The Company She Keeps

by Georgia Durante

  The old building resembled a small castle and had only four units. The architecture inside my apartment was very appealing, with rounded archways separating all the rooms. It had chocolate brown carpet, but with the many drapeless windows, the entire place was doused with sunlight so the carpet didn’t make it dark. If only I had the money, I could have made the place into a little dollhouse. Wanting a real home for me and Toni made me more determined to make it—whatever it took.

  After settling down in the apartment, I hit the streets to find an agent. The well-known agency of Wormser, Heldfond, and Joseph scooped me up on the first day out. I wound up staying with that agency for fifteen years. Janette Walton, my agent, was like a second mom. I’ve always had a strong sense of loyalty to those who proved to be friends in my times of need.

  Not knowing a soul in Los Angeles except Jim, I had no choice but to take Toni with me on my auditions. Desperate for a job, I’m sure the hunger showed through. At first, nothing happened. The competition was stiff. At every audition, fifty to a hundred models vied for the same job. They flocked to L.A., all hoping to land that big part. Most of them would do anything for a shot at the big time. I was just another pea in a very large pod.

  My ego wasn’t hurting—my pocketbook was. I needed money. That was the bottom line. I knew it would be a matter of time before I’d get established, but could I make it for that long? I could survive more easily alone, but I had to feed Toni too. The pressure was on me, but I was determined.

  After three weeks of pounding the pavement, I went on an audition for Fujifilm. The faces of the Japanese men lit up when I entered the room. I had this one. Toni sat quietly while they sifted through the pages of my portfolio.

  “Hmm . . . You’ve done a lot of work for Kodak, I see.”

  Shit, I didn’t even think about that.

  “Uh, yeah . . . but that picture is at least ten years old, and that one is—”

  “Ten years? How old are you, anyway?”

  Put your foot in your mouth, White, then shove it down your throat, why don’t you!

  “Oh, I’m only twenty-two . . . I started young.”

  And out of the mouths of babes . . .

  “Mommy,” Toni said, “you’re not twenty-two; you’re twenty-six!”

  It’s hamburger tonight, kid.

  After an awkward moment of silence, I turned three different shades of red, smiled, and shrugged. The attention was turned toward this adorable little child and everyone burst into laughter.

  “What is your name?” one of the men asked.

  “Toni.”

  “And how old are you, Toni?”

  “Six and three-quarters.”

  “Have you ever had your picture taken?”

  “Lots of times.”

  Maybe all is not lost—but pray she doesn’t say, “Kodak.”

  “Can we take a picture of you today?”

  “Can I, Mommy?”

  Do you want to eat, kid?

  “Of course, honey.”

  Hmm . . . beat out by a seven-year-old.

  Toni charmed her way into their hearts—as well as their pockets. She was no stranger to the camera. She’d been only six days old when she’d done her first national ad for Kodak. With her platinum blond hair and dark brown eyes and brows, she was a photographer’s dream. Needless to say, Toni got the job. We were able to eat for the next two weeks from the proceeds. Toni made me splurge and buy her a steak when the check came in.

  We celebrated in our empty apartment. We didn’t have a table, so we spread a sheet on the living room floor, lit a few candles, and toasted each other with wine-glasses filled with milk. Then we ate as if it were our last earthly meal. Toni rolled with the punches well. We had each other, but, more important to Toni, she had me—totally to herself.

  One month after Toni’s lifesaving job, I finally landed one of my own—a brochure for the Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas. I took Toni with me, and my cousin Mickey’s daughter watched her while I worked. I was making $1,200 a day, and the job lasted five days. Toni was already making out the grocery list. This job was our ticket to a less stressful way of life, but I had an unexpected setback—the production company went bankrupt and stiffed me for the money. Despite the pitfalls, I was getting a pretty good sense of my strength, and I was more determined than ever to make a new life for my daughter and myself.

