Rat Pack Party Girl: From Prostitute to Women’s Advocate

by McCormick, Jane

  The men in the bar were the same as in any other. They tried to feel me up and take me home. The tips were not generous, and the money I’d managed to save was running out. By the second night, it was just too easy to tell myself, “I might as well give in and make some real dough.”

  An older man sitting at the bar listened to my sad story.

  “If I took you home, how much money would you need?”

  “Only twenty-five dollars.”

  “When do you get off work?”

  “In a couple of hours.”

  He was back in exactly two hours. I took him to my motel room and within a few minutes I gave him what he wanted and I had what I needed.

  I cried myself to sleep.

  When I returned to work the next afternoon, the owner of the bar confronted me. He had found out I was not twenty-one, and because I was not old enough to serve liquor I would have to leave. He refused to pay me even the little I had earned. I walked out of the bar and into the street, cursing at every man driving by in a fancy car. I was beginning to hate men.

  I didn’t understand what I had done to deserve being out on the street again. All I wanted was to be loved and to love my daughters. Whatever it took, I wasn’t going to give up trying for what I wanted. I walked to a pay phone and called Tyler, who came to pick me up. On the way to my motel I complained about how unfairly I’d been treated by the bar owner and about how much I hated serving cocktails.

  “No problem honey. I’ve got some guys you can see,” he said. I didn’t realize it, but he was leading me, little by little, into being his moneymaker—by teaching me to be his prostitute.

  The next day, I dressed in one of a couple of new outfits I had been able to buy and went to look for another job. I stuck Mom’s dinner dress into my bag in case I needed to look older. But my search was a failure and I returned to my room, where the manager wouldn’t let me in until I paid the week’s rent. I didn’t have it, so again I was on the street, almost penniless, with the clothes on my back plus the dress in my bag.

  Tyler was home when I called him to rescue me again. “Honey, I’m going to Las Vegas,” he said. “Why don’t you come along?”

  I considered this for a moment. Here I was, homeless, broke, with no prospects and little hope. To me, the idea of Vegas was a dream—a place where the streets glittered and glowed, and the rich flowed through casinos as money and booze flowed through their hands. I’d never imagined that kind of life for myself.

  And yet, here was Tyler offering me a free ride to that dreamland at the precise moment when I had nothing left to lose.

  “Come and get me.”

  Chapter 5

  Las Vegas, September 1959

  Tyler pulled onto the Las Vegas strip about 9 P.M. I’m not sure of the day, but it was sometime in September 1959. I’ll never forget the thousands of flashing, whirling, spinning lights covering the casinos. He drove up to the Sahara Hotel and registered as I waited in the car. Then we brought up our bags, showered together, crawled into bed, and slept.

  An hour and a half later, I woke up with Tyler on top of me, making love. I was still fuzzy from the liquor we’d consumed on the way to Vegas. He went at it and finished fast. He kissed me lightly on the cheek and was off to shower again, with me right behind. He was in a hurry. “Come on baby! Hurry up and get something on. I want to show you off!”

  Excited, I applied a little makeup and slipped into my mom’s dress. I thought this town would be my salvation. Tyler took me to a restaurant at the Sahara for dinner and having had no food for over a day, I ate like a horse. Then he gave me twenty dollars and showed me how to play blackjack. I sat at a blackjack table, and nobody asked for my I.D. I won sixty dollars, and after a few drinks we returned to the room for more sleep.

  Before we left the room the next morning, Tyler handed me a pill and said, “Here, take this upper. It’ll keep you awake and keep you skinny.” I swallowed it and just like that, my pill-popping years began.

  We went to the cocktail lounge at the Stardust. Before long, Tyler said, “See that old man in a suit at the end of the bar? I want you to go over there and start talking to him.”

  “Oh no, I can’t do that.” As far as I was concerned, I was with Tyler. I didn’t want to meet any more men to get money.

  “Oh yes you can,” Tyler said. “As beautiful as you are, you can do anything you want.”

  “But I don’t want to.”

