Valerie in New York Ch. 04

She knew where this was going too. He was going to present himself not just as a protector, but as a boyfriend, a lover. She countered this directly, "Pedro, maybe you don't know this, but I'm basically a lesbian."

He chuckled at that too. "No big deal. I'm sure you like to eat anyway."

Now her fantasy of murder took on more details. They could park up on Dyckman Street, at the very north end of the borough and she might offer him a deal-sealing blowjob in lieu of a handshake. Then she would take a gun out and shoot him in the nuts before fatally putting some bullets in his head. His nice English leather seats would be quite a mess after that.

Except, of course, she didn't have a gun. But the fury she felt seemed to be as real as a steel barrel and lead bullets.

Pedro was cruising north at about 65 miles per hour; they were nearly up to 125th Street. He said, "Should I play the radio?"

Valerie was sulking, "No, don't bother. How far do I have to go to get out of your territory?"

"Let's see, you could go over to Long Island City, be with those girls who stand by the bridge."

"Yeah, but they probably have guys running them too."

"I don't know, it's likely I'd say."

"Maybe I should just get out of this, maybe this is the signal that it's time."

"That's always a choice you have. Look, I'm going to get off at Dyckman, then we'll go back down the East Side for variety."

The irony of that; Valerie soon saw the dark curb by Fort Tryon Park where she had pictured her murderous deed. She wondered if she could shift her base a bit, maybe to another avenue, maybe to some places on the Lower East Side. But she would always have the fear of seeing a green sedan coming around the corner. Or maybe there would be some other man there who would be more openly menacing.

She was feeling sorry for herself, "I only got into this because I needed the money."

Pedro seemed amused, "Like everyone else doesn't?"

"You got it pretty easy."

"Not so much as you might think. There's a lot of responsibility with these girls. Or I could do something else, like drive a cab, work in a garment factory."

Valerie almost said, that's not my problem. Now they were nearing the Harlem River Drive and the route to the south. Pedro continued talking, "You see all these people who live here, in Washington Heights, the Bronx? They all got to do what they got to do, they have bosses, they have to follow the rules. They might like to be back on a beach in Puerto Rico, Jamaica, wherever, but there's no money there, no jobs."

"I grew up near Atlantic City."

"It's nice down there. Why don't you go back?"

"Because they got a beach but no jobs there either, unless you're a hotel maid or work a carny ride."

"So here you are in New York, the opportunities are here."

"I'm going to be a writer when I'm out of this." She considered adding some term like "revolutionary" but she didn't want to tell him that.

"So be a writer. But if you first need the money to do it, you have to follow the rules."

She was tired of arguing, but she chafed at rules whether they were imposed by regular society or the criminal underworld. Some part of her wanted to set the rules, not just for herself but for everyone else too.

Pedro did turn the radio on to fill the space on the rest of the ride downtown. A jazz station played for the next half-hour. He offered to take her back to the waterfront but she could not bear that. Instead she asked to go home to 15th Street. Before she got out there he wanted to make an appointment for further discussion. They decided on a diner on 14th Street for two days later. The last thing he said was, "If you don't show up, I'm going to assume you're out of the business."

As he drove away she stood by the line of parked cars and spoke out loud, "You fucking little pimp, I would kill you if I could." The gall he had to demand a percentage of my livelihood in exchange for "managing" me. She had managed herself quite well for many months without his assistance. It was pure extortion, a complete racket like making storeowners pay protection money.

She stayed in the empty street for a few more minutes considering her predicament. Even if Pedro was eliminated, another of his kind would take his place. Street rats, that's what they were - a vermin to be destroyed. She remembered her conversation with Maurice the previous year, the one in which she speculated about prostitutes murdering johns. Killing pimps would be a better place to start, perhaps. Ambushing a few of them in their green Jaguars or whatever pretentious vehicles they were driving to give themselves an air of class - that seemed very appealing.

Valerie thought about the amount of work, the amount of planning that it would take to recruit other women to a project like that. What was the project anyway, what were the goals in the end? Her mind couldn't grasp the level of grassroots organizing it would take to just to get started. She had basically been alone for years and she doubted whether she had the personal presence to persuade groups of people. The patience it would require, the amount of time needed for a commitment was daunting.

I can't think about all this tonight, she thought, I'm too tired and upset. She did allow herself a moment to imagine having a gun in her hand, something she had never actually done. She tried to picture Pedro's expression if she aimed a gun in this face and what she would say just before she fired it. Being an American of her generation, a movie scene came into her mind to give her an inspiration.

She remembered Norma Desmond shooting Joe Gillis in Sunset Boulevard, and Gillis' body falling into her swimming pool. Was Gillis a bastard on the same level as Pedro, did he deserve death to the same degree? Probably not, but there was an arrogance in the way he rejected her, the way he judged her. Valerie could understand the satisfaction Norma must have felt when blowing him away. That line she said: "No one ever leaves a star; that's what makes a star." Valerie smiled thinking about it; that lady, for all her faults, had verve. Sometimes it was better to take extreme measures and not be pushed around by insolent little punks like Pedro and Joe. She felt a little better before going up to Stevie's apartment.

******

[This is the last chapter in the series. Mary Harrons' 1996 movie covers the events involving Solanas' experiences with Warhol's Factory entourage and her attempt at assassinating him. There is also 2014 biography of Solanas by Breanne Fahs that I have not read yet.]