  Then the inevitable happened: I answered the phone to hear Joe’s voice on the other end. Under all that duress, I had forgotten to close my bank account in Solana Beach. Although I had opened a new account in L.A., it was with the same bank, and my statements were somehow mailed to the old address. I don’t know if it was the bank’s mistake or mine, but it happened. He had tracked me down through the rental agent. He didn’t have the address yet, but it would be easy enough to find. I had to look for another place—fast.

  “Where are you, Georgia?” he asked calmly.

  “L.A., where you called me,” I answered.

  “Where in L.A.? I’m in no mood for guessing games!”

  “What difference does it make, Joe? I’m not coming back.”

  “I’m warning you for the last time, Georgia. Get your ass home now!”

  Don’t let him scare you anymore. Look how far you’ve come. You can do it.

  “Not this time, Joe. I refuse to live that way anymore.”

  “Just come home, Georgia, and I’ll forget this ever happened,” he said, using his predictable nice-guy approach.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Because it’ll never end, Joe. You’ll never change.”

  “I’ll change. I’ve had a lot of time to think. I don’t blame you for running, but you have to give me another shot. Let me prove it to you. Okay, honey?”

  “Please, Joe, leave me alone. I need to be away from you right now.”

  “Do you love me, Georgia?”

  “That has nothing to do with it, Joe. It just won’t work. I’m so sick of being miserable. There’s never been enough of me left to give Toni. How can I be a good mother if I’m always in mental turmoil? It hasn’t been easy, but you know what? We’re both happier than we’ve ever been. So, please, if you really care about us, leave us alone.”

  “Let me come up there and talk to you.”

  “No, not now.”

  “I worry about you two by yourselves. Do you have any money?”

  “I’m getting by.”

  “Do you have any idea what you put me through? Not knowing where the hell you are or if you’re all right or not? You’ve heard about the Hillside Strangler, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah—so?”

  “So? For Christ’s sake, Georgia! You’re all alone in that fuckin’ city with a little kid. Do you realize what an easy mark you are? Honey, you need me more than you realize. Come home.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Please, honey, let me see you.”

  “No.”

  “Goddamn it, Georgia!” he screamed. “Don’t make me do this. Tell me where you are. You know I’ll find out anyway, so why don’t you make it easy on yourself?”

  “See what I mean, Joe? I’m hanging up now.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up! I’ll—”

  It’s time to move on . . .

  Calling home to check in on the Rochester front, I learned that Sammy G had been indicted for Jimmy Massaro’s murder, along with Gene DeFrancesco and a few others. The city was in chaos. Chief Bill Mahoney wanted the Mob so bad he’d sell his soul to get them. Eventually, he did just that. It would cost him his life. He escaped a violent death, although he came closer than he knew. His heart gave out under the stress of the trials that followed.

  It turned out that Mahoney fabricated evidence and coerced his detectives to lie on the stand, causing the murder charges to stick. He had the testimony of five of the “big boys” in exchange for their lives, or time in prison. But apparently his philosophy was: Why leave anything to chance?<
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  If he had just played by the rules, he would have gone down in history as a great cop. The result of the perjury would put Sammy Gingello and four other top crime figures of the Rochester syndicate behind bars. Despite having F. Lee Bailey as his lawyer, Sammy went down hard.

  All of Sammy’s loyal supporters rallied to his cause with $1,000-a-plate dinners to raise money for his defense. He was guilty as charged—everyone knew it—but the point was, they didn’t have the evidence. So Mahoney created it. Amazing how many of the “tough guys” were turning state’s evidence. Law enforcement was operating in the same way as the Mob.

  In Rochester, the good guys and the bad guys had always been in cahoots. Having relatives on the police force, I grew up knowing quite a few of the “good guys.” Most of the ones I knew weren’t paid to close their eyes, but they did look the other direction. I loved Sammy. Everybody did, including some of the cops. They knew Sam was getting the shaft. They helped him keep one step ahead by secretly providing him inside information.

