Beautiful Bad Girl
The Vicki Morgan Story
By
Gordon Basichis
Minstrel’s Alley, Los Angeles, CA
Beautiful Bad Girl, The Vicki Morgan Story
Copyright Gordon Basichis, 1985, 2000
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of short excerpts for review or critical articles.
Published by Minstrel’s Alley at Smashwords
PO Box 492332
Los Angeles, CA 90049
Originally published by Santa Barbara Press
PROLOGUE
I KNEW VICKI MORGAN perhaps better than anyone else ever had. During the nine months prior to her death, we spent hours talking about her life, her relationship with Alfred Bloomingdale, what had happened, and why. It was as painful as it was funny, and often mesmerizing. For this was no tale of a bubble-headed cupcake and the lecherous old man who kept her. This was a story filled with power, intrigue and obsession.
As a young girl, Vicki Morgan was determined to escape the stifling boredom of her working class surroundings. She was a genuine romantic, a blue-jeaned rebel, a rock and roll tomboy who dropped out of high school to give birth to her illegitimate child. She was exceptionally pretty, shrewd, and had a high degree of native intelligence. She was imbued with a keen sense of wit and a special charm that attracted men and drove them crazy... rich and powerful men who pandered to her every whim and material desire, while leaving her emotionally stranded as they ordained the course of her early destruction. At one time Vicki was sure she had it all, but in the end she discovered she had nothing.
Vicki Morgan may be typical of many young girls who fall victim to the trap of greed and exploitation. She too is part of a terrible legacy, a tough and perplexing heritage of emotional servitude and class distinction. She, like too many others, lived beyond her years and died before her time. It's a pity that so few understand the causes and effects of this terrible syndrome.
Where others, like Dorothy Stratten, Colleen Applegate and Edie Sedgewick, had little insight into their troubled lives and became passive victims, Vicki lived her life to the fullest and managed to last for nearly thirty-one years, telling me before she died, her own true story.
From Vicki Morgan I learned a great deal. It was hard not to, since no other person I had ever met lived the way she had. Her life as a mistress was more than a job; it was a tremendous adventure, a passionate epic with raw perspective into the hearts and minds of international society, its corporate rulers and political leaders as told by the one outsider who, through an act of fate, got close enough to see it all. Consequently, she was deemed a threat to the established order that had tried to suppress her and continues to try to this day.
As the writer and survivor of what will soon be two full years of calamity and hell, I've spent a lot of time alone pondering this story. I think about Vicki, her murder, and what has since happened to me. Little did I know, when I first met Vicki in November of 1982, that her story would become my story as time slalomed through a volatile sequence of the oddest circumstances. Today, upon reflection, I am grateful for the experience.
1
VICKI MORGAN'S STORY is a classic American tragedy. She was the runaway rebel from middle-America who got in over her head with rich and powerful people. A tall, willowy, long-legged ashen-blond, she was basically a good kid who had the face of a beautiful model and the guts of a soldier of fortune. Yet, throughout her life, she struggled with insecurity, pushing hard against enveloping fears. She walked on the edge and searched for adventure, her troubled psyche delicately balanced on a tightrope of different personas. With the backing of Alfred Bloomingdale she could push it to the limit, live in grandeur and style. She came to think of herself as a conventional being, a Republican no less, beguiled by the irony of the dual roles she played.
Vicki was smart and she knew it, but she was inhibited by her lack of formal education, having dropped out of high school at the end of tenth grade. Vicki was a dreamer, a jaded romantic who, through much of her life, netted between a quarter- and a half-million dollars a year. It was easy come, easy go, and she spent her money lavishly and foolishly, an easy mark for friends and strangers. Vicki Morgan had lived in a fairy tale and died in a nightmare. When the end came, her money and friends were gone.
Vicki and I were first brought together by Michael Gruskoff, a mutual friend of ours, for whom I was writing a screenplay. Mike, a noted movie producer and former agent, had lived with Vicki for a year or two in the middle
seventies, and she had called him requesting his help. She wanted to write a book to set the record straight. What was unknown to me was that he'd already given Vicki the names of other writers to get in touch with. She met with several, but apparently she wasn't satisfied, and Michael reluctantly suggested me.
"Gordon's the best of the writers I sent you," he had told his former girlfriend. "He can write in his sleep. But he's trouble, and I don't think the two of you would get along."
Comments like Michael's were like a red flag, a virtual challenge to Vicki Morgan. He knew it and she knew it. I was the only one who for months wasn't sure what was going on. I was ignorant of their rivalry, spawned from their disjointed romance, which had occurred nearly eight years before.
"Would you be interested in writing the book about Vicki Morgan?" he had asked rather casually one Sunday, when my wife Marcia and I had stopped by his house for a visit. It was a surprising suggestion coming from Gruskoff. Through MGM, he had optioned the film rights on my novel, Constant Travellers, and I'd been assigned to write the script. Michael feared I wouldn't take it seriously and tried his best to govern my time. He prodded and probed and insisted I wasn't working hard enough. Eventually we started to fight.
Now, despite a rather acerbic exchange of opinions just two weeks prior, Michael was turning me on to one of the greatest scandals of the decade. I didn't understand his motivations for putting us together. Was he doing this as a mutual favor, or as a means of getting me out of his way?
