NUDE MAN FOUND WITH CUTOFF HEAD .. SUSPECT ACCUSED OF FRIEND’S MURDER by Edna Buchanan
SEx Note:
NUDE MAN FOUND WITH CUTOFF HEAD .. SUSPECT ACCUSED OF FRIEND’S MURDER
I read the paper a lot when I was a kid and this murder always stuck out in my mind. And it was written by the great Edna Buchanan, a crime beat reporter who should have a book of all her crime reports put together. Some of them are pretty hilarious.
She did put out a book in the late 80’s-early 90’s called THE CORPSE HAD A FAMILIAR FACE, which was a auto-biography/true crime book on the shit she’s seen in Miami.
She wrote this one, and I’ve always wanted to use it someday in a screenplay.
NUDE MAN FOUND WITH CUTOFF HEAD .. SUSPECT ACCUSED OF FRIEND’S MURDER
Miami Herald, The (FL) - March 3, 1985
Author: EDNA BUCHANAN Herald Staff Writer
A naked man carrying the severed head of a woman was found leaning against a Metrorail support at dawn Saturday in a quiet southwest Miami neighborhood.
The man twice hurled the woman’s head at the young police officer who approached him.
"I killed her. She’s the devil !" the man shouted.
"There is no end to the bizarreness of this world," veteran Miami Homicide Sgt. Mike Gonzalez said later.
"This is something not likely to happen to any policeman again in 100 years."
Dina Tormos, 18, had been stabbed "many" times with a large hunting type knife, which also was used to cut off her head, police said.
The rest of the murdered woman’s body was found in the
suspect’s apartment, several blocks from where he was arrested at Southwest 33rd Avenue and 29th Terrace, just off U.S. 1.
The suspect, Alberto Mesa, 23, was charged with first- degree murder. Hysterical and distraught, he was taken to the prison ward at Jackson Memorial Hospital and sedated.
Police said Mesa, of 2798 SW 33rd Ave., had no apparent history of mental illness or prior problems with police. Relatives did tell Homicide Detective Earl Washington and Sgt. Gonzalez that Mesa had "recently expressed an unusual interest in religion." They did not specify the religion.
Shocked family members said they last saw Mesa at 2 a.m. Nothing appeared wrong, they said.
A roommate of the dead woman told police she last saw the victim on Friday. Nothing appeared wrong, she said. Tormos, she said, had been dating Mesa for about six months.
The woman, found clad only in a T-shirt and bikini panties, was killed and her body left in a hallway inside the otherwise orderly apartment, police said.
The couple "may have been having a conflict over his interest in religion," Gonzalez said.
Carrying the severed head by the hair, in his right hand, Mesa walked to the home of a brother, at 3375 SW 29th Ter., and said he had killed someone. His relatives did not see the head, but called police because, they said, he was acting strangely.
It was 6:30 a.m. Officer Derek Aycarte, 22, arrived in his patrol car, to investigate a possible assault. He saw Mesa and what he was carrying.
Mesa shouted at the officer and hurled the head. Officer Aycarte jumped out of the way. "This is an extraordinary thing for any young officer to encounter," Gonzalez said. "He tried to calm the man, who was naked, bloody and violent. He stayed calm."
The man twice hurled the woman’s head at the young police officer who approached him.
"I killed her. She’s the devil !" the man shouted.
"There is no end to the bizarreness of this world," veteran Miami Homicide Sgt. Mike Gonzalez said later.
"This is something not likely to happen to any policeman again in 100 years."
Dina Tormos, 18, had been stabbed "many" times with a large hunting type knife, which also was used to cut off her head, police said.
The rest of the murdered woman’s body was found in the
suspect’s apartment, several blocks from where he was arrested at Southwest 33rd Avenue and 29th Terrace, just off U.S. 1.
The suspect, Alberto Mesa, 23, was charged with first- degree murder. Hysterical and distraught, he was taken to the prison ward at Jackson Memorial Hospital and sedated.
Police said Mesa, of 2798 SW 33rd Ave., had no apparent history of mental illness or prior problems with police. Relatives did tell Homicide Detective Earl Washington and Sgt. Gonzalez that Mesa had "recently expressed an unusual interest in religion." They did not specify the religion.
Shocked family members said they last saw Mesa at 2 a.m. Nothing appeared wrong, they said.
A roommate of the dead woman told police she last saw the victim on Friday. Nothing appeared wrong, she said. Tormos, she said, had been dating Mesa for about six months.
The woman, found clad only in a T-shirt and bikini panties, was killed and her body left in a hallway inside the otherwise orderly apartment, police said.
The couple "may have been having a conflict over his interest in religion," Gonzalez said.
Carrying the severed head by the hair, in his right hand, Mesa walked to the home of a brother, at 3375 SW 29th Ter., and said he had killed someone. His relatives did not see the head, but called police because, they said, he was acting strangely.