  I still have a mistrust for most cops. They have the power to play Hitler if they choose to do so, and the few bad ones have left me with negative memories of their corruption. With firsthand experience seeking help from a cop who had been bought off, I learned the hard way to work within my own world if I had a problem to solve. If nothing else, such experiences gave me the street sense I needed to survive.

  With all that going on, Joe’s fears had some validity. Still, not knowing who or what I should be afraid of, I kept my distance. My only choice was to tough it out in Los Angeles and somehow make it work.

  Chapter Nine

  “Excuse me. Do you mind if my friend and I sit with you? There’s a forty-five minute wait for a table,” the stranger said, fingering his watch.

  The Red Onion in Beverly Hills was packed with the lunch crowd. At a table for four, I sat alone, pondering my future. I nodded, feeling a little grateful for the company.

  “I’m Steve Zamett, and this is my partner, Mike Ruben,” he said with mischievous eyes that danced while he spoke.

  Steve had a warm smile and seemed to be pretty genuine—a rare thing in Los Angeles. A big, solid guy. His strong, round face was pleasant, complementing his personality. Mike was the opposite: a smaller, dorky kind of guy who hid behind his milk-bottle glasses. Steve did most of the talking while Mike sat silently in his shadow. Steve was instantly likable, and I felt comfortable in his company. I wasn’t quite so sure of Mike. He seemed so businesslike, never cracking a smile.

  “Where are you from?” Steve asked, patting down the mass of dark curls on his head.

  “New York, originally. I moved here from Solana Beach a few months ago.”

  “Oh, really? We’re from that area too—San Diego. Where do you live in L.A.?”

  “In a small apartment on Olympic Boulevard, but not for long. I’m looking for a new place.”

  “Oh? Too small for you?”

  “It’s a long story,” I answered, staring out the window, reflecting on my dilemma. Living on the run was getting old. “So what brings you two to L.A.?”

  “We’re in the construction business. We have a contract to build Lee Grant’s house in Malibu,” Mike said.

  “Yeah, we’re looking for a place to hang our hats for a while,” Steve added, stealing the conversation from Mike. “We’ll probably have a truck up here in a few days if you need any help moving.”

  “I may take you up on that. I don’t have any furniture. Just a bed, a TV, some dishes, and a few clothes.”

  “Sounds easy enough,” Steve replied.

  “I should be going. I have an audition at two o’clock, and I need to be back to pick up my daughter by three.”

  “Oh, how old is your daughter?” Steve asked.

  “She’s seven.”

  “I have a son that age, and a daughter, five. Where does she go to school?”

  “In Beverly Hills. They have an excellent school system here.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  I stood up, flung my purse over my shoulder, and reached for my portfolio.

  “Where do we contact you?” Steve asked. He jotted my number down on a napkin. “Good luck finding an apartment,” he yelled after me as I weaved through the tables toward the exit.

  “Thanks, you too,” I answered hurriedly over my shoulder. I really didn’t expect a call, but I’d sure welcome help with the move.

  The audition went as had all the others. Masses of women, each one more beautiful than the next, filing through the door with their portfolios in hand. This particular casting was a monster cattle call. At two thirty-five, ten girls were still ahead of me on the sign-in sheet. I couldn’t stay any longer. Toni would be getting out of school and I was at least twenty minutes away.

  I fought the Hollywood traffic back to Beverly Hills. The temperature hit the nineties and, with no air-conditioning, my makeup had melted off my face. I probably wouldn’t have gotten the job anyway. I had landed only a few jobs since arriving in Los Angeles. In Rochester, I had turned down more work than I could accept. The competition was a lot stiffer here, and my finances were looking grim.

  Toni’s face brightened when she saw my car pull up.

  “Hi, Mommy,” she said, bouncing into the car.

  “Sorry I’m late again, honey. How was school today?”

  “Okay, but that bratty Billy spilled ice cream all over my pretty dress in the cafeteria. Look,” she said, scrunching up her face.

  “That’s all right; it’ll come out in the wash. What did you eat for lunch today?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean, nothing? I gave you lunch money.”

  “I know, but I didn’t like what they had.”

  “Toni, you have to eat lunch. You’re going to get sick.”

  “I didn’t like it, Mom. What’s for dinner?”

  “Green beans and hamburger.”

  “When can we have steak again, Mommy? We always had steak when we lived with Daddy.”

  “Would you rather live with Daddy and have steak all the time?”

  “No, I like hamburgers. I don’t care if we have steak; really, Mommy, that’s okay. Hamburger is good.”

  I noticed a “For Rent” sign on the building directly across the street from the school. That would be great. Toni could walk home if I was running late. We parked and went to check it out. It would be more than I could afford, but I pressed the manager’s button anyway. The apartment was on two levels. Off the only bedroom on the second floor was a large private balcony, giving a spacious, open feeling. The rent was $550 per month—$250 more than I was paying at the current apartment.

  “This is nice, Mommy. Can we live here? Can we, can we?”

  “I think it’s a little too expensive for us, honey.” Her excitement disappeared and she became quiet.

  “The landlady may negotiate if you’re really interested,” the manager said. “Between you and me, it’s been vacant for a few months. I know she’s anxious to get it rented.”

  “Really? What do you think she’ll take?”

  Toni’s face brightened again.

  “Well, I don’t know. Why don’t you make me an offer and I’ll see what she says.”

  “Ask if she’ll take four hundred dollars. I’ll stop back in the morning.”

  Toni pleaded with me all the way home. The property owner came back with a figure of $450. I would make it work. I had to get out of where I was fast, and being right across the street from Toni’s school made the apartment ideal.

  Time to look for a real job. Getting established as a model in Los Angeles was taking longer than I anticipated. I hadn’t worked for minimum wage since the job at the hot-dog stand at Willow Point Park when I was a kid, but with no skills my choices were few. I answered an ad at a jeans store on Hollywood Boulevard called London Britches. Larry Armond, the owner, would accommodate me when it came to letting me off for auditions, and he allowed me to work around Toni’s school hours.
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  Handicapped by my lack of apparel, chasing modeling assignments seemed futile. Larry offered to sell me clothes at his cost. Piece by piece, I slowly started rebuilding my wardrobe. I could make the rent, but that was all. I’d started accepting dinner dates just so we could eat. Ordering more food than I could consume, I took the leftovers home in a doggy bag. Deceitful or not—survival’s what counted. I lucked out with a teenager in the building who was willing to babysit.

  Steve did call, and the timing couldn’t have been better. He and Mike helped me move to our new apartment. I was extremely grateful for the help, but paybacks aren’t always worth the favor. For some reason their apartment didn’t materialize, and before I knew it, they were crashing on my living room floor on their frequent trips to L.A. But they always bought food, or took Toni and me out to dinner.

  Eventually Steve asked, “When are you gonna get some furniture for this place?”

  “As soon as I can afford it, I’m going to have my furniture shipped from New York.”

  “I have an idea,” Steve said excitedly. “I’m taking my son to Philadelphia in a few weeks. Why don’t you and Toni drive with us cross-country? I’ll drop you off in Rochester and pick up a U-Haul on my way back from Philly. We can bring all your stuff back.”

  The more I thought about it, the better it sounded. I missed my stereo the most. I needed music in my life. I agreed to take Steve up on his offer. Jim Alquist’s old stereo was going to make it to California after all.

  The cross-country trip was actually fun. The kids had a great time. We camped at night, explored caves, and hiked the Grand Canyon. But I sensed Steve was falling for me. I had a lot of things to settle in my life, and starting a relationship was not on my immediate list of things to do.

  I learned a lot about Steve during those long hours on the road. He’d forgotten some things he’d told me, and when he retold a story, it was totally different from what he had said before. I discovered he was a pathological liar, and I began to surmise his past was a bit checkered.