Thursday, 5/8/97 Want me to fly you to Vegas? After a realistic
glimpse into the powerful world of a mafioso, the desire to be a
mafia girlfriend may be better left only in your dreams.
I’ve been reading the book, "You’ll Never Make Love in This Town
Again," a positively fascinating, in-depth portrait of Hollywood
decadence and corruption. Equally riveting is the eloquent prose,
which verges on poetry, flowing in a delicate, musical lyricism,
rivaling the work of say, the ghostwriter responsible for Naomi
Campbell’s novel. For example, the following passage shatters the
myth that the life of a hooker is glamorous and exciting: "Being a
coke whore and a prostitute is not pretty. It is sad. I should
know; I was both." So much for my post-graduate plans, I guess I’ll
just have to keep looking. I didn’t know someone could be both a
coke whore and a prostitute, I suppose only "Liza" can explain the
subtle difference between the two. But "Liza" has some happy
moments, too, like when she is making love to Matt Lattanzi (I have
no idea who this person is, but he apparently qualifies as some
sort of celebrity) and "His penetration took me to Xanadu and
beyond with each stroke." I find it somewhat encouraging as an
aspiring writer, that should I ever become really desperate for a
publishing deal, all I have to do is sleep with some marginally
famous people, tell my story to Joanne Parent and my book will be
catapulted onto the best-seller list. So, inspired by "Liza," I
have decided to tell my own story. What follows is merely a chapter
in a life so explosively shocking and scandal-ridden, it could not
longer be kept a secret. Some girls dream of dating a rock star,
other fantasize about marrying a prince. Me? Ever since I saw "Once
Upon a Time in America," I’ve wanted to go out with a mobster.
Sure, it’s a little tacky, but there’s something appealing about
that accent, the tough guy attitude, the heavy artillery, the
gratuitous violence … not to mention the money and power. So,
when I heard about a certain party, where it might be possible to
meet the mafioso of my dreams, I jumped at the opportunity. My
friend Yvonne and I got all dolled up and drove to a residence in
the L.A. area. But we walked into a scene that could have been
straight out of the movies. There were gaming tables, craps,
blackjack, poker … dealers in uniform and all the men there were
dressed in Armani, if you catch my drift. Our host for the evening
was Joey, a suave, sexy bookie who looked like a young Al Pacino. I
caught sight of myself in the mirror; every curve of the
5-foot-4-inch frame accentuated by my sexy turquoise dress. Tonight
would be a night to remember. Right away, Joey decided he liked me.
He grabbed my wrist and whispered urgently in my ear,"I’m going to
show you the best time you’ve ever had." Stunned by this reception,
I pulled away, but he held fast. "Would you girls like anything to
drink?" he drawled lazily. "Sure whatever you have," I replied.
"What do you want?" he asked, soulfully searching my eyes for the
answer. "Vodka tonic," I said, in a husky voice. "What brand?" he
challenged me. His smoldering gaze made me weak in the knees.
"Skyy," I purred back like a starved sex kitten (or, more
accurately, like a thirsty alcoholic who has just been offered a
drink). Immediately, Joey snapped his fingers, and two grunts came
running up. He pulled out a huge roll of hundreds, fatter than my
arm, peeled one off, and sent these two guys out for limes, vodka
and tonic water. Hang on, I’m about to change tenses. Okay. Five
minutes later, drinks in hand, Joey asks me what I want to do on
our first date. Then, without waiting for my answer he says,"You’re
flying to Vegas with me, I’m leaving later tonight, on some
business." As eager as I am to join a complete stranger for a
vacation that probably involves some highly illegal transactions, I
smile nervously and decline politely. Meanwhile we head over to the
craps table, where he shows me some tricks of the trade. I don’t
know if it’s because the dealers are his employees, or what’s going
on, but I’ve never seen anyone win so consistently. He starts
placing little side bets for me, and by the end of 10 minutes, I’m
$800 richer. This is a great way for any first date to begin, and
I’m really starting to like Joey, whose every other word is another
offer to buy me something. He takes me aside and shows me a
necklace, it appears to be a fish hook, and he pricks my finger
with it, nearly drawing blood. Now I’m nervous again. "My family"
he says, by way of explanation,"we’re fishermen." This throws me
for a brief moment. I’m almost positive he’s speaking
metaphorically, since I’ve always pictured fishermen as being
brawny, sweaty guys with galoshes and overalls, whereas Joey is
dressed in a designer suit, sporting a manicure and $100 haircut.
"Let’s just say I’m a member of a certain, Italian, organization."
And that settles that. Yvonne and I leave shortly thereafter, and
Joey walks us to our car. We decline his offer for an escort home,
so he tells me to call him the instant I walk in the door,
otherwise he’s "coming after me" (to make sure I’m okay, not to
rough me up). Having thus been taken under Joey’s protective wing,
I call as soon as I get home. He takes this opportunity to invite
me to Vegas again, but we decide instead on dinner when he comes
back. He calls me several times from Vegas, and I understand right
away that this is a guy who gets what he wants. He knows how to go
after things. Like a true gangster, he doesn’t take no for an
answer. He’s commanding and macho; even when he tries to be
romantic and sweet, it sounds like he’s barking orders or
threatening me. "Call me at 5 o’clock," he says at 3 o’clock.
