It became the impetus behind the skyrocketing popularity of “Flaming Ruth”; but it also was the cause of Wilma’s downfall. Her act became the talk of the town and, as might have been expected, complaints about its blatancy soon reached the ears of the New Orleans vice squad. Two members of the squad were dispatched to the Peep Show to view it with their own eyes.
They saw the show through and after it was over they returned to headquarters and secured warrants for the arrest of Wilma, and Rocky Jantzen, for “conspiracy to present lewd and prurient entertainment.” At the next performance, as soon as Wilma began her routine, the show was stopped and she and Jantzen were arrested.
Vito D’Angelo had them bailed out and brought to his apartment. He spelled out the situation for them. “Wilma goes on again, they revoke your license,” he told Rocky.
“How about if she cools down the act?” Rocky asked.
“No soap. The stink’s too big. There’s been pressure from all kinds of bluenose groups. If she goes onstage again, they’ll be hollering for the scalps of every burley operator in town. They’re just lookin’ for an excuse to start an all-out cleanup campaign.”
“You mean I can’t perform anywhere?” Wilma asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“But, Vito, with all your connections, can’t you smooth things over?”
“That’s just what I done. Believe me, it took plenty pressure just to stop them from turning this into a campaign to shut down bottomless joints in New Orleans altogether. Before I fight an all-out battle—-one which I just could lose—I’ll take the only compromise they’ll go for.”
“That’s just great,” Wilma said. “Just what am I supposed to do now?”
“It would be best if you skipped town,” Vito told her.
“Best for who? You? The syndicate? Not best for me. For one thing, you’re forgetting I’m out on bail. I’m due to be in court to answer charges on the twenty-third.”
“I’ll have that squelched. And you’re right, it would be best for the ‘organization.’ But we take care of our own—that is if they “cooperate.”
“What’s the matter, Vito? You tired of me?”
Vito shrugged. “You’re the greatest, baby. But like I say, business before pleasure. Now be a smart girl and go along and I’ll see you’re taken care of.”
“Do I have any choice?”
“Nope.”
“Okay then. What do I do? Where do I go?”
“Miami. You go see a Mrs. Randall at this address.”
D’Angelo scribbled the address on a slip of paper. “Tell her Vito sent you. She’ll take good care of you.”
Three days later Wilma was a working whore.
The “organization” and D’Angelo, however, hadn’t done as badly by her as it might seem. Wilma did, in a way, start at the top. The establishment run by Mrs. Randall was the finest of its kind in Miami Beach. Its clientele was the cream of society. They came to the Spanish-style hacienda in the exclusive Hollywood section with the security of knowing that their most outlandish appetites would be catered to expertly and discreetly.
Mrs. Randall herself was a mid-thirtyish lady with short, jet-black hair, dark, knowing eyes, and a typically Latin vivaciousness. This lively quality was held down by a subdued, businesslike air she cultivated in running her establishment. Thus the first impression she successfully conveyed was not unlike the headmistress who is popular with her charges despite her strictness.
Like many a headmistress, Mrs. Randall had her weakness. Like many a headmistress’s weakness, hers was sexual in nature and was oriented toward certain favorites among her charges.
Wilma noted this immediately. She saw that Mrs. Randall was not averse to granting favors to this girl or that. Favors, it was obvious, in return for these girls’ having pleased her. Having learned much from Jenny back in New Orleans, Wilma now set out to please Mrs. Randall herself.
With her innate sexuality, she had no trouble succeeding. It wasn’t long before Wilma ranked first among Mrs. Randall’s favorites. Indeed, she shared Mrs. Randall’s bed more often than she slept in her own room. Also, Mrs. Randall saw to it that Wilma added to her store of knowledge about sex. Soon Wilma was acquainted with the possibilities of every bodily orifice, male and female, with the uses of a variety of props from feathers to whips, with aberrations ranging from daisy-chains to all forms of sodomy, voyeurism, and bestiality.
“Sex is a weapon. Use it!” Mrs. Randall advised again and again. Nor was she naive enough not to know that Wilma was using it with her. Nevertheless, she accepted this and lectured Wilma for hours on end on the various ways in which it was useable in their profession.
Before long, at Wilma’s request, Mrs. Randall had made her a “specialty girl.” This meant she was available to only very special customers and by appointment only. It also meant that she earned much more money since these customers paid well to have their particular perversities satisfied. Truthfully, though, the extra money wasn’t as important to Wilma as the fact that she often found enjoyment in the various kinds of depraved love which were still absent in the so-called “straight lovemaking” sought by the run-of-the-mill customers.
She was able to send money home to her father, the only person in the world she would ever really love. She wrote him that she was working as a dancer in a nightclub, and Ben, in his unworldliness, believed her. He wrote back and told her about Glenville, about the new factory which had gone up, about the farm, about his problems.
Finally came the letter in which he told Wilma about the offer he’d had for the farm and how he didn’t want to sell. This was followed by other letters telling of how the offer was being increased. And then still more letters describing how the local bank, spurred on by the merchants and factory management, had been trying to pressure him to sell. The last of these was heavy with worry over the possibility of losing the farm through foreclosure.
This was the one which decided Wilma to go home and see what she could do about helping her father with his troubles. She gave her notice to Mrs. Randall -- who was more than a little sorry to see her go—-and now she was finishing out the week. Tonight was her last night, this roly-poly little man her last customer, and Wilma was doing her professional best to finish her career in style.
Once again she brought the whiplash down across his chubby buttocks. By now they were crisscrossed with welts, and the eager masochist was writhing in ecstasy. Wilma’s arm was growing tired, but she continued until the man’s hard, fat, little penis spurted an impressive stream of cream from its red tip. She cracked him with the whip once more, quite hard, out of sheer contrariness. It seemed to put just the right exclamation point to Wilma’s career as a high-class whore.
Two days later she got off the train at Glenville. The first thing that struck her, hovering over the small town like some nightmarish ghoul poised to envelop it, the giant chimney stacks like rigid phalli poised for rape, was the Continental Ball Bearing plant. Between two of its buildings, nestling vulnerably as though it were female and the buildings were a man’s legs, Wilma could just make out the vague outlines of her father’s farm.
She took a taxi there. When she arrived her father was out back tending the pigs. Wilma carried her bags up to her room herself. She got out of her clothes and went into the bathroom to take a shower to wash off the dust of her journey. When she emerged, she could hear someone moving around in the kitchen down below.
It must be her father. Her heart pounded violently and suddenly she found herself hard-put to draw breath. Her father! Trembling, she slipped on a white terry cloth robe, ran a brush over her long red hair, tied it with a ribbon, and raced down the stairs.