RUBY BLACKWELL — The Woman Who Bought Her Corner

Queens of the Bad Side of Town Chicago, 1977. On a street where everything has a price, one woman discovers that freedom can be purchased—but sometimes the payment isn't money. Ruby Blackwell was thirty-four years old, beautiful enough to make a man forget his wedding ring, and dangerous enough to make him regret remembering it. But she hadn't always been that woman. There had been a time when she stood beneath the flickering streetlamp at the corner of Mercy and Ninth, frightened of the cold, frightened of the police, and most of all frightened of the man who insisted that everything she earned belonged to him. His name was Leon Mercer, although everybody called him King Leon, and in the summer of 1977, he owned three bars, a gambling room, a collection of expensive suits, and most of the women working the neighborhood. He didn't own Ruby, of course, not legally, but he had spent six years making certain she understood that the distinction was meaningless. Then, on a rainy Thursday in October, Ruby made him an offer. And by Friday morning, King Leon had disappeared. The Woman Beneath the Streetlamp Ruby had arrived in Chicago at twenty-eight, carrying a suitcase, forty-three dollars, and a photograph of her mother standing outside a little house in Mississippi. She had intended to find work in a department store, perhaps save enough money to train as a hairdresser, and eventually bring her younger sister north. Instead, she had discovered that a pretty woman with no references, little money, and nowhere to sleep attracted a particular kind of attention. Leon had found her sitting in a bus station at eleven o'clock one evening. He had been handsome then, or at least handsome enough when accompanied by a warm smile, a clean shirt, and the promise of a room. "You're too pretty to be sleeping in a place like this," he had told her. Six years later, Ruby sometimes wondered whether she would have followed him if he had simply told her the truth. Probably not. But hungry people believed promises they would otherwise have laughed at. By 1977, she was working the corner of Mercy and Ninth five nights a week, wearing a black dress, fishnet stockings, and a pair of high heels that cost more than her weekly share of the money she earned. Leon liked his women well dressed. It was good for business. He also liked reminding them who paid for the clothes. "That corner makes two hundred dollars on a good night," he told Ruby one evening, leaning against his burgundy Cadillac. "Don't start thinking you're special just because the gentlemen like you." Ruby looked at the streetlamp, then at the Cadillac. "How much would you take for it?" "For what?" "My corner." Leon laughed so hard that his cigarette fell from his mouth. "Baby, what would you do with a corner?" "Keep what I earn." "Then who's gonna protect you?" Ruby smiled. "That's what I've been wondering." He stopped laughing. An Unexpected Customer Three nights later, a black Lincoln Continental pulled up beside the curb. The rear window opened, revealing an older woman with silver hair, dark glasses, and a black fur coat. She was perhaps sixty, although something about her face made Ruby suspect that age was a rather uncertain concept. "Miss Blackwell?" Ruby approached cautiously. "Depends who's asking." "Someone who has been watching you." Ruby glanced toward the bar, where Leon's men usually gathered. "Then you ought to know this isn't a particularly good neighborhood for sightseeing." The woman smiled. "My dear, I've been visiting neighborhoods like this since before your grandmother was born." She handed Ruby a cream-colored business card. There was no telephone number. Only a name. MADAME MIDNIGHT And beneath it, a single line: Every woman deserves to own her future. Ruby turned the card over. "What are you selling?" "Nothing. I'm interested in buying something." "What?" "Your courage. Assuming you still have some." Ruby almost laughed. "Lady, courage is about the only thing around here nobody's offering to buy." "Precisely. That's why it's so valuable." The older woman leaned toward the window. "Ask Leon how much he wants for the corner. Offer him ten thousand dollars. When he laughs, tell him you can pay tonight." Ruby stared at her. "I don't have ten thousand dollars." "No," Madame Midnight agreed. "But I do." "And what do you want in return?" The woman removed her glasses. Her eyes were extraordinary. Ruby couldn't have said why, except that looking into them felt rather like looking down an abandoned well and discovering something looking back. "One favor, Miss Blackwell. At a time of my choosing." The Lincoln drove away before Ruby could answer. On the pavement, beside her