I turned my head away from the girls as I walked from the courtroom so they wouldn’t see my tears. The attorney walked me to the restroom and I washed my face and tried to calm down. I sat in the toilet stall for about twenty minutes, crying and throwing up. I didn’t want to live.
Finally I tried to reason everything out. I had visitation rights. I could fly the girls or myself back and forth when I wanted to be with them (I could afford to fly). Las Vegas had everything I needed—money, drugs, money, a place to live, money, clothes, money, furniture, money, more drugs and more money. I would make enough to buy a place in California. I would get out soon. Of course, none of it was rational—by this time I was hooked.
I stopped turning the wheels, remembering that Tyler was in the parking lot waiting for me. I got myself together, left the courthouse, and found him in the Thunderbird. He drove me back to Beverly Hills.
I was sick for two days and I sobbed and sulked in the room for a week. All I could think was that I had had an abortion for no reason. I had no daughters. I should have had the baby. God forgive me for killing my baby.
Tyler stayed the whole time, trying to be supportive, holding me and assuring me that everything would be okay. Finally he convinced me we should go back to Vegas.
The next day before we left, I bought a bottle of scotch and we partied all the way back to Nevada. But this time, the partying didn’t seem to have the same effect on me—it didn’t mask or drown out all the bad shit in my life. I was miserable. All the booze and drugs had rattled my brain. I had never felt more alone, even with Tyler by my side. And that’s when I finally decided I couldn’t be with Tyler any longer. I felt that if I couldn’t have my daughters or my baby, I didn’t want anyone. And by some miracle, Tyler must have sensed this change in me, because when I told him, he said he understood, and he left soon after we got back to Las Vegas.
I had thought the world of Tyler, had listened to him because I felt he was helping me get enough money to get custody of my girls. I hadn’t realized that he’d been pimping me out for months for his own benefit. I did the dirty work, gave him half the money, paid for the motel, and let him sleep with me for free. He made me feel special and I fell for his game.
After Tyler left, I threw myself on the bed, cried myself to sleep, and stayed there for a week. I felt sad about everything but Tyler’s departure.
I also mourned the fetus I’d aborted. I brooded over the fact that the law had given me no right to make such a personal decision or to carry it out in a safe way. I mourned the absence of my mother’s support in the courtroom. I mourned the loss of my marriage and the dreams of what my family could be. Finally, I thought about how sick I was of men—Woody the pedophile, Buck the rapist, Bob the cheater, Tyler the pimp, and of course all the johns—using and abusing me.
I saw little choice in what to do next. I wanted to be near my daughters, but without a high school diploma I couldn’t earn a decent legal living in Santa Ana. In Vegas I had some connections and I could make a lot more money with no one taking a cut. I’d soon have enough to get out of Vegas and buy a home in California.
So I practiced my sales pitch: “Come on big spenders—if you want my body, I’ll give you the best sex you ever had, and you’ll pay for it, big time.”
Chapter 7
Joe E. Lewis and Vic Damone
When Tyler took all of my money and left me with unpaid rent, I decided to go out on my own. But I realized I had to stay in the business because I was making hundreds of dollars a day and when you’re in that business you get hooked on the glamorous lifestyle, and turning tricks prevents a woman from having a normal life. Society looked down on women like me, and offered few alternatives to earn a living wage. The way I saw it, I had no choice but to continue living that horrible lifestyle.
One night I met a guy named Jonesy in the Casbah Lounge of the Sahara Hotel. He was one of the pit bosses and he explained his job in the casino. A pit boss watches the dealers and stickmen at the blackjack and craps tables making sure there’s no cheating. Jonesy also knew who the high rollers were and he did everything he could to keep them spending their money. That meant compensating their food, drinks and sometimes introducing them to a “classy lady” like me.
When I told him I was from California, he asked, “How long have you been in Vegas?”
“I’ve been here a couple of months.”
“You’re an awfully pretty girl. Are you going to be living here, or are you just vacationing?”
“Yeah, I’m living here. I’m never going to leave Vegas. I have an apartment on Paradise Road, behind the Desert Inn Hotel.”
