbell and Donnie Jo Hinkus.  Due to social constraints, Norma is black and Donnie Jo is white, the two love birds were seldom seen together in public in Edgewater, South Carolina, and due to the logistical challenges of finding hotel rooms safe safe from prying eyes, the romance was short lived.  Seeing the writing on the wall, when Norma realized she was pregnant, she went to live with an aunt in New Jersey, so Tunya Rae was born in New Jersey.  At the doddering age of seventeen, the love of her life, Franklin John Rossi, also seventeen, joined the Army because he knew they would see things his way, and left for basic training at Fort Sill, Oklahoma.  Tunya Rae professed her love for him and followed. 

Upon arrival in Lawton, Oklahoma, Tunya Rae tried and failed to get on base at Fort Sill.  Having no money for food or shelter and lacking the worldly experience of more seasoned unemployed travelers with no visible means of support, she resorted to shoplifting for food.  Not being particularly skilled in any line of work, including thievery, she shortly learned first hand of the drawbacks of that professional and the feel of the cold steel of handcuffs on her wrists. During the time Tunya Rae was in juvenile hall, the Army decided that, regardless of the recruiting slogan claims, the Army didn’t want to join Franklin John Rossi and shipped him back to New Jersey.

Tunya Rae’s aunt, who had never married, as well as her mother, who also had never married, worked hard for their money but none the less were without means to venture forth to Oklahoma to retrieve the prodigal Tunya Rae.  This meant a couple of extra days in juvenile lockup but it was an educational time.  Tunya Rae learned about the economic opportunities of the world’s oldest profession and picked up a mentor—Tangilique Veeona Grigsby, also known by her working monicker as “Marilyn Monroe,” took her under her arm.  Tunya Rae was soon talking the talk, walking the walk, and negotiating the price of blowjobs, as well as vaginal and anal sexual intercourse with nary a whisper of actual sex in exchange for money.  This made for a very limited incarceration experience.  Tangilique was a proud member of Calvin Clarence Coolidge’s,  AKA Master P, stable of very fine hoes and accompanied them in their travels to camp towns in the Southwestern United States and particularly along Interstate 20 and 10 and 8. 

Officer Donald Foutaise was born in Lansing, Michigan, and for reasons he had never tried to explained to himself, or anyone else, he hated both the book and movie Catch 22.  His mother was a university Librarian and his father was a Professor of Philosophy.  They loved their only son with a passion unequaled and endeavored diligently to raise him as an open minded, intellectually inquisitive man, who possessed a love for his fellow human beings and a willingness to sacrifice for the greater good.

It didn’t quite work out.  While he didn’t act out and get into trouble at school or with the law, he seemed a sad child with a perpetual serious facial expression that seldom smiled.  He grew to be an intelligent man but stumbled through life to a rhythm less beat on a non-existent sheet of music, sometimes seeming to lack any judgment and he rejected all wisdom socially recognized.  In college, he majored in Political Science because that major didn’t require a lot of math at U of Michigan.  He attended the U of Michigan, his mother and father’s alma mater and employer because he didn’t have to pay tuition and was all but guaranteed admission.  It also qualified him for a student draft deferment. He performed well on exams because his professors felt sorry for his parents and gave him the benefit of the doubt.  If asked to expound upon or defend a position he had taken in an essay answer he tended to act as if his interrogator was a idiot who needed explanation because he or she was a fool and if per chance it appeared to him that he was not winning, much less losing the debate, his patent fall back was “You just don’t understand the way I think,” which, in the final analysis, was all too true.

But, he did well in Naval ROTC and at the end of four years, he was commissioned an Ensign in the Navy Supply Corps, specifically, a Foods Service Officer.  Having often fantacized himself in the role of one of the protagonists in the old post World War Two Hollywood movies, this wasn’t what he had looked forward to, but it was pretty much the default for a bright young officer with no aptitudes, interests or visible ambitions. 

Fate treated Foutaise well.  The U.S. was cranking up the war in Viet Nam and everyman was valuable. While he seemed to lack qualities that would make him ideal in few if any assignments, his ambition and drive, being recognized for what they were, earned Foutaise an assignment as an unassigned general duty officer to the U.S. Naval Base Subic Bay.  His social skills weren’t the best and at the age of twenty three his enduring virginity was shame he didn’t talk about.  That condition was cured his first night in-country and within six months, he visited virtually every bar and brothel on the Olongapo-Bugallon Road in Barrio Barreto.  By the end of his first year, he was known by his first name at the Navy’s VD clinic and the staff, in a moment of humor, had etched his name across the back of his favorite chair in their waiting room.