high heel, lay a small black envelope containing ten crisp thousand-dollar bills. For the first time in six years, Ruby felt something other than fear. She felt possibility. The Price of a Corner Leon was in his private office above the Blue Orchid when Ruby arrived shortly after midnight. He had two men with him, a bottle of expensive bourbon, and a young blonde sitting on the sofa who looked barely old enough to be in the bar. Ruby disliked the way the girl watched the door. She remembered watching doors like that herself. "Leon," Ruby said, placing the envelope on his desk. "I'm buying my corner." He opened the envelope and counted the money. Once. Then again. "Where'd you get this?" "Does it matter?" "Everything matters when one of my girls suddenly finds ten grand." "I'm not one of your girls anymore." Leon looked up slowly. The blonde on the sofa held her breath. "Get out," he told the girl. Ruby shook her head. "She can stay." Leon's smile disappeared. "You forgetting who you're talking to?" "No. That's the problem. I've spent six years remembering." One of his men moved toward her. Ruby didn't step backward. "Ten thousand," she continued. "For the corner, and for you to leave me alone. We both sign something saying we're finished." Leon looked at the money, then at Ruby, and suddenly laughed. "All right, sweetheart. You want to buy your little piece of sidewalk? Fine. I'll even give you a receipt." He took a sheet of paper from his desk, wrote a few lines, signed his name, and pushed it across to her. Ruby read it carefully. She had learned to read contracts during those long afternoons when Leon believed she was sleeping. Then she signed. "One more thing," she said. Leon sighed. "What now?" "The girls working Ninth Street. Nobody touches them without their permission. And nobody takes their money unless they've agreed to pay for something." The room went very quiet. Leon rose from his chair. "You're beginning to annoy me, Ruby." "I know." "You think ten grand makes you a queen?" "No," Ruby said. "But it's a beginning." He struck her across the face. The young blonde gasped. Ruby caught herself against the desk. For a moment, the familiar old fear returned, and she hated herself for feeling it. Then the lights went out. Not just in the office. Across the entire building. Somewhere downstairs, the jukebox stopped playing. A woman's voice spoke from the darkness. "Leon Mercer. You accepted the payment." Leon backed away. "Who's there?" "You made an agreement." "Ruby, what the hell is this?" But Ruby was no longer looking at him. In the office mirror, she could see a tall woman standing immediately behind Leon. Silver hair. Black fur. Extraordinary eyes. When Ruby turned around, there was nobody there. The voice continued. "Agreements have consequences, Mr. Mercer." Leon screamed. The lights returned. The bourbon bottle lay shattered on the floor. The two men were unconscious. And King Leon was gone. Not dead. Not hiding behind the desk. Gone. His expensive shoes stood neatly beside his chair, with his socks still tucked inside them. Ruby stared at the shoes for a long time. Then she picked up the signed agreement. "Well," she whispered, "I suppose that settles the ownership question." The New Queen of Mercy Street By Saturday evening, everybody in the neighborhood knew that Leon Mercer had disappeared. By Sunday, his men were telling increasingly ridiculous stories about where he had gone. By Monday, somebody had attempted to take over Ruby's corner. Ruby met him outside the Blue Orchid wearing a short black leather dress, fishnet stockings, and a pair of glossy platform heels. The man called himself Big Eddie. He weighed nearly three hundred pounds and had a reputation for breaking fingers. "Leon ain't around," Eddie announced. "Means somebody's gotta manage the business." Ruby took a cigarette from her handbag. "Do you have a written agreement?" Eddie blinked. "What?" "An agreement. With Leon." "Don't need one." "Then I suggest you leave." He stepped toward her. Ruby lit her cigarette. "Something you should know, Eddie." "What's that?" "I bought this corner." He laughed. Ruby exhaled smoke. "And the lady I bought it from takes her contracts very seriously." Across the street, a black Lincoln pulled slowly out of the darkness. Eddie looked at the car. His smile vanished. He knew that vehicle. Ruby could see it in his face. He took two steps backward. "Tell her," he whispered, "I didn't know." Then he turned and ran. Ruby watched him disappear down Ninth Street. She had never seen a grown man run so fast without a policeman behind him. That evening, six women approached her with questions about what they could keep, whom they could refuse, and whether Leon's former