2 or 3 things I know about her

Basin Street in New Orleans during the late 19th century was lined with great “sporting houses”, the saloons and brothels run by Josie Cunningham, and Lulu White. The district was called Storyville, and was wide open, drawing both the best and worst people.

The best people always struggled, but not too strongly against the idea that they got rich making money from their real-estate leased for whorehouses, their businesses supplying wine, gourmet items, linens, crystal hangings for the pleasure of sinners. But they bravely fought off their doubts.

The US Government, having no such doubts, decided it was best for US Sailors to keep their flies buttoned and their bowels open, so they closed Storyville. By Midnight, November 12, 1917 it was illegal to operate a brothel in the confines of Storyville. Now the police were now paid as handsomely as the property owners to look the other way.

Ten years later, Billie Anderson was born into a family of six siblings. His mother, who held down two jobs, entrusted Billie during the day to his Aunt Lizzie, who lived close by in the French Quarter.

Lizzie had a long list of chores for young Billie which included, fetching her a bucket of beer from the corner bootlegger, and steering johns from local saloons back to her house without losing them to the girls parading on Lulu Whites’ balconies nearby.

When Billie turned 14, Lizzie, who had suspected all along, put him in a dress, curled his hair, and turned him out.

She taught Billie things he needed to know, he brought in business, and there mutual arrangement worked well, for a time.

Aunt Lizzie got greedy, but Billie looked the other way. He was grateful, and there was no end of money or men.

But Bonniere was different. A tall, dark Frenchman with business interests in the Quarter, his broad chin and shoulders through the door brought Lizzie and Billie to blows.

One evening, as Bonniere settled with Lizzie for his all day “eat’em-up” with Billie, she told him to “let the little bitch run on home, she ain’t got the right equipment”, and lifted her skirt. Bonniere lead Billie to the door, turned, and replied, “I doubt that sincerely”.

The next day Lizzie locked up her house, never to return. Lulu White, on a good word from Bonniere, put her to work on the first floor. By the end of the week she had put Billie on the third.

It was 1942, Lulu White had money in the bank, ten blocks downtown, and every male, civilian and soldier, in New Orleans at her feet. She would have given it all up to switch places with Billie and spend the afternoon in Bonniere’s arms. But nothing could come between he and Billie, not Lulu, not his business, not his wife or family.

Then, in 1949, at the start of Mardis-Gras, Billie let his enterprise get the better of his discretion while giving a french date to a masked member of the City Council. Within 2 hours police were posted at the airport, bus and train stations, and Billie had made the three hardest decisions of his life: to cut his waist length hair, leave New Orleans for good, not say goodbye to Bonniere.

Heartbroken, Billie drifted across the Midwest for several years, eventually signing on with the Dobbs Brothers Circus as a feature dancer.

Each Winter brought the circus back to the Oakland trainyard, and Billie on the needle.

He stayed seven seasons with the Dobbs Brothers, but he couldn’t shake the itch, and the eighth found Billie back on the hustle, back in jail.

In 1962, while serving 30 days in San Bruno County lock-up (San Francisco), Billie, thanks to his enterprise, and an extra jelly sandwich, won an introduction to “Miss Rock”, a card sharp, with a sweet tooth.

Both men’s reputations preceded them, both saw in the other a chance to realize their dreams. With the exception of two brief incarceration, they were not separated again for 22 years.

Upon release, they took a room in downtown Oakland. Each focused on their strengths: Billie raised capital, Rock secured rental agreements. By 1966, they had four residency hotels on San Pablo Avenue in the twenties, the “Pool Hall”, “Moor”, “Silver Dollar”, and “Heartbreak”.

Next, Rock opened a restaurant on San Pablo and 62nd, “Rock n’Willies,” so named for his baby brother, Willie Earl. By providing him a venue above the restaurant, Rock hoped Willie Earl could win an entree onto the Avenue.

When a narcotics detective took and axe to Willie Earl’s pool table, confiscating a small fortune in dime bags, Rock decided that his baby brother might be on to something.

Rock closed Willie Earl’s pool hall and rented a bungalow down the street. Between Willie Earl’s connections, and Billie’s savvy, they soon had a line around the block.

The money changed everything.

Rock saw what he wanted, Willie Earl could do no wrong, Billie never enough. Billie held his tongue.

After a series of unsuccessful attempts in 1973 by the District Attorney’s office to convict him on drug charges, Rock, already headstrong, came to believe he was untouchable.

After sharing a bed with Rock for ten years, thinking there was nothing he did not know about the man, Billie now wondered.

By 1979 Willie Earl was penniless; always looking over his shoulder. Rock grew richer. The Heartbreak was raided, and Billie agreed to take the fall.

When Billie got out 90 days later, Willie Earl was in prison, where he would soon die, and Sammy shared Rock’s bed.

Rocks benders became more frequent; Sammy became more indispensable.

Billie did not hold his tongue. Rock did not listen.

Rock died in 1984 from complications due to severe head trauma he received during a robbery in the lobby of the Heartbreak.

In 1994 as Billie walked home from Mass, a derelict in a doorway caught his eye. As Billie passed, Sammy cried out, “I didn’t kill Rock!”

Not breaking his pace, Billie replied, “Funny, I never said you did.”