Beauty, Disrupted

by Carre Otis

  He looked into my eyes, swept the hair off my face with his perfect hand, and placed a kiss on my lips. Whoa.

  “Why are you doing this?” Marcus asked. “With him, I mean?” He seemed genuinely concerned. “You’re going to get hurt, Carré.” I looked away, not sure how to answer or how to explain.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to drag you into this.” A part of me was in total longing for Marcus. I just needed to be held. Quiet, I told myself. No games. I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a hug. I knew I had to leave. Or one way or another, Marcus would be hurt.

  He lay on the bed watching me as I stood. I stared back at him, for a moment suspended in time. I knew I could lie back down, make love, and let myself be warmed by this boy’s beauty. It would be so simple and, I was sure, so sweet. But it wasn’t worth it. He was right. I was going to get hurt. I just didn’t yet know how or when.

  I left the room, quietly made my way back down the hall and into my suite. Shit, shit, shit. I sighed. And then I picked up the phone and lied as best I could.

  It wasn’t even that I was doing anything so wrong or dishonest. But the pressures of being under constant watch, every day and every night, had me wanting desperately to wander. I knew I would have to keep myself in check. I knew Mickey’s temper. And it wasn’t just me who would incur his wrath.

  The Calvin Klein campaign was a success. It was a beautiful 116-page insert in every Vanity Fair magazine that came out. Despite Wild Orchid, my star was still very much on the rise. I had so much to look forward to. If only Mickey and his boys could stay out of it.

  I would come to find out that this was impossible.

  CHRISTMAS WITH JOHN GOTTI

  The cold December wind that blew through New York City was familiar to me. Just five years earlier, I’d been battling the elements as a teenage model with not much more than a borrowed trench coat to get me by. And now Mickey and I had a suite at the Plaza Hotel. It was the end of 1990, and it would be our first Christmas together. Although my childhood hadn’t been ideal, Christmas was always a magical time, and I looked forward to it every year. Unfortunately, I had no idea about the dread the holidays evoked for Mickey. They simply rubbed him the wrong way. Since I was young and just getting into my full-fledged codependence, I somehow thought that being in love meant I should follow suit.

  I spent my first Christmas week with Mickey pretending it wasn’t Christmas at all. The end result was some depressed and disturbing behavior on both our parts.

  While the rest of Manhattan was scurrying around doing last-minute shopping, I was holed up in a hotel room drinking cup after cup of coffee, watching the snowflakes fall, and obsessively reading Ann Rice’s Interview with the Vampire. I needed an escape, and the dark and mysterious story effectively lured me into a fantasy world. Its distraction helped me to survive the loneliness.

  Despite our efforts to ignore the holiday cheer all around us, the Plaza stood regal and aglow. An enormous Christmas tree towered in the lobby, presents piled high under its branches. Carolers sang outside while Santa rang his bell and hollered, “Ho, ho, ho!” I missed my family. It was two days before Christmas. “Come on, Mick!” I said, jumping on his back as he slept. It was 1:00 P.M., and he was still snoring away. “Get up! This is ridiculous!” I tried to tickle him, but there was no response.

  I altered my approach, sliding under the covers beside him and purring, “Sleepyhead, wake up!” But he just groaned and pushed me aside. I wasn’t yet sure how to move around Mickey’s dark spells. I recognized the mood shifts but didn’t entirely know if he wanted me to leave him alone or if he wanted me to try to rescue him.

  “Mickey. Really. It’s daytime. You can’t sleep all day. . . .”

  I wanted to go out and do what I might normally do with my days, but I didn’t want to leave him like this.

  “Okay. I’m going downstairs to work out, Mickey,” I said, hoping that it might rouse him. But all I got was a grunt as he pulled the covers tighter over his head.

  We’d been at the Plaza for a week. Day in and day out, Mickey had just slept. He was on his medications and would rise only for room ser­vice or late-night TV shows. After that, he’d disappear again into the darkness. It scared me. It reminded me of my father, and up until this point Mickey had been so different from my dad, so vital and intense. But now he was in a downward spiral, and I couldn’t seem to help him back up, no matter how hard I tried.

  Not knowing what to do and getting increasingly concerned, I decided to call Bruce. Quietly, in the next room, I lifted up the receiver and dialed his number.

