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

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Preface

  Chapter 1 - Escape

  Chapter 2 - My Early Years: 1941 to 1953

  Chapter 3 - From Teen to Parent: 1954 to 1959

  Chapter 4 - Tyler the Pimp

  Chapter 5 - Las Vegas, September 1959

  Chapter 6 - Custody

  Chapter 7 - Joe E. Lewis and Vic Damone

  Chapter 8 - Jerry Lewis and Harry James

  Chapter 9 - Sinatra and Ocean's 11

  Chapter 10 - Sam Snead and Arnold Palmer

  Chapter 11 - The Grand Bahamas

  Chapter 12 - Johnny Patterson and Shoemaker

  Chapter 13 - Johnny’s Love

  Chapter 14 - Sinatra, Martin and Marnell

  Chapter 15 - The Rat Pack: Harry Karl and William Frawley

  Chapter 16 - Johnny’s Abuse, a Flashback to Woody and Damone Gets Heckled

  Chapter 17 - Whisky a Go-Go

  Chapter 18 - A Kept Woman in New York

  Chapter 19 - Greenwich Village

  Chapter 20 - Leaving Vegas for Los Angeles

  Chapter 21 - Garden Grove, Suicide and Chicago

  Chapter 22 - Chicago and Curly

  Chapter 23 - Sybil Brand

  Chapter 24 - Go-Go Dancing and Pikesville

  Chapter 25 - Fontainebleau, Bimini Island and Pikeville Jail

  Chapter 26 - Cocke County

  Chapter 27 - Building My New Life

  Chapter 28 - Silicone

  Chapter 29 - Entrepreneur and Meeting Patti

  Chapter 30 - Eppolito

  Chapter 31 - Moving Forward to the Future

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  About the Authors

  Rat Pack Party Girl

  From Prostitute to Women’s Advocate

  Jane McCormick with Patti Wicklund

  STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

  LOS ANGELES

  2015

  Copyright ©2015 by Jane McCormick & Patti Wicklund.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  www.RatPackPartyGirl.com

  Story Merchant Books

  400 S. Burnside Ave. #11B

  Los Angeles, CA 90036

  www.storymerchantbooks.com

  Praise for Jane McCormick, Patti Wicklund & Rat Pack Party Girl

  “Jane McCormick and Patti Wicklund won our 2012 Community Involvement Award for their efforts to address issues that affect women in our community because Jane used her own experiences to shine a light on the risks women face. All of us here at SCC appreciate their hard work and we support their continued effort to help women in our community with the publication of Rat Pack Party Girl: From Prostitute to Women's Advocate.”

  -Andrea Paulet, Public Access Lead, Suburban Community Channels

  “I commend Jane and Patti for what they had to do in writing Rat Pack Party Girl and the compassion Jane has in conveying her life story to educate and reform the society. I hold Jane in the highest regard for speaking out about this horrendous problem we have in human trafficking.”

  -James Douglas Dunlap, Forensic Examiner, Cryptanalysis & Racketeering

  Records Unit, FBI Laboratory Division

  “Jane McCormick is a survivor now, but her long-lived trauma and sexual victimization is unfortunately still the reality for too many boys and girls right here in America. In her new autobiography Rat Pack Party Girl: From Prostitute to Women’s Advocate, Jane provides courage for other victims to seek help and properly puts into context that prostitution is not a victimless crime. If we lived in a world where all the men who intersected in Jane’s earlier life valued and respected women and children, she would certainly have lived a life without sexual trauma and abuse. Her book should inspire us all to create violence-free families and communities, where all women and children are valued and safe.”

  -John Choi, Director, Ramsey County Strategic Initiatives and Community Relations Office

  Preface

  One morning about fifteen years ago, I realized that whenever I was talking with friends, and sometimes even strangers, the conversation inevitably spiraled toward a crazy, zany, or tragic event in my life. Listeners seemed to find my anecdotes amazing; many said, “Janie, you should write a book.” But it took fifty years of life experiences and becoming disabled in an industrial accident for me to finally find my voice and motivation. I finally realized I had more to offer than stories—I had something significant to say to men and women, especially those who had been used, battered, or abused.

