Let me start with a disclaimer. I never watched the show. But it was impossible not to know of its existence. I did not own either a lavender or peach colored sport coat, white slacks (give me a break), loafers with no socks (nope), I did not live on a boat, have an alligator for a pet nor drive a Maserati. I do like Glen Fry and The Eagles, though. Oh, and I can count on one hand the extended gun battles I had with drug lords. To be really honest, I can’t remember any. I never understood the “vice” part. They never busted any hookers or bookmakers or even crap games. I guess it just sounded sexy. “Miami Vice.” That’s Hollywood for you. I was now a member of “University Vice.”
Frank Isbell and I had been promoted to vice from our beloved radio car. Frank to the “Prostitute Squad” and me to “Gambling.”
A little background: Home was the small ugly building attached to the east end of the station house. We had some battered desks, chairs and filing cabinets. Years before, the place had been a hamburger joint and the smell of old cooking oil was ever present. We had two old and tired cars. That might as well have “police” painted on the side in large red letters.
The boss was Sergeant Bob Ryan. He worked days did all the sergeant-type stuff, you are supposed to do, books/paperwork, etc. He looked like your rumpled old uncle or the guy behind the deli counter. Even though he was not expected to make arrests, he was deadly as a john or trick when busting prostitutes. He did not have the “cop look.” Working for him on day shift, were two teams (2 men each) chasing bookmakers.
Now, making book was a felony and these teams busted their butts making cases only to have the courts treat it as a misdemeanor and levy a small fine.
Frustrating.
Before I go on I should mention the “3 C’s:” commercial, conspicuous and complained of. Tradition says any city with a blatant or conspicuous vice problem is a “corrupt” city. We were guided by the 3 C’s: commercial—the dice and card games took a piece of the action, prostitutes— ‘nuff said. Conspicuous—gambling, no, but the ladies? Well, what can I say? Complained of—irate wives with no paychecks and rivals would rat out the games and everybody, and I mean everybody (except the tricks), complained about the hookers—
The following stories are true to the best of my memory, but then I’m beginning to write my name and address in my underwear. Now, if I would just remember to wear underwear.
I never worked Vice or PED (Prostitution Enforcement Detail) but I did spend a lot of time, pissing in the wind, trying to stem the flow of untaxed prostitution.
I was working the best job I would ever have on the LAPD. I was walking a foot beat on Hollywood Boulevard. I still laugh when some supervisor on a cop show threatens to send a cop back to pounding a foot beat. Anyway, I’m working a morning watch foot beat assignment on Hollywood Boulevard. A morning watch foot beat is unheard of in other divisions. That’s right 11:30 P.M. to 7 A.M. Anyway, I got a handle on the drag queen problem—they’re all working east of Vine.
My lieutenant says “Hal, the whores on Sunset are out of control and Vice can’t work all night. I want your foot beat to go down to Sunset and give them some attention.” Uh oh, I’m going to need another recipe box. PED hadn’t been invented and Public Nuisance laws hadn’t been enacted. Anybody who knows the law, knows that uniformed police officers don’t make arrests for prostitution. Only a Darwin Award candidate would go up to a uniformed cop
Here is a picture of Jim Tomer, a partner of mine. He was giving a traffic ticket to a soiled dove in Hollywood. Hal
and offer a sex act for a specific amount of money. So, all I could do was write them tickets or book them for the tickets that I wrote them and they didn’t pay for. The circle of a Hollywood cop’s life.
So, Randy Witkamp, my partner at the time, and I headed down to Sunset. We began filling up a recipe box with a whole new circle of friends. Mud Ducks from the East side and the more attractive and expensive girls from the west end. I knew they were girls, because if you remember, [see post from May 3] I’m a department expert on drag queens.
We immediately encountered one girl at Sunset and La Brea. Her name was Bobbie XXXXXX. I remember her last name but she’s probably a member of some city employees staff and I can’t afford a civil suit. Bobbie was attractive, smart and only dated regular customers. Vice had a hard time arresting her. I think she actually graduated from college; her brother went to UCLA and played football. Any way Bobbie had a bad attitude toward the police and we became her new favorite nemesis. Randy and I would drive down Sunset, right after stopping at Limelight Liquor for sunflower seeds and cigars.