It was 6:30 a.m. Officer Derek Aycarte, 22, arrived in his patrol car, to investigate a possible assault. He saw Mesa and what he was carrying.
Mesa shouted at the officer and hurled the head. Officer Aycarte jumped out of the way. "This is an extraordinary thing for any young officer to encounter," Gonzalez said. "He tried to calm the man, who was naked, bloody and violent. He stayed calm."
T’S CENSORSHIP FOR PAY-TV FARE TO BE SCREENED by Charles Whited
T’S CENSORSHIP FOR PAY-TV FARE TO BE SCREENED
Miami Herald, The (FL) - June 27, 1982
Author: CHARLES WHITED Herald Columnist
The censors are at it again.
This fall, Miami voters will have the opportunity go to the polls to decide what, if anything, individual pay-television viewers cannot watch in the privacy of their own homes.
Mayor Maurice Ferre doesn’t want "obscene" or "indecent" material from cable television corrupting the morals of his grandchildren, or anybody else for that matter.
The city’s resolution would make it unlawful for any cable system to broadcast any "lewd, lascivious, filthy, offensive or indecent" material as defined by Florida statutes.
This business all started, you’ll recall, when Mayor Ferre, while on a trip to New York, accidentally tuned in a skin flick in his hotel room. Ferre, who must have led a sheltered life, was shocked.
As the commission voted last week to put the question to a referendum in September, Ferre tried to back off from being labeled an outright prude, saying community standards are for voters to decide. The thing is fraught with irony. Censors have been trying to put the lid on sex since Adam and Eve, without success. And in this era of proliferating hard-core entertainment, the city’s efforts seem rather pallid.
In Miami, or anyplace else in South Florida, one doesn’t have to wait for cable to buy "adult" television fare. On-TV, the noncable service, sells it for $4.95 extra per month.
I called On-TV and asked a salesperson: "Can I buy that right now in the city of Miami?"
"Certainly, sir," she replied.
Adult pay-TV programming is a matter of choice, anyhow. One pays extra for cable service. The audience has the option of tuning out what it finds objectionable. And if all else fails, there is the on-off switch.
As for deciding what children should and shouldn’t see, it seems to me that that’s the parents’ job, not the government’s.
What really troubles me about all this is not the question of smut but the larger question of censorship. Where does thought control end? And what gives Maurice Ferre -- or a majority of the voters in Miami -- the right to decide what private citizens can or cannot see, hear, read or think in the privacy of their own homes? W ith the advent of today’s rabid moralists, thought control doesn’t stop with X- rated TV. Some of them are out to purge "hidden drug messages" in rock music. Others would cleanse our library shelves of certain books, including Catcher in the Rye, Slaughterhouse Five and Soul on Ice. (One recent argument against Slaughterhouse Five was that it’s "un-American.") These censors, too, justify their bans in the name of decency and righteousness.
Any Miamian with a yen for porn doesn’t have to wait for the soft-core offerings of cable TV. You can buy a home video- cassette player and order by mail the hardest-core stuff on the market -- Deep Throat, Debbie Does Dallas, Behind the Green Door. They’re advertised in all the video magazines, which are available at most newsstands. And for lower-priced fare, Dade and Broward counties abound with XXX-rated movie theaters that show hard-core flicks. They’re advertised in the newspapers, including The Miami Herald.
There may be questions of legality concerning Miami’s proposed censorship. Mormon-dominated Utah passed a law banning pay-TV broadcasting of "any pornographic or indecent material." Six months ago a federal judge ruled it unconstitutional. He reasoned: People offended by what’s on the tube don’t have to watch it.
But the real clincher, to me, is this: Last year, I visited the Soviet Union to see for myself the most thought-controlled society on earth. At the Moscow airport, a tough customs officer found two magazines in my luggage, Time and Computer World. She
thumbed each, page by page, before passing me through. What was she looking for?
"Nude or suggestive pictures," a Soviet citizen told me later. "They are not allowed in the Soviet Union."
Miami Herald, The (FL) - June 27, 1982
Author: CHARLES WHITED Herald Columnist
The censors are at it again.
This fall, Miami voters will have the opportunity go to the polls to decide what, if anything, individual pay-television viewers cannot watch in the privacy of their own homes.
Mayor Maurice Ferre doesn’t want "obscene" or "indecent" material from cable television corrupting the morals of his grandchildren, or anybody else for that matter.
The city’s resolution would make it unlawful for any cable system to broadcast any "lewd, lascivious, filthy, offensive or indecent" material as defined by Florida statutes.
This business all started, you’ll recall, when Mayor Ferre, while on a trip to New York, accidentally tuned in a skin flick in his hotel room. Ferre, who must have led a sheltered life, was shocked.