I had reasons to be dubious. For one thing, I was soured by all the gossip. Vicki and Alfred had been the talk of the town since early July, when she filed her palimony suit against Bloomingdale, retaining the notorious Marvin Mitchelson as her lawyer. Demanding some $5 million in damages, she had exposed the more tawdry aspects of their
twelve-year relationship, including the sado-masochistic practices of this scion of American society and intimate advisor to Ronald Reagan. If there was any depth to Vicki Morgan's story, it would be difficult to prove, since few would ever bother to comprehend anything beyond the stereotypical explanations for the motives of Alfred and Vicki. After all, in a story like this there was no room for depth and complexity, not among those selected few, the true purveyors of the marketplace, whose special talent was turning subjects like this one into unmitigated trash.
"It has to be more than some cheap, sensationalistic story," I told Mike Gruskoff. "And she'd have to agree on no publicity. If it's anything at all, it'll be a long, hard process, and I'd want to get it done first, before it's announced in the Hollywood trades."
Gruskoff looked at me and fired his special kind of grin, like he knew something that I didn't.
"What is it?" I asked, hoping to entice him to give up what he was thinking, wondering what old, magnanimous Mike had his eye on, be it the film script, the book, or one more pleasant night with Vicki. He just shrugged and shook his full head of whitish-gray hair. I should have known by the look in his eye that things could go wrong in a hurry. Knowing Michael, he would love it when they did.
"I'll call her," said Michael, "and give her your number. Then she can get in touch with you." He paused, stared at me for effect. "I don't want to be in it. Keep my name clear."
"You don't want anything? Not even the film rights?"
"No. It's a gift. You and she can work out the arrangements."
So there I was on a clear November night, driving up Beverly Estates Drive, the winding road that led to Tower Grove Drive at the rim of Benedict Canyon. I was curious, but not optimistic, even though I had liked what I heard on the telephone. Vicki Morgan sounded like no dummy. She'd been direct and articulate when she'd spoken to me. I was
intrigued, and felt sympathetic for what I discerned were her true affections for Alfred, but was afraid any vestige of those affections had probably been steamrolled by the press. It could be argued that she had asked for it, if not deserved it, by claiming to have "cured the Marquis de Sade Complex" of a member of Reagan's kitchen cabinet. What had made her do that? I wondered. What were the circumstances that made her come forth with such damning information on one of the most prominent men in the country? And why had his family and associates let her do it? Why hadn't she been paid off or shut up?
I stepped out of my car and thought it over before approaching the white stucco house, numbered 1611 Tower Grove Drive. Earlier in the evening I had considered the ramifications of going to Vicki's place, surveillance and such being what it is today. But what the hell? I was an ambitious fellow, street-wise and city bred. I was restless, and for some time I had been looking for a challenging opportunity to which I could fully commit myself. And if this was it, despite all the furor and possible danger, I was cocky enough to think I could get away with it.
I looked up at the stars, the deep black sky, and the silhouettes of brush and houses perched on the rim of the canyon. But I'm a realist as well. I also looked for unmarked sedans. A minute passed before the door swung open and a woman appeared, separated from me by the expensive filigree on the wrought iron gate. It was Mary Sangre, who I would later learn had been Vicki's companion for the past year or so. She stared at me for an instant, and then looked away as she opened the gate.
"Vicki'll be out in a moment," she assured me before retreating down the hallway.
I stepped into the living room and looked around, hoping to glimpse Vicki's character through her taste in color and decoration. I looked into the steel and smoked glass wall
unit, its lights spotting, among other things, a sculpture of a quartz crystal hand reaching outward from a greenish base. There were different plates, objets d'art and, oddly, Alfred Bloomingdale's boy scout medallion. His prestigious rank of Eagle Scout was preserved forever in its acrylic Lucite casing.
I advanced to the windows, with their silver, vertical blinds half opened for a view of Los Angeles, the lighted grids of city blocks flickering in the distance below. The living room was arranged in predominant shades of black, white and gray, and the furniture was essentially modern. Essentially I thought, but not actually. The down, custom sofas, and the milky glass on the tulip floor lamps were more reminiscent of a Hollywood matron in quest of "hip" than they were of a younger person. The prodigious bric-a-brac, the knick-knacks and the overkill of coasters and ashtrays denoted to me a lonely old woman who passed the time reading Architectural Digest. Matriarchal modern was how the furnishings could best be described. I wondered, catching sight of the tall, stainless steel flamingo hiding among the potted plants, where was the deadly vamp?
When Vicki entered the living room, the first thing that struck me was her height. No one had ever called it to my attention. At five-foot-ten she was tall enough to look right into my face when she spoke to me. My being over six feet tall meant nothing to her in terms of intimidation. She stood erect, proud of her height and aware of its potential advantage, especially on shorter men. Despite her troubles, she still had the basic instincts for controlling a situation. It was part of her countenance, a reflection of money and power.
By the time she said, "Hello, I'm Vicki Morgan," I was beginning to get the picture. With a firm grip she shook my hand. Her almond green eyes flashed, scrutinizing mine for a negative reflex. This woman didn't get where she'd been on her looks alone. Something was happening behind those
eyes. Maybe even a thing called "life." What a pleasant irony, I thought as I introduced myself. She gestured for me to sit down.
