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

by McCormick, Jane

  Frank was gentle as we made love, and after about ten minutes, he was satisfied. Many months before, I had learned to fake an orgasm and, like most women, I was pretty good at it. I gave him one of my best performances. Then I took him around the world, kissing every part of his body, spinning him over and over with my tongue. He shouted his pleasure and afterwards we had a cigarette and a drink, climbed back into bed, and he cuddled me until we both fell asleep.

  Early the next morning I got up and got dressed. He had a movie shoot that day and I needed to leave before George, Frank’s gentleman’s gentleman, a kind black man in his forties, came. I kissed him on the cheek before walking out the door.

  “Thanks doll,” he mumbled. “There’s something on the dresser. Take it and get yourself something pretty. I’ll call you when the movie shoot is done today. You’re the best.”

  I gave him another peck and left.

  Later that afternoon, I got a call from George. “Frank wants me to let you know that he’ll be in around seven and that he’s looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Okay George. Tell him I’ll be there. Thanks.”

  I was happy that Frank couldn’t get enough of his Janie. I made a lot of money with him and I didn’t have to go out looking for tricks. I shopped for a new dress and shoes, had my hair and nails done, returned home to dress, and drove to the Sands. Once there, I called Frank’s room. George said he would be back in a few minutes and told me to come up to Frank’s suite in Churchill Downs. All the buildings at the Sands were named after racetracks.

  I was having a drink at the wet bar when Frank walked in.

  “Hi there babe!” Frank kissed my cheek. “How you doing?”

  “I’m doing just fine,” I said, smiling about the money I would make.

  Frank motioned toward his bedroom and I followed. We lay there for nearly an hour talking about his collection of trains. He raved on about how he was helping Kennedy get elected in November, and that he was building a heliport at his home in Palm Springs and a special room where Kennedy could stay.

  Frank said I should see the place and that he gets lonely there.

  “I’d love to come there whenever you want me.”

  He told me he’d been written up in headlines regarding his actions with people he’d never even met. The papers lied about him, he said. The newsmen never let him be.

  I felt sorry for him. Even though he said he was lonely, what he really craved was a true moment alone. The constant attention of the media was not the kind of human connection he was looking for—in fact, it was the opposite. He got sick of having pestering paparazzi in his face all the time, and even more sick of never having someone he felt he could truly connect with. That’s why I always tried to be available to him, even on the nights when he only wanted to cuddle.

  He led a life of glitz and glamour, but it was still a hard life to lead.

  “I understand how you feel. Men always stare at me. I never go anywhere that a man doesn’t try to pick me up,” I said.

  Frank lit a cigarette and asked me to make him a drink. He said I made him laugh a lot. Sometimes I danced around the room, doing splits for him wearing only a garter belt and panties. He loved it.

  Frank looked at the clock, then jumped out of bed and put on a robe. “Jesus Christ, it’s three-thirty in the afternoon! George will be here any moment to line up my clothes for the evening show. Baby, get yourself washed up and out to the living room. You can talk to me while the manicurist is here.”

  I wrapped up in the top sheet from the bed and tiptoed into the bathroom thinking, “A man getting a manicure? I’ve never known a man who got his nails done. I can’t wait to see it.”

  I showered, fixed my makeup, and put on the dress I’d worn the night before. Then I sauntered into the living room in high heels.

  “Get some coffee and sit down babe!”

  I got a cup of coffee from the bar and refilled his cup. The manicurist had rolled in a little table containing the tools of her trade. Frank sat in his robe in an armchair with his right hand on the service table while she sat across from him on a stool. She was a woman in her fifties and she gently groomed one nail at a time, trimming each cuticle, filing each side of the nail down, and then buffing them all before applying a thin coat of clear polish.

  All the while, George was busy in the bedroom picking up his clothes for the cleaners, straightening up the room and laying out Frank’s clothes for the evening show.

  When the manicurist finished, an older sophisticated barber, dressed in a white double-breasted shirt and black dress pants, arrived with a tray and precisely trimmed Frank’s hair, then carefully applied shaving cream to his face and shaved his whiskers with a sharp razor. Frank sat back in the chair, relaxed, a plastic throw tied at his neck.