If we saw Bobbie, we would park right in front of her. Bobbie always paid her tickets so all we could do was put her out of business. Bobbie once told me she makes a $1,000 a week, tax free. I was making about a $1,000 a month, before taxes. So we would sit in our car and Bobbie was put out of work for the night. Because we didn’t have to respond to radio calls we could sit for an hour at a time. One night we brought a thermos of coffee, pulled up in front of Bobbie poured ourselves a cup and sat back drinking coffee and eating sunflower seeds.
Bobbie said something about a waste of tax payers dollars and jumped into a taxi cab. She’s not paying taxes so who cares. We followed her southbound Hollywood Freeway to southbound Harbor Freeway. The taxi exited at Century Boulevard and so did we. We got back on the freeway and stopped at PAB and topped off our gas tank. We got back to Sunset and La Brea just as Bobbie was getting out of the taxi. We made sure that Bobbie didn’t make any money that night.
One night we were sitting in front of Bobbie when we heard this car speeding northbound La Brea. It was a van and it sped right through the red light at about 60 mph. Randy and I looked at each other as another car somewhat slowed and ran through the same red light. This has to be better than watching Bobbie give us the finger. We turned northbound and followed the two cars. They both ran the red light at Hollywood Boulevard and again at Franklin Avenue. We hear a horrendous crash. The van was still going about 60 mph when it ran into a block wall where La Brea ends. I won’t describe the driver’s condition but he died within minutes. His van crashed into the block wall right in front of the yellow street sign that said “END” The second car was an off duty cop who saw the van speeding and thought he had just committed a robbery. The irony is the van driver was drunk and going home to the 1900 block of South La Brea. He died in the 1900 block of North La Brea. Right street, just going in the wrong direction.
I’m working station security one night. This white guy pulls up in a pick-up truck. He shows me an LAPD badge and asks if Sergeant Houchin is the Watch Commander. I tell him yes and he sprints into the Watch Commander’s office. I notice the guy is bleeding from his head. Minutes later, I hear a crime broadcast, murder just occurred at the Sahara Motel on Sunset, suspect is described as a male white in a pick-up truck. I’m putting 2 and 2 together and this time I come up with that’s the murder suspect.
Turns out he’s a Wilshire sergeant who picks up a black prostitute and goes back to her room for that 30 minute nap. He’s just entered her room when the pimp emerges from the closet and tries to rob the sergeant. The sergeant takes a couple of hits to his head, pulls out his gun and sends the pimp to the afterlife. The homicide was ruled justified but the sergeant’s career path hit a major speed bump.
The real Farrah Fawcett
Ok, last story on prostitutes, I think. We’re driving down Sunset early one night and we spot this attractive prostitute, new to us. We stop her and she informs us we just arrived in Hollywood from Fresno. She tells us they needed to turn a few tricks for motel money. I’m no English major but I pick up on we and they. I ask who’s she with, thinking it might be a pimp. She tells us her girl friend just got a date before we stopped her. I ask whats her girlfriend look like? She tells me she looks just like Farrah Fawcett. I’m thinking yea, right, they are on the west end where the better looking hookers work, but come, on Farrah Fawcett!
We drive around for an hour looking for Farrah, when we see a line of cars trying to pick up a hooker. Yep, it’s Farrah. Damn if she doesn’t look just like Farrah, even with the famous hair style. We get in line and it’s surprising how many cars ahead of us give up their spot. We interview Farrah. Yea, she got the looks but three words out of her mouth and you can see why she is a prostitute. She couldn’t make change for a dime. I swear my Lab has a higher IQ.
I’m not going into stories about the following but these are locations which catered to male prostitutes. Most of my retired cop friends who worked around Hollywood could tell you stories that will amaze you. Non-cops will find them unbelievable.
Ferndale #4–A men’s bathroom at the end of Ferndale Park.
Barnsdale Park–During the day a world class art gallery and Hollyhock House, after dark dozen of men running around looking for someone to share that 30 minute nap.
La Jolla and Waring–Nice neighborhood in the daytime, men having sex on your front porch at night.