"On the phone you told me you believed I'd been in love with Alfred. No other writer ever said that before. Do you really believe it?"
I took my time before I answered, although I knew exactly what I'd say. Here she sat with her ash-blond hair falling straight past her shoulders, her face lightly touched with makeup, and a trace of freckles serving as flattering evidence of her Irish background. She was dressed in a cashmere sweater and a pair of faded blue jeans. Indian moccasins covered her feet. She seemed very young to me, more like a kid than I expected. This was not the arrogant, brittle beauty in the photograph of legend. She was fresh-faced, almost wholesome, more like the pretty girl from Main Street, America, than the tainted, painted strumpet she'd been made out to be. She had looks, guts, brains and the posture of a wholesome personality. What had gone wrong with such a fabulous composition that had caused her downfall?
I was surprised by the contrast between the going gossip and my first impressions of Vicki Morgan. If this woman was all that she was cracked up to be, the model femme fatale, a coven of one in the witchcraft of greed and debauchery, then there was no way a single, dying old man, or for that matter, a team of dying old men, would ever keep her from getting whatever she thought she wanted from life. Not when there were legions of live, healthy men who'd give anything for a girl like Vicki. By all rights, she shouldn't have to worry a day in her life. Unless of course, she had been in love with that one old man — Alfred Bloomingdale. It had happened before, I realized. Old movies are full of such noble ideas. I could see immediately where Vicki Morgan was susceptible to such concepts of
classical romance. Could it be like they say at the end of the movie, "She blew it because of the guy"?
"I know you loved him," I said finally. "For one thing, I can tell by the way you used his name on the phone. You say Alfred, not Al, or any cute little nicknames. But it's not what you say, necessarily, it's the tone behind it. I hear the familiarity, the comfort it gives you."
"We were together for almost thirteen years," she blurted out. "He loved me and I loved him like no other man in my life. And it wasn't all seamy, believe it or not. I looked after him. I took care of him. My problem was that I forgot to look after myself."
I had paid special attention to her tone of voice, its cadence and inflection. The oddity was so apparent it was hard not to be curious. Despite her inherent sultriness, she spoke and gestured like an older woman. The way she shook her head, waved her arms around, and even laughed reminded me of my grandmother, or someone's widowed aunt. All we needed were some nifty floral slipcovers, lace doilies and a lavender sachet to give it that special flavor. What did the others think, the writers, strangers and friends who sat down to talk with her? Had they seen anything odd? What was it like to be a young girl living among geriatrics? You had to be a fool not to realize Bloomingdale's impact on Vicki Morgan. To be the child and the dowager at the same time, in the same body, is a difficult maneuver. Alfred, I could see, had made her into a lady—his lady—a coltish, sexy teenager, who was conversely embellished with old-world manners and charm. Having captured her when she was just a baby of seventeen, he'd taught her some of what he knew, but she took the rest of it from there. When alive, he lavished her with money and protection, but left her unprotected when he died nearly thirteen years later.
She talked and I talked, and the hours passed by unnoticed. I had not expected her to open up so readily, nor
had I expected to remain so long in her company. I'd figured I'd spend only a couple hours listening to my share of the trials and tribulations of Vicki Morgan. But as the night passed, I began to understand her and see that special aura that makes legends out of certain people. I also understood that legends can be spawned from tragedy, and those who are part of it have little control of their fate.
As I spoke with Vicki that first night, I saw the wheels turning, her eyes burning with suspicion as she watched me for any signs of deception. Still, she rambled on, rummaging her way through her personal history like a hobo at the city dump. She had no idea where to begin her story, and stammered in a desperate search for form and continuity. She was frustrated and confused, frightened and vulnerable. She was determined to protect herself from additional emotional injury. Yet she was able to put her fears and doubts aside and bear down on her memories, adding life and character to the things she had to say.
Vicki's profession was conversation. She was used to talking in marathon sessions. She had mastered the technique of wearing people down by engaging them in lengthy dialogues, so words were repeated and subjects recycled until exhaustion took hold and any lies and ill intentions were finally revealed. Then she had them, ensnared by contradiction, fearful of her rejection. This, I suspected, was how she often got her way.
Vicki had once been a tomboy, and some elements still remained. It made her funny and sassy and more complex. She was aware of herself as the renegade and used such traits to her advantage. It helped her project herself as willful and strong. She had learned to act tough while still a baby, and years of practice had taught her to meld her tough kid's persona with her more worldly, feminine charms. She bobbed her head and rolled her shoulders, her boyishness accented by her height and slender frame. When she was less absorbed with being the lady, she'd speak
earnestly, allowing the cigarette to dangle from her sensuous lips. She'd been the leader of the teenaged bad guys, a real wise-ass with standards for men to live up to. Too bad if you destroyed yourself trying to pass her test.
"To most people I'm the witch, the whore, someone to be afraid of. I intimidate the men and threaten the women. And yet so few have any idea what it's been like for me. Not as simple or as easy as it seems. Believe me, Gordon," she urged, her eyes widening, her head shaking as cigarette smoke curled from her mouth. "It's all kinda funny in a sad sorta way. I'm really somebody who nobody knows anything about."
