The Art of the Pimp: One Man's Search for Love, Sex, and Money (38 page)

After
Cathouse
aired I went to visit Dennis at the BunnyRanch and I was shocked by the number of young, beautiful girls, none of whom had appeared on the show. I remember thinking that I could have put a few in “Heidi School” for two weeks and had them walking and talking and acting as if they had been born and bred in Beverly Hills. I could have made big money off some of them.

Still, a brothel is not an escort service. The businesses are related, of course, but they are worlds apart. My clients, for example, were generally men with plenty of money and they were happy to spend it on my girls, who were the epitome of class. Behind closed doors I’m sure some of them did things that would have put Dennis’s porn stars to shame. At a brothel, on the other hand, you get a guy who comes in with only $300 to spend and the girl needs to get inside that guy’s head, make him fall in love with her, and have him mortgage his house so he will spend his last dime on her. I know that seems cruel, but that’s the reality. It’s about money.

The one thing that really upsets me about Dennis is the fact that he doesn’t take care of himself. He’s been struggling with diabetes for years and the way he eats is killing him. I don’t understand it. He can afford a personal chef but instead he eats the worst kind of crap. Sometimes he’ll text me a picture of a kale salad or something, but I know the French fries are off to one side and he’s never going to touch the salad. Anybody else, I wouldn’t give a damn. But I love Dennis, and I wish he’d take better care of himself.

HEIDI’S STRUGGLE
with substance abuse reminds me, ironically, of another story going back to the
Cathouse
days. One of the girls on the show was from Moore, Oklahoma. Her name was Brooke Phillips, but she used the pseudonym Hayden Brooke. She was completely clean. No drugs, no alcohol, nothing, just a wholesome girl who also happened to be amazing on the stripper pole. You can check her moves out in the
Cathouse
pilot. She had a child and wanted another, and she asked me to father it, but I said no. I told her I wasn’t interested in a child, not at my age, and that — even if I was — I couldn’t just have a kid and walk away from it. I’d want to be part of his or her life. So she found somebody else to get her pregnant, moved back to Oklahoma, and moved in with one of her girlfriends, who was also pregnant. It was perfect: two pregnant girls, growing big together.

One night they were out on the town with two guys, and they stopped to pick up a little weed from a local drug dealer. Some drug-crazed ex-Marine showed up, stabbed all four of them, and burned down the house. He was charged with six counts of murder, which included the two babies. It was horrible. Fucking drugs. That’s why Heidi’s issues reminded me of that terrible story. I fucking hate drugs.

In the days ahead, the press went to town with Hayden’s story, putting their own spin on it. Suddenly all prostitutes were drug addicts, yada yada yada, and I found myself on the phone, demanding retractions — and getting them. Then I got criticized for leaving Hayden’s picture on the BunnyRanch site. I know, I know; it seemed insensitive. But what these reporters didn’t know — and it was something I couldn’t share with them — is that the district attorney had asked me to leave it there, hoping it would generate some clues. They eventually nailed the murderer, Denny Edward Phillips, a former cage fighter, and I don’t imagine he’ll ever get paroled.

That reminds me of another guy who is never going to get paroled, Drew Peterson, that ex-cop from Illinois whose wives kept disappearing. I was actually introduced to him at around this same time by my DJ friend Mancow, who had Peterson on the air and thought I should hire him to run security for me. It was just a crazy publicity stunt, but you know how I feel about publicity, so I agreed. Mancow told Peterson that at the BunnyRanch he was going lose himself in an ocean of pussy and forget all of his problems. He plugged the story for days. And, of course, we got on the
Today Show
,
Entertainment Tonight
,
The Insider
, and a dozen more.

The night before Peterson was supposed to fly to Nevada, however, he was arrested. The cops had heard about our little scheme and must have thought he presented something of a flight risk. It’s just as well. Not long after, Peterson was sentenced to thirty-eight years for the killing of his ex-wife.

And that story reminds me of another story, about another jailbird, but this guy was closer to home. This is the way it went down: Suzette came to see me one morning, practically in tears. The previous night she had watched
Behind the Candelabra
, the HBO movie about Liberace and his relationship with Scott Thorson. She had read the book many years earlier and loved it, and she said the movie had really brought the story to life. Michael Douglas played Liberace, and Matt Damon played young Scott, and she thought both of them were at the top of their game. So why was she crying? Well, she had just found out that Thorson was in jail in Reno on a burglary charge, and she thought we should try to help him out.

The first thing I did was Skype Thorson in jail, and he seemed like a pretty good guy. But he was looking at a long stretch behind bars and was really miserable. When we ended the call, I phoned David Houston, a well-known Nevada criminal defense attorney,
and told him I needed his help. I paid the bond to get Scott out of jail and I brought him back to the BunnyRanch and gave him a place to live. In the days ahead, we got him a psychological counselor and we made him go to Narcotics Anonymous meetings, and that combination helped keep him on the straight and narrow. I found him so entertaining, in fact, that I took him on the road with me on a radio tour, and put him on the air. He of course appreciated what I had done for him, so he always talked about my generosity and about the world-famous BunnyRanch.

