Unknown - White slave

Hell, at that rate he could quit driving a cab and stay at home to make money. Legitimate money took time, especially with taxes and insurance – all the crap that drains your pocket for no reason but to keep the money flowing.

The first step had been to con two Mexican girls – lovely pieces of ass they were – into chaperoning a couple of businessmen Roger had taxied to Broadway Street where they wanted a quick floor show and blow job, something their wives wouldn't put out for. One phone call to the girls and snap! Fifty bucks in his hand. Nobody got hurt and everybody was happy: fifty bucks in his hand. Nobody got hurt and everybody was happy: the businessmen got laid, the girls got twenty-five dollars each, and Roger the other half.

With Margaret Sorenson it had been a case of coincidence, too, he rationalized to himself. Boy, she'd been crying her heart out for a man since old Sandor was blown to bits by that accident. She'd come pounding on Roger's door every day spilling out her woes, making promises for paying the rent… even offering to clean his place! How could a bachelor refuse an offer like that? Finding out about her inheritance… well, that hadn't been quite as accidental. He'd never thought he'd resort to steaming open mail, but it proved worthwhile. Old Margaret was sitting on a Goddamned nest-egg, just crying for somebody to share it with. Couple more months and he might be a married man.

But these two girls. Whow! They were in hot water up to their pretty virgin asses. Welfare fraud, he tutted to himself, pivoting to see the blonde haired girl staring wild-eyed behind him.

"Come sit down, Chris," he motioned toward the sofa. "I've got something here you had better know about." His brown paw waved an official looking letter in the air, gesturing for her to sit next to her roommate.

The roommate's eyes locked for a terrified second and, feeling the burden of the guilt, Sandy winced, wrinkling up her perky nose and, as if to beg pardon, shook out a cigarette and handed it to her solemn-faced roommate whose every blink of the eye was a righteously wielded accusation of irresponsibility.

Roger, studying the nipples spiking out from the blonde girl's robe, smiled appreciatively in a tight smirk. Yes, she would sell well, he thought to himself, waiting for his audience to snap alert under his threatening gaze. "To fill you in on the facts, Chris, this is a letter from the social service department of San Francisco… I assume you know who they are since you've been getting foodstamps for the past month."

Chris nodded her turbaned head.

"As landlord I was mailed this letter to ask a few questions about your living situation. According to this xeroxed form, Sandra… that's you," he blinked his chocolate eyes at the dark haired girl who cowered in the sofa, one leg hugged up to her chest, her dimpled chin resting on her knee, "… are supposed to be married to a Christopher O'Brien and supporting two children." He flung the letter to the side table and feigning a glare, thrust his hands in his pockets and resumed his pacing.

Silence fell on the room, broken only by the dull crackle of a radio that hummed out Bob Dylan's "Dear Landlord… put a price on my soul". Sandy stifled an irresponsible giggle; it was almost funny in a desperate sort of way, but Chris' elbow in her ribs put a somber look back on her pixie face.

"So… what do we do about it?" Sandy pouted, sighed and tutted. "Okay," she said in a monotone voice, "… so I lied. Now what are you going to do about it? Have me locked up? Call my family? Good luck if you do."

Roger drew in a deep breath and rested his finger on his lower lip. "If I wanted to get nasty about it, I could do just that. Welfare fraud is becoming one of the most common crimes in this city, and the taxpayers are Goddamned sick of it… especially since all these young people are coming out here to the West Coast without jobs and sucking up all the welfare so the people who really need it go hungry. Papers are full of cases."

Chris wriggled uncomfortably on the sofa, fearing the worst. One glance at Roger and she knew he wasn't going to give them a break.

"Then there's the matter of your rent being overdue," his brown intense eyes snapped wider like shutters on springs. "Two months now and you girls haven't paid me a dime. Legally I could have you out of here in thirty days…"

Chris was the first to break. She rested her head in her hands and sobbed three times before regaining her composure. Today had been an emotional nightmare, saying nothing about financial. An apologetic feminine hand stroked her arm as she squeezed out the last tear.

"Oh damn," sighed Roger, gleaming over his success. Shit! He had them now. Get a woman in tears and she loses all rationale. Now was the time to snap it to them; they'd be putty in his hands, their will broken, ready to be molded to his wishes. "… I didn't mean to make you cry, but this is a serious matter. Christ, I can't count the number of young girls who've lived in this building – just out of school, away from home for the first time, thinking they'll come out to old SF and teach the world tricks." He shook his head negatively. "Life ain't that way, girls. It ain't that simple."

"But… but we've tried looking for work. Honest we have!" Chris' ivory white forehead was wrinkled with a solemn plea for mercy. "We've spent all the money we had on bus fare and God, I even sacrificed my last dollar for a pair of stockings to go to a crummy interview – and I didn't even want the job!" She looked pleadingly into Sandy's tear-blurred eyes. Sandy nodded in acquiescence.

"Really," she moaned in her flirtatiously childish manner, the expression on her face one of a hungry orphan begging for a bowl of rice. "It's not that we haven't tried or don't have any brains. God, we both graduated from college and… and I speak Spanish and Chris speaks French." She shrugged her shoulders and spread her hands entreatingly.

"Spanish, you say?" Ah, ha, mused Roger silently, stroking his full mustache with glee. This was the opener. "French?"

The girls nodded simultaneously.

"Hmmm… I might be able to help you… that is, if you really want a job." He continued pacing, one hand thrust into his polyester suit pants, the other still working on his mustache, while his brown eyes clicked off the dollar signs. The surreptitious landlord glanced over at the rentees to see them sitting up straight, ready to take orders. "Naw. You girls went to college huh? What were your majors?" His eyes sparkled as they probed every inch of feminine flesh… two hundred a nights worth.

"I majored in art with a double major in French, and Sandy majored in modern dance and speaks Spanish… she's part Spanish, you know," the spokesman assured.

"You girls ever worked in crowds of people? I mean have you ever been hostesses or tour guides?"

"No," answered Sandy, somewhat disconcertedly.

"But we can try!" Chris blurted.

"I… I don't know…" Roger made a turn at the mantle and rested his elbow on the chipped paint and stroked his neck with that hand. "You'd have to spend time around men… many of them foreigners." He smacked his lips and shook his head. "Maybe you'd be better off trying the lunch counters down town…"

"No, wait a minute! Tell us more about this job," implored Chris, sitting on the edge of the sofa now, ablaze with interest, desperate for a break. The prospect of going back to Detroit was about as appealing as making love to an elephant.

"Okay," Roger confronted them in his military stance, arms behind his back, legs spread. "I have some friends who own a tour guide business downtown… old buddies of mine from the army. They make contact with the bus guide tours and instead of sending everybody out in buses they take them out sometimes singly, sometime in pairs. What they need is somebody to chaperone the guys, somebody who can speak Spanish or French… adds a little class, you know."