Without being too obvious, I began to seek out Vic’s company. I would hang around and rap to him and the guys he lined up with, the majority of them also pretty successful pimps. In most cases I didn’t have to initiate any conversations; they all talked about their ups and downs as well as the procedures they applied to different girls and situations. The stories I heard about big cars, pretty girls, luxurious apartments, fine clothes and plenty of money had me thoroughly convinced: there wasn’t anything better in life than having control over several women and letting them provide your every need.
One day I asked Vic point blank how he went about turning a girl out. He laughed at me and said, “Charlie, it’s been over twenty years since I’ve had to work on a girl for her to hustle for me. All the girls that come my way are already hustlers. But Charlie, there really isn’t anything to it. Almost every broad alive, at one time or other in her life, has had the desire to be a whore. A lot of girls are wrapped up in moral ethics and would never turn out, but any woman would be lying to you if she were to deny that she didn’t often wonder what a whore’s life was like. For those who are reluctant, a good pimp knows how to eliminate the barriers and convince the girl that his love will be deeper than ever for her if she is willing to go all the way for him.”
On my release from Terminal Island in September 1958 after serving two years of the three-year sentence, I immediately began trying to put together the life that so infatuated me while in prison. The area of my conditional release put me in the very best location possible to carry out my dreams—Hollywood, California.
What can I say about Hollywood that hasn’t already been said? I saw it as the most artificial, most pretentious city in existence. I suppose that line of thinking can be attributed to the movie and TV industry since everyone in it is looking for recognition and stardom. To me it seemed as if everyone I came in contact with was greedy, narcissistic and lacking in morals. They all existed in a dog-eat-dog, no-holds-barred world. I was in my element! I was twenty-three years old and my jail-house tutoring was going to go to work for me. All I had to do was come up with that string of pretty girls and I could begin living my dream. Life should be so simple! It was all bogus bullshit, another jail-house fantasy that isn’t real on the streets—but I tried to make it real.
My first problem was that I had trouble scoring with the kind of broad whose moral ethics I was capable of “eliminating.” The ones who were already hustlers were with guys who had been in operation for a long time. Those guys had the class and the connections that Vic had forgotten to tell me were so important. When I finally found a girl who would go the whole route for me, I was so much in love with her that I couldn’t stand the thought of some trick sticking his dick in the girl I loved. Some pimp I was.
She and I had set up housekeeping together in an apartment in Hollywood, and every day I went out hustling and stealing to bring the bread home to her. One day one of my joint partners who was now on the streets and enjoying pretty good success as a pimp along Sunset Strip, told me, “Charlie, you’re that broad’s trick! What the fuck is your story? Turn that girl out!” I gave him some feeble answer like, “Yeah, I’m working on it,” but knew in my mind the guy was right. The girl had me wrapped around her finger. So I fought my jealousy and possessiveness, saying to myself, “Didn’t I plan on being the big-time hustler and pimp? Never mind all that love shit—Do it! Put that girl on the streets!”
That evening as my girl and I sat in our apartment, too broke to go anywhere, I made my move, telling her, “Sandy, baby, it’s time for us to sit down and do some talking.” “Sure, Charlie,” she replied, “what’s on your mind?” I went on, “We been together for weeks. You know I’m out stealing and breaking my ass to keep us in this apartment and some food in our mouths. Here we are living in an area that is loaded with all the finer things in life. Those things are passing us by. We both dig making the scene down on Sunset. You like nice things and I enjoy seeing you with nice things. Why don’t the two of us really put our heads together and make us a good life in this town? It’s a player’s town and players only stay in an area where there is a lot of money and action. You are one of the prettiest girls I have ever seen, and I’m not the only one that thinks so. Every time you walk down the street, guys start undressing you with their eyes. Now, why don’t we start taking advantage of all those rich, hungry bastards? You know I love you and want the best for you. Question is, how much do you love me? And how far are you willing to go for both of us to get on top?”
“Charlie, I’ll do anything in the world for you!”
“You mean it?”
“Certainly I mean it. Tell me your plans and you can count on me.”
“Would you fuck for me? Will you turn tricks and hustle your ass for me?”
“If that’s what you want me to do, Charlie!”
Hell, I was geared to spend days trying to convince her to turn out. Twenty minutes after we started our conversation, Sandy was willing—almost eager.
The first trick she turned just about broke my heart. I remember waiting in the parking lot of the apartment house where it was happening. I was going through all kinds of head trips—telling myself what a dirty bastard I was. I wanted to charge into the apartment, break the door down and beat the hell of the guy whose money she was taking. I wanted to apologize to Sandy and tell her I loved her too much to ever think of her having sex with someone else. I wanted to tell her I’d keep bringing home the money for us to live on, that she was mine and mine alone. I hated myself, and most of all I hated all the guys I had ever been in jail with. I didn’t blame myself as much as I blamed all those guys I had listened to while doing time in reform schools and prisons.
When Sandy came hurrying back to the car, I couldn’t look at her. I could tell she was in a big hurry and I thought it was a desire to get away from the place where she had just performed—for me. When she got in the car I finally looked into her face, expecting to see tears and perhaps some of the shame I had been experiencing. Instead, she was flushed with excitement, all smiles and proud as she thrust three twenty-dollar bills in my hand. “All right, Charlie,” she said, “we’re on our way! It was fun—there ain’t nothing to it. The john wants to see me again next week, same time, same place.” I didn’t tell Sandy what had been going through my mind and to this day, I don’t believe she understands why I didn’t enjoy her handing me the money.
That night as we had sex together, I found myself wondering if I was making it as good for her as the john had. I was a victim of the same feeling every time she turned a trick, and it was a long time before that feeling left me. But what the hell, wasn’t it my choice? And after all, isn’t feeling sorry, ashamed or inadequate just a frame of mind?
So okay, now I’ve got a girl working for me. A young inexperienced broad that don’t know any more about milking a trick than a choir girl. Yet I’m on Sunset Strip playing the part with all the other pimps. Though I’m acting like I know it all, I’m listening to everything said. I learn that just the bed money isn’t anything. I mean, the mark knows he’s paying to get his nuts off and has agreed on the price. If the girl just screws him, the price mentioned is all she is going to get. Listening to the seasoned pimps, I found the girl has to have more talent than just fucking or sucking. She has to learn her trick and know how to reach him emotionally, get him involved so that he feels he isn’t just a trick, but a special person. It’s also important that the girl isn’t into the business because she wants to be. The john can be made to feel like the girl is forced into prostitution by obligations, like an emergency operation for one of her children, a dying mother, or other things to make him sympathetic. Pretty soon the trick isn’t fucking the girl but feeling sorry for her. Out of a sympathetic heart and a desire to show what a wonderful fellow he is, he pays more.
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