2
FOR THE NEXT five days I didn't hear a thing from Vicki Morgan. We had agreed we'd reached no conclusion at our first meeting, except that writing this book would be a long and arduous process, and not something to be taken lightly. But I knew we had reached an understanding. It was too apparent, the exchanges came too easily. The chemistry was right; she was aware of my sympathies. I believed she had been subjected to an injustice, having been openly ridiculed and denied compensation. She deserved something, I believed, after a dozen years of companionship.
"There will be times when you'll hate me," she'd said that night. "I'm not easy, especially with something like this. I mean, I never dreamed I'd be telling my life story. Especially to a man, no less."
I'd agreed, in fact, that she had the potential to be a genuine pain-in-the-ass. We both laughed at my observation.
"She's more than a full-time job," advised someone who knew her.
I hadn't argued, not after meeting her, hearing her tell me about the men in her life. Some were dead and the rest were still recovering from their romantic experience. Perhaps there was an exception here and there. I didn't want to think she was pitching a shutout, that she was as dangerous as she first appeared. But I was now committed to the idea of the book and even eager, regardless of the obvious potential for danger, be it from Vicki or those who feared what
she might have to say. In the meantime, I waited for her call.
After several days it came. Now that we were face to face she let me know the truth. "You shook me up the other night," she admitted, when we met at her house for the second time. On the telephone she had copped a plea when I'd asked why I hadn't heard from her. She said only that she'd been busy and unable to get in touch.
"I started thinking," she continued, "about all the things you were asking me. Why don't I have any money? What made me take Alfred's offer in the first place? I thought about what you said, that the only thing I did wrong was not to save any cash. That I was feeling guilty for what I did with my life. Somehow it all caught up to me. For three days I barely slept."
"So what did you come up with?"
"I want to write this book, but the thought of it just scares the hell outta me. It's so demanding... especially for me. I'm a high-school dropout. I read, mind you, but I've never written more than a letter."
"You're a talker, with a natural sense for story." "You think it'll come pretty easily?"
I shook my head. "It'll never be easy. So if it's me you intend to write it with then you better be prepared for the work involved. It's harder than you can imagine."
"Gordon, I know how hard it is. People are scared of me. Or what would happen if they had anything to do with selling my book. I had some of the best agents in town get in touch with me. A couple even flew in from New York, just to meet over lunch. The William Morris Agency wanted to handle my entire package. There've been others. Then something frightens them, and they back off."
"All of them? You mean they don't like money?"
"It's not that. They know they can make a fortune off my story. It's Betsy and her friends that no one wants to go up against. They know everyone in power."
"I'll remember. Believe me."
"Gerald Ford supposedly called someone high up in the William Morris Agency and told him they'd better not sign
me.”
"How do you know that's true?"
"A friend, Marvin Pancoast, told me. He works there."
"You're telling me that people are trying to suppress this book, but at the same time you don't believe there's a threat to your life? You do remember what I asked you? When we first sat down to talk? Are we gonna get killed for this, or what?"
"Oh... it's nothing like that," she tried to assure me. I don't know any big secrets, just little ones here and there. They're not worth killing us over. Don't worry, at least half the people in Washington know what I know."
She smiled at me. "I guess I know some things about some people though. But if you want to know the truth," she went on, "I'm sorry I didn't pay closer attention. I'll have to think about who did what, and where they did it. There was a whole lot going on at the time."
Alfred wasn't around anymore, and Vicki still had trouble believing it. In conversation she'd forget herself and speak of him as if he was still alive. There was no pretense, no whimsical fantasy, she simply forgot that he was dead. She would talk about him with disturbing familiarity, providing me with a broad-based overview of the complexities of her story.
Vicki, I came to learn, was Alfred's creation. In many ways he was good for her and in others he was the cause of her downfall. While she was still a kid, he so shaped her perspective that she could never accept another point of view. Whenever she tried to change her lifestyle, he was there to distract her. He ruined her marriages and destroyed her relationships. He made her his mistress and trained
her to sit by the phone and wait for his call. At night he was noticeably absent from her life, as he attended with his wife Betsy the social and political functions that a couple with their status was obligated to attend. On those restless nights, Vicki went out and often got into trouble. Eventually, she claimed, she realized she was trapped and being driven insane. But during the twelve years they spent together, they shared a relationship so unique and so complex it approaches the surreal. It was a love fraught with contradiction, provoking obsessions and pathological jealousies. Ultimately, it would kill them both.
When speaking to me about herself during those early sessions, her voice was filled with sadness and irony. "I'm one of the world's greatest shoppers," she declared. "I can tell you what's where, and what you have to pay to get it. I know Rodeo Drive and all the department stores like the back of my hand.
"I used to make u-turns in the middle of Rodeo Drive because I spotted something, no...thought I spotted something in a window. Even though I didn't need a damn thing more. I have clothes in my closets with the price tags still on them. Brand new. Never worn. Just something for me to do.
"It got so crazy that I used to call the stores and buy over the phone. I bought refrigerators, gas ranges sight unseen. I used to tell them to send me the most expensive one. No one had ever told me that the most expensive is not always the best. I figured... hell, if it's more money it has to be better quality. I'm really naive in many ways. It's like yesterday I was seventeen and woke up to find I was thirty years old."
