The Constant Sinner by Mae West

Author:Mae West
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781590774809
Publisher: M. Evans & Company

XVI ORGY

YES, hell had broken loose at the Harlem Breakfast Club! The colored band was playing with its soul in every note. It had to play at fever pitch to bring out the cry of passion and debauch.

The bodies of almost naked colored women, wriggling and squirming, moved about the dance floor; brown-skinned busts shook frenziedly, hips swayed, abdomens protruded. The music excited, irritated, inflamed the animal instincts.

Spotlights swept over a white and black checkerboard. At one table in a blinding calcium glare a society group had its eyes riveted on a black hula dancer, weaving sensuously up and down near the corner of their table. An elderly, ultra-fashionable woman in the party looked on scandalized and shocked, it being her first visit to Harlem. As her horror grew, the colored girl increased her contortions. The crowd laughed and cheered, which assured the black dancer that her efforts to shock were being appreciated.

At the edge of the dance floor, Wayne Baldwin had a reserved table. He and his three friends were drunk, and thoroughly enjoying the orgy around them.

Baldwin’s eyes fastened themselves on a gorgeous woman draped in white ermine. It was Babe Gordon. Ordinarily Baldwin would have glanced at her and said, “A beautiful woman”—and thought nothing more. But here in this particular setting she flashed out like a white diamond. Was she unescorted, he wondered. There was no one at her table. He was anxious to know who she was. He couldn’t help admiring her.

His friends called his attention back to another round of drinks. While he drank, the woman’s beauty burned in his eyes. She was a sublime creature. One swallow of liquor and he looked back at her table.

Through his daze, he now saw a big grinning negro sitting close to her. He choked with horrified astonishment. Signaling a colored waiter, he slipped him a dollar and asked,

“Who is that man with the white woman over there?”

“Why, boss,” said the waiter, “that’s Money Johnson. Dat boy got so much money he do’ know which end to start spendin’ it. All duh women jus’ crazy ’bout him like he was duh Prince o’ Wales.”

So the big colored brute was Money Johnson.

Baldwin stared impolitely at them for several moments.

Money Johnson was a huge, lordly lion with plenty of self-assurance. His sunny features and hot burning eyes held a magnetism that irresistibly drew the attention of women to him. His magnificent body, lynx-eyes, and pearly-white grin had brought the women of Harlem crawling to him, hungering for even an affectionate glance.

A couple of years ago, Johnson was a curbstone pimp sporting custom built suits and barber-pole shirts because infatuated Harlem girls hustled for him and handed over their earnings for the thrill of his arm about their waists. Shop girls and waitresses turned over their week’s pay to him, only too happy if he thought enough of them to accept it. With the cash they harvested for him, Johnson opened basement gin mills, took racing bets and banked a “policy” game.

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