I didn’t like working the prostitutes and equated it with standing Station Security. Very little return for your effort.
The following stories are true and I remind you I never worked vice, or PED (Prostitution Enforcement Detail). I was a street cop who got dragged into the underworld of prostitution. Come to think of it, I got paid, so I guess I was a member of the oldest profession. I just didn’t have a pimp or have to take off my clothes.
This is the third part of a trilogy, or what I thought was a trilogy until I received comments from part 1. I get, “Hey Hal, remember what’s her name or did you ever hear about this or what about the contests?” I also get questions about the “Green Box.” Some of these comments spark a memory, so please feel free to pass along your stories to me.
Lets talk about “Drag queens,” as most street cops refer to them. The politically correct call them transvestites, transsexuals, cross dressers, or a man trapped in a woman’s body. I’m old school and not paid to be politically correct anymore, so I’ll refer to them as Drag queens. If this offends you, I’m sorry. Drag queens may take two or three Ramblings to fully explain. They’re very complex. We’ll see.
My first experience with a drag queen was an eye opening experience. I had a whole three days out of the academy. I responded to a radio call of a stabbing at Franklin and Cahuenga. We get there before the ambulance and see this girl lying on the ground. She’s bleeding from a stomach wound. This other young girl, hysterical, is kneeling over our victim. My partner, a senior officer, tells the second girl to move out of the way. The hysterical girl refuses and pushes my partner. He slaps her across the face and knocks her down. I’m shocked! I was brought up to never hit a woman. Later, I was told that neither of them was a woman. Now, I’m really shocked.
It takes a while and some training to tell who is female and who is male, especially in Hollywood. This training is not a one or two day lesson, it takes years and even decades to become an expert. Some men still can’t tell the difference, or so they say. Unfortunately, I’m considered a department expert. No extra pay, no ribbon to wear on my uniform, like pink sock-filled bras. It was just determined by a couple of captains during a trial board. I’ll explain later.
Guessing a person’s gender is a slippery slope at best. Guess wrong and you get sued, guess right and you still get sued. It’s not an exact science. The first trait I was taught was to look for an Adam’s apple—only men have them. Bet the men check that on your next night out at a bar. Better to find out in a bar than in the backseat of your Chevy. Next, look at their hands, women usually have smaller hands and slim fingers. Third, look at their feet. Did you ever see a man try to fit his size 12 foot into a women’s open toed shoe. The toes bunch together like sardines. Last but not least, women don’t get a 5 o’clock shadow after 3 A.M., well, unless you’re dating a female Russian athlete.
Ok, now you have the basic knowledge for gender classification. You think you know their sex and something goes wrong. I had a partner, Randy, who had booked this drag queen a half dozen times. Always a man, this time the queen had the sex change operation. Male officer strip searches a “now legally female” spells lawsuit and became the lead story on the 5 o’clock news. Drag queens now have the Adam’s apple shaved, electrolysis, and breast implants. Some of these medical changes were paid for with your tax dollars.
During the early years of my indoctrination to the, “women trapped in a man’s body” life style, I saw some amazing sights. Subjects with no breast implants, used to stuff their bras with dirty socks. The wigs they wore still had the shards of glass from the window of that wig store on Hollywood Boulevard. Smash and grab.
photo courtesy of Wikipedia.com
Some of the queens put a lot of effort into their dress. Others, like Eddie Johnson, didn’t have their heart into it. I’m going to finish up this segment with Eddie Johnson. Eddie could fill up a whole page but I’ll just hit the highlights with my encounters. Eddie was a young black man who scratched out a meager living as a prostitute. Eddie wore an ill-fitting blond wig and a pair of cut off Levi’s. Eddie passed for a women to only the most inebriated tricks. Oh, by the way Eddie was also an alcoholic.
I once got a radio call of a woman down in the ice plant. It was just getting light and the call was up in the hills near the Hollywood Reservoir. I was met by this doctor on his way to work when he saw Eddie face down in the ice plant. He said the girl was breathing but probably drunk. I recognized the blond wig and cut off Levi’s. I yelled, “Eddie, wake up.” Eddie rolled over and said, “Good morning, officers.”