“Would you like to meet one of my high-rollers?” he asked. “I’ll send him over. His name is Ted Smith from New York. He owns a chain of restaurants.”
“Oh send him over,” I smiled and Jonesy went back to his pit.
As I sipped my drink I thought I was glad to have Jonesy as a contact because I felt safe knowing that he knew the men he introduced me to.
Minutes later a tall, grey-haired distinguished man walked up to my table. “Hi, are you Janie? My name is Ted. Jonesy sent me over to meet you. Would you like to have a cocktail?”
“Why yes, I’d love one.” I smiled.
After a couple of drinks he said, “Let’s go out to the craps tables.” While I stood his side, he rolled and won a couple grand.
Jonesy came over to the table to watch and bought us a drink.
Then I rolled the dice and started screaming every time I won. Soon a crowd of people joined the table to get in on my hot roll. After a few minutes the table was packed with people reaching in and under others trying to get their money down on the table. The stickman was so professional as he worked the dice back to me that he never disturbed a bet. I’d never seen anything like it before. The money was everywhere and the two dealers at each end of the table placed every bet precisely and remembered who it belonged to.
I rolled sevens and elevens and made my point over and over again. The pit bosses had to order more stacks of chips to pay off everyone. Twenty minutes later I seven’ed out and we took our chips and ran to the cage to cash them in. I’d made about three thousand dollars off of the twenty-five dollar chip that Ted had given me and he’d won all of the money he’d lost before he met me.
Jonesy came over to the cage and said, “I see you two hit it off just fine!”
“That’s for sure,” I said.
Jonesy was impressed with my luck and how much I knew about craps. He especially liked how I’d gotten others to join the table. After that day he said I was a lucky charm and that stuck with me throughout my years in Vegas.
After collecting our winnings Ted and I went to his suite where I took charge of his needs. Ted gave me a thousand bucks and it was the most money I’d ever made in one encounter.
Afterwards we showered and returned to the cocktail lounge. Jonesy stopped over to see us and whispered in my ear, “When you’re in the casino, make sure you stop by and see me.” Jonesy and I got along right away and he became one of my best contacts.
It was two in the morning when I went home. Everyone was happy and I couldn’t believe how much money I’d made in one night.
The next afternoon I drove to the Flamingo Lounge at the Flamingo Hotel, sat down at a table, and noticed a man in his late fifties having a drink at the bar and carrying on with the bartender. He spotted me and yelled, “Come here cutie! Where’ve you been all my life?”
I said sweetly, “Right here.” I thought he was just some drunk left over from the early lunch crowd.
“You’d better sit right down here and have a Bloody Mary with me,” he said, pulling up another stool. “I’ve been coming here and appearing at this hotel for years and I’ve never seen such a sweet little kitten as you. Do you live here or are you visiting?
“I live here.”
“Do you like to party?”
“Yes, I like to party,” I smiled shyly, wondering who this loud, bizarre man
could be.
“My name’s Joe E. Lewis,” he announced. “I used to work the vaudeville circuit, but now I work here in Vegas occasionally.”
I had no idea how old Joe E. Lewis was, but I accepted his offer of a drink and wondered where this might lead. We talked through several Bloody Mary cocktails. He told me the history of the hotels on the Strip, saying that the Flamingo was built by Bugsy Siegel in 1947.
I thought, “Oh my, I was only seven years old then!”
After the Flamingo opened, Las Vegas changed. Gambling was still the big attraction, but big hotels now housed the gamblers, and big-name entertainers were brought in to draw in even more people. Joey (that’s what I called him) said he was one of the first headliner comedians in Vegas.
He also told me about how the Mafia had owned Las Vegas before the State of Nevada clamped down on the mobsters, forcing them to put the casinos under legitimate names. Still, he said, the town was operated under the table by the Mafia boys.
As evening approached, Joey decided to go downtown to gamble. We hopped into a cab and in about seven minutes we were on Fremont Street at the Golden Nugget. We walked in and hit the craps tables, where we won about five hundred. Then we went to the blackjack tables and won fifteen hundred. Joey really liked me and gave me all the winnings.
By that time I was loaded. “Joey, I have to go home.”
“Oh no, you can ride back to the Flamingo with me. You can come up and check out my etchings,” he chuckled.
I knew where he was leading and thought, “Oh great! I’ll make some more money.”
When we got back to the Flamingo, we went up to his room and I washed up. I undressed in the bathroom and wrapped myself in a towel. When I stepped out, I saw he had taken off all but his underwear. I walked over to the bed and Joey pulled off my towel. His eyes were as big as silver dollars and he licked his lips, having a look-see. He lay back on the bed and I kneeled over his family jewels, closed my eyes and brought his fantasy to life. Joey got excited fast, and he was off in a minute or two.
I was amazed that a man his age could still get it up!
“You’re something else babe.” Joey smiled. “You really know how to treat a man.”
I got out of bed went to the bathroom to wash up and when I returned Joey said, “Here’s a little something for you.” He handed me another three hundred dollars.
“Thank you darling,” I said graciously (I really did like the old fart). “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The next morning I called Joey and we met for breakfast at the Flamingo’s coffee shop. Well, I had breakfast and he had a Bloody Mary. While we were sitting there he introduced me to some of the casino bosses. I was sweet and gracious and they all seemed to like me. Apparently they sensed what I was about, and each asked me to come in and see them when I was in their casino. I saw the chance to make new friends and business contacts. I later learned that these guys were part of the mob that ran Vegas: Meyer Lansky, Tommy Mason, Frank Costello and Paul Castellano. They were all dripping with money but looked like any businessman from anywhere.
After breakfast Joey asked, “Aren’t you ready for a Bloody Mary, Janie?”
“How do you drink the way you do honey?”
“My doctors told me to stop drinking or it will kill me, but if I stop, that’s what’ll kill me,” Joey laughed, and we were off to the lounge.
As we walked across the casino, Joey saw a friend and called to him, “Hey Vic, how you been? I heard you were coming to town. Saw your name on the billboard out there.”
It was Vic Damone! “Who’s that cute gal you’ve got with you?” Vic asked.
“This is Jane Harvey,” Joey said. “Why don’t you join us for a Bloody Mary?”
We sat at a table in the lounge. After one Bloody Mary, Joey announced, “I’ve got to catch a plane. I have to be in New York tonight. See you kids!”
He left and suddenly I was sitting alone with one of the most attractive singers appearing in Las Vegas. He had the perfect body and was a handsome man that all women loved—unlike the older men I had tricked with, he was in his mid-thirties and hunky. He had the most beautiful black hair and brown eyes.
I’d heard his songs on the radio and knew he was in the movie Hell to Eternity but didn’t know much else about Vic Damone. I wasn’t a screaming fan, but I acted as if I was impressed to meet him. I was as charming as I could be, and he took to me right away. He asked whether I would like to come back and see his show that night. “I’d love to,” I answered.
“Just tell the maître d’ to set you up front and center. I can’t wait to see you again.” He gave me a peck on the cheek and left for his afternoon rehearsal.
I was excited. Here I was with a celebrity! I decided to shop for a new dress at the dress shop in the Flamingo, and then I went to the Colonial Motel on the Strip. My gay hairdresser, Jim, insisted I become a blond because “blonds have more fun.” Jim always made me feel good. He gave me a glass of wine and loved my stories.
He bleached my hair champagne beige and styled it in a bouffant—a stunning fashion statement. He gave me new eyelashes so I’d look like a showgirl. After looking in the mirror I could see that I looked a whole lot more sophisticated and mature than a girl of only nineteen.
Afterwards I went to my apartment, took a shower and slid into my sexy Mr. Blackwell design evening dress. The front of the dress was see-through from the inch choker-neckline to my waist. Delicate black crossed-lace held the front of the dress together, slightly exposing the inside of my voluptuous breasts. I splashed on my hundred-dollar Davinci perfume, popped an Ambar #3 in my mouth and drove my Thunderbird convertible to the Flamingo.
When I pulled into the Flamingo the valet, who was dressed in his uniformed suit, rushed to open my door. When he extended his hand I told him I was a guest of Vic Damone’s, and like a lady I reached for his hand with my white gloves. Keeping my legs together I turned my body towards the door and stepped out of the car. After standing, I looked around to see everyone staring at me in my six-inch heals. I walked like a model, one foot in front of the other, sashaying my hips and arms like I owned the place.
When I got to the showroom the maître d’ escorted me to the stage. I was front and center where Vic wanted me to be so he could look into my eyes throughout his performance. As Vic sang his love songs he looked right at me! Like a silly girl, I blushed and put my head down. The people seated nearby looked at me and smiled, probably thinking how lucky I was to be getting so much attention from him, never suspecting I was actually his date.
In the lounge afterwards we drank together. There were crowds of tourists and gamblers, and every once in a while someone interrupted to ask for an autograph. It was distracting, so Vic said, “Why don’t we get away from these people and go up to my suite?”
“That sounds like fun,” I agreed. “Let’s go.”
When we got to the suite, we had more cocktails and he ordered a tray of hors d’oeuvres. The tray was loaded with shrimp, crab legs and the finest cheese. He was so romantic as we sipped champagne. We enjoyed each other’s company for an hour or two, and then he kissed my neck and breathed sensually into my ear before he hummed a song, and I just sort of swooned and lay back to enjoy it. Soon we were both getting excited. Vic started to unzip my dress and I was overwhelmed with passion. He knew how to please a woman, which was quite different from the johns that I’d tricked. He took the time to make me happy.
We slept a few hours and then I nudged him to say I had to go back to my place. He asked me for my phone number, so I left it on the dresser, knowing that he had no idea I did this for a living, but I didn’t want to bring it up. I put on my clothes, kissed him lightly, had my car brought up by the valet, and drove back to my apartment.
I didn’t see Vic again until about four months later. Arriving at the Flamingo, I looked up at the billboard, and there was “Vic Damone” surrounded by lights—I’d have to look him up. I found the courtesy phones and left a message with
the desk for him to meet Jane Harvey in the cocktail lounge after his first show. Maybe he’d show up, maybe he wouldn’t. It would be good to see him and possibly turn a trick. It was time to let him know I was in the business. Even if that meant he wouldn’t look at me again, I wanted him to know.
After the first show, Vic walked into the lounge. I was sitting near the front and when he saw me, he beamed and headed in my direction. “Hi baby! You sure look beautiful tonight. How are you doing?” he said.
“Oh, I was wondering how long you’re going to be in town.”
“I’m just here for the weekend,” Vic said. “You know, I’ve been thinking about you lately. We sure did have a lot of fun.”
As we shared a drink, Vic told me he would like to get together but that he had people in town that day and couldn’t get away. He wanted to meet me the next day to see a show and spend some time alone with me that night.
“Oh, that would be great!”
Vic said he’d pick me up the next afternoon. I gave him directions to my apartment, and he left.
At 8 P.M. the next evening, Vic rang the doorbell and I ran to let him in. We went to dinner at the Candlelight Room in the Flamingo Hotel, where he was appearing. It was the first gourmet restaurant opened in Las Vegas. There was a wine steward helping Vic with his selection. The steward pulled the cork from the bottle and poured some wine into a glass for Vic’s approval before serving it to me. The food was beautifully presented and tasted fabulous. The atmosphere was elegant, the patrons sophisticated and obviously well off. Everyone seemed to be wearing diamonds. The men all wore ties and women wore long evening gowns.
We decided to skip the show and go gambling instead. We headed to the Stardust first, then jumped in a cab for the Sahara Hotel. And who did we see getting out of an elevator at the Sahara? I saw Elvis Presley with two gorgeous women, one on each arm. He was in such a hurry that Vic didn’t get a chance to speak to him. Later that night, we saw Elvis playing the slot machines. I heard later that he’d bought two Lincoln Continentals, one for each girl. In each of the Lincoln’s he reportedly laid out a luxurious fur coat. I wondered what those lucky girls had done to deserve such extravagant gifts.
Rat Pack Party Girl: From Prostitute to Women’s Advocate Page 8