Foutaise found his calling when the Officer in Charge of the base firing range shot himself in the leg practicing his quick draw and he was assigned temporarily as his substitute.  It was there that he discovered his natural talent for understanding small arms and as his expertise in this area grew so did his reputation.  Soon, he was known throughout WestPac as the man to go to for exotic weapons or questions about individual firepower.  It was also during this time that he became an aficionado of angry cop movies.  When he wasn’t at work, or at the bars, he was watching and rewatching Hollywood’s best and worst, time and time again, memorizing lines and practicing delivering them himself, time and time again.  He particularly enjoyed making unattributed quotations after command briefings and was very popular among the commissioned dissidents who had joined the Navy to escape the draft.  He was so popular that the owner of the Wet Spot Bar and Grill rented him a permanent room at the end of the hallway furthest from the bar as his permanent residence.  He struck up a relationship with one of the bar girls, Blessica Abayan, and she moved in with him.  He paid the rent and grocery expenses, and she did the cleaning and cooking so he had a house keeper and someone to cook his meals and a ready no questions asked source of sexual gratification.  He came to enjoy Pilipino food.  Somewhere along the way, his friends started calling him “Brutus.”  He wasn’t sure why, but it sounded strong, so he kept it.

Time shuffled on and Foutaise’s two year tour of duty at Subic Bay ended.  His military resume made it difficult to place him but a worldly enlisted specialist learned of an generally unknown vacancy for Range Officer at the Salton Sea Test Base located at the southern end of the Salton Sea.  About the only thing tested there was exotic infantry weapons by the Navy SEALS.  The assignment and Foutaise were a perfect fit.  While stationed there, he soon learned the ins and outs of the Mexicali Zona Rosa and that was his weekend home away from home.

He finished out his Navy time and joined the Lechugaville Police Department.  During his tour of duty at the Salton Sea, he made many friends among law enforcement in Lechuga County.  These officers enjoyed firing exotic weapons and Foutaise had access to a veritable gold mine of exotic.  During the early 70’s, applicants for entry level police officer were difficult to come by across the nation in general.  Foutaise had no history of drug use or abuse, no arrests of any sort, not even traffic tickets, and he could read and write.  So when he separated from the Navy, the Lechugaville Police Recruiter knew he  had found his man.

The night that Jayne Mansfield and her cohorts arrived in Lechugaville, Foutaise was off duty and in Mexicali hooking up with one of the amateur prostitutes that frequent the local cantinas on weekends,.  He could have found the same service at about the same price in the 900 Block of Main Street, or in the bar at the Asia Café and Hotel, but that was too close to home.  He had a habit of walking foot patrols through the cantinas in the 900 Block of Main and the in the two large hotels in town.  He never checked any IDs in the bars and seldom arrested anyone, even if there was a fight with injuries, and most of his “bar checks consisted of sitting at the end of the counter sipping coffee and talking to the waitresses or bartender and he was wary of conflicts of interest. 

He also missed Blessica, but wasn’t sure why.

He first saw Jayne in the Monte Carlo and he thought she was part of a group of college coeds who were slumming.  He didn’t see anything unusual in the fact that inside of two weeks he saw them in every bar and cantina in town and they all had a habit of leaving the bars with some pretty raunchy looking men acting like love was the answer. Foutaise was living in the Asia Hotel above the Asia Café.  It wasn’t fancy but it was cheap and the air conditioner worked and he didn’t have to do his own housekeeping.  Tenants received a discount on food in the café and the old Pilipino cook and proprietor cooked some world class lumpia, pancit and spicy pork brain noodle soup.

He had talked to her a couple of times in the bar inside the Asia Café and inside the Monte Carlo.  She couldn’t figure out why he never smiled, he was friendly, and he was a great story teller and he had lived in so many interesting places.  She liked the rice inside the Asia Café and the beef burritos inside the Monte Carlo. She could eat more rice than he ever imagined possible, and she seemed to enjoy listening to him talk.  He enjoyed eating dinner with her. 

She was equally impressed with him.  He was so smart.  He had a college degree.  She was thinking he was the only college graduate she had ever known, and he knew so much about guns. He could talk forever about them. He never actually associated her with the dead pimp. 

After Master P’s untimely death, Foutaise saw her more often, she mentioned that she was looking for a place to stay and he offered his place at the Asia Hotel.  He explained that it was small but she could stay there a couple of weeks until she found a place. He worked nights so she would have some privacy.  She agreed in between mouthfuls of rice. 

After a couple of weeks of sharing the room that he was paying for, she decided to comp him a night of bliss.  They were watching TV on his night off, Wednesday, and she asked if he could put lotion on her back.  He said “Yeah, sure.” 

She had flawless skin, except for one scar on her left bicep that she got in a high school knife fight.  She slipped out of her bra and two pads slipped out and fell to the floor.  She picked them up held them next to her face and, in a made for television voice, “Try perform breast enhancers, complete with nipples, and for women of color, six different shades of brown.”  They both laughed but Foucaise was focused on her skin.

Her skin was soft and plush and Foucaise was fascinated by the play of light on her curves.  The highpoints were light brown, almost yellow, and the parts where the light struck obliquely were a smoky color fading to black and the in between was various shades of brown.The next morning he offered to let her move in permanently.  She protested that she had infringed on him too much already, but carefully accepted his offer before she had protested too much.  In her mind, an occasional lay with a man who showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, wore clean underwear to bed, changed his socks daily and didn’t fart all night in bed, not to mention the plain fried rice at the Asia Café that she always put on his tab, was well worth the cost of a place to live.

Few if any of Foutaise’s fellow officers knew he had a female roommate and none of them knew her as a prostitute because her MO kept her below the radar.  They also were seldom seen in Lechugaville together outside of the Asia Café.  She was renting a trick room at the Polo Norte but even there she always entered and left through the rear door.  She was a quiet “tenant” and gave her clients what they paid for.  She was adverse to trouble and didn’t argue with welching tricks.  She also never gave them a second chance.  There were six bars in town and on the average Friday or Saturday night, she made enough to pay for her room for the month and food and clothes.  She tended to work a different bar every night and she didn’t work the street, so pretty much the only law enforcement officers who knew her were Foucaise and the detectives working the Master P suicide and the bartenders who knew her knew her as a young black woman in a mostly Mexican town who liked to drink and leave with men.  Fact is, almost to a man or woman they knew she was a prostitute but as long as she didn’t attract police, they didn’t care.

A year to the day after Master P’s Great Misadventure, the New York Texan had a yearning to satisfy but he was careful of where he satisfied it.  His route throughout America took him all around the periphery, Interstate 8, to 10 to 5 to the Canadian border and back down to 90 and then east to 95. On this day he was traveling westbound on I-10.  He still had a few loose odds and ends to dispose of but he didn’t anticipate any problems with that task.  He would be in El Centro, California in eight hours and he was thinking about visiting nearby Lechugaville.  He was thinking specifically of the young Jayne Mansfield, the softness of her deep black skin, the taste of her mouth, her full lips offset against her skin by bright red lipstick the salty flavor of her skin and body parts where he had licked her and the aromas of her body.  He unzipped his pants and freed his erection.  He had unfinished business with Jayne.

A year earlier, the New York Cowboy had met Jayne at the Grand Cowboy Hotel. He was in possession of a Bulldog .44 revolver and he had offered it to her in exchange of her services.  His main purpose was to get rid of it because it could tie him to a killing in Mississippi.  He let her take to her friend because she promised to come back in exchange for more valuables.  A short while after she left, he heard the city go wild with police sirens and decided that it would be prudent to leave.

The Grand Cowboy Hotel is a large hotel with almost a hundred rooms of which seldom more than two dozen are ever rented out.  The big business days are the week of Cowboy Days, Duck Season, Dove Season, Sand Dune Races, and the 3 and 4 day American holidays when party goers returning home from San Felipe in Baja California decide to spend the night in clean sheets after a hot shower and sober up before continuing home to Los Angeles and other points northwest.  He tried there on Thursday, and Friday and got lucky late Friday night.