As the commission voted last week to put the question to a referendum in September, Ferre tried to back off from being labeled an outright prude, saying community standards are for voters to decide. The thing is fraught with irony. Censors have been trying to put the lid on sex since Adam and Eve, without success. And in this era of proliferating hard-core entertainment, the city’s efforts seem rather pallid.
In Miami, or anyplace else in South Florida, one doesn’t have to wait for cable to buy "adult" television fare. On-TV, the noncable service, sells it for $4.95 extra per month.
I called On-TV and asked a salesperson: "Can I buy that right now in the city of Miami?"
"Certainly, sir," she replied.
Adult pay-TV programming is a matter of choice, anyhow. One pays extra for cable service. The audience has the option of tuning out what it finds objectionable. And if all else fails, there is the on-off switch.
As for deciding what children should and shouldn’t see, it seems to me that that’s the parents’ job, not the government’s.
What really troubles me about all this is not the question of smut but the larger question of censorship. Where does thought control end? And what gives Maurice Ferre -- or a majority of the voters in Miami -- the right to decide what private citizens can or cannot see, hear, read or think in the privacy of their own homes? W ith the advent of today’s rabid moralists, thought control doesn’t stop with X- rated TV. Some of them are out to purge "hidden drug messages" in rock music. Others would cleanse our library shelves of certain books, including Catcher in the Rye, Slaughterhouse Five and Soul on Ice. (One recent argument against Slaughterhouse Five was that it’s "un-American.") These censors, too, justify their bans in the name of decency and righteousness.
Any Miamian with a yen for porn doesn’t have to wait for the soft-core offerings of cable TV. You can buy a home video- cassette player and order by mail the hardest-core stuff on the market -- Deep Throat, Debbie Does Dallas, Behind the Green Door. They’re advertised in all the video magazines, which are available at most newsstands. And for lower-priced fare, Dade and Broward counties abound with XXX-rated movie theaters that show hard-core flicks. They’re advertised in the newspapers, including The Miami Herald.
There may be questions of legality concerning Miami’s proposed censorship. Mormon-dominated Utah passed a law banning pay-TV broadcasting of "any pornographic or indecent material." Six months ago a federal judge ruled it unconstitutional. He reasoned: People offended by what’s on the tube don’t have to watch it.
But the real clincher, to me, is this: Last year, I visited the Soviet Union to see for myself the most thought-controlled society on earth. At the Moscow airport, a tough customs officer found two magazines in my luggage, Time and Computer World. She
thumbed each, page by page, before passing me through. What was she looking for?
"Nude or suggestive pictures," a Soviet citizen told me later. "They are not allowed in the Soviet Union."
LEGIT OR NOT? THAT’S THE RUB by Keith L. Thomas
LEGIT OR NOT? THAT’S THE RUB
Miami Herald, The (FL) - October 2, 1983
Author: KEITH L. THOMAS Herald Staff Writer
If you travel down NW Seventh Avenue, it’s hard to ignore the health spas and men’s clubs that have sprouted up since the early 1970s. One passerby, left, steals a glance inside the door of A Touch of Class as she heads home. Outside the Gentleman’s Paradise, below, Wanda McCormack and her dog Goldie look at the spa while her roommate, Josephine Cecilio, complains about the spa’s patrons. Managers at The Doll House, right, and other spas refused to give their names, but insisted that everything’s legal behind the closed doors.
Flashy signs beckon:
GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS.
FOR MEN ONLY.
Welcome to NW Seventh Avenue just outside North Miami, where intimacy is bought and sold at health spas and men’s
clubs.
"I call them glitter down the street," said Ed Beinkowski, a city resident and member of the Westside Property Owners Association. He drives past the spas and their garish signs every night on his way home from work.
Located in unincorporated Dade County, the spas have concerned the Westside property and business owners since they began sprouting up in the early 1970s, said Ford Pollard, president of the group.
Although the association never has taken any action against the spas, "We’ve always been concerned with the kind of people they bring into our neighborhood," Pollard said.
"None of them is in the city so we can’t really do anything about them," said Diane Brannen, a North Miami City Council member and former president of the association.
A city ordinance, which regulates adult book stores, massage parlors and X-rated movie theaters inside city limits, has kept the spas out of North Miami -- but barely.
Three spas, one only a block away from North Miami’s northern boundary at NW 135th Street, lie north of the city. Seven are south of NW 119th Street, North Miami’s southern boundary.
Police call the spas "a pain."
Detective Jonas Sears of Metro-Dade’s Organized Crime Bureau said the spas are the focus of an investigation to determine whether they are providing more than just body rubs to customers.
The spa employes and managers who consented to interviews insist they’re only selling massages.
The spas under investigation by the Organized Crime Bureau include:
* A Play House, 14625 NW Seventh Avenue
* Cloud Nine, 13806 NW Seventh Ave.
