The Education of a Very Young Madam (9 page)

As it turned out, there wasn't much work for me to do because the place really ran itself. There would be about fifteen girls working at one time, and some of the girls actually lived there. They'd use the booths as their bedrooms when no one was working in them. Other than our initial construction costs, we didn't have much overhead. We hired security guards, one who worked during the day and two who came at night, so we could be open twenty-four hours a day. The bulk of our business happened at night, however, so, as far as I know, none of the neighbors in our building, which were all day businesses—fabric warehouses and that kind of thing—knew what was going on. Or if they did, they never bothered us.

The business did do what Andre had hoped it would—it gave me somewhere to go and something to do whenever I needed it (or he needed it). I liked to gamble and talk with the ladies, so I spent a lot of time there. Everyone was older than me, and in the Asian cultures that most of the ladies came from, younger women have to do what the older ones say. That's just the way things work. So even though I was supposed to be their boss, the ladies were always telling me what to do and sending me out to get them cigarettes or buy them nail polish. They kept me busy, and I always did what they asked.

The Mamasan, especially, always looked to me if she needed help with her work. She was in her fifties, and her job was to take care of all the girls, clean the house, and cook for them. We often called her
"ojama,"
which is the Korean word for "caretaker." She lived there too. When the place was finally busted by the cops, she was the only one they didn't take to jail. She just kept saying "Me Mamasan" over and over and over again, and the cops knew what she meant. Every place like ours had its own Mamasan, a kind of den mother, an older woman who took care of the place, and the police usually took pity on them. If they knew how much money these ladies made, though, they might not have been so generous. Our Mamasan was paid by the girls. Each one gave her $250 a week in what was called "pock-up money," some of which went toward basic living expenses but most of which she would send back home to her family in Korea. With an average of fifteen girls working at once, well, you do the math.

We were open for about four months when the cops finally came. I'm not sure how they found us exactly, but no one was particularly surprised or scared when they did. Like I said, we advertised in major media sources, so it's not like we were hard to find. That's just the way things worked then. The brothel business was a game of how long can you keep things going before you get caught. It was like gambling in that way. The cops came through the house and arrested everyone inside except the Mamasan, me included. They took us down to the station and booked us, but they didn't really care about our business. They just wanted their arrest record to look good. (Remember, that was the Giuliani era.) So the next morning, after they had filed their reports and tallied the number of arrests, they let everyone go. And none of us had even given them our real names.

If they had known I was one of the owners of the house, the cops would have been much harder on me. But I pretended to be one of the working girls who could "speaky no English." After all, I was Asian, like most of them were, and just a teenager. Of course the cops believed me and let me go the next morning along with everyone else. Suzie and I both practically looked like kids and each weighed barely more than a hundred pounds. No one would ever suspect that a couple of girls like us were in charge of such a place. Most people still have a hard time believing things like that.

CHAPTER 6

Baltimore or Less

A
ndre may have been a straight-up guy when it came to business, but he didn't live by the same standards when it came to relationships. He left me alone so often and was so unwilling to tell me where he was going or where he'd been, that I began to think he was cheating on me. Of course, he wouldn't even have considered it cheating. I was expected to be faithful, but for a hustler like him, the same rule never applies. Regardless, I still felt betrayed or, at least, neglected, so I decided to beat him at his own game. One time when we were "taking time apart" (which meant he was off with some other woman), I started up with a hot Chippendales dancer I met when my Thai friends and I went to a show. (I've had a big thing for dancers ever since.) The whole point of the dancer was to get back at Andre, but he didn't even notice. He was too busy traveling to California, where, I later found out, his other girlfriend, the mother of a child pop star, lived.

I finally found out for certain about the other woman because he eventually took me to California. He said we were going "on vacation," but once we got there, he left me alone in the hotel room the entire time. When I did see him and he admitted to me where he'd been and who he'd been with, I was furious. I was sure she wasn't the only woman he'd been screwing around with, but with her it was even worse. It wasn't just sex with this woman, the two of them had a real relationship.

Just before our trip to California I had found out I was pregnant. I hadn't told Andre yet because of my suspicions about the other woman, and after they were confirmed, I vowed he would never know. I hopped a plane back home and, soon after, packed a bag and got on a train. I didn't really care where I was going as long as it was away from there. I was running away again, but part of me was excited about it. I used to love taking the train back then. I racked up so many Amtrak miles during that period of my life, I probably should have bought stock in the company.

I ended up in Baltimore. I didn't have a plan for what to do when I got there, so I went to a shelter to spend the night. Because I looked so young, the people who worked there started asking questions. I told them that I was pregnant and that I had just left my boyfriend, thinking that would be a good enough explanation. Instead, it brought on more questions. They asked me if he had abused me, and I told them the truth, that he hit me sometimes.

Andre had a strict business policy of not sampling the merchandise, but he never could stick to that. He was a good guy most of the time, but he had also been a heroin addict before I met him. He didn't like being that way, and he tried his best to get off it. He did for a while, but then I'd see him going back down the wrong path, which usually started with just some pot, which led to more things, and eventually led to smoking crack. He went back and forth and back and forth like that for years. For most of our relationship, I thought I was going to marry him one day, but I also knew full well that there were two sides to my Gemini, the side that had rescued me from a bad situation and taught me how to take care of myself, and the drug side. The drug side was not pretty, and he would often lose his temper with me when he was in one of his hazes.