Vicki took a deep breath as she stared inquisitively in my direction. "You want to know what I did for the last ten years? That's it. I went shopping with Alfred's money."
"And now you want to write a book," I interjected.
She flicked her ashes and smiled at me. "I can see it already. You're as tough and selfish as I am. But you're the
one who understands me, who knows what I'm talking about. Wouldn't it figure it would come down to someone like you?"
"I'd never be as dumb to think of myself as your very first choice. What happened anyway? You would think you would have throngs of writers and agents driving up here in buses. All the silence and emptiness makes me wonder why I'm the only one here in the audience."
She grew more serious as she hesitated and let me wait for her reply. "Gordon, I told you before... I have one helluva story to tell. I was the object, alright. Men used to fight over me. I was the prize, honey. I was a symbol of power and status. And I was Alfred's mistress. That's what kept me entertained. Kept Alfred on his toes. He knew not to push me too far."
"What about the other guys?"
She smiled and nodded, took a long drag on her cigarette before she answered me. Vicki was enjoying herself, feeling looser. "Some of the other guys were serious about winning me over. And the rest were assholes who had no business getting in over their heads."
"Somehow I get the feeling that you may have talked a few into getting in over their heads."
"I suppose I did. I didn't say I wasn't neurotic. Pretty girls usually are neurotic. No one's more insecure than a pretty girl. You're always afraid of losing your looks."
Vicki was always considered a stunning beauty. When she was a child growing up in Montclair, California, a dusty rural suburb, an hour's drive to the east of Los Angeles, people would praise her looks. Constance Laney, Vicki's mother, was well aware of her pretty daughter and pushed her into modeling jobs. Vicki was hired occasionally for print-ads and catalogues. According to Vicki, she was quite a charmer, with myriad expressions and the ability to portray varying emotions. But there were sudden shifts in
Vicki's personality which caused her mother great consternation. Vicki was rebellious and restless, with little regard for the conservative standards her mother had hoped to instill in her. Her mother would attempt to discipline Vicki by restricting her, prohibiting friends from visiting. She bought a lock for the telephone to prevent her daughter from sneaking any calls. But Vicki turned fifteen in 1966, a year in which social upheaval was endemic to America, particularly in California.
"My mother suffered extremely bad luck with men," Vicki told me. My father, Delbert Morgan, had married her during the war when he was stationed in England. She was the daughter of the caretaker to the Royal Family's country home in Norwich, England. They moved to Colorado Springs, Colorado. That's where I was born, eight years after my older sister Barbara. My father was a bad boy and had left my mother for another woman while I was still in the womb."
Soon after the breakup, Constance moved herself and two children back to England. After two years there, she returned to America, to Colorado, where she married Ralph Laney, and bore two more children, sons Patrick and John. With the future looking brighter, the family moved to California, when Ralph, a tool-and-die maker, was offered a job as foreman in the plant near Montclair. However, several years after his relocation, Ralph Laney was struck by a heart attack in the back seat of the family car, as they were snacking at the local Tastee Freeze. He died several hours later. Unfortunately, his life insurance policy had expired the day before he did.
Early on, Vicki thought of herself as an outcast with a father who expressed his affection by sending a check in the mail. Vicki would lie to her classmates, claiming her father had bought the clothes she was wearing, when in reality, it was just his money and her own good taste. She felt pretty and she was accepted. She was proud to be chosen the best-
dressed girl in her high school. Then she discovered she was pregnant, and her world began to fall apart.
Gary Haskell was Vicki's first love and one of the local bad boys. He was nineteen, rebellious and attractive, the perfect match for Vicki Morgan. He was the solitary thrill in a desolate city, and Vicki was in love with him.
"People who are in love, make love," Gary informed her after they had been kissing and petting for nearly two years. Vicki was just thirteen when they had started going steady, and now, at fifteen, she was given the big ultimatum. At first she wouldn't go for it, claiming she'd rather wait until they were married, or pretty close to it. Gary reacted to the news by breaking up with Vicki and taking up with someone else. A few months later he was back. She gave him hell for leaving. He passed it off as her sexual hang-ups. If she'd just give in and sleep with him, he proposed, then everything would be okay.
This time Vicki went for the deal. She'd had enough of the loneliness of the past few months. Vicki couldn't stand to be alone. If life in Montclair was bad for her, it was ten times worse without Gary. And in time, Vicki discovered that sex was not a dreaded sacrifice as her mother had claimed, but a wonderful venting for the deepest emotions. She was thrilled by the powers of sexual energy, the creative stimulation of everything happening at once. This was love at its best, everlasting and genuine, just like a rock-and-roll song.
Seven months later, Vicki discovered she was pregnant. For three months she ignored the fact that she hadn't had her period. It took a few good bouts with morning sickness to bring reality into focus. These things aren't supposed to happen, not when you're only fifteen and a half years old.
She told Gary one afternoon just after they finished making love. It was still, and the curtains fluttered in the faint breeze as shades of spring were already yielding to the dry heat of summer.
