Someone was killing the pimps in Junction City, New York. There was a rumor spreading that the brother of one of the 'ladies' wanted her out of the prostitution business, no one knew who the 'lady' was.
The first pimp to die was a real nice fellow named 'Cutie Pie.' He was not the type to get angry with his women. He would never hit or smack them around...unless one of them messed up his money...unless one of them refused to service a client...unless they forgot to greet him as "Master Pie" on bent knees each and every morning and night. Cutie Pie looked real cute one evening. He wore a dapper grey business suit, grey derby with silver band around it, oak walking stick with silver tip. He had just finished berating a sweet young woman with an hourglass figure known as 'Sugar.' She was one of his best workers, although lately her work hadn't been up to par.
"You haven't been giving your personal best," 'Pie' complained, "I don't care how bad you feel, your job is to make these men feel great, and get me my money! I'll deal with you later."
Suger knew what the deal would be as she bowed her head, waiting to be dismissed. The stilletto heels hurt her feet, but that was the last thing on her mind. Pie had dealt with her before and she still wasn't used to the pain. Back at the home she shared with the other ladies, Sugar stood in the bathroom, looking in the mirror at the long jagged scar on her neck. That was one of Pie's punishments. Maybe this time he'd just kill her and she could rest for a change. As for Cutie Pie, he watched Sugar as she turned the corner, out of his sight. "The sand is shifting in her figure," he thought to himself. Just as he turned around, thinking about a replacement, the first bullet hit him right between the eyes. The next one lead a straight line from the nose to the throat, to the chest, to the stomach, to the last place a man would ever want shot. It would seem that circumstances had prevented Cutie Pie (aka Jesse Naudlin) from ever becoming a good man, or a grown man, period. Jesse was only sixteen years old.
Moses Williams and Alan 'King' Arthur were discussing bulletproof vests and bodyguards over drinks, in the back room of Sidney's Bar. Their black leather jackets tightly buttoned, the two men spoke in low tones while peering over the tops of their sunglasses at each person that entered the room.
"I don't know what to do, man," Moses spoke in a deep, hoarse whisper.
"Yeah," answered 'King,' "maybe there's more than one person." The two men sat quietly for a while. Suddenly, the king got up, put on his black leather hat and, checking the pistol shaped bulge on the inside of his jacket pocket, he strolled out of the bar, leaving Moses to swallow a small glass of cognac. It had just taken effect when the first BAM, BAM, BAM, was heard, followed by the sound of screeching tires and screams from outisde. The king was dead.
All the pimps in the area questioned their ladies. There were runaways, and kids who had been thrown out of their homes. No brothers (or fathers for that matter) were looking for them. The pimps ranged in age from 16 to 42 years old. A few of them had inherited the business. At one time, there had been a few female pimps, but they soon learned their places and gave way to the men.