* Public Relations, 13740 NW Seventh Ave.
* Gentleman’s Paradise, 660 NW 119th St.
* Eva’s Health Club, 1284 NW 119th St.
* The 7th Heaven Men’s Club, 11754 NW Seventh Ave.
* The Doll House Health Spa, 11628 NW 119th St.
* The Gazebo, 11440 NW Seventh Ave.
* A Touch of Class, 10798 NW Seventh Ave.
* Most Beautiful Girls, 9526 NW Seventh Ave.
"...Legitimate
health clubs> won’t even talk to you if you start asking for a certain type of girl or hinting about sexual favors," Sears said. "Some of these places will."
"Prostitution is a word game," Sears said. "We have to prove knowledge and intent. A lot of these places know this."
Sears said many of the spas require that the employes sign a contract in which they promise not to participate in any sexual activity on the job.
"This way, if we bust a girl the manager of the spa can say she signed a contract and he didn’t know what she was doing," Sears said. "There is a state statute against providing a space for prostitution."
He said the offense is a third-degree felony punishable with a fine of up to $5,000 and five years in jail.
The Organized Crime Bureau has made prostitution arrests at seven of the 10 spas in the past year and half, Sears said. The cases still are pending. The arrests were at: A Play House, Gentleman’s Paradise, Eva’s Health Club, The Doll House Health Spa, The Gazebo, A Touch of Class, Most Beautiful Girls.
The most recent arrest occurred on Aug. 17. A 24-year-old woman working at The Doll House was arrested on a previously issued warrant for prostitution elsewhere, Sears said. She was convicted on that charge, he said.
Sears said the Organized Crime Bureau wants to close the spas, but can’t without proving they are a public nusiance and then getting a court order.
The managers at four of the 10 spas allowed interviews. They said that everything that’s done inside the spas is legal, but none of the four would give his name. The managers of the other six spas failed to return repeated telephone calls.
"We’ve had no problems with the police," said the manager of The Gazebo.
"We run a very nice health spa. We have a membership here," he said.
Elias Legra, who owns the building that houses Most Beautiful Girls, would only comment briefly on his tenants.
"I’ve had no problems with them," Legra said.
Andrew Alexander, a spokesman for A Touch of Class, said the spas don’t deserve bad reputations.
"The spa is for hot-oil body rubs," Alexander said. "That’s it."
"This is a place a man can come and relax," said one woman, who asked that her name and the spa’s name not be used.
"We run a nice place just like any other business on Seventh Avenue," she said. "We just specialize in body rubs."
Most of the spas have been converted from small houses and stores that used to line the avenue. Customer parking is in the rear. The buildings have few windows and two-way mirrors allowing customers to be screened before they enter.
Once inside, customers usually have a choice of a hot-oil or alcohol rub at a cost ranging from $35 to $55 for a half-hour. Some of the spas accept Visa and Mastercard. Most are open all night.
At most of the spas, customers are greeted by a smiling woman and led into a dimly lit, sparsely furnished lobby. In some, cheesecake posters hang on the walls.
An employe at one spa, A Play House gave a tour to a Herald reporter, leading him down a narrow hallway to a small, private room where massages are given.
To open a spa in Dade County, operators must get an occupational license from the county’s Tax Collection Division. The cost of the license depends on the size of the building. The 10 spas on NW Seventh Avenue pay between $44 and $450 a year for their occupational licenses, according to figures from the county’s license section.
"The women working in them don’t need a license or degree to give a body rub," Sears said.
Once the licenses are granted they change hands frequently, Sears said.
"Most of these places aren’t that new," he said. "They are just in new locations. What they do is change locations when they get tired of a certain spot."
For example, he said, The Gazebo used to be where A Touch of Class is now. A spa called the Happy Time Health Studio used to be at the Gazebo’s present location.
All of these changes took place in less than three years, Sears said.
"We don’t hurt anybody," said one of the women. "If people want to come in they come in. We don’t ask them to.
"Regardless of who talks to you or what they say it makes our businesses look bad."
Miami Herald, The (FL) - October 2, 1983
Author: KEITH L. THOMAS Herald Staff Writer
If you travel down NW Seventh Avenue, it’s hard to ignore the health spas and men’s clubs that have sprouted up since the early 1970s. One passerby, left, steals a glance inside the door of A Touch of Class as she heads home. Outside the Gentleman’s Paradise, below, Wanda McCormack and her dog Goldie look at the spa while her roommate, Josephine Cecilio, complains about the spa’s patrons. Managers at The Doll House, right, and other spas refused to give their names, but insisted that everything’s legal behind the closed doors.
Flashy signs beckon:
GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS.
FOR MEN ONLY.
Welcome to NW Seventh Avenