Streets: World’s Greatest Pimp, With Benefits

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

Master P was a Master Pimp and proud of it. He had a stable of beautiful hoes and the money was rolling in. He had a great working business model and a great business plan that had successfully
tested out. He was on his way to the big time, and then came Cowboy Days and the big rodeo in Lechugaville, California.

Submitted: January 02, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 02, 2018



Master P, known since birth to his mother, as Calvin Clarence Coolidge, is a Master Pimp. 

That is what the “P” in “Master P” stands for. 

Born on March 15, 1960,  in Altoona, Kansas,  to Altoona Coolidge and an itinerant Baptist preacher man, Calvin thought he understood tough times and poverty.  He never knew his father, only that he had been a preacher man who chose moving to a new flock, apparently in a different state, over tar and feathers after it was discovered that he had deflorated the young fourteen year old Altoona.  He left no forwarding address.

As time went on, his mother, named after the town of her birth, also Altoona, Kansas, came to be known near and far as the best cleaning lady and family cook in Kansas, and she made a living at it.  Miss Altoona had a state wide reputation of being a world class cook.  She never cooked anything that would necessarily be featured in the New York Times Food Section or served up at a White House State Dinner, but there was no finer barbeque anywhere, her pecan pie couldn’t be beat, her bread was to die for and her Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter Sunday Dinners were unsurpassed.  The income she earned kept Calvin in shoes and clothing, warm in the winter and light and airy in the summer, helped pay off the mortgage on her mother and father’s house, and kept him well fed.  When the good white folk of Altoona and the surrounding counties were planning on having a grand shindig, say a grand wedding for someone’s beloved “Daddy’s Little Princess,” they would call on Altoona to get the job done.

These good white folk were especially grateful to Miss Altoona for her cakes and other preparations for birthday parties, and weddings and other special occasions and equally so for the low prices that she charged that occasionally didn’t cover her expenses when she purchased the preparations in advance for a large event that was canceled without warning.  She was always reluctant to ask for an agreement with her customers to protect her against losses for her good faith preparations and if she asked for reimbursement they seldom failed to point out that that wasn’t part of their agreement.

When the end came, she was ladling potato salad into a serving bowl on the buffet table.  She was seized by inescapable constriction in her chest and a loud pop in her head.  It felt like someone had hit her with a board, but she died an otherwise a painless death face down in the blackeyed peas with ham hocks  from a massive stroke.

The people she was feeding at the time of her untimely passing had a phone number for her but little else.  She had come recommended by a friend of a friend and her reputation but they knew little more.  They weren’t even sure of her name, much less her address and emergency information.  Worse yet, they didn’t even know who they should call for a refund of the money they advanced Altoona for her culinary services.

While Miss Altoona was a selfless saint, Calvin was less so.  At the age of 14, he couldn’t read all that well and could barely write his name but he had an unobserved smartness.  He wasn’t a problem in school because he sat at his desk all day doing nothing.  Each year, the school system dutifully passed him on to the next grade level and each year he dutifully sat quietly at his desk and didn’t cause trouble.While his school teachers and counselors generally found him to be without ambition, he was not.  He had a plan and he was preparing to implement it by watching every blaxploitation movie he could get his hands on.  He always figured he would graduate on time, regardless of how long it took, and he particularly identified with his senior class chant:  “Party hardy, rock and roll, we’re the class you can’t control.”  While not visible to the naked eye, Calvin, the quiet colored boy at the back of the class who never disrupted class even if he never contributed anything, was the most accomplished marijuana vender at Altoona High, and he was in only the ninth grade.  While he didn’t read well and his  writing skills were less, ability to add, subtract, multiply and divide were matchless and his room and school notebook were covered with motivating mottos like “Start small, Dream Big,” and “The early bird gets the worm,” in different types of script.  While this was a curious eccentricity for his teachers, his mother perceived it as a sign of his future success.

Miss Altoona’s untimely death put an unexpected crimp in Calvin’s plans.  When Miss Altoona died, Calvin, at the age of sixteen, went to live with her brother in Kansas City.  The school teachers and administrators in Kansas City weren’t as amenable to his lack of academic vigor as had been those in Altoona, and expected him to do his homework.  The Kansas City police department, more specifically the Narcotics Detail, was almost larger than the entire Altoona Police Department, and, having grown up believing the high school health and safety films like “Demon Weed,” they took their jobs seriously.

Worse, he was the new guy in town and he was providing unappreciated competition in what had been a largely oligopolistic market for the local marijuana distributors. 

The narcotics hot line rang off the hook with good news about an easy stat.  The next day, a new student, who looked a little older than most, was enrolled in the South Kansas City High School, and the same classes as Calvin, and by noon he had, scored a two finger baggie from Calvin in one of the stalls in the boys room under the east staircase.  By sixth period, Calvin was in handcuffs in the back seat of a police car on the way to juvenile hall.  By the next morning, he was permanently expelled from the South Kansas City Unified School District.

Not being the one to give up in the face of minor challenges, Calvin began dealing out of the park nearest to the school.  Without the in-school snitches to report his activities, the narcotics dicks tended to leave him alone.  By the same token, he employed a number of assistants and runners to take receipt of the money or deliver the weed.  This security technique increased the amount of time and energy required to bust him, and was considered a drain on the budget without appreciably benefiting their statistical points.  As a result, Calvin dropped off the narcotics detail’s radar.

South Kansas is an impoverished area and his customers were constantly asking for credit.  Being the astute businessman that he was, Calvin routinely turned down virtually all such requests from boys.  On the other hand, he virtually always offered to let the girls take it out in trade.  Most of the girls declined this type of non-monetary bartered exchange, but a few accepted and some tended to prefer it as a medium of exchange for smoke.  After a while, he figured he knew which girls would be inclined to accept an offer of steady employment offering up their feminine charms for considerably more than twenty dollar two fingered baggies.

Everyone has an ego and Calvin was no different from most folks in that he wanted something more.  Part of the inspiration for becoming a pimp was the influence of some of the blaxploitation movies, Hollywood movies and prime time TV.  In the stories he watched, pimps were almost always portrayed favorably and sometimes as the good guy or avenging good guy.  Calvin wanted to be a good guy.

When law enforcement activity heated up in Kansas City, Kansas, or the local informal police “use tax” on street corner activities cut into his profits, he moved across the river to Kansas City, Missouri.  He bounced back and forth like this a few times and then decided there were better things in life.  Sometimes, he would remove himself and his girls to Saint Louis for working vacations.  This was especially profitable during professional football season.

 Like other young men attracted to that profession he had a deluded sense of importance and success and eventually started calling himself “Master P,” for “Master Pimp.”He admired the flamboyant dress styles of the TV pimps.  He also read, slowly but surely and one word at a time, all of the pimp books that came of age in the 60’s and 70’s written by pimps who realized that writing about their exploits, real or imagined, was easier and much more profitable than doing the time concurrent with being arrested for the adventures they got caught doing.

By the age of twenty-two, Calvin had reached the pinnacle of his dreams.  He was “Master P” and he had a new two product line business model that would rake in profits and keep him and his girls out of jail.

The plan was simple.  Be inconspicuous.  This meant that he didn’t dress up like a Hollywood Pimp.  He wore button down shirts, wash and wear slacks, an inconspicuous belt and lace up street shoes.  He had the girls dress up like college girls going out with the girls and not dress like TV whores:  daisy dukes, Chuck Taylor Converse tennis shoes in different colors, white bobby socks, halter tops and red lipstick.Don’t stand on the corner doing strange things with your tongues and lips.  Walk up and down the street.  Be friendly.  If men want to talk to you, talk. Don’t negotiate the price, don’t offer sex specifically for money.  Play the word game. 

If the john asks for drugs, ask him if he is a drug user.  Ask him what he uses.  Ask him how much he usually buys.  Ask him how much he normally pays. Tell him that you know a dealer that might sell him something for a specific price, and then give the signal and direct him to our cut out.  Don’t touch the money.  Don’t touch the product. 

This procedure worked well and the number of arrests decreased significantly, which meant cash bail expenses decreased, too.  After each girl had been arrested no more than two times, they moved on to a new city.  The girls used a new name in each city and they didn’t use any names twice.  This meant that when an arrest warrant was issued in one of the towns that they had visited, because they didn’t show up on their court date, it was issued for a person who basically didn’t exist in any of the law enforcement data systems outside of that town or county.  And their fingerprints probably were not forwarded to the FBI national database, and even if they were, fingerprint searches were labor intensive and expensive. 

Master P felt a sense of adventure in every new town they worked.  He also felt a sense of danger and reveled in it.  New cops, and new hazards.  He felt security in his new anonymity. Invisibility was almost like armor.  The game was almost as important as the money.  Plus he enjoyed the free blow jobs. 

What more could a young man ask for?

After a few years of rotating between Kansas City, Kansas, and Kansas City, Missouri, and Saint Louis, Missouri, he decided to take his show west.His first plan was to work the decent sized cities around the military bases near Lawton, Oklahoma and Wichita Falls, Texas.  He expanded the plan after the girls told him exciting things about the bases in California, Oregon and Washington, as well as the desert and mountain resort areas in California, and he decided to look at those greener pastures.  To finance the trip, they worked the midsized cities and truck stops along Interstate 10 in Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. 

They stumbled across Lechugaville on the road to Palm Springs.  It was in the middle of the city’s annual “Cowboy Days” and the city was packed with drunken cowboys and rodeo goers.

It was a potentially rich operating environment.

Lechugaville was incorporated in 1906 alongside a road that eventually become U.S. Route 99 (US 99). Route 99 ran from Calexico, across from Mexicali, north through Palm Springs and San Bernardino and on through small cities like Burbank and Glendale, via the San Fernando Road, heading over the Tehachapi Pass along the Grapevine and thence to Bakersfield, California, and points north all the way to Blaine, Washington on the Canadian border. During the depression it was the main route followed by Dust Bowl immigrant farm workers going to and from crops. 

U.S. Highway 99 changed to Main Street for its passage through Lechugaville and even after 99 changed to State Highway 86 in 1964, Main Street remained Main Street.

Calvin, with the ambition of his youth, saw this on a state highway map and decided to work the whole length and Highway 99.

Lieutenant Eddie Chapman and Officer Richard Willis were the Intelligence Section of the Lechugaville Police Department.Because they attended every Neighborhood Watch meeting in the city and a few in the county, they were both well known in the community as the “police Intel guys.”  Because they acted appropriately mysterious and liberally decorated their expositions on crime in the community with quiet references to mysterious informants, prefaced by appropriate grimaces and accompanied by hushed tones, and admonitions that “this is strictly confidential and you can’t repeat this to anyone,” most civilians in town new them to be veritable fonts of secret information. 

As in most law enforcement agencies, they didn’t share much with line officers or detectives and did not have reputations as sources of useful information.  So when a new pimp called “Master P” was rumored to have drifted in with a stable of five or six women, nobody bothered to ask if they had any information about them.  Master P avoided the streets and contacting the girls in public and so no one had actually seen him.  The cops were aware of his name because his girls referred to him as Master P in their shop talk discussions with the other street prostitutes.  The evidence of his existence was circumstantial and indirect at best.

The Lechugaville Vice and Narcotics Sergeant contacted Las Vegas PD Vice Detail hoping to develop a reason to visit Las Vegas on department funds, but they had never heard of the pimp called “Master P.”He asked the Intel Section to run that name through the state criminal intelligence files and was turned down because they said state Intel file managers couldn’t be burdened with searches for mere unknown pimps.  The good sergeant went back to approving arrest reports for real suspects in custody.

Cowboy Days was a profitable event that ran annually from Monday through Saturday night.  The girls attended the barbeque and the bon fire and the big dance and the all comers rodeo at the end.  There were two large, more or less modern hotels in town. Each had a sizable bar and they spent considerable time in both. The cantinas on the 900 block of Main, the Monte Carlo, Luna Azul and Polo Norte, were also a source of income but the locals were sometimes sensitive about outside competition, and the girls didn’t speak Spanish, so they tended to shop elsewhere.  They would soften the johns up and then when the johns would suggest that they retire to a parked pickup truck or horse trailer or hotel room, they would ask what they had in mind.  Cowboys tend to be plain spoken men and, aided by a few swigs off a bourbon bottle,  and it didn’t take much coaxing for them to honesty express their hopes and aspirations for the relationship, usually a fuck and a blowjob, with the promise to “give you the fuck of yore life and suck yore pussy ‘til yore forehead caves it.”  With one hand, the girls would grab and hold one of the john’s hands, with the other they would begin massaging his crotch, act as though they were already having orgasms and then, with genuine heartbreak, complain, “Oh, shit.  Look that sounds great but I’m a professional so I can’t just do that with you.  This is the way I make my living, sugar.”  By this time, most cowboys were blind with lust and would right off the bat offer two or three hundred dollars.  Since the girls normally charged twenty bucks for a blow job or forty for straight sex and fifty for an “around the world,” this was a very profitable event for them and they didn’t have to put up with street cops.

Master P was ecstatic. 

They had rented rooms in an old Motel Lechugaville, right on the city limits.  It was rechristened Motel 3 for good luck by the non-English speaking Korean family who bought it at auction.  As long as the tenants didn’t attract the police, they were more interested in keeping the rooms rented and collecting the rent than anything that may or may not be going on inside the rooms.  They were always very cooperative with the police and anytime the police asked them about the activities of the occupants of any given room, they simply handed over the key to that room and turned the registration around so the officer’s could read it.  By the same token, Master P’s girls never brought their johns to the room and they didn’t come and go in a group, or have loud parties, or deal or use drugs from or in the room, and Master P made it a point of honor not to beat any of the girls in the room or in front of each other, so there was no need for the manager to complain.

On the last night of their stay in Lechugaville, one of the girls, Jayne Mansfield, the girls like to use the names of actresses for their working names, did something that he normally frowned on.  She used initiative and bartered with a customer.  The customer was a cowboy from New York City and he was flat busted.  No money.  He did have a Bulldog .44 Special which he offered to trade her for the temporary use of various parts of her body.  As he explained, “this gun is a proven killer, and you and yore man are in a dainjarous bidness.  This is the gun used by Son of Sam to kill all those peepul in New York City.  It is almost as famus as Billy the Kid’s gun only a hole lot deadlier.  Son of Sam killed a lot more peepul.”  Master P had been on the receiving end of a few corrective and instructive sessions regarding boundaries from fellow pimps, and she had seen him in a condition so thoroughly battered and tattered that he couldn’t have a bowel movement without crying.  He wasn’t a violent man by nature, he beat them only when they did something especially grievous and almost never more than once a week, so she figured he needed something to defend himself and her and the girls.  She didn’t know who Son of Sam was, but this, seemed to be the ideal tool.  She was also counting on it to make her his number one girl.  The number one girl still had to have sex with him, but not necessarily anal sex and she didn’t have to give him blow jobs as often.

Miss Mansfield gave the New York Cowboy a number of thrills the likes of which he had not experienced before and left him drained on the naturally sticky floor of his hotel, marinating in his own juices.  From there, she strolled up Main Street to the hotel and Master P.

Master P was indeed pleased with his gift.  In fact, he remarked that it was the nicest and most thoughtful gift he had received in his life.  All the other girls, Marilyn Monroe, Dorothy Malone and Farrah Fawcett, were present and looked at each other knowingly.  This was going to be difficult to top.

The pistol was a five shot with a two inch barrel.  It originally had a blued finish, but it was old and had not been properly cared for.  It had rusty spots and the wooden grip was soiled and chipped, but Master P was infatuated.  He held it in the palm of one of his hands and remarked to himself that such a fine killing tool was truly no longer than one of his hands. 

Truth is, the Bulldog .44 was one of the cheapest guns on the market and was generally purchased only by people who wanted a firearm and didn’t know anything about them.

He lay down on the bed and figured out how to spin the cylinder the way he had seen gunfighters do in the movies.  He pointed the thing at various objects around the room made shooting noises with his mouth.  He scared the dickens out of the girls when he pointed it at them and made the shooting noises so much that Marilyn and Jayne promised themselves to leave him as soon as they returned to civilization.

“I saw this show.  These guys were gambling and they would spin this part of the gun like this,” Master P spun the cylinder, “put the gun to their head and pull the trigger. I’ve always wanted to play that game.”

He lay back on the bed and rested his head on the pillow, a big happy smile came across his face.  He spun the cylinder and touched his ear opening with the tip of the barrel.

Jane timidly said, “I think they took all but one bullet out before they did that to the cylinder and before they pulled the trigger.  But that was in a movie.  People probably don’t really do things like that.”

Master P thought about all of the money he could make with this gambling game, cocked the gun and once again placed it against his ear.

Moments later, the police radio in Officer Emiliano Estrada’s patrol car crackled, “Baker one two.

Estrada picked up the mike and answered, “Baker One Two.”

“Baker One Two, unknown disturbance in at the Lucky Three Hotel.We’re trying to get more information, now.”

“10-4, enroute.”

“Baker One Three, cover.”

Officer William Kidd clicked his mike twice and started heading that way.  Paul Three, Sergeant Eugene Bachar, started heading that way.

Estrada got to the motel first, “Baker One Two, 10-97.”  He parked in the rear and entered the courtyard through the drive through passage way.  Kidd parked to the side of the motel and entered through a different passage way.  They each surveyed the courtyard and looked questioningly at each other.  According to dispatch, a man had shot himself in the head in room 213 and an unknown number of other people were still inside the room.  Estrada knocked on the registration window to the office.  The manager said a few things in Korean and gave him a key.

“Tooooterteen.  Tooooterteen.”

The two officers climbed the stairs opposite the door to two thirteen.  A young black woman, wearing Daisy Dukes, a halter top and pink Converse tennis shoes, with platinum blonde hair came out, looked at them and pointed at the door.  She was crying, “He’s dead.”’

Estrada looked at the open door, “whose dead?”  Kidd visually scanned the other floors and courtyard.

“Master P.”  She hugged herself tightly.

“Who killed him?” 

“He killed himself.”


“With a gun.”

“Where’s the gun?”

“He has it.”

“What is he doing with the gun?

“He’s dead.”

The two cops glanced briefly inside the room, “Is anyone else in there?”

“Marilyn Monroe.”

The two street cops looked at each other.  Emiliano’s eyebrows arched and he sighed.  “He stuck his head inside the door and looked around.  He saw a skinny young black woman in Daisy Dukes with a halter top and Converse Chuck Taylors sitting on a bar stool at one end of a bed.  A neatly groomed young black man with a goofy smile on his face was lying on the bed.  He had a bulky two inch revolver in his right hand, next to his head.  The wall beside his hand was spattered with blood. 

The two cops stepped inside the room.  Emiliano went to the man’s side and saw a neat hole, about a half inch in diameter, just above and in front of his ear.  It was dripping body fluids.  His right hand and the gun were covered with body fluids and blood.  There was a little line of black on the pillow where the burning gases from the fired round had escaped between the cylinder and the barrel.  Kidd briefly searched the room and bathroom for others.

Emiliano looked at the young woman who had spoken to him outside, “What happened?”

The young woman sniffled and wiped dripping snot from her nose, “He killed himself.”

“I see.”  Emiliano looked at Kidd briefly and the back to the woman, “What’s your name?”

“Jayne Mansfield.”

Emiliano, spoke into his handy talky, “Station L,”

“Station L.”

“Code 4.  We have one dead male, gunshot to the head, and two witnesses, with more witnesses in the wind.  We need a supervisor and a Detective and the coroner.”


From a distance, the two young women looked like college students on spring break, but up close the picture fell apart.  The women and their clothing had an unwashed smell.  There was a soiled, unwashed, look to the edges of their daisy dukes and halter tops.  Their not-so-white bobby socks had the same look.  The two officers took their personal information and witness statements and wondered as to how much of their personal information was true.

The other woman in the room identified herself as “Marilyn Monroe.”  She was a platinum blonde, too, but whereas Jane had a long haired cascading hair style, Marilyn’s was collar length. 

Emiliano radioed for an evidence tech to take their fingerprints.  Do you have identification?”

“No.  I lost it.”

Marilyn added, “I lost mine, too.”’

Kidd had been standing back behind the two girls, out of the way but able to see.  “Where are the other two girls?

Marylyn, still sobbing gently, “There are no others.”

“There are four douche kits in the bathroom.”

“I don’t know.”

“What are their names?”

“I don’t know.”

“What was Master P’s real name?”

“I don’t know.”Jayne was doing most of the talking, but Marilyn would nod her head solemnly in agreement each time she answered a question.

“Where are you guys from?”

Jayne looked confused, “I don’t know,” then quickly, “All over.”

“Was Master P your pimp?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Emiliano looked surprised.

“He loved us and we loved him and he took very good care of us.”

The crime scene photographer arrived and photographed the two women and took their fingerprints.  Emiliano and Kidd transported the two girls to the station and placed them in separate rooms to be interviewed by Detectives.

Three hours later, the on call Detective arrived at the station from his home three miles away.  He still had not been to the “crime” scene.  He was upset because the two prostitutes were being held.  He said it was a waste of time to hold those people.  “I’m not a vice cop.  I’m a homicide dick.” 

The on duty Watch Commander told him, “Yes, but that’s your call, not ours, this is a homicide investigation, not a prostitution investigation.  Those two are witnesses to a death by gunshot.”  He asked if the Detective had been to the scene and the Detective responded, “You gonna tell me my job, now?”

“The Coroner wants to take the body.  Are you finished with it?”

“Finished with the body?  I haven’t even looked at it.”

“You might want to call in another detective to help out.”

The Chief had been advised of the shooting the night that it happened and he was briefed more completely Monday morning.  Master P and his girls were something of a mystery.  Photos of Jayne and Marilyn had been posted on the Patrol briefing room wall and several patrol officers reported seeing them during bar checks.  The other two prostitutes were tentatively identified as Farrah Fawcett and Dorothy Malone.  All apparently left town by Sunday morning.

When the briefer got to the point where Master P played Russian Roulette in bed without removing the bullets, the Chief’s reaction was “What?” and the briefer repeated that part.  He also had to repeat the part where Jayne told Master P that those gamed were played only in movies and that the people in the movies first took the bullets out of the gun.

Contacted by the Lechuga Valley Truther Newspaper, City Councilwoman Beatrice Chesterfield lamented that Lechugaville was being overrun by violent prostitutes and this sentiment was seconded by some of the downtown Business Men’s Association, who also had been customers of either Jayne, Marilyn, Dorothy or Farrah.She accused the police of being soft on prostitutes and vaguely implied that some police officers may have been customers of these girls.  Then she questioned the suicide.  Was it a suicide or a homicide?  If it was a suicide, why did the police call out the on call homicide detective?

The intelligence lieutenant mysteriously mentioned that his sources indicated that the Mexican Mafia, a California Prison Gang, was using Mexican prostitutes to smuggle guns and drugs across the border into California and Arizona and that there was some indication that this group may have had connections to that criminal enterprise.  He didn’t mention that his intelligence source was a white non-Spanish speaking great grandmother who had never been to Mexico and was a volunteer in the Lieutenant’s granddaughter’s kindergarten class.

After the briefing, the Chief drove down to Tran’s Doh Nhut Joint and Taco Chop for his breakfast.  The department armorer was already there and he sat next to him at an outside table. 

The armorer didn’t have much to say about the Bulldog 44 except that it was cheap and parts tended to fall off, but he did suggest that there is something to be learned from the incident.

“What’s that,” asked the Chief.

“People who don’t know anything about guns should probably attend a gun safety course before they buy a gun.”






© Copyright 2020 Eddie C Morton. All rights reserved.

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