When we got back to Nevada, the judge found out that Thorson was living at the ranch, and he ordered him to move out. I put him up in my own house, but the judge didn’t like that either, and Thorson ended up moving into some horrible residence in downtown Reno. The judge had given him sixty months’ probation with no jail time whatsoever, but Thorson came up dirty on his next drug test and on two or three drug tests after that, so he went back to the slammer for
twelve years
. I don’t understand it to this day. I guess some men can’t handle freedom.

Scott Thorson

It was 2013 and I was in Nevada’s Marshall County Jail when I met Dennis. I’d been imprisoned for burglary and improper use of a credit card that didn’t belong to me. Dennis contacted me through a video appointment and said he wanted to help. I had never met him, but he knew who I was. I used to be Liberace’s lover, and I wrote a book about the experience,
Behind the Candelabra
.

Dennis showed up at the jail with one of his girlfriends and Madam Suzette. He felt I was being unfairly treated by the district attorney and bailed me out. I knew Dennis had a motive, of course. The HBO movie based on my book was about to air and had been getting a lot of press.

So Dennis and I made a deal. Hollywood had turned its back on me, but he was going to get me the best attorney in town. In return, I committed to a publicity tour with Dennis that would include interviews on about sixty radio stations and appearances on a number of television shows, including
The View
and the
Today Show
. Every chance I got I had to plug the BunnyRanch.

I did a great job. And I stayed clean. And when the tour was over, Dennis got back his $15,000 bail money and probably generated a million dollars in publicity for him. But then I missed a court appearance and one of my drug tests came up dirty. That was my own doing and my own mistake, but Dennis and the attorney and everyone else turned their backs on me. Dennis had said publicly that he was going to take care of my legal bills, but my attorney claimed he was still owed $18,500. The way things stand right now, my parole date isn’t until 2023 — I don’t think I can survive that. I’m being held at the Northern Nevada Correctional Center in Carson City and it’s a terrible place.

• • •

When the judge found out I was living at the BunnyRanch, he ordered me to leave the premises and move into a residence in downtown Reno. It was a horrible place in the middle of skid row. It’s where all the addicts go to score. It’s like taking a drunk, putting him in a bar, and telling him not to drink. They set me up for failure.

The other thing that hurt me was showing up in court with Dennis and one of his hookers. We arrived in a limousine and the press was there, so Dennis got more publicity, but it backfired when we walked into court. I got an eight-to twenty-year sentence.

• • •

Look, I’ve made my share of mistakes — probably more than my share — and I’m willing to take responsibility for all of them. But I don’t feel I belong here. After all the attention and glamour, this is very painful. It’s terrible being forgotten.

I have another book in me and it’s going to generate
huge amounts of publicity. Dennis knows that, so I hope he’ll help me out.

MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE BUNNYRANCH,
I continued seeing Brooke Taylor. We kept our distance, but she was great in bed and hard to resist. Strangely enough, almost as if to punish me, she had turned herself into a brunette. I think brunettes are fine, but ever since that encounter with Marilyn Monroe at age seven, I’ve been a sucker for blondes.

I remember lying in bed with Brooke one night and this movie came on,
Love Ranch
, with Joe Pesci and Helen Mirren. It was loosely based on Joe Conforte and his wife, Sally Burgess Conforte, during the early days at the Mustang Ranch, the first legal brothel in Nevada. But just like the Showtime movie, it wasn’t very good. Everything those people thought they knew about prostitution they had learned by watching bad television, so of course they got it all wrong.

“Somebody should do the real story someday,” Brooke said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Somebody should.”

ONE THURSDAY,
a new blonde walked through the front door. She was wearing red boots, red leggings, a tight little sweater that showed off her perfect curves, and had a smile that could raise a man’s temperature. She also had real
presence
.

Her name was Cami Parker. She was in her early twenties, about 105 pounds,
blonde
. During our weekly tea party, her very first, she got a chance to introduce herself and I was even more impressed. She was smart and confident and well spoken.
Commanding
even. I was pumped. Then I looked across the parlor and found Brooke
staring at me with hatred in her eyes. Uh-oh.

When the tea party ended, Cami went off with some of the other girls who were eager to show her the ropes, and I confronted Suzette. “How come you never told me about this one?” I said. “She’s exactly my type.”

“Dennis, I told you about her,” Suzette said, exasperated. “I told you several times. I
know
she’s your type. You just weren’t listening.”

I didn’t waste any time getting Cami into bed and I was immediately hooked. She was hot, kinky, wild, and had an easy laugh. She also drank a little too much, but I wasn’t worried; Dale Carnegie had taught me not to worry.