  “You are so spoiled Frank.”

  “Yeah right!” To him, the routine was simply boring.

  After the barber left, I grabbed my purse. Frank stood up, handed me a wad of money and said, “Meet me in the Regency Lounge for dinner at seven.”

  “Okay Frank.” I drove back to my apartment, called the beauty shop, changed clothes, put on a hat and went to my appointment.

  The guys and gals at the shop loved listening to tales of Frank and me while they did my nails and washed, set, and styled my hair. A few hours later I hurried back to my apartment and put on a black evening dress with matching shoes, elbow-length white-satin gloves, and a lot of gold and diamonds over them.

  I drove back to the Sands and waited for Frank at a table in the Regency Lounge for about an hour. Then Dean Martin strolled into the room, followed by Sammy Davis Jr. and Peter Lawford. The security guard immediately roped off an area and everyone sat down. Sammy saw me across the room, waved and yelled, “Janie, come on over here.”

  Everyone in the lounge turned to look at me. I smiled and walked past the ropes to join them. The guys stood up and Sammy introduced me to Peter. I shook his hand, and he seemed to like what he saw. Minutes later Annette promenaded into the room in an elegant dress, decorated with diamonds and pearls at her neck and wrists. We’d all had a drink before Frank walked in smoothly, capturing everyone’s attention.

  A crowd gathered behind the ropes as fans reached out with paper and pen, trying to get autographs. Frank’s bodyguard, a tall, solid man in his thirties, stood nearby, asking the fans not to bother Frank. Peter finished his drink and left.

  The rest of us walked into the Supper Club toward one of three large booths at the center. A grand display of flowers dressed the circle. We crawled into the red leather booth. Frank sat in the middle with Annette on his left and Dean next to her. I sat on Frank’s right, with Sammy on the other side. The table displayed a full setting of silverware, gold-plated white china, tall wine glasses, red roses, and glowing candles.

  While we sipped our drinks, Frank ordered rib appetizers for everyone. The waiters brought tiny bowls sitting on a saucer—what I thought was soup—with a delicately rolled, white cloth placed directly next to the hors d’oeuvre. After eating the ribs, I put the saucer with the bowl in front of me, then took the napkin and put it on my lap. Looking at the dinnerware, I picked up the outer spoon, which I had learned from charm school was the proper order, scooped up a spoonful of soup, and sipped it.

  “Janie,” Frank whispered into my ear.

  “What?” I said as Dean, Sammy, and Annette began to crack up.

  “That’s not a soup bowl. It’s a fingerbowl. You’re supposed to put your fingers in that bowl and rinse them off and dry them off with the warm towel they gave you.”

  “Oh my god! How embarrassing!” I quietly freaked out. There I was with the top entertainers of the world, trying to drink the fingerbowl.

  “That’s okay honey. Nobody saw anything except us,” Frank comforted me. He ordered me a New York steak that looked like half a cow. I ate about five bites of my steak but was already full from the ribs, so I sat back and watched the guys put theirs away.

  Af
ter the meal I followed Frank to his dressing room, where I saw many Western Union telegrams taped to his mirror. They were all from his adoring fans, and I found it endearing that he took the time to not only read each one of them, but taped his favorites up in a place where they would always help to remind him why he did what he did—for the fans. He even had me read a few of them out loud to him, to get him excited for the show.

  Then Frank ordered George to get us another drink and have some extra drinks made and have them put on a table in front of the stage. George left to get it done and I laughed and said, “Why don’t you get a cart or table and have it rolled out on the stage and make your own drinks.”

  “Broad you got some great ideas,” Frank said as he kissed me on the cheek.

  I left and had Nick Kelly escort me to the front and center table.

  With the house lights down and a spotlight on Dean, he opened the show with, “Strangers . . . in my room . . . how’d all these strangers get into my room . . . ” Then Sammy and Frank came out to sing “Come Fly with Me.”

  Soon after, Frank walked off stage and came back with a rolling bar, and the crowd went wild. Like kids in a candy store, Frank and Dean made their own drinks while Joey stood watching.