"Gary, we're going to have a baby," she said, and the second the words left her mouth she regretted it. In the stillness of the room, she watched Gary wrinkle his face and stiffen his arms. His body taut, he hovered above her and stared quizzically into her eyes.
"What are you going to do about it?" he wondered, detaching himself from the situation. He could see that she was stunned by his question. He could see the coldness envelop her as she studied him with her green almond eyes.
"What am I going to do about it? Is that what you're asking me after three years? What am I going to do? I'm gonna have to take the responsibility for the whole damn thing, because you want nothing at all to do with it. I can tell by the way you look at me, Gary. Vicki is on her own."
"What will I tell your father?" demanded Constance Laney after Vicki gave her the news. "You know I have to call him."
"I don't care what you tell him or anyone else."
A series of litanies and volumes of epithets garnished this priceless moment. Constance reminded her daughter of her frequent attempts to instill in her the proper discipline. She had turned out the lights in the house and waited half the night in the bushes for Vicki to return from a date ...to prevent this very thing from happening. She had been too lenient. She should have paid heed to her instincts and been stricter with Vicki. Now, here she was, she complained, a modest employee stuck as the cashier in the high school cafeteria, divorced, widowed, with four children to support. And now an illegitimate grandchild would be arriving in December.
God had not smiled on Mrs. Laney. He had instilled religious convictions in her which forbade abortion on moral grounds. Vicki had considered abortion, but on that question mother and daughter couldn't begin to see eye to eye. Vicki was shipped off to St. Anne's, a charity home for unwed mothers.
It was 1968. St. Anne's was filled to capacity with pregnant teenagers, and more were on the waiting list. Big stomachs were everywhere in the dormitories, a sign of the times. There were victims of rape, victims of incest. There were girls who had one sexual experience and had gotten pregnant. But most of the girls were there for the same reason as Vicki... the consequence of a single, teenage love affair. In certain ways, if such a thing could be measured, these were the girls who had been hurt the most; they were the ones who were the most confused. For they had loved and been rejected. What had been affection was now neglect, as lovers and families cast them aside to pay for their sins, mainly in the company of nuns and other pregnant girls. It was a time of bitterness and for changing her priorities.
Each girl was assigned a guidance counselor and was required to attend a weekly meeting. Vicki's counselor was a man, a condescending bureaucrat who insisted, at her tender age, that she give up her child for adoption. It was for the best, he repeatedly assured her, citing his years of experience with helping the girls of St. Anne's. He stated his belief that, except on rare occasion, illegitimate children should be given up to a grateful and responsible couple.
"Yeah, sure... uh huh," Vicki would mutter, her eyes focused elsewhere. Not only did this asshole, as Vicki expressed it, fail to understand her personality, but he was sounding more and more like she had little choice in the matter. Well, Vicki decided, this was one time she'd make her own choice. She was tired of being told she was incapable, especially by an ignorant stiff in a worn-out suit, with his intimated threats and constant reminders of the fact that, after its birth, her child would be taken from her for thirty days, so that she could reach the "proper decision." She was unrelenting, determined to keep her child.
It
was only after she had given birth to her baby that Vicki
heard
from her father in Texas. He didn't visit or call, he
merely sent her a letter. In neat and legible script he urged her to give up the child for adoption and move to another town, so the disgrace wouldn't haunt her forever. Having read the letter, Vicki tore it to pieces. She cried for hours. The message was clear. She was alone in the world, left to her own devices. When her son Todd was born in December, they did in fact take him away for the thirty-day period. When they returned a month later to ask what she had finally decided, Vicki's answer was still the same. She would raise the boy herself, and not give him up for adoption.
"He's my son," she told them. "Mine. And no one's gonna take him away from me."
"What is the father's surname?" asked the nurse. "To be recorded on the birth certificate."
"Morgan," Vicki replied. "His name is Todd Morgan."
"No, you don't understand," the nurse started to explain. And then she looked at Vicki, the burning eyes, the defiant posture. "People don't..." she tried but was interrupted.
"People don't what?" Vicki demanded. "I told you his last name is Morgan, and that's what you write down."
Vicki and Todd returned together to her mother's house. Constance, who was embarrassed by her sixteen-year-old daughter's unwed status, laid down more stringent rules. These too would be ignored. Vicki was wary of the arrangements her mother made when it came to raising Todd. Constance wished to assume the everyday responsibility for his rearing. And when people didn't know otherwise, Mrs. Laney implied that it was her child and not Vicki's. Constance, in the domestic hierarchy, was to be referred to as Mom, and Vicki was to be called none other than Mommy. At best, the situation was untenable; at worst, it was the beginning of an all-out war.
With Constance taking control of the baby, Vicki stayed away from the house. She went out with the local boys. She dated openly, ignoring her mother's protests. She dealt
drugs and fooled around. Hardened by her experiences, she became the leader of the pack, which still included Gary Haskell. She gave them direction. She challenged and she taunted. One time she instigated a collective runaway plan, and she and her friends, with guns, drugs, and whatever money they could lay their hands on, stole a car and made a dash for the California state line. Before they reached it, they were apprehended by the police, returned home, and sentenced to more drudgery in the town of Montclair.