  “Well, we’re short of money,” he said, irritated, motioning me out of the lounge.

  “Let’s just go back to the blackjack tables,” I suggested. “With my luck, we can win as much as we need.”

  “How much money do you have?”

  I counted the bills in my purse and held up forty-two dollars.

  “Look,” he said. “I have ten dollars. The room tonight will cost twenty-five and dinner another ten, not to mention gambling. So you see, we need money! Just go into the lounge, sit at a table, and smile at every man you see. Soon enough one of them will buy you a drink. When he does, ask him if he wants to have some fun with you. Go!” He pushed me toward the lounge. “Go now! You can do it. Come on. At least try.”

  “Okay, okay!” I walked into the lounge and sat at an empty table while Tyler sat at the bar and watched. Whenever a man looked at me I smiled, and within minutes a well-dressed older man wearing diamond rings and expensive shoes asked if he could sit down and buy me a drink. We talked about the casinos, and eventually I talked about my children.

  “Oh, I can help you out if you need some money.”

  “Yes, I do. I need money desperately.”

  He gave me a key and said, “Meet me in my room.” Then he left.

  I looked back at Tyler. He nodded and said, “Good job. Now go. Go do it. I’ll be right here waiting for you.”

  I walked slowly from the lounge to the man’s room. I was scared, but the pills and drinks had loosened me up, so I decided to make the best of it. I turned the key in the door and walked into the room. The man was sitting at the table. He had drinks brought up, and we sat and talked about my kids and how I’d gotten into this business and ended up in Vegas. He was shocked because I was so young.

  “Well, I can give you fifty dollars if that will help.”

  “Oh my god, that would help a lot.”

  So he handed me fifty dollars and I took off my dress, leaving my panties and garter belt on. I lay down beside him on the bed and gave him a blow job. I left immediately after to go back downstairs to show Tyler the quick money.

  “See, I told you you could do it,” he said. “You were upstairs for twenty minutes and you made fifty bucks. See, you’ve got it in you honey. You’re beautiful and men dream of having a woman like you.”

  After treating me to another big meal and a night of making love, the next morning Tyler suggested, “Why don’t you go out and buy yourself a beautiful dress and go out again tonight?”

  “Why do I have to do that again? I just want to be with you. I hate that job. I want a real job at a casino, with a steady paycheck.”

  “Well, because you’re the best,” he laughed. “You don’t want to stop now. You’re just getting the hang of it. Do it for your girls.” Tyler pushed me out of our room and headed for the garage to get the car.

  We went to a nearby department store and I bought a dress of flowing blue chiffon with long-sleeves and a plunging neckline. It was stunning.

  Then he took me to a doctor. One of the men I’d been with wouldn’t wear a rubber, and I didn’t want to get pregnant, so the doctor gave me a prescription for a diaphragm. I could insert it into my vagina before having intercourse and remove and wash it before its next use. He told me it was ninety-nine percent foolproof and I thought this must be the best thing ever invented for women. Now all I had to worry about were diseases.

  Tyler took us back to the room and I prepared myself for my evening of hustling. I looked stunning. He drove me back to the Sands and dropped me off at the valet. Alone and
scared, I held my head high and walked into the casino like I owned the place.

  In the Regency Lounge, a pleasant man in his fifties wearing a black toupee approached me. He bought me a drink and after talking about gambling for a while he escorted me to his room. In just a few minutes I collected a hundred-dollar bill. I returned to the lounge and hustled a couple more men, who paid the same amount of money.

  Excited about my success, I took a cab back to the Sahara to show Tyler. On the way, I looked at the three-hundred bucks I made and thought how easy it was to get the guys off. When the cab dropped me off, I threw a ten at the driver and told him to keep the change. Then I ran to show Tyler what I’d earned.

  “Honey, I’m so proud of you!” he said, kissing me as I gave him half of the money. “But I have to go to work tomorrow. I want you to stay in Las Vegas and keep on doing what you’ve been doing so well.”

  “No. I want to go with you. Don’t leave me here.” I started to cry.