  After the performance, Frank invited us to his suite for drinks. We gathered around the bar and as Frank did the honors we wandered into the living room. Frank told me he was going to use the rolling bar in all his shows.

  Sitting there on the couches, we talked until Dean went behind the bar then came back asking, “Hors d’oeuvres anyone?” He held a silver service tray in front of the white tails of his shirt pulled through his open fly. On the tray, a bar towel partially covered a roll of summer sausage surrounded by cocktail wieners and crackers. We roared.

  “Get that thing outta here,” Frank said, laughing.

  It was close to 5 A.M. when Dean decided that he wanted some loving, so he and Annette went to his room. Sammy left too.

  I stayed with Frank and we did our usual play before nodding off.

  Frank’s schedule took him to Las Vegas frequently for a few years. He came to Vegas and performed alone and stopped by when he was making a film or seeing a friend. My relationship with him remained solid for the nine years I lived there. Frank always found a way to get a hold of me, or I found a way to call him when he was in town. Sometimes he was in town for a two-week gig at the Sands, and I was at his side whenever he wanted.

  Joey Bishop never partied with the guys. He seemed to be a dedicated family man, which I respected.

  I never slept with Sammy—white chicks didn’t go to bed with black guys in the early 1960s, and I didn’t think of him that way. We were friends. I was in Frank’s suite one morning when I heard Sammy talking to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. about the Civil Rights Movement. Sammy was pretty worked up. He stomped his feet on the floor at the end of the bar and I could hear him saying that people would have to stick together about any decision they made. Sammy was easy to like. Frank just loved him. So did the others in the Rat Pack.

  I had no idea my relationship with Frank Sinatra would continue, but those first two weeks in June of 1960 were the beginning of a real friendship. That first experience with the Rat Pack prepared me with the many show-business personalities I would meet in the future.

  Chapter 10

  Sam Snead and Arnold Palmer

  In the summer of 1961, the Desert Inn Country Club was hosting the Tournament of Champions, and I decided to doll up and go over to see what was happening.

  That afternoon I sat down at the front table in the cocktail lounge and ordered a drink. One of the bosses, Aaron Weisberg, sat at the table next to mine and asked me to join him. Aaron was a high class, distinguished gentleman who was the Desert Inn Gambling Manager and knew everyone in Las Vegas. He liked me and introduced me to many of his high-rolling friends. We talked for a few minutes about the celebrities who were appearing in the Crystal Showroom.

  “Did you see all the crazy golfers running around in here?” he asked. At that moment, a man of about forty walked into the lounge and toward us.

  “Oh my god! It’s Sam Snead,” I said.

  “Hey Sam,” Aaron waved his arm. “Come on over and join us.”

  Sam sat down, ordered a drink, then asked, “Who’s this cutie?”

  “This is Jane Harvey. She’s our little baby Jane,” Aaron said to Sam.

  “Honey, do you play around?” Sam looked at me and asked.

  “We’re in Vegas. Everybody plays around,” I laughed, but I thought to myself how rude he was to say that to a lady who was dressed in a three hundred dollar outfit, not to mention a lady that he’d just met. Sam looked old enough to be my grandfather, a hick who wore a straw hat and had a farmers tan.

  Sam told us stories about funny things that had happened on the golf circuit. He kept us laughing until our sides hurt.

  Then he asked, “Did you come out and watch us today?”

  “I’ve never been to a golf tournament, but I’d love to go,” I answered, when in reality I really didn’t understand why anyone would want to walk around a golf course with temperatures of 102 degrees.

  “Well make sure you’re out there tomorrow when we tee off,” Sam said.

  “Oh I will be. I’ll be there with bells on.”

  “Is that all you’ll wear? Bells? I won’t be able to play the game.” Sam winked. “Say, you want to come up and see my etchings?” Lots of guys really did use that line.

  “Honey, I’d love to.” I knew I’d hooked a big one.

  Sam told me to meet him at his room down the hall from the casino. I said good-bye to Aaron, picked up my bag, and headed there.

  “Get in here quick! I don’t want anybody seeing you,” Sam whispered, opening the door. He was a married man, cheating on his wife. He called room service for a bucket of ice and a bottle of scotch. While we waited for it he said, “Why don’t you take off your clothes and stay awhile?”

  I cracked up. I went to the bathroom to wash up and returned in only my black garter belt, hose, and bikini panties.

  Sam’s eyes bugged. “You’re quite a looker.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself, honey,” I said to be nice. I looked at him and thought how sick it was that an old man would think it was okay to pay a young girl for sex.

  Room service brought up the goods and we had a drink. All this time, Sam kept staring at my breasts. Soon he went into the bathroom. He came out a few minutes later wrapped in a towel. I knew right away what he wanted, and I took him around the world.

  Afterwards, Sam smiled from ear to ear. “I couldn’t take much more of this. I wouldn’t be able to play tomorrow. Can you stay the night?”

  “Sure,” I said, eyeing the three hundred dollars he had laid near my purse, “but it’ll cost you more than that.”

  “No problem,” he said as he pulled two hundred dollars from his pants on the chair next to the bed. We watched television awhile then fell asleep.

  The next morning Sam showed me some of his golf swings and explained some of the ins and outs of the game. I enjoyed egging him on about the finer points of the game and he loved the attention I gave him. He was attentive and kind and I knew how to work him.

  “If you don’t want to go home this morning Janie, you can go pick yourself up a little dress in the hotel and sign my name,” Sam said. “Meet me by the pro shop in an hour and a half.”

  He showered and dressed, preparing for the tournament he would play that day. I went to the dress shop and bought an outfit, a pair of flats, and a big picture hat. “Just charge it to Mr. Sam Snead,” I told the woman who waited on me. Then I changed in the shop’s dressing room, putting my other clothes in a fancy shopping bag, which I carried to the pro shop. Later, one of the caddies took it to Sam’s room so I wouldn’t have to carry it on the course.

  I followed Sam around the course, catching his eye every chance I could. It was a beautiful day, but the desert was hot and I was tired by the time th
e match ended for the day. I met Sam by the pro shop and he told me to meet him in the lounge. He was back in half an hour. We had drinks and Sam introduced me to some of the other golfers in the tournament. They were all friendly.

  Sam was old but still excited to party, and it was already dark when he wanted to go downtown—after a roll in the hay with his gal Janie, that is. A few hours later the cab dropped us off at the Golden Nugget and he gave me a couple hundred dollars to play with. He joked with small groups of people and graciously signed a few autographs while I smiled, held his arm and stood beside him.

  After a few hours we got a cab and on the way back to the Desert Inn I saw a fur shop and said, “Oh my god, look at that chinchilla jacket!”

  “Stop the cab,” Sam yelled, “Let’s go see that!”

  The cab driver pulled in front of the store and we went in. I tried on the chinchilla jacket and couldn’t believe how soft and beautiful it was. I looked at the three thousand dollar price tag and looked at Sam and said, “Maybe someday I’ll own one of these!”

  “Baby, you’re gorgeous in that.”

  We hailed another cab and returned to the Desert Inn and after a few more cocktails he said, “Baby, I have a proposition. Did you like that chinchilla jacket?”

  “Oh I love chinchilla jackets. I think they’re beautiful. I’d love to have one.”

  “Well, you just might get one . . .” he said mysteriously. I was all ears.

  He proceeded to say that he wanted me to keep one of his competitors, Arnold Palmer, up all night. He wanted me to wear Arnold out in the sack so that he wouldn’t play well the next day. I jumped at the chance—he might have been a pro at golf, but I was a pro at sex games. Sam pointed him out: “There he is, sitting over there—the one in the blue shirt.”

  Sam wondered whether I could do it, and I assured him I could.

  Sam motioned to Arnold to come to our table and Arnold joined us. The two talked on about the tournament while I listened. I didn’t mention that I had been out on the course watching Sam play. I could see Arnold sneaking looks at me as they talked, and occasionally he smiled—I suppose to keep my attention. He didn’t know just how much attention he would get from me!