Vicki was determined. It was time to make her escape. The creeping, gnawing fear of entrapment led Vicki finally to tell her mother she was moving to Los Angeles and would be sharing an apartment with her girlfriend Emmy.
Mrs. Laney had a fit. A terrible battle erupted between Mom and Mommy, as various challenges and familiar accusations were hurled back and forth inside the walls of Mrs. Laney's modest home.
"You lack responsibility," her mother ranted. "You hussy! You're running out on your son!"
"I have to build something for me and Todd. And I can't do it here. Don't you see that?"
Her mother would hear none of it. She threatened to file for custody and retain custody of Todd forever. But despite the threats, Vicki struck out for Los Angeles. She could no longer tolerate the stagnation. She felt like she was dying a slow death of discontent, working sporadically at menial labor while dreaming big dreams that she felt would never happen. Not here. Not like this. Sure they told her that this was the land of opportunity. But that was only part of the story. You had to be in the right place at the right time. Land of opportunity or not, fortune was where you found it. Success was how you made it. There were no true patterns or rigid standards... just as long as you got to the top. Nothing for something was a sucker's rate of exchange.
Vicki was tired of getting nothing. She was drained and exhausted, confronted by her worst fears. There was no denying it. She'd made a mistake and had been abandoned. She was alone, on her own, with nothing but her looks and wits to see her through. She'd find a way to make it. She knew she couldn't miss.
3
VICKI AND I had been meeting almost every night in November and now December was drawing near. Once again Vicki would have to move, because she could no longer afford the two thousand dollars a month she was paying for rent. With the help of her friend and live-in companion, Mary Sangre, she leased a condominium over the hill in North Hollywood, conveniently located across the street from Mary's new apartment. For a condo, it was decent, with three bedrooms, three baths, and a view of the concrete banks of the Los Angeles River. However, it was not up to the standards Vicki had grown accustomed to during the years of her relationship with Alfred Bloomingdale. This was a step down, and was for Vicki a grudging acknowledgement of retreat. It would be a spot from which to work and dream and plan for the day she'd once again be back on top. Meanwhile, since there was no adequate space for three dogs—she'd once owned five—Vicki was forced to give away the white German Shepherd and the aging Shih-Tzu. Katie, the burnished Doberman, was kept for company and protection.
"After all those years with Alfred, you'd think I would've finally bought a house," she lamented. "You know, I must've looked at thousands of places. Every major realtor on the west side of town knew me. They believed I was the daughter of a Texas millionaire." She laughed, her thoughts momentarily lost in the past. "I'm quite sure by now they all know the story. How could they miss it?"
She turned and looked me in the eyes, studied me carefully for signs of disapproval. I stared back and said nothing, waiting for her to go on. She sensed it and was embarrassed by my silence. She was self-conscious about being examined, or pressed for her deeper perspectives. But I was her last hope and she knew it. Earlier, as the light-hearted adventuress, she had volunteered the minimum needed to charm and to captivate. The rest she had kept inside, where, despite what she did to distract herself, her self-awareness had expanded chaotically and ultimately caused her emotional breakdown. Vicki couldn't live with what she had learned, and had done her best to keep the lid on. At one time it had meant taking fifteen to twenty Valiums a day.
"Anyway... I never did buy a house," Vicki went on, after putting her thoughts into focus. "I was like some wealthy gypsy, moving around the town. I rented one place after another, either in between marriages or whenever I got bored and wanted to try on a different lifestyle for size. Now I have to move again and it's killing me. To the Valley yet. I used to swear I'd never live in the Valley. Things like that were a matter of pride. Status. That's the word. Status. What was once all so goddamned important is now a visual blur. Things. So many things I've had. Different living room sets, bedroom sets, clothes, and automobiles. Now, none of this shit means a thing to me. I'd love to walk out and leave everything right where it is."
"You don't really mean it," I prodded.
Her eyes widened. "Don't I? I wish I had the guts."
Come December 7, Vicki moved for the final time in her life. Her half-brother Patrick leased a truck from somewhere and had recruited several of his friends. Marvin Pancoast was also there to assist, along with one of his pals and Mary Sangre. Mary, resenting me, kept to herself in an alcove to the rear of the house. I had called Gavin Murrell, a friend of mine and the general supervisor of a
construction firm, and asked if there were any laborers who would work that Saturday.
"I'll see what I can do," he said.
He worked wonders. On moving day he came driving up Tower Grove Drive, followed by two carloads of construction laborers. Truly it was the cavalry to the rescue, and the prodigious groupings of Vicki's furniture, accessories, clothes and everything else were loaded and moved in record time. Unfortunately, as Vicki predicted, it wouldn't all fit in the smaller condominium. Things were left in boxes and then stacked and shoved into every available space. The expensive forest of potted plants were either given away or left outside where they eventually wilted and died. None of it seemed to bother Vicki. She handled it stoically, maintaining that this was her make-or-break situation and there was no sense in worrying over "a few dumb possessions." I had to give her credit for not dwelling on the inevitable.
"All the money that I have left is from selling my Mercedes," she said as if she were reading my thoughts. "It's a little less than seventeen thousand now. And I have to pay the closing costs on the telephone... the additional rent, Todd's private schooling." She shook her head in disbelief. "I'm not used to worrying about things like paying bills."
