by Orrie Hitt
“It’s a known fact that many rapes and crimes of passion are caused by this type of material,” I said. “Psychologists tell us that if we can eliminate the idea we can, in many cases, avoid the crime.”
The lieutenant, thoroughly unimpressed, swung around in his chair and flipped a button on the intercom.
“Send Swingle up here. He’s supposed to run some flowers up to the commissioner’s house.”
“Thanks,” I said, going to the door. “Thanks a hell of a lot for nothing, Lieutenant.”
Apparently he failed to hear me and I went out into the hall, my guts churning. No wonder Dr. Call and his associates felt there was a need for a private investigation of the dirty-picture racket. At least one supposedly responsible police official appeared to be quite unconcerned about it.
On the other hand, the attitude which greeted me at the editorial offices of the Morning Star was vastly different. The editor was polite and, once aware of the purpose of my visit, he promptly introduced me to the reporter who had originally worked on the story.
The reporter’s name was George Castle. He was a nervous young man in his early thirties and while I talked to him he alternately smoked and drank from a container of cold coffee.
“You’re welcome to the job,” he told me. “And I think you should know that you ought to be prepared to collect some lumps on your skull. In fact, if you don’t have a will it might be a good idea to sit down and write one out. You’ll find that some of these people are willing to play pretty rough, Mr. Morgan.”
His account was most enlightening. His paper, encouraged by numerous complaints received from school teachers and parents, had entered into the series with the thought of revealing the whole gruesome story. After three installments the series had been dropped.
“As you know,” Castle said, lighting another cigarette, “a newspaper must rely upon its distributor to maintain circulation. After the first chapter of our ‘Vice for Sale’ appeared we took a twenty percent boost in newsstand sales. However, on the third day our distributor told us that he would no longer continue to handle our paper if we were determined to see the series through to the bitter end. The distributor claimed that we were inviting libel action, since we had charged the police and other public officials with gross negligence, and the distributor felt he also could be held accountable. You know, of course, what happened. We stopped the series and everybody — that is, everybody who might have been involved — was happy about it.”
“Perhaps the distributor had been threatened.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Morgan. All I know is that after breaking ground we were forced to put away our shovels.”
Castle asserted that he had assembled little concrete information about the operation. His articles had been general in scope, outlining the obscene material available in various outlets, and suggesting quite pointedly that the police should take some positive action. He had hoped, through the articles, to encourage someone in the know to step forward and present him with additional facts. This, he said, had not happened.
“There is no doubt,” he told me, “but what some of the model agencies are involved. Pretty girls are needed for this sort of thing and that’s about the only source of supply. Probably some of the movie hopefuls are used in the two-reelers. I don’t know. But I know that many of the more lurid movies are imported from the port of Basra, on the Persian Gulf. Once the master film reaches this country there are hundreds of prints made of it. A five thousand dollar investment may, I understand, yield as much as two hundred thousand. It is a big business, Mr. Morgan. Very, very big.”
I talked with Castle until long after five but I was unable to learn much of anything further. He continued to impress upon me that the stakes in this type of enterprise were tremendous and that the risk for the one who attempted to expose it only slightly less. I finally departed from the offices of the Morning Star feeling something like a condemned man who had just been sentenced to the chair for a crime he did not commit.
Upon returning to my apartment I found a considerable amount of mail awaiting me. Some of it, I am forced to admit, was rather interesting.
All of the replies were either from within the city or from nearby sections of the east coast, there not having been sufficient time for the west coast outlets to have responded. I noted that all had been sent to me first class mail which, of course, eliminated the possible chance of them being opened for postal inspection.
I scanned the material carefully, especially the stuff which had been mailed in the city, but any clues as to the senders were, I might say, conspicuous by their absence. In nearly all instances the return addresses were either general delivery or post office box numbers. Only two boasted a definite street number and these I recognized as having originated from well-known mailing centers in the downtown region. Many of the envelopes, as well as contents, contained no return addresses whatsoever. These, as you might suspect, were from sources dealing in naked pictures of the female form. All of the photos had been retouched and I am quite sure that none of them could have been termed definitely obscene in the legal sense of the word. One could assume them to be, as advertised, practical “art studies.”
The gimmick offers which were enclosed with many of the returns were of the most interest to me. One firm promised to have a lovely model write to me, personally, and “in her own handwriting,” if I would return the pink slip, indicating the type of correspondent desired. A dollar, it was pointed out, was all that was needed to start a chain of events which would “let us show you everything we’ve got!” A rather hastily printed brochure called my attention to the fact that Janie posed for intimate photos and films; Paulette was long-legged and balloon-curved in the right places; Helen was torrid, her body as lovely as a “flawless work of art”; and, of course, I mustn’t overlook Cleo, “a honey-blonde with exotically slanted eyes who thought up all her own poses all by herself.” A handwritten letter which was signed “Ella” and which had been reproduced by photo-offset promised that all girls in the “club” were “sexsational calendar girl pin-ups” and that I would be pleased with the pictures which they had made “in secret.” This offer came from the Garden State Pen Pals Club and it gave me a choice of purchasing still shots at ten for three dollars or, if I wished, either 8mm or 16mm reels with or without sound. The proposal suggested that I might experience more enjoyment if I went the whole distance and acquired the movies complete with sound.