I put Eddie in the back seat of my police car and headed downtown to the drunk tank. I asked him, “how in the hell did you end up in the Hollywood Hills?” Eddie slurs something like, “last thing I remember I was sitting in the back seat of another police car!”
Last time I saw Eddie was downtown. I had just finished booking someone at PAB when the B-Wagon (drunk wagon) backed up to the ramp. Out steps Eddie, blond wig on sideways and the same cut-off Levi’s. Yes, Eddie was drunk. Eddie moved from the glamour of Hollywood to the alleys of skid row.
The following stories are true and are my recollections and certainly don’t reflect the views or opinions of the LAPD. Those of you have followed my stories must have known that I would eventually write about prostitutes. How could you write about Hollywood without bringing up the subject of prostitution? Hollywood is the prostitution capital of the world. Just about every city has prostitutes and an area, kind of like an auto mart, where you can go and pick out the model of your choice. Hollywood is synonymous with prostitution, the world’s oldest profession.
I’m not an expert on prostitutes. I never worked vice, or (PED) Prostitution Enforcement Detail, but you can’t work Hollywood patrol for thirty-three years without some contact and stories. Prostitutes can be broken down into numerous categories: Men seeking women, men seeking men, men seeking men dressed as women, men who claim they didn’t know it was a man, yea right, AKA Drag Queens, and women seeking women. I’m not even going touch the different fetishes that are out there, or hotel, or outcall prostitutes.
Well, okay, just one fetish. I saw this trick circling the block looking at all the female prostitutes. There was this one girl that was quite good looking. This trick drove right by her and picked up a rather heavy set girl that was testing the strength of her spandex wardrobe. Some guys just like “a little junk in the trunk.”
In the early days, most of the prostitutes knew that blue suit cops couldn’t arrest them for prostitution. Oh sure, we could write them tickets for standing in the roadway and book them for any unpaid tickets, but who wanted to spend the next three hours booking a female at Van Nuys or Sybil Brand Institute? Our Vice Unit, the largest in the city, could only arrest so many prostitutes a night and those they did arrest were soon bailed out by their pimps. The prostitutes also knew that vice officers had Sundays and Mondays off. Some of the prostitutes who actually graduated high school would call the vice office and if no one answered they would go to work without fear of being arrested.
I remember the prostitutes used to stand on the boundary line between the city and county, in front of Bullwinkle on Sunset. If they saw a Hollywood police car they would move to the county side, if it was a sheriff’s car, they would move to the city side. I notice that they preferred the city side, so I asked one girl why. She told me that LAPD writes us tickets and books us on our warrants but the sheriffs make us put our hands on their car window ledge and they hit our fingers with their metal flashlights. Bet you never heard that on ABC News.
We had a new captain who wanted to know just how bad the problem was. He wouldn’t come out at night and see for himself so he sent a sergeant out to do a whore count. The sergeant made a drive on Sunset Boulevard from the county line, where Bullwinkle stands, to Normandie, Hollywood’s eastern boundary. He counted over three hundred girls. If you figure in the ones that were already on a date in a motel or on car date, the number is higher. Tax them and reduce the deficit in six months.
The problem was so bad at one time, that I was enroute to a high priority radio call. I was driving westbound Sunset Boulevard at Vista. I look over at the Denny’s and see a prostitute leaning into a car stopped at the stop sign. She is performing the kind of sex that Clinton denied getting in the Oval Office. Think about it: you go to the theater, tickets $90, night club & drinks, $100, late meal at Denny’s $40. Watching a prostitute give some motorist oral sex right outside your booth, priceless.
A lot of non-police think prostitutes look like Julia Roberts in Pretty Women, or Melanie Griffith in Body Double. Quite the opposite, even the whores classified themselves. The west end prostitutes were usually a better looking, better dressed and of course more expensive dates. The east end whores were referred to as “Mud Ducks.” They were the Wal-Mart variety, little quality, but a lot cheaper than Saks 5th Avenue. They seldom bathed, or put on clean clothes and usually were supporting a drug habit. I suspect that most had STD’s. Mud Ducks were not allowed to work the West end.
Next, I’ll talk about some of the great stories I heard from tricks when they want to make a crime report about how they lost their wallet.