  He held me and said, “I love you. We’ll be together soon.”

  I believed him, so I agreed to stay.

  On Sunday morning we checked out of the Sahara and found a “pay by the week” room at the Colonial Inn, a block from the Sands. The small room was clean and comfortable enough for me. I hung up my two evening dresses and some other clothes I’d bought earlier in the week and made myself at home. Tyler returned to Los Angeles.

  I was lonely at first, but the thought of making such good money cheered me up. I went out every night, soon learning that the men I hustled were called “tricks” or “johns.” And they had big money to throw around.

  I spent the next two months on my own, making and saving money. Usually I went into a lounge, sat at a table, and introduced myself to the cocktail waitress. As time passed, I met the casino bosses—or “pit bosses,” as I learned they were called—and the hotel owners, who could introduce me to the high rollers. I always dressed to kill and I tipped well, so the bosses and owners liked me in their establishments. In time they catered to me as if I was a movie star, and I always treated them with respect. They trusted me and I trusted them not to introduce me to anyone dangerous or not in good standing.

  The pit bosses at the hotels called me “Baby Jane.” To them I was a sweet Kewpie doll with blond hair, a round face, full lips and a good set of knockers. I was a down-to-earth, fun-loving gal with a party personality. Most of my tricks were show-business personalities and millionaires—good for hotel business. I sold my skills as a call girl to a lot of wealthy male cheaters who left their wives at home and came to Las Vegas to pay for some fun.

  Every day I paid to have my hair and nails done. I got to know everyone in the shops, and I bought expensive evening clothing and accessories to show off in the clubs. At night, I sauntered into the Sands or another hotel, working to make every head turn. Men drew close to touch or stare at my clothes, face, and body, and to inhale my expensive perfume. The women there enjoyed my taste in clothes and jewelry.

  Many casino girls were notorious for copping their johns’ chips and stashing them in a secret pocket of their mink stoles. I didn’t do that and that’s why the casino bosses trusted me. They knew I kept my mouth shut about the personal lives and fantasies lived out in their hotel rooms.

  Turning tricks was never fun. It was work, and I wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t needed money. But once you’re in, once you start making that much money, it’s hard to get out. I might have tried a job as a showgirl, but my lifestyle soon cost too much to live on a showgirl’s paycheck.

  Occasionally Tyler called from Los Angeles, asking me to send him two or three hundred dollars, which I always wired to him immediately. He never said what it was for, but I assumed he needed it for his business or that he was just short on cash. This put a dent in my savings, but I often made up for it by picking up an extra trick or two during the week. My average became two or three tricks per day.

  During my first month in Las Vegas, I missed my period. A month later, I missed it again. My diaphragm had failed and I was in trouble. I couldn’t have a baby. I didn’t want a baby. God only knew who the father might be! The most important thing was to get my kids back. I couldn’t show up pregnant in divorce court. I was desperate.

  Abortions then were illegal in the United States, and no legitimate doctor or hospital performed them. A “back alley” procedure was the only choice, but finding a doctor was difficult. You had to have the right connections, and the risks were high. Many women died because of unsanitary conditions or complications.

  I called Tyler as soon as I was sure I was pregnant, and he returned to Las Vegas the next weekend. “The only way you can get an abortion is to go to Mexico,” he said. “There are doctors in Mexicali who can fix you up. We can get you down there in a day or two, and you’ll be back before you know it, good as new.”

  I was relieved when Tyler said he would take care of it for me, but I was terrified about what might happen in a strange country with an unknown physician, if I could even call him that. Tyler made some arrangements, and three days later I was on a plane to Mexicali. Judy, a friend I had met at the Sahara, volunteered to go with me because she had been there herself to receive an abortion a year or so before.

  Once the plane landed, we found ourselves in one of the thickest infestations of crickets in the history of Mexico. Billions of crickets were everywhere—on the runway and covering the roads into town. Smashed crickets covered the sidewalks, got in our hair, and crawled up our legs. They were everywhere. This, combined with the heat and humidity, made me more miserable than I already was.