Another company, “Classic Arts,” claimed it was only interested in selling me a viewer which would make my drawing lessons come easier and give them “the pulse of life.” Of course, if I found myself in need of adequate subject material the company would be delighted to assist me in my work and I might, for a rather substantial sum, order one of the many “art study” sets of female anatomy which were available. The several samples enclosed for my information were of chic young girls with big busts, tiny waists and rounded hips.
I noted that one firm, which specialized in adult movies, presented a rather provocative sounding list of titles. There was, for instance, “The Buxom Golfer … See what happens when this busty gal in a scant costume learns to play golf … Wow!” Another likely appearing number was the “Shawl Boogie,” which informed me that I shouldn’t miss the “roaring action of this peek-a-boo shawl as Busty goes through this teaser and busts through the shawl.” Still another, “A Day With Donnie Dilson,” suggested that I might want to spend a full day with a model, “from the time luscious Donnie tumbles out of bed in the morning until she takes her tummy-flattening exercises late in the evening.” This firm, however, had not gotten itself into a rut by offering only one type of entertainment. There were several books available, all of them illustrated, which revealed how kids were trapped into a sin syndicate, how a madam worked and thought and the “heart-breaking” story of a teenager who had become a “B” girl. The books were a bargain, it said, at only one dollar each. Another book, which cost five dollars, contained twenty-five
uncensored letters describing the experience of being spanked. The blurb which served as a plug for the spanking book raised the age-old question about whether spanking was a matter of discipline or was it, in reality, a means of self-satisfaction.
The claims for the products of one firm proved to be of little interest to me since I had not, as far as I knew, “lost my vigor.”
With the exception of the photos I placed all of the material in a brown manila envelope and stored it away in the closet on the top shelf. I then sat down and counted the number of photos which I had received. There were ninety-six. I separated these into piles of eight and obtained a dozen cellophane sandwich-bags from the kitchen. After I had placed the photos in the bags. I closed the flaps with scotch tape and filed the entire collection in my coat pockets.
During the evening hours I called on several of the bookstores in the midtown area but, as I had imagined, many of the proprietors had long since departed for the day. Some of the better stores I failed to approach since I knew that their owners wouldn’t be caught dead in the same block with one of my humble offerings. In one store, however, a small place off Darwin Circle, I managed to draw my first blood.
“They’re lousy pictures,” the grubby old man informed me. “But I’ll take six packs at half a buck each. My own supplier must have got stuck in a door someplace.”
I assured him I hoped to have something better the next time.
“Look,” he said as he gave me three ones. “I don’t know you and you don’t know me. But I’ll tell you one thing: you have to have the real stuff or you can’t find a market. These pics are for kids. And kids don’t have any money. I have to give my trade real spicy pictures or they aren’t interested.”
I explained that I was new in the business, that I was attempting to work up a route and I suggested, without evidencing too much interest, that I might be able to be of assistance to the person who had been servicing him.
“Well, I don’t know,” the old man said, doubtfully. “I think he works alone. And I don’t see him very often. When I do, though, I’ll mention it to him.”
“Thanks a lot. I’ll stop back in a week or so.”
“Suit yourself.”
I went out into the street. The mid-evening show crowd spilled out over the sidewalks. A million lights winked and blinked and a hundred different signs offered a hundred different products.
I felt depressed. This, I decided, was no way to get anywhere. I had to approach the problem from another direction. Or, at least, I had to try something else while I continued to work the stores.
I went into a quiet-looking restaurant and phoned Elsa at her apartment. No, she had not heard from Judith Call. She had my number and she’d let me know as soon as she did.
“Busy tonight?”
“Well-yes.” Then, softly, “I’m sorry, Bill.”
“How well do you know your boss?” I wanted to know, hiding my disappointment. “I mean, I was thinking about doing an article on a model agency — you know, how it’s run, things like that — and I wondered if you might be able to pave the way for me with your people. It would be good publicity for them and about the cheapest advertising they ever had.”
The wire hummed for a moment while she thought about it.
“Why, yes,” she said at last. “I don’t see why not.”
“Fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She said that would be all right, that I could phone her at the office, and we hung up.
I wondered, as I went outside, if anything would ever come of it. But I had to start somewhere; I had to do something. Perhaps this angle might furnish me with a lead. In any event, it might give me a clue as to where I could locate Judith Call.
Somehow, finding that girl had become very important.
