See, she confides in a breathy, Marilyn Monroe voice, she has this idea for a movie of the week: A nice kid from New Jersey comes to L. She toys with an unlit Capri cigarette and tousles her ash-blonde hair. Her nails, pale pink ovals, match her sofa upholstery.
Her gingham dress is breathtakingly brief. She is 23, and since her friend, Heidi Fleiss, got arrested, life has overflowed with drama and possibility. Police have interrogated her. Reporters have dogged her. She had to hit up an old client for move-in costs on her new Beverly Hills-adjacent place.
Now she spends her days chain-smoking behind these cheesy stucco walls, racking her brains for the upside, the next move, the big break. With scandal has come opportunity, and since the Fleiss accusations hit, L. Prostitutes--some who knew the accused madam, more who just claim they did--have hit the talk shows and tabloids in a dirt-dishing cavalcade.
The memoirs of Elizabeth Adams, the Beverly Hills madam, have been rushed into print. The buzz has tended to center on unnamed names, the who-did-what-to-whom-in-whose-boudoir. But behind the hype, there are also private stories: Here is what it is like to be in the service of loneliness.
Here is how you become dazzled by power and glitz. Here is the rush you get at the thought that a multimillionaire would pay thousands of dollars just to behold your body or bend your will.