"That’s two hours from now," I say sensibly,"What would I possibly
have to say to you then that I can’t say right now?" Unfazed, Joey
just says, "I think that when 5 o’clock rolls around , you might
find yourself thinking about me and picking up the phone." I look
around my apartment nervously to see if there’s a thug lurking in
the shadows. Maybe he’s coming at 5. I don’t plan to stick around
long enough to find out. Tuesday night rolls around, and it’s time
for our date. Joey picks me up in a BMW and asks me if I want sushi
or steak. I’m torn, but I’m fairly hungry, so steak sounds great to
me. We get to a restaurant in Beverly Hills; he orders for me. For
all of my feminist sensibilities, I have never had any problem with
a little old-fashioned chivalry. I expect boys to open doors for
me, help me with my jacket and pay for dinner. But this guy takes
it to the next level. He actually stands up every time I leave and
return to the table. Conversation is stilted at first. For
instance, he refuses to tell me his last name, he only says he had
to have it changed and the name on his driver’s license is not his
actual name. Generally this is information I like to have at my
disposal, but I let it slide this time. Trying another tack, I say,
"So, did you go to school?" He replies darkly, "Prison was my
education. I spent eight years there." And right away I know I’m
going to have a lot in common with this guy. Finally, someone that
my parents will approve of! Elaborating on the
"prison-as-a-substitute-for-college" theory, he continues, "In
prison, you learn to appreciate the things most people take for
granted. You learn to treat your broad well, because you’ve been
without one for so long. But you can’t let her control you because
…" He doesn’t have an explanation for this one. Incidentally,
Joey is the first live human being I have met who uses the word
"broad" as a substitute for "woman." (Insert smart ass remark: as
opposed to all the dead human beings you’ve met? No, I mean as
opposed to fictional characters and Frank Sinatra.) Conversation
starts rolling, however, as soon as the food comes to the table. He
tells me about his three girlfriends in Vegas: a showgirl, a call
girl and a cocktail waitress. Once again, maybe "Liza" could
explain what the distinction between these three jobs are. Since he
was so honest, I felt I could answer with similar candor when he
asked me if I had any "fellas." I mentioned that I was dating two
other guys at the time. "You’ll drop them soon enough," he said
ominously. I half expected him to add, "You won’t like them so much
when I’m through with them … they won’t be quite so pretty." The
sight of him, carving into his bloody steak while discussing the
"family business," was slightly off-putting. "Sometimes, you gotta
get a little rough," he says, in that weird little mobster accent.
Next, we head out to the Hotel Bonaventure, for drinks. It’s that
penthouse bar that rotates, so you get a full view of L.A. at
night, not to mention motion sickness and a bathroom that is
constantly reorienting itself – two things I love when I’m out
drinking. We have a couple of drinks, and he points out several of
his condos as we circle around. As we’re leaving, some guy
discreetly slips a packet of coke in Joey’s jacket pocket. So, we
drive to Joey’s condo, in downtown L.A. There’s a flunky there when
we arrive, but Joey dispatches him, sending him off to God knows
where. We do a couple of lines. Joey offers me the condo, "I’m
getting rid of it anyway." "I’d be too far away from my friends," I
lie glibly. This is moving way too fast for my taste. He looks
hurt, "What, you think I’m not gonna take care of you?" And I
wonder what he means by this. Is he going to hire me new friends?
Or maybe he’s going to send some hooligans out with lead pipes and
baseball bats, "Miss Tom requests the pleasure of your company,
now." When I tell him "I’m not that kind of girl," he responds,
"Sometimes you don’t got no choice." And right there, all my dreams
of being a mafia girlfriend go flying out the window of the
penthouse condo. Because I could never go out with a guy whose
grammar is so bad, it’s actually physically painful for me to hear
him speak. Which is just one more reason why I’ll never go out with
any of the Daily Bruin’s copy editors. I learned a hard lesson that
night … sometimes reality is only a sad shadow our daydreams and
fantasies. "Liza" found that the actuality of being a coke whore
was not "pretty," as she imagined. And I found that my mafioso, for
all his generous offers and refined manners, was really an ex-felon
who tried to control me. (Both of these revelations rivaling Ellen
Degeneres’ recent confession in terms of sheer unpredictability.)
Joey made a lot of extravagant promises to buy me diamond earrings
and fur coats, and to make me "a classy lady." But the prospect of
pointless jewelry and dead animal skins just wasn’t enough to keep
me involved in a relationship with a psycho control freak. In the
end, all I walked away with was a souvenir mug, shaped like a boot.
But I like it just fine. I keep it on my shelf, next to my Asian
Barbie from my trip to Vegas with a movie producer (I turned down
his offer to take me shopping at Versace) and my hotel ashtray from
my date with a certain talk show host (I turned down his offer to
pay my rent for a year). In the end, I guess I’m not so much like
"Liza" after all, because taking money from the people I date makes
me feel like … well, a prostitute. There’s something appealing
about that accent, the tough guy attitude, the heavy artillery, the
gratuitous violence … not to mention the money and power. Ever
since I saw "Once Upon a Time in America," I’ve wanted to go out
with a mobster.