  Bruce picked up. “Hello?”

  “Bruce!” I said with a sigh of relief. He was also staying in Manhattan with family, having been given time off for Hanukkah.

  “Otis, how are ya?” he asked cheerfully.

  “It’s Mick, Bruce. I don’t know what to do. . . .” My voice trailed away. I needed help. I wasn’t sure if I still knew the man in the next room.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. Bruce had known Mickey a lot longer than I had. If anyone would have some insight, he’d be the one.

  “He won’t get out of bed. He’s been in a funk for a week straight. I think he’s taking his sleeping pills in the day—and then he complains that he can’t sleep at night. What do I do? I’m going nuts in here. . . .” I started to cry. I was worried. I loved him. I wanted to be with him. But this wasn’t really being together.

  “Ah, shit, Otis, this happens every year. He hates Christmas. Shit went down when he was a kid—so now he can’t stand this time of year.”

  “What do I do?” I demanded, exasperated.

  “Hang tight. I’m coming over.” I was relieved beyond words. I thanked him and gently placed the receiver on the hook.

  Within an hour there was a knock at the door. Mickey didn’t even stir. Bruce came in and took charge. “Turn on the shower,” he instructed me, nodding in the direction of the bathroom. A moment later I could hear Bruce’s booming voice from the bedroom: “Okay, Mick. Time to get up. You have a dinner date. Into the shower with your ass!” And he flung Mickey’s covers off him and hauled his naked body up and out of bed, dragging him down the hall to the shower I had just turned on.

  “Goddamn it, Bruce! Motherfucker! Just leave me alone!” Mickey roared. I flattened myself against the hallway wall as the two men passed by.

  “Oh, Mick. You know you love me, brother.” Bruce was invariably unfazed by Mickey’s temper. “Let’s just get you moving, my friend.”

  Mickey continued to shout in protest until he was settled in beneath the warm water of the shower. The shrieks gradually subsided. All the while I stood motionless against the wall just outside the bathroom, listening and praying. Bruce closed the lid of the toilet and sat down, crossed his legs, and waited. It was clear he’d done this before.

  “All right, you guys. I am up. I am up!” Mickey said from under the water. It was like listening to a bear come out of hibernation. “So, asshole . . . what’s the plan? What’s this dinner date?”

  “I knew you’d come around, Mick.” Bruce sighed, then smiled and winked at me. “Il capo di tutti capi wants to have dinner with you tonight—Da Noi at nine P.M. All the men are joining. And they want Otis there,” Bruce explained.

  “Oh, yeah!” Mick shouted enthusiastically. This dinner he was up for. It was just the news he needed to hear to get his ass moving. I, on the other hand, was completely in the dark.

  “Who is this Capo Dee? Is that his name?” I asked naïvely, stepping fully into the bathroom.

  The boys laughed at me. “Let’s just keep it a surprise, Otis.” Mickey chuckled under the suds of shampoo that were streaming down his face. “Just doll yourself up. I mean, really doll yourself up.” So I went into my bedroom and got dressed. I was happy to have any kind of dinner out, regardless of the company.

  We left the Plaza hand in hand, me in a black Azzedine Alaïa minidress, a black floor-length Armani coat, and sky-high heels. Heads tur
ned, and once again we were the glamorous ­couple the public was accustomed to seeing.

  Da Noi was an old-school Italian restaurant and, at that time, a notorious meeting place for the New York Mafia. As Mickey and I entered, we were met by the maître d’, who graciously helped us out of our coats and led us down the stairs to a private table in a dark, candlelit room. We could hear the ruckus before we entered. At least eight men were sitting around a large circular wooden table, smoking cigars and talking loudly.

  “Mickey! My man!” said a gray-haired and exceptionally dapper gentleman. At once the table was silent, and all stood.

  Mickey moved around the table, and the two hugged in a big embrace. “This must be your lovely lady.” The man smiled at me. Mickey stepped aside.

  “Indeed it is. John, meet Carré. Carré, this is Mr. John Gotti.”

  “Hello, Mr. Gotti,” I said, smiling and extending my hand in a formal greeting. He shook it and then pulled me in, kissing me on both cheeks before letting me stand back so that he could admire me from head to toe.

  “Wow. You are stunning, my dear,” he said with a nod, and he slapped Mickey on the back as if he were the luckiest dog alive. The room broke into laughter, and then everyone was introduced before we sat down.

  It took me a while—until maybe halfway through our dinner—to understand who we were seated with. This was the Mafia king and his entire team. I wasn’t so much worried as intrigued. They were an impressive and boisterous bunch. And they clearly felt that Mickey was part of the family. I didn’t realize until later, years down the road, that this wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

  “Carré, what year were you born?” John asked me, leaning in.

  “In 1968, Mr. Gotti,” I answered.

  “Then let’s bring up a few bottles from ’68!” he said with a laugh, signaling the waiter. Bottles were opened and wine poured as if it were water. The evening ran on, and on, and on. It wasn’t until well after 1:00 A.M. that we finished dessert and said our good-byes.

  “We’ll be seeing you all soon,” John said to Mickey and me. “And you two, have yourselves a merry Christmas.”

  I thanked the men at the table. “Merry Christmas, guys!” I laughed, a little too tipsy. Mickey grabbed my arm and led me back up the stairs and out into the limo, where Bruce was waiting.

  “Tell me! How did it go?” Bruce was full of excitement and anticipation; I knew he wished, of all the dinners Mickey could have taken him to over the years, that this had been the one.

  “Okay . . . um, was that . . . the entire New York Mafia?” I laughed. “Were we just having dinner with the Godfather?”

  Then I stopped. That’s when the full power of that question hit me.

  “Why?” I asked quietly.

  “Why what?” Mickey looked at me, puzzled.

  “Well, why would you bring me there, to have dinner with them?” I wanted to stay calm, but questions were forming in my mind all too quickly.

  “What the hell do you mean, Otis? Wasn’t that an amazing meal? Good company?”

  “I mean . . . why, Mickey, why would you put me in that situation? Isn’t John Gotti a known murderer?” I was starting to feel uneasy. I wanted to know the answer, but I didn’t want to start a fight. We were finally out of the hotel. The spell of the past week had been broken. Yet I couldn’t stop myself from ruining it all.

  I could see Bruce staring at me in the rearview mirror. His look was warning me, Don’t go there, Otis.

  “Jesus Christ. What’s up your ass?” Mickey’s temper was spiking. I could feel the heat rise in the car. I shrugged my shoulders and sank back in the seat. I certainly didn’t want to be a buzzkill.

  “You know what? Just drop her at the hotel,” Mickey said angrily.

  “No, wait. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I looked down at my purse.

  “No, really. Just drop her at the hotel. Bruce, you and I, we’re going out. Alone.” His tone was flat and final. I was dismissed.

  The night before Christmas Eve, I was dropped at the Plaza’s entrance. Furiously wiping tears from my eyes, I made my way back to our suite, grabbed the chocolates off my turned-down bed, and climbed in. Picking up my Anne Rice novel, I read until the sun came up.

  Though Mickey still wasn’t back, I finally fell asleep. Now I was the one who didn’t want to wake up. How ironic.

  SHOT IN SANTA FE

  Although the Calvin Klein campaign was a huge success, work had started to dwindle by the summer of 1991. Mickey had seen a naked photo of me, shot by the famously gay photographer Steven Meisel, for Vanity Fair. He was furious.

  “Everyone can see your ass! That’s my ass. And no one else’s.” To prove his point, Mickey sent two thugs to hunt down Meisel, and when they found him in a New York City elevator, they stole his signature floppy hat and took Polaroids of the terrified photographer. Word quickly got out that I was a liability to work with. The repercussions of dealing with Mickey Rourke and his iron fist just were not worth it for many of my clients.

  While he was doing all that he could to derail my career, Mickey was also in Santa Fe, New Mexico, filming White Sands with Willem Dafoe. The increasingly frantic phone calls I received from Mickey begging me to come visit him indicated that things were not going as well as expected. There was constant conflict on the set. No one could make heads or tails of which way the production was going. After a series of flops, Mickey desperately needed a hit. His whole team was getting nervous.