  Somehow we found our way to the motel that Tyler had arranged for us. It was a sleaze hole. The cover on the one single bed was stained, the bathroom fixtures were rusty and coated with deposits, and the room was dingy and dark. One small table and a chair were the only pieces of furniture other than the bed. A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling at the end of an electric cord. There was no telephone or radio. After we were in the room for an hour the manager, a disagreeable old woman, knocked on the door and threw an armload of blankets and sheets at me. They were as grimy as the room.

  That night Judy slept on top of the bedcover while I tried to sleep sitting in the chair. Neither of us changed clothes.

  My appointment was for the next morning. After getting no sleep, I felt even more scared, guilty, and miserable. I wasn’t prepared for the next step, but Judy talked me into getting ready for the abortionist. His office was only a few blocks from the motel, so we walked to the address Tyler had written on a slip of paper before I left Las Vegas. The crickets swarmed again. We had to walk carefully to keep from slipping on them.

  I gasped when we arrived at an old two-story clapboard building. It hadn’t seen a coat of paint in twenty years and looked as if it would collapse at any moment. A crudely lettered sign on the side read “Dr. Jaramillo.” An arrow pointed to the second floor, and a row of rickety stairs led to the doctor’s office. As I climbed the first two stairs I felt them shift beneath my feet. I could smell the moldy wood rotting from the Mexican heat.

  “I can’t do this,” I said. “This is going to kill me.” I thought I would die if I went through with this procedure with this doctor in this place. Something told me that if I didn’t get out of there, I wouldn’t go back to the United States alive. We dashed out and in an hour were back at the airport. Judy and I drank coffee and talked until the next plane left for Las Vegas.

  I called Tyler to talk about the horrible place he had sent me. I was upset, but he seemed unsympathetic. After a few minutes he convinced me that I still needed him to help solve my problem.

  “The only thing you can do now is to force an abortion yourself.”

  “Force it myself? Are you crazy?”

  “It’s too bad you chickened out on your chance in Mexico because the only other way is quite a bit harder on you. You’ll have to stick a coat hanger or a tube up into your womb. It could take a few hours for you to get rid
of the fetus.”

  “Oh my god, no way am I going to do that. I’d rather die than do that!” I couldn’t believe what he was saying. I had thought he would help me through this terrible time, and now he didn’t even seem to care about me. But I had no choice—I had to trust him. I now dreaded the idea of aborting the baby. I knew it was wrong. But I was going forward under Tyler’s direction.

  “I have a friend who knows the ropes, I’ll call her when you’re ready to go through with it,” Tyler said. “Things will be okay honey. I’ll stay with you when you decide to do it.”

  “Okay Tyler. I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

  “I’ll get the stuff you need and bring it with me this weekend.”

  It took at least three days for me to decide to do it. In the meantime, I took more diet pills, drank cocktails, and turned tricks to make more money in case something went wrong. It made me feel better to know I was wanted by the men in the casinos and that I could make money even while I was pregnant. I didn’t tell any trick about my condition or show any sign of it.

  With my courage up and the money stashed, I told Tyler I was ready. He went to a drugstore Saturday morning and came back with three feet of clear, plastic, flexible NG tubing about as wide as a pen. He also had a jar of Vaseline. Then he called his friend Corinne, who I didn’t know, to ask her to help. When Corinne arrived at the motel, we were ready to begin. To relax, I took four drinks of whiskey straight and Tyler gave me sleeping pills. He told me to lie on the bed, put my legs up and bend my knees. He coated the end of the tube with Vaseline.

  “Now Corinne will stick the tube straight in,” he told me. “When it hits a wall, she’ll push harder and it’ll go through.”

  She inserted the tube into my vagina and I could feel it going up inside me, inch by inch. It hit the wall, and she pushed harder and harder, but the tube wouldn’t go through. It was painful and the more she worked it, the more it hurt. Corinne tried to help me by moving it back and forth and up and down, but something seemed to be in the way.