Terrified, I screamed, “What the fuck are you doing? You almost killed me!”
He stormed out of the car and in a rage of anger grabbed my head and slammed it hard on the pavement.
“You dumb bitch, why did you jump onto the back of the car?” he screamed. “You knew I was going to take off!”
Johnny paced around me like a caged animal. After a few minutes he calmed down and helped me get back into the car. He drove to a nearby motel and got us a room. I watched him stagger inside and then I ran to the motel’s bar to get away.
A handful of people were in the bar so I quickly went into the restroom and cleaned the blood from my face and elbow, which was beginning to swell. I refreshed my makeup and went into the tavern, sat at the bar and ordered a cocktail. When the bartender asked about the bruise on my face, I smiled and made up a story that my kids accidently hit me with their toy.
As I drank my cocktail, I thought about what happened when I was seven, when Woody had gotten mad at my mother after she danced with another man. After he had beaten her, I was angry that she had forgiven him, that she had pretended it was an accident, that she let things continue on as if nothing had happened. And here I was doing the same thing. And I’ll admit, I really didn’t understand it any more than when I was a child.
I stayed at the bar thinking about what I should do. When the bar closed I tiptoed into the motel room and crawled into bed, but I was in so much pain that I accidentally woke Johnny and he had to take me to the emergency room. When we pulled up, he threatened to hurt me if I said anything about him. So he stayed in the car and I went inside alone.
When the doctor asked what happened I told him that I’d tripped over my daughter’s toy. It wasn’t worth saying anything because Johnny would end up in jail and I’d end up getting my head bashed in again when he got out. It seemed easier to forgive and forget like my mother had done with Woody.
The doctor put my arm in a cast, cleaned my swollen head wounds and gave me a prescription for the pain. I paid cash for the medical attention and I was back with Johnny in control within a few hours. Johnny was nice, like Woody was to Mom. He blamed it on the booze and he promised he wouldn’t lose his temper and hit me again.
Back in the ’60s they didn’t have shelters, social workers or someone that I could talk to about the abuse I was enduring from Johnny. Many men got away with beating their wives because the victim was afraid to press charges. Back then abuse was a “hush” thing that was kept within the family. A week later I went out to the casinos with my arm in a cast. The pit bosses seemed concerned but obviously not caring enough to stop introducing me to tricks.
I of course put on my smile and made a joke out of it. I never discussed my personal life during business.
In bed I was able to put my casted arm to the side and made the john think he was the best thing since apple pie. The johns had only one thing in mind, and I wanted to get it up and over with, to please them as I always did.
Weeks later, after I had my cast removed, I got a call to meet Frank Sinatra at the Sands.
Frank, Dean, Sammy, Annette and I went to see Vic Damone’s show at the Flamingo. It had been a long time since I’d seen Vic and I looked forward to his performance. During the show, Frank, Sammy, and Dean heckled Vic unmercifully from our table, actually stopping the show several times. They made loud, rude comments and I thought they were obnoxious, but the people in the audience were laughing, thinking it was part of the show.
At one point all three got on the stage and took over the show. Vic remained calm and went along with their spontaneous kidding around and in the long run the Rat Pack made Vic “look good” because they were the biggest stars on the Strip.
After the show the five of us went back to the Sands. We were all pretty lit, so Frank, Dean, Sammy, Annette and I decided to have an early morning snack in the Garden Room, an all-glass coffee shop with a bird’s-eye view of the pool and grounds.
After the rest of us had ordered, Frank told the waiter that he wanted a rare, regular-sized hamburger.
“Put it on the grill, turn it over, and take it off. Nothing fancy . . . just a regular hamburger.”
After what seemed like forever, the waitress placed a hamburger in front of Frank, who put his hands on the table, looked at the plate, and said, “What the hell is that?” He picked up the bun, looked at the over-cooked, inch-thick hamburger that was the size of a saucer and slammed the bun down on the meat.
