The Last Madam: A Life in the New Orleans Underworld by Chris Wiltz

Author:Chris Wiltz [Wiltz, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Historical, Nonfiction, Retail
ISBN: 9781497658509
Barnesnoble:
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-07-01T04:00:00+00:00

Late one afternoon Norma drove over to the Davis Beauty Salon. It wasn’t her regular appointment day, but sometimes she popped in for a quick fix if she had special plans. Davis didn’t mind that Norma never bothered to phone ahead; she always tipped him well, often as much as fifty bucks.

The salon was being painted, and cans of terra-cotta paint had been stored under the carport behind the building when the painters left for the day. Norma nosed her spotless white Cadillac, only a few months old, between the carport posts and crashed into the paint cans.

Janice Roussel, one of the stylists, heard the clatter and yelled to Davis, “Franky, I told you to tell those painters to move the cans!” She was mortified when the back door opened and Norma walked in.

“Franky, baby,” Norma said, “you won’t believe what just happened.” She leaned back in one of the shampoo chairs and closed her eyes, completely relaxed.

Davis chuckled and kept working on his customer. Janice grabbed a handful of towels, went out to the car, and tried to wipe off the paint. She came back in, crying with frustration.

“What the hell, Janice,” Norma said. “I can buy another Cadillac.”

Davis was so amused by the episode that he told two hairdresser friends about it. “You do Norma Wallace?” they shrieked. They insisted that he take them to one of the girlie shows.

Davis had never been to the house on Conti Street. Norma told him to drive to the back, where she’d be waiting at the door to the parlor. She gave the three men drinks, then took them to the second parlor off to the side of the courtyard, where a big blonde was playing the piano and several girls were dancing. They took their seats, Davis next to Norma. The piano player thumbed a run down the keyboard, gave a flourish, and a girl jumped up on the chair in front of one of Davis’s friends, where she did a slow strip. Moving to the music, she writhed and rubbed her hands down her bare body, dancing closer and closer until she was right in the guy’s face. Then she started on the next fellow.

Just when it was Davis’s turn, there came a thumping on the outside wall. The piano player abruptly stopped, and she and the girls disappeared, swift and silent. Norma took an envelope from the drawer of a small mahogany table and stuck it through a slot in the wall Davis hadn’t noticed. Then she called the girls back, but Davis was ready to call it a night.

“Don’t worry, Franky,” Norma said. “It’s all part of the game.” His two friends still wanted a free trip upstairs.

But Davis was thinking about his car parked out back and newspaper headlines and the business he might lose. He didn’t care if he hadn’t gotten his turn; he wanted to leave. “I guess I just don’t have enough of the animal in me,” he told Norma, his car keys jangling in his hand.

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