  During my rehabilitation after my accident, I grabbed a tablet and just let everything flow—words, ideas, random thoughts. In a few months I filled several spiral notebooks and put them in a drawer of my old brown filing cabinet, waiting for the day they would become sentences and paragraphs, pages and chapters. On my fiftieth birthday, I bought a tape recorder and went to Las Vegas to find someone to finally help me write my story. I wanted it to be compelling, one in which other women and girls might recognize themselves, one that might inspire them to find the courage to escape the world of sex trafficking, as I did. I have known many who have suffered their own versions of trauma and abuse. Perhaps my story could give those who have been there the strength to grow, to overcome their circumstances, to survive. Or give those who have not been part of the sex trade the information and strength they need to resist the manipulation that lures many vulnerable women to that life. Getting out is way harder than getting in. Trust me. The result was my autobiography we entitled BREAKING MY SILENCE: Confessions of a Rat Pack Party Girl and Sex-Trade Survivor, self-published in 2007. I now have more to say, and with professional publishing and film interest, my partner Patti Wicklund and I have an expanded version of my life and experiences we’re calling RAT PACK PARTY GIRL: From Prostitute to Women’s Advocate

  The law and society frown upon prostitutes, but they don’t consider the reasons that women turn to this profession, or even the fact that they may not have chosen to make a living that way at all. Nine times out of ten a man is in the picture promising money and love. If I had my way, the pimps who chain women to a life of abuse would pay in spades. And to all the johns, I’d say, “Stay home with your wives. If you don’t buy sex, no one will sell it.”

  This work is not intended to hurt anyone (a few names have been changed or not provided to protect privacy). It was written to tell the truth about prostitution, what got me there, how I struggled to get out of it, and to be a beacon to those who may ever find themselves trapped like I was.

  It’s clear to me now that my early life and experiences left me with an insatiable hunger to be loved for who I am; to be loved for me and not for what I could buy or give to someone else. My immediate surroundings provided no good examples or stability; in fact, they set me up for a series of unhealthy relationships resulting in continued abuse.

  Once involved in the sex trade, I operated as Las Vegas did, mainly at night, in a world of its own. I was largely unaware of what was going on elsewhere, and I can’t place many events of that period accurately in time. Still, I have pictured the players and circumstances as clearly as I can remember. Some people were wonderful and crazy; others not. Some are still part of my life; others have passed on to other places and dimensions.
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  My deep-felt thanks go to all those who have supported me in this literary endeavor, especially Patti Wicklund. This book would not exist without her.

  —Jane McCormick

  Chapter 1

  Escape

  I jumped out of the cab, tossed a twenty at the driver, and ran for my life. I prayed that no one was following me. I ran through the airport lobby to the ticket counter and pushed to the front. I demanded a ticket on the next flight to Orange County, and slapped down the fare in cash.

  “Three minutes to get to the plane,” the agent said.

  “Good!” I headed for the gate. Gulping for air, my heart pounding, I ran again. But someone behind me was running too. Was he still after me? I was too scared to look.

  I felt sick to my stomach, but I ran faster, a pain wrenching my side. I reached the empty gate, pushed through the door and ran onto the tarmac as fast as my high heels could carry me. A mechanic was already rolling the portable stairs away from the plane.

  “Wait! Please help me!” I shouted.

  Confused, he rolled the stairs back so I could clamber up. As I reached the top, I heard the terminal door slam open and a man yell, “Janie!”

  I didn’t look back. The surprised stewardess looked at my ticket and pointed to an empty seat. I sat down next to the window and fastened my seatbelt. I felt like I was going to throw up.

  “Take off. Take off,” I prayed, hoping the stairs wouldn’t be pulled up to the door again. Mercifully, the engine revved and the plane started to roll. I was safe for the moment and hoped I’d be safe at my mother’s house too.

  Once the plane was in the air, I tried to collect myself. I looked down at the skirt of my thousand-dollar suit. I had $800 in cash in my handbag, but I’d left everything else—cars, money, clothes, jewelry, fur coats, a home—behind. I’d earned it all by hustling, and by being hustled, in Vegas.

  I was only beginning to step back far enough to see that my life had gone horribly wrong. I would have to change it if I wanted to survive. I kept asking myself how I got here. How did I arrive at a point where I needed to run for my life? Like all stories, I had to go back to the beginning.

  Chapter 2

  My Early Years: 1941 to 1953

  Wilma “Mickey” Frances McCormick, my mother, a single child, grew up in Jonesboro, Indiana, twenty-five miles south of Marion. She had a beautiful build, a gorgeous face, and a quick-witted approach to life. She had the personality of a showgirl: her makeup, hair, nails, and clothes were always her top priority and she was outgoing and in your face, always ready to speak her mind and always ready to party.

  Oren “Bus” McCormick, my father, was of Irish heritage. He was six feet tall, slender, had copper-toned skin, dark brown hair, an oblong face accented by high cheekbones, and a set of dreamy, hazel eyes. He grew up on a farm thirty miles east of Marion in Peru, Indiana. My father was a hardworking family man with a personality totally opposite my mother. He was calm, quiet, caring, and deeply in love with her.

  Together my parents farmed a twenty-acre spread of land near Logansport, Indiana. We lived in a primitive farmhouse, with a well for water and a wood burning stove. Each morning, Dad groomed the land and fed the farm animals before going to Logansport where he delivered Coca-Cola products.

  Mom cooked, cleaned and spent a lot of time playing her violin. She was a very talented musician and missed her life of entertaining and flirting with men at the bars where she played her gigs.

  I was born on March 29, 1941 in a small hospital in Marion, Indiana.

  The doctor entered the room and said to my mother, “Your baby is breech—it’s coming out feet first. That’s why you’re having so much trouble.”

  Mom shook her head in frustration and pain, “This baby must be a girl. My son never gave me this much trouble.”

  Aaas if in response, I kicked Mom hard and she screamed. The nurse shouted, “Doctor, the baby’s coming!”

  Like a raging bull I kicked myself out feet first, ripping my mother apart. The doctor untangled the umbilical cord from my neck, held me upside down by my feet, and slapped my backside. Lungs full, I bellowed a long, high-pitched cry.

  The doctor held me in his arms and said, “You have a heroic, blond baby girl with the kick of a swimmer and the vocal cords of an opera star.” My father burst with relief and my mom spurted, “Girls are nothing but trouble!”

  Two years later Mom met a clean-cut, stocky ex-marine named Woody one Sunday after church. He had a fancy car and plenty of savvy to go around, and she was compelled to invite him to the farm to help with the chores. That week, after my father left for work, the ex-marine showed up at the front door looking sharp and smelling good.

  A few months later, Mom asked my father for a divorce. On December 27, 1943, father joined the army and I never saw him again.

  In January of 1944, Woody moved in to the farmhouse with us and became my stepfather. Mom fawned over having an inactive master sergeant from the U.S. Marine Corps at the farm, so when Woody was around, she spent all her time flirting with him and none of her time paying attention to the man he really was.

  Woody loved to visit me when everyone was sleeping. At night I’d wake up and feel him hovering over me. He’d say, “Daddy loves you,” while he touched himself against the side of my bed. When he finished, he’d say, “Now remember Janie, you’re my little doll baby and this is our little secret.”

  Every night, I was afraid to fall asleep. I hated what he was doing, but the way he always reassuringly justified his actions tricked me into thinking that this was how all stepfathers “loved” their little girls.