“These stupid shits don’t even know how to take an order,” he yelled. He stood up, kicked over his chair and grabbed the plate. He stomped over to the kitchen, pushed open the swinging door and threw it at the chef’s head.
“You’re fucking fired you asshole.” Then he stomped back to the table, cussing up a storm while everyone in the restaurant watched. His bodyguard came over and tried to calm him down but Frank told him to get out of his face.
Then he looked up at the waitress, who was still standing at our table, trembling, and yelled, “You bitch, you’re fired.” She looked at him startled, then started to cry and ran out of the coffee shop, ripping off her apron on the way.
His bodyguard and finally Carl Cohen came in and tried to quiet Frank down, but Frank was out of control. He wanted things his way, especially now that he owned nine percent of the Sands. He’d worked hard to get where he was and he expected others to follow orders and respectfully do their jobs.
I leaned over and whispered, “Frank, let’s get the hell out of this joint and go up to your room and play house. That’ll calm you down.”
“This broad has the right idea,” he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me from the chair. Over to his suite we went.
Sitting on the couch, we had a drink and he continued his rage about the waitress and chef. Finally, I took him to the bedroom, hoping to settle him down. He never wanted to stop but once I got him to relax, he curled up in my arms and went to sleep.
The next afternoon Frank had to leave, so I got dressed and gave him a kiss on the cheek before leaving with a handsome sum of money.
I knew that Frank had a lot of shit on his mind and I felt sorry for him. The media was constantly hounding him about his connections with the mob. The only reason he knew any of the mob was because he used to serve coffee and sing for them in the café where he worked as a kid. He told me he was tired of the media’s rumors and false stories. I could tell it was taking a toll on him.
When I got back to my home, Johnny was sitting in the kitchen, drinking and waiting for me. “Where in the hell have you been? How did you do last night?”
“I had a good night moneywise,” I told him. “But Frank ended up in a bad mood and his bodyguard couldn’t settle him down, so I had to take him to his room and get his mind on something else.”
“You dumb whore! I saw you out there with them. You were smiling and carrying on like you were having fun. You’re not supposed to go out and have a good time with these guys. You’re supposed to be working.”
“What the hell’s wrong with you Johnny? Why were you following me?” I asked.
“Well, I saw you on Frank’s arm, and I saw you laughing and talking to Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. You really pissed me off.”
“What’s gotten into you? I always smile and look like I’m having fun with my tricks. That’s what I’m there for.”
Johnny stood up, walked over and pushed me onto the couch.
“You’ve been out having yourself a good time while I’ve been sitting home all night,” he said.
“That’s your choice,” I responded. “You could go out and get a job. Then you wouldn’t have to sit in this place.”
“You’re a big enough job for me to take care of, doing your laundry, cleaning your home, taking care of your cars, giving you a massage every night, pampering your young ass all the time.”
“You don’t have to pamper me any longer.” I got up from the couch, ran into the bedroom and started throwing his clothes from the closet. “I’ve
been scared too many times and I want you out of my life,” I yelled.
Johnny slapped me in the face, arms and back until I fell to the floor.
He grabbed my decorative silver plated hand mirror from the dresser and smashed it against the back of my head. Blood flew everywhere. I was stunned from the blow.
Everything stopped for a fraction of a second, and then Johnny dropped onto the floor. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry.” He picked me up, put me on the bed, and got a cold towel for my head. My first thought was thank God I had sent the girls back to California.
My head throbbed with pain. I was lucky I didn’t pass out. Johnny helped me to the car and took me to Sunrise Hospital, again threatening to kill me and my family if I said anything.
The doctor sewed up my head and told me to stay awake for the next twenty-four hours. He said if I fell asleep with a concussion that I might not wake up.
Back at the house, Johnny was all love and attention. He cuddled with me on the bed, saying it would kill him if I left him. He was good at playing on my sympathy and I forgave him.
In the meantime, whenever I got home from work, I did everything I could to avoid him getting mad. I had to make him feel that I was happy to be with him, not letting on that I was afraid of him. He still cleaned and cooked, and I couldn’t afford for our relationship to change: he controlled all my money and managed my belongings. Nothing was in my name.
The way I felt trapped in my life with Johnny made me think of the time Woody had duct taped my mouth and left me in the closet after I had eaten breakfast without permission. I was powerless then, and powerless now. What had I done to deserve this? Johnny promised and promised he would never attack me again, and I believed him over and over.
Little did I know at that point that I was suffering from what I learned was Stockholm Syndrome. I subconsciously learned how to survive in a threatening and controlling environment. I avoided beatings by buying him things, by letting him have what he wanted, and I took diet and sleeping pills to block out the physical and mental pain. Johnny harassed, beat, threatened, abused and intimidated me every day. He was fanatical and he was making me crazy.
After getting the home on Sunrise Mountain, I saw how Johnny was jealous of my love for my daughters. He hated when I spent thousands of dollars on them. He hated me having them with us for the summer and the violence grew worse the longer they stayed. On one of his rages he blackened my eye and I was afraid the girls would hear us in the other room, so I didn’t scream.
I took many beatings from Johnny after we bought the home. Once, in Hollywood, he punched me in the face and knocked me out cold. I had been seeing some tricks and afterwards I picked him up for drinks. I had already been drinking and I got so smashed that I drove the wrong way on Santa Monica Boulevard. When we got to our motel he started slapping me, and I slapped him back. I always fought back, and sometimes I landed a good punch or two.
Another time he pulled my arm out and stepped on it, breaking it. I had to wear a cast from my wrist to my shoulder, but I kept going out to get the money I needed to pay the bills. But it was no way to live . . . he was a controller and I was the puppet on his string. I couldn’t love him into being good.
After the hit with the mirror, it took about three months for the gash in my head to heal. The doctor shaved part of my hair away and twenty stitches closed my two-inch wound. Johnny had made a big mistake, cutting off his generous bread and butter—his prize horse couldn’t bring in any money and that made him angrier. Luckily, he realized that if he ever wanted to earn money through me again, he needed to let me heal physically. But he found other ways to attack me.
While I recovered from my injuries, he registered everything I owned under his sister’s name: The Corvette, the Cadillac, the Sunrise Mountain land, the doublewide house, the thirty-six-foot Christ Craft Yacht, and the Harley Davidson. He told me that all the money I made was dirty money, and legally I couldn’t show that I owned a thing. I was afraid to do anything that would make him mad or he’d beat me again. Luckily, I had stashed away some of my cash to pay the bills, while Johnny made no effort whatsoever to get a job.
During that time I got a lot of calls from my friends on the Strip asking me what was wrong and when I would be back. Finally, I told Annette, Audrey and Laurie the truth, but I told the pit bosses and casino owners I’d had an accident and couldn’t work.
When I saw Annette one day, I gave her a note to give to the police in case they found me dead. After telling her that Johnny had threatened to kill me, my mom and my children, she said, “Jane, get the hell away from him.”
“But Annette, he has all my money and everything is in his sister’s name. I can’t leave him.”
“Forget the money, Jane. You can always make more. Get away from him now before he kills you.”
Chapter 17
Whisky a Go-Go
Johnny and I argued all the time. I paid to have my children with me and he went nuts whenever I talked about them. I thought he was on my side when I bought the home, had the property landscaped, had a sand pit and swing set put into the backyard and purchased twin beds, special children’s lamps and designer dressers made so my daughters would feel at home. Instead, he had one of his drunken rages and I had to send them home after they saw him blacken my eye.
When I could no longer have them for the summer, I began to go out seven nights a week just to get away from Johnny. Then one night after an argument, I decided to take a break and I drove to Santa Ana to spend time with my daughters. I was worried that one of the girls might tell Mae and Bob about my abuse. But I got a nice hotel room and spent great quality time with them, and all went well.