"Welcome to reality," I laughed, gesturing to the condominium. "It's tough making money from here."
She nodded and lit up a cigarette, exhaled deeply before raising her glass to her lips. I noticed this time it wasn't the usual Diet 7-Up. She was drinking white wine now, out of the magnum bottle. I was drinking scotch, from the inventory Vicki had brought with her from the house on Tower Grove Drive. There the wet bar had not been used in quite some time, judging by its layout and the dust on the various whiskey bottles stored in the gray, lacquered cabinets.
"You don't drink much?" I had asked after a couple of meetings.
"Hardly ever, anymore. I don't like the taste of alcohol, except for some dry white wine. I used to keep the cabinet stocked for guests, or mainly Alfred's friends. Alfred wasn't a drinker. He drank iced tea. Loved iced tea. But I used to arrange luncheons every now and then, and he wanted me to keep the liquor around for whenever he entertained."
"Who did he entertain?" I asked her.
Vicki hesitated, and answered only after giving attention to her choice of words. I smiled at the caution, the signs of the wayward kid who didn't want to blow it by revealing too much too early. She was frustrated, angered that it was taking so long to answer me. She knew I was watching as she struggled with her thoughts. Finally, calmly, she responded in total candor.
"Some were just friends of his, and some were his business associates. Some of them were part of Reagan's kitchen cabinet." She smiled. "They used to love me," she went on, confident and energetic. "They would talk openly about their wives and children. What they thought of this one... who was out of political favor... who was in.
"You see, Gordon, most of these men don't marry for companionship. They don't share, or really talk with their wives. They have no idea at all about what women are really like. What women think about... how they respond. It's a whole set up from day one. It's designed to—what is it?—perpetuate the family. The women shop, have charities and banquets and crap like that to keep them busy. The boys hang out with the boys and try their best to move the world around. Most of them see hookers or have girl friends. A few of the braver souls will keep a mistress, like Alfred did. Only Alfred gave me the kind of money the rest don't even dream of. I'm the last of the breed. Alfred saw to it. There's only four or five other women that I
know of...that I even heard of... who get the kind of money that I got from Alfred."
"Vicki, how could you go through all that money?" I asked again, a ritual now since the night of our first meeting. I believed her, I truly did, when she lamented she was broke. But how in the hell...?
"Everybody asks me the same thing. You have to stop... you see that's why everything gets so confused...you have to see it from my perspective, my experience. When it starts at sixteen, the attention, the adulation, if for no other reason than you're a pretty girl, and from sixteen on it never ends, and when no one tells you, or explains it, what makes you think it's ever gonna stop? You see, it's not just Alfred, it's always been like that for me. When I was younger, a kid, I didn't know why. I thought it was because they liked me. I didn't realize certain men, men who move to conquer, need someone like me. Someone who's strong... who's loyal. Only trouble is that most men aren't strong enough for me. I overwhelm them after awhile. See, they don't know me, or care about what's going on inside. If I'm, say, with Alfred, and another man who's interested competes with Alfred, it's got nothing to do with me personally. I'm the prize, the trophy. One man, another man... hell most men, wealthy men, all my life they'd give me whatever I wanted. Except for love. Not love as I understand it. Except for Alfred. He was that fucking crazy."
It was Earle Lamm who first demonstrated to Vicki the tribute men would pay to a pretty girl. "The face that launched a thousand ships," Earle proclaimed throughout their relationship and for many years after. Earle was forty-eight when he married Vicki Morgan. She was sixteen. Like Gary, Earle was Jewish, but Earle was more sophisticated. He had divorced and moved to Los Angeles from Chicago. Earle was attractive in a swarthy fashion. He was a man of taste, if a touch flamboyant, with his silk
shirts, his gold watch, and gold chains around his neck. He wore expensive, tailored slacks and walked in Gucci loafers. What Vicki didn't know until after they were married was that Earle wore a toupee. She was flabbergasted the first time she stepped into their bathroom and found the hair piece perched on its Styrofoam head.
Earle and Vicki were married in Las Vegas at one of the classic, all-night chapels, a tacky stucco cottage, complete with flashing, heart-shaped neon lights. It was the first of Vicki's three marriages to take place in Las Vegas. A somnambulistic refugee from the House of Wax performed the ceremony as his fat wife and two motley witnesses observed this sacred affair. Sparing no expense, Earle Lamm paid extra for the bouquet of flowers and the recorded music in the background. "We've Only Just Begun" complemented the entire five minute service.
Shortly after the newlyweds returned to their posh high-rise condominium in the Sierra Towers, Vicki discovered what her married life foretold. She discovered new and different sides to her husband, many of which she definitely didn't appreciate. Earle was a freak and a degenerate gambler. And Vicki, the small-town girl, was not prepared for his excesses. While making love, Earle would pop amyl nitrates and shout obscenities in Vicki's ears. He suggested repeatedly that they should have a threesome. He particularly wanted to see her make it with a black woman. She resisted at first, but eventually Earle had his way. She was easy prey to his assertions that she was just the country bumpkin and therefore out of touch with big-city standards. To keep a man, Vicki was led to believe, you had to do kinky stuff, lest he grow bored and leave for another woman. Abandonment was what Vicki feared the most.