  He would come in and gently touch my privates and say, “Does that tickle?” I’d act like I liked it but I was scared to death of him so I’d say, “Yes!” Then he’d breath heavy and he’d kiss my tummy and say, “Does this tickle?” and I’d laugh. Afterwards he’d say, “Shush, don’t wake anybody up,” then he’d breath heavy again. Minutes later when he’d finished breathing heavy he would be rough with me and throw me under the blankets and say, “Don’t you tell anybody about our little secret or I’ll hurt you and your mother and brother.”

  I kept my little secret from when I was three years old until I ran away at nine. I didn’t know it was wrong because he told me I was daddy’s little girl and that’s what dads do to all their little girls. I had to sleep with one eye open every night because I never knew when he’d come crawling into my bedroom to do “our little secret.”

  At the end of the farming season in September of 1944, Woody and Mom announced that we were going to run a truck stop restaurant along Highway 65. We packed our things and moved into a furnished one-bedroom home with indoor plumbing. The kitchen and living room were midsized rooms with a small lumpy couch that I shared with Dick, my brother. She always told people we were just like “Dick and Jane” from the storybook, and we tried to be. We sure looked like a storybook brother and sister on the outside—Dick had no idea what was going on and was always sweet and playful—but the truth was I was living in total fear of Woody and received nothing but neglect from my Mom, so Dick’s actions could only fill so much of the void I was developing.

  Woody made it clear that we had to earn our keep if we wanted to eat. Dick and I were responsible for cleaning the house and peeling all the potatoes for the restaurant. Woody had us under his control, and if we didn’t do what we were told, he’d spank us with his leather shaving strap.

  One day Dick discovered some balloons in the men’s bathroom and he decided it’d be fun to fill them with water and throw them at the cars as they whooshed by the restaurant. We later found out, under the scrutiny of Woody, that the balloons were condoms, and this “misbehaving attitude” was reason enough for Woody to get rid of Dick. He insisted that Dick needed to go to boarding school and Mom thought it would be better for him to be with Grandma MoMo where he could get a proper education instead of him traveling around with us in the military. So they shipped him off.

  Di
ck was the only friend I had. With him gone, Woody had even less reason to be cautious and could now molest me more.

  Later that week, Woody received orders that he had to report to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina to be reinstated into the Marines. We dropped Woody off at the Marion railway station, and Mom took Dick to Grandma MoMo’s house in Jonesboro, Indiana. She said he needed to go to school there and that I would go with her to the Marine Base.

  As we drove away, tears ran down my face. Mom said, “I know it’s hard, but you have to learn to adjust to changes in your life.”

  I cried myself to sleep that night. I’d lost the only real friend I ever knew. I hated Mom for taking Dick away from me. And now I would have to deal with Woody all by myself. Dick was never molested and knew nothing of my abuse, but I couldn’t help but feel angry at him for leaving me here.

  On February 18, 1946 we arrived at Camp Lejeune Marine Base. After the guards checked Woody’s orders and the heavy iron gates of the base closed behind us like a jail cell, I entered the phase I refer to as “my life with the military.”

  Mom beamed at the sight of hundreds of uniformed men marching around the open courtyard. Then Woody pulled into the driveway of a double bungalow and said, “This bungalow is our new home, and Janie will have her own bedroom!” My first thought was whether or not there was a lock on my bedroom door, but I was dismayed to find two lockless bedrooms in the bungalow.

  The next morning when I woke up, I was starved and thirsty. Woody and Mom were out partying the night before; they had started doing so more since we moved. But that particular morning, they slept in and it was close to noon and I couldn’t wait any longer for them to get up. I quietly tiptoed into the kitchen, drank a glass of water and took a cucumber out of the refrigerator. After a couple of bites, Woody stormed out of the bedroom and grabbed the cucumber from my hand, yelling, “You little fucking bitch I ought to beat the shit out of you! You should never get up before we get up!” He reached into a kitchen drawer and pulled out a roll of gray masking tape and said, “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget,” and he taped my arms behind my back and then he took a cloth out of the drawer and stuffed it into my mouth and taped over my mouth, then he threw me into the closet and locked the door. “Now you’ll fucking learn how to stay in bed before I get up.”