Prostitution was not Jayne Mansfield’s first choice of employment.A little more than a month after Master P the Master Pimp shot himself in the head showing off his prowess with a revolver and about a month before she moved in with Foucaise, she started working part time as a waitress and bartender at the Cowboy Hotel Bar. She didn’t think he knew how she had come to live in Luchugaville and she didn’t tell him.After she was hired, Foucaise spent more time doing bar checks there.

Jayne Mansfield was working the bar the night she saw the New York Texan sitting in a dark corner.  He saw her, too.  She still had a beautiful smile but she seemed to have much better hygiene than in their first transaction, a year earlier.

She walked over to him. “Hi, how are you?  Do you remember me?”

“How could I forget the best night of my life?”

“What will you have, on the house.”

“The usual?”

“I meant alcohol.  I’ve changed professions”

He laughed, “Well, good for you.”

The Parque Rio Real isn’t much.  It has green grass most of the year, but the facilities are usually backed up and the drinking fountains donn’t have enough pressure to drink water out of them.  It also has a tendency to reek of human waste because the Rio Real, called the New River in other parts of its meandering path is mostly effluent from the Mexicali Sewer System.  The photos in the brochure published by the Chamber of Commerce showing a picturesque gentle stream with decorative greenery didn’t show the pervasive aroma that was an inescapable element of the park’s ambience.  When the little old Mexican transient woman was performing her morning scavenging duties looking for cans and plastic in the trash barrels, she came across what to her looked almost exclusively like part of a human arm.

She tried to call for help from the payphone in the park that never functions, and it wasn’t functioning.  The sun had not yet risen when she trudged up the bank to the nearest houses and knocked on several doors.  The residents don’t speak Spanish and she doesn’t speak English so there wasn’t a lot of effective communication, but they all called the police about the crazy Mexican woman beating on doors in the neighborhood.  Dispatch first assigned the call to Officer Al Johnson, long time valley resident since his Navy days at the nearby Navy Test Center and young Danny Garcia for back up.  Johnson doesn’t speak Spanish, so once he found her, the only thing he did was motion with his hands and say, “Shoo.  Shoo.”  When Danny arrived, the old woman was in tears, trudging away and cursing Johnson magnificently.  Danny pulled alongside the homeless old woman who was known to most police officers on the morning watch, except Johnson, laughed and asked, “Oye vieja, que paso?”  (Hey, old woman, how goes it?”) The old woman was crying and yelling and cursing the police and life in general and saying nonsensical things like “There is a leg in trash barrel.”  Danny stopped laughing and asked her to get in his back seat and they drove to the river bottom.

The park had a road around the perimeter and equestrian trails that wound around the trees and shrubs in the interior.  There were more trails heading upstream and downstream out of the park along the river.  In the center, there were facilities and a fully equipped kitchen that could be rented by the public. There were picnic table positioned throughout the park and tables under a large prefabricated steel shade structure near the kitchen.  There were also steel barbeque boxes available at each individual picnic site.

The old woman went berserk as he stopped near the location that she had guided him too.  He got out of the patrol car, opened the back door for her, and walked over to the trash barrel, looked inside and radioed dispatch:  “Station L this is Baker two three.”

“Baker two three.”

“That is an affirmative on the object in the trashcan.  I need an evidence tech and a supervisor.”

“10-4 Baker two three.”

“Station L”

“Go ahead.”

“This is Paul Three, I’m heading to Baker two three’s 10-20.”

“10-4”

Foucaise showed up unannounced a few minutes before Paul Three, parked his unit a safe distance from the possible crime scene and walked to Danny’s location. 

“What’s up”

“Looks like an arm or part of one in that trash barrel.”  He pointed to a nearby barrel.  “Take a look.  I don’t think it will hurt anything.”

Foucaise walked over and looked in the trashcan and saw part of an arm.  The black skin looked soft and flawless except for a three inch scar on the bicep.  An inch or so away, was a single perform breast enhancer, complete with nipple, and for women of color, six different shades of brown and evidence of special adhesive to prevent embarrassing slippage.  He stepped over to the nearest picnic table, sat on the table surface and rested his face in his hands. 

Danny spoke first, “Any idea as to who it belongs too?”

He looked lost for a moment, breathed deeply, and shook his nead, “No.”

 

 


© Copyright 2018 Eddie C Morton. All rights reserved.

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