When I got to the shelter, I was so pissed at Andre that I wasn't thinking too much about his good side. I'm sure I painted a pretty bad picture of him when I described our relationship to the people there. I don't know why I was so honest with them—it really isn't my habit to be honest with strangers about myself or my personal life—but maybe it was my preservation instinct that made me do it. Every truthful word I spoke to them seemed to drive Andre further and further away from me, like the more I admitted about our relationship, the harder it would be for me to go back to him. At the time, if you had asked me why I left Andre, I would have said it was because of jealousy, because of the other woman, or women. But now I wonder if some part of me wanted out for other reasons. Andre was always going to be the one with the power in a relationship, there was no question about that, and the only way to see if I could get some power of my own would be to get away from him. Even then I knew I didn't want someone to have power over me for the rest of my life, not even if it was someone I loved.

Pretty soon I was gathering up my things so the people at the shelter could take me somewhere else. Because I was young and pregnant, they placed me in a battered women's shelter instead of the homeless shelter I'd gone to. I didn't think of myself as a "battered woman," but I think they got the idea that I was running away from Andre because he was dangerous, not because of his wandering dick. I didn't care what they thought. The sympathy was kind of nice, and it gave me somewhere to go. The regular shelter was a freak show anyway, so I was happy to be moved to a new place. At least the battered women's shelter was cleaner and safer.

It was the second shelter that arranged for my abortion. I wasn't going back to Andre and I couldn't take care of a kid by myself, that much I knew. I had no place to live, no money, no work. I don't remember there being much of a moral debate about it. I guess everyone, including me, thought it was the most logical thing to do.

I did see Andre again after that, when I went back to New York for a visit. When I told him about the abortion, he cried. He was a very religious guy, a regular.churehgoer who'd come from a strong Catholic family and whose mother still had a big influence in his life. He said he would have wanted to have it and he would have married me if he'd known. Too little too late. He even tried to weasel his way back into my life after that, but I was done with him.

I still keep in touch with Andre and even see him now and then. I feel like I owe him a lot. He took care of me and taught me things at a time when I didn't know much of anything at all. Andre, despite all his faults and the way things ended, was my first true love. I know I wouldn't be where I am today without him, so I still think the world of him.

Some years later, when I was visiting Boston, I went by his uncle's beauty parlor and left a message for Andre with my phone number. I was at Foxwoods gambling when I got his call. He drove all the way up there to see me again, and we had a great reunion. I realized then that I had meant a lot to him too. I remember one night years ago when the two of us were living together and some dope boys broke down our door to rob us. We were in bed, and I immediately jumped on top of him while he was sleeping and covered his face with my body. I just kept yelling at the guys over and over again, "We're not looking, take whatever you want, we're not looking!" They did just that. I know that if I_ hadn't done what I did, Andre would have sprung out of bed and confronted them, probably getting us killed in the process. Realizing that I had saved his life, he got down on one knee afterward and begged me to stay with him forever. An act that humble was totally out of character for someone as proud and strong as Andre, and I knew it. It really meant something.

Andre may have wanted me to be his wife, but he also didn't ever want to really settle down. Still, he was always honest with me, even about that. Ruthless but honest. His philosophy was that, if he knew something would upset me, he just wouldn't tell me about it, and if he didn't explain, there was no deception. That's a philosophy I still believe in to this day. I'm not a liar, but I do believe that my business is my business and no one else's. And in all the ways that I admired him, I am Andre now. We are both cold and honest, but when we love, we love deeply.

After the abortion, I got out of that women's shelter as fast as I could. That place was just too depressing. The women there were like ghosts. Most of them had come from really bad places and would wander around with vacant stares like they'd had the life knocked out of them. I couldn't take it. The shelter tried to hook me up with a job, some minimum-wage, by-the-hour thing, but I had other ideas in mind.

I knew I needed to start up some sort of business, something that could support me so I didn't have to rely on another guy, but I didn't know what to do. This was the first time I'd be starting something completely on my own, but I was sure that I could figure it out.

Since the brothel business had done pretty well in New York, I thought I would try the same thing in Baltimore. I started out by doing some research into the local market. I began by simply pulling out the yellow pages, turning to the "Escort" section, and making some calls.

My method was simple. I would pretend I was looking for a job, and then I would use that cover to ask a lot of questions about how their businesses worked. I had a young voice and told them (honestly) that I was Asian and not yet twenty. They were all happy to talk to me. No one thought for even a moment that I might be a threat or competition. Why would they?

One of the agencies even hooked me up with a girl who worked for them. They thought she might be better able to answer my questions. Her name was Maya, and when we met, we hit it off immediately. After we talked for a while at her agency's office, she offered me more than just info; she invited me to come along on one of her appointments.

What I learned from her was that I could have set up a brothel like I'd had in New York, but it would have been dangerous and there was a much easier and safer way of doing business in Baltimore. The industry was very different there. When I went on the call with Maya, we showed up at the customer's door together and Maya explained to him that I was "in training." The guy was a bit surprised, but I think he thought he was getting a bonus. Maya collected the money up-front, as working girls always do, and then asked him what he wanted to do for the next hour. He blushed, mumbled something about a blow job, and then looked stunned when Maya corrected him. "Oh no, we can't do that. We're just escorts, not hookers." When the guy finally understood that he'd been fooled and wasn't going to get what he wanted, he let us go early.

That was how a lot of businesses worked all over town. My research showed that most of the agencies listed in the yellow pages were either real, legitimate escort agencies (the kind that advertise girls for "companionship only") or what I call "rip-off agencies." This meant that the girls who worked for them were actually just companions as well, but because of the way they were marketed, none of the customers knew it until it was too late.