Afterwards I went to West Hollywood because I wanted to see the new Whisky a Go-Go that opened on Sunset Boulevard in 1964. I’d heard that Johnny Rivers had opened there and later recorded five albums. Rivers rode the Whisky-born go-go craze to national fame. It was fun learning that the Crosby boys were right about his talent.
Whisky a Go-Go was the newest, hottest place on earth where rock and roll, hip hop, pop, alternative rock, punk rock, new wave, reggae, heavy metal and go-go dancing were popularized. Young people like me came to join the rebellious party and dance to live music from some of the top upcoming bands from Southern California.
A glass-walled booth was mounted high above the floor to the right of the stage where the DJ played recorded music between the band sets so the patrons would continue dancing while go-go girls wearing fringed mini-dresses and white go-go boots danced in a cage suspended from the ceiling.
The room had a silver disco ball that hung and swirled in the center of the dance floor, splashing colored specks of light around the room. The energy from the light and the music really kept the rockers dancing.
Whisky a Go-Go, compared to the Copa Room in Vegas, was so different because the Las Vegas audience was older and they wore evening attire and sat at white-clothed tables. The stage was the focus where entertainers from around the world performed, and each house featured a unique group of showgirls. The Whisky a Go-Go was refreshing and made me feel alive. I never got to act young in my whole life and there I felt free and young for the first time.
After a few hours of partying I met a guy who was an art director for Warner Bros. Pete was a savvy art-prep in his mid-thirties dressed in a white polo shirt and pants. He was born to be fun, and after we danced he invited me to his home.
When I finished my drink, I drove to his house. His directions took me into the hills of North Hollywood. After parking the car I looked up to see a two-story ranch house with long windows in the front that was built into the Hollywood Hills. I walked to an elevator that took me up to his hilltop home, built around a huge tree growing in the middle of his living room. It was the coolest house I’d ever seen. He invited me in and walked me over to the wet bar near the windows where he had drinks ready. We talked and he prepared a dinner for the two of us.
I told Pete about my life in Vegas and he asked if
I’d like to join him and some friends for a swingers’ party. He said it was a party with a group of people who enjoy sex as recreation. It sounded like fun to me so he agreed to call his friends and have a party the next night.
The next day I came back to the house and I helped arrange the gourmet food and set up the bar. Afterwards Pete handed me a short kimono and asked me to greet everyone as they arrived, giving them a similar beautiful silky kimono to change into. Approximately thirty-five people showed up around 8 P.M., all of them in their late twenties, appearing sophisticated on the outside and wild on the inside. We sat around in our silky kimonos, naked underneath, having cocktails. The atmosphere was soothing and we were in harmony with one another.
Soon Pete took us into the huge bedroom and turned on the reel-to-reel porno movies, first Candy Bar and then Deep Throat. The movie screen was as large as the wall, and the bed, a triple king, was wall-to-wall. Everyone continued to party and watch the almost life-sized figures on the screen. Finally one by one the party moved to the bed, everyone kissing, touching, licking or sucking everyone else.
I’d never seen anything like it and before I knew it, I found myself swallowed up in the middle of the action.
After a few hours of pleasure, everyone took a shower in a bathroom that was big enough to drive a semi through. The shower had eight spigot heads spraying at you from all angles. It was the greatest experience I ever had—sharing myself with so many others all together.
The next day I headed back to Vegas in my 1962 split-back windowed Corvette with the radio booming disco and my hair flying in the wind. I felt like a kid again.
When I got home, I told Johnny about the party and he kept his cool about it because I’d managed to make a few hundred bucks. He even went so far as to think it would be fun to do it with some of his friends. Not more than a week later, he invited George, the only friend he had, who was a pimp, and his old lady Margo, a prostitute, to our house.
Rat Pack Party Girl: From Prostitute to Women’s Advocate Page 17