collectors would come back. Ruby answered them one by one. By midnight, they had agreed on something remarkable for Mercy Street. They would look after one another. There would be no more compulsory payments to men who contributed nothing but threats. They would establish a fund for emergencies, share information about dangerous customers, and make certain nobody worked alone if she didn't want to. And Ruby would make sure the arrangement survived. Not because she was particularly kind. She had learned that kindness without power was easily exploited. But because she remembered what it felt like to have neither. The Gentlemen Who Never Came Back Over the following months, Mercy Street changed. The women became better dressed. Some rented small apartments of their own. One returned to college. Another sent money home to a daughter she had not seen for three years. The men who had once controlled the district began avoiding it. There were rumors, naturally. A wealthy businessman who tried to force a young woman into his car was found wandering the waterfront at dawn, unable to remember his name. A nightclub owner who refused to pay his workers discovered that every mirror in his establishment reflected a room full of unfamiliar women, even when the bar was empty. And a policeman who had been collecting protection money for years resigned after receiving a photograph of himself taken in 1932. He had been born in 1946. Nobody could explain that one. Ruby didn't try. She had other things to worry about. The black Lincoln appeared regularly now, sometimes stopping beside the curb for a brief conversation. Madame Midnight never asked for money. She never asked Ruby to hurt anybody. But every few weeks, she would mention a man who was becoming troublesome, or a woman who needed somewhere safe to stay, or a business that might benefit from a change of ownership. Ruby listened. And somehow, things happened. The neighborhood became quieter. The women became wealthier. And Ruby became notorious. People began calling her the Black Queen. She preferred Ruby. The Man in the Cadillac One cold November evening, almost a year after Leon's disappearance, a silver Cadillac stopped at the corner. The driver was an attractive, prosperous-looking man in his early forties. His expensive coat, gold watch, and carefully trimmed mustache suggested he was accustomed to getting whatever he wanted. He lowered the window. "How much for an evening?" Ruby leaned toward him. "Depends what you're looking for." He smiled. "Something interesting." "Then you've come to the right corner." He looked her up and down. "You're very confident." "I have good reasons." "Do you get many customers?" "Enough." "And do they usually leave satisfied?" Ruby considered the question. "Some leave very satisfied. Others discover things about themselves they'd rather not know." The man laughed. "I like a woman with a sense of humor." "So do I," Ruby replied. He opened the passenger door. Ruby didn't get in. Instead, she looked across the street. A black Lincoln was parked beneath the broken streetlamp. Its rear window was open. Madame Midnight sat inside. Waiting. Ruby looked back at the Cadillac. "Before we go anywhere, darling, I have one question." "What's that?" "Have you ever made a promise to a woman that you had absolutely no intention of keeping?" He laughed again. "Hasn't every man?" Ruby smiled. "That's what I thought." She opened the passenger door. For a moment, the man looked uncertain. Then he smiled and invited her inside. The Cadillac disappeared into the rain. At three o'clock that morning, it returned. The man was alone. He parked beneath the streetlamp and remained behind the wheel until sunrise, staring at his hands. When a policeman finally approached, he asked whether the gentleman required assistance. The man shook his head. Then he began to cry. "What happened to you?" the policeman asked. The man looked toward Ruby's corner. "She showed me something." "What?" The man's voice trembled. "Every promise." He never returned to Mercy Street. Ruby, meanwhile, arrived home at four-thirty, removed her high heels, poured herself a glass of bourbon, and found a cream-colored envelope waiting on her kitchen table. Inside was a handwritten note. You have learned quickly, my dear. There are five other women I would like you to meet. They have corners of their own. — Madame Midnight Ruby read the note twice. Then she smiled. "Well," she murmured, raising her glass toward the empty room, "this should be interesting." Outside, in the darkness beneath her apartment window, the black Lincoln waited. And somewhere across the city, five other women were about to discover that their lives were no longer entirely their own.