  I decided to fly out and spend a weekend with him. Santa Fe was a place I remembered fondly from childhood. I recalled more than one summer visiting there with my family. My sister and I enjoyed the afternoon thundershowers, washing our hair in the warm downpour, then walking to get fresh watermelon juice under the late-afternoon sun. I was excited to go back and explore.

  Bruce picked me up at the Albuquerque airport and filled me in as we drove to the set. Mickey was in quite a state. His entourage had too much influence over him. And, worse, the Hells Angels had also come to hang out. Everything was going wrong, very wrong. Somehow the boys thought that my presence would put Mickey in a better mood. A lot was riding on my visit.

  The crew was just wrapping for the day when I arrived. I left my bag in the car and ran over to Mickey, flinging my arms around him, kissing his face.

  “Hey, Peanut!” he greeted me with a laugh. “Damn, it’s good to see you!”

  And it was. Those moments of sheer joy and desire enveloped us at times. “Come on, let’s go back to the house,” he said. “You’ll love it. Up in the hills.”

  I smiled at him. I had missed him and our forever-on-the-road long-distance relationship.

  “Bruce, we’re gonna take the bike. Bring Otis’s stuff up to the house, okay?”

  And with that, we climbed onto Mickey’s Harley and sped off, with Bruce, Franco, and Joey trailing behind. I held Mickey tight as we drove through the dry desert air. The sun was still high in the sky, and Santa Fe’s distinct smells came rushing back at me. We raced up Canyon Road and into the hills overlooking the town. It took about thirty minutes to get to our destination, at some point leaving paved roads for gravel and finally leaving gravel for sagebrush.

  The house was gorgeous: a classic Santa Fe adobe with breathtaking views through floor-to-ceiling windows, huge fireplaces, and a grand kitchen and living room. I could get used to this, I thought. I loved everything about it.

  The boys pulled up behind us and unloaded groceries into the kitchen. Franco was going to cook dinner. Italian bliss: spaghetti, breast of chicken, and broccoli in garlic and olive oil.

  Mickey grabbed my hand and led me through a maze of hallways. “Here’s our room,” he told me, laughing, slamming the door behind us, and pushing me onto the king-size bed. He fell onto me, kicking off his cowboy boots, looking earnestly into my eyes. “I love you, Otis.” He smiled gently.

  “Me, too, Mick.” I sighed, burying my head in his chest. He was my everything in that moment. I clo
sed my eyes and listened. “That sound. Isn’t that amazing?” I asked.

  He laid his body next to mine and listened too. “It’s the wind in the pines. It’s beautiful. Like you.”

  I turned my face toward him, but something farther away caught my attention. On the low mantel of the fireplace lay a gun. Mickey’s .357 Magnum.

  “Mick, why do you guys have to have guns? Especially here in the middle of nowhere? And so out in the open? They make me nervous.” I was irritated. It was like living with a bunch of kids. Their recklessness with weapons drove me nuts and was the subject of ongoing and always heated discussions. I’d faced down a .357 Magnum with Elliott and lost my sweet Scott to a gun, too. I had good reason to dislike firearms.

  “Come on, baby,” he said, trying to kiss me and draw me back into our moment. But the moment was already lost.

  I rolled off the bed and walked over to the fireplace. I lifted the gun carefully, checked to see if it was loaded—which it was—then checked the safety to make sure it was on. But there was no safety switch on this gun. Mick had taught me the basics of how to handle a gun, so I knew what I was doing. I sighed, placed the gun back on the mantel, and shook my finger at him. Then I turned and left the room. It was dinnertime.

  The next day the boys got up early to get to the set. I was left to sleep in and was told that Bruce would return sometime later to pick me up. I awoke at around seven and quietly walked through the house. There was a hush, a silence I hadn’t experienced for some time. The mountains, the desert, the wilderness—all lent themselves to a sense of tranquillity that I relished. I was enjoying the empty house.

  And then I saw the gun again, resting alone on a table. Stopping midway down the long hall, I felt a shudder come over me. Goose bumps rose on my flesh, and I tentatively stepped closer to it. But in that moment something strange happened. I thought I saw the gun move. It couldn’t have, I said to myself. It’s just a gun. Yet now there was an energy in the air, a threatening electricity. I shuddered again. I could have sworn I’d just seen that gun move, all on its own.