5
THE Montana Model Agency was located in an old loft building on Fourth Street, close to the garment center and within easy walking distance of most of the important showrooms. Just why it was called the Montana agency, I’m not sure — certainly a more glamorous title could have been selected — but, perhaps, the fact that Andy Willis, the owner, hailed from Butte had something to do with it.
Andy Willis was a tall, rugged-looking man in his late forties and, when I first met him, seemed inclined to be brusque rather than friendly.
“Hell, nobody ever did an article on us before,” he said. “I don’t see why all the sudden interest. We aren’t big.”
I pointed out that, being a free-lance writer on the make for a dollar, I had developed the idea after meeting Elsa Lang. I went on to outline the possible good which could accrue to his agency as the result of any publicity I might be able to arrange. This seemed to satisfy him and although I cannot say that I had any particular liking for the man, it indicated to me that his operation, insofar as he knew, at least, was legitimate.
I had arrived at the agency shortly after ten on Monday morning and, after a considerable wait, had been ushered into Willis’ office to the right of the main door. To be truthful about it, it wasn’t much of an office, just a hastily constructed cubbyhole at one end of the loft. I had noted, while seated on the hard-back cane chair near the receptionist’s desk, that a series of these tiny private rooms extended on both sides of a narrow hall nearly the full length of the loft. It was fully an hour following my entrance before Willis was able to give me his attention.
“You hit us at a bad time,” he explained. “The spring styles are just coming up and we’ve got a pretty heavy schedule.”
I assured him, for the third or fourth time, that I would not get in the way nor would I in any way interfere with the established routine of the agency.
“Pictures you won’t have to bother with,” he told me, rising from behind the small, cluttered desk. “We’ve got hundreds of snaps of our girls. You’re welcome to any you want to use.”
I thanked him but indicated that I was less concerned with photos than with the business side of the operation.
“We’re slanting this toward the feminine reader,” I said. “And, of course, most girls — that is, the young girls — want to know how they too might become models. What we hope to explain in this article is how a pretty young girl might go about becoming a model. You know, the things she should do — how she should plan — what she can reasonably expect in the way of success if she is lucky enough to make the grade.”
Andy Willis smiled and lit a huge cigar.
“That’s a big order,” he told me. “Nobody really knows why one girl succeeds and another girl fails.”
“Perhaps that should be my theme, then.”
A tiny red-headed girl, appearing very chic in a purple dress and high-heeled purple shoes, came into the office, interrupting us. It was obvious that she was upset. She had worked the Lady From Paris show on Friday afternoon, she said, and she’d gotten into a fight with an aggressive buyer from Buffalo. The buyer, she said, was going to report her to the agency and she wanted Willis to hear her side of the story first.
“The lousy crumb,” she stormed, ignoring my presence. “I don’t sleep with anybody except myself.”
Willis sighed and waved her complaint aside.
“Tell Mrs. Lord,” he advised impatiently. “I have enough problems without getting mixed up in yours.”
The redhead gave him a savage, helpless look and flounced out of the office.
“That’s the trouble with the model business,” he said unhappily. “You’ve got nothing but women and when you’ve got nothing but women you’ve got nothing but trouble.”
We talked only a few moments longer. He asked me which magazine I worked for and I told him, for the second time, that I was a free-lance writer and that I sold to the highest bidder. He suggested that I might be able to get more information if I talked with Mrs. Lord, his personnel manager, rather than with him.
“She hires and assigns all of the girls,” Andy Willis said. “As a matter of fact, this was her agency to start with and I only came into it a coupl
e of years ago. She can give you most of the dope you’ll need.”
We left his office and I followed his broad shoulders down the narrow hall. He was tall, I noted, but I was a couple of inches taller.
“Each of these rooms is shared by a couple of girls,” he said. “Nothing fancy, as you can see, but hardly any of our work is done here on the premises. An elaborate set-up isn’t at all necessary.”
Mrs. Lord — her first name was Gladys — proved to be a most absorbing bit of feminine pulchritude. She was, I guessed, in her mid-thirties but the way the soft wool suit clung to her body subtracted at least ten years from her age. Her hair was a rich golden hue, something like the color of ripened wheat, and it was gathered at the back of her neck in a large, tight bun. Her eyes were as blue as a mountain lake and her lips reminded you of crushed red cherries. She remained seated as we were introduced.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Morgan.” Her glance shifted to Andy Willis and I thought that some of the warmth left them. “Did you send Red to see me?”
He nodded. “She was bitching about something.”
“I let her go.”
“They liked her at Sally’s place last week. Sally told me himself that she had nice color.” His protest, if it were one, failed to register and he shrugged. “But who cares? There’s more where she came from.”
Gladys Lord waved me into a seat. I lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully while they discussed a showing at Tomorrow’s Fashions for Thursday afternoon. They argued, briefly, about a coat parade which had been held in August and for which the manufacturer still refused to remit payment. I was becoming bored with the whole thing when, quite abruptly, Willis was called to the phone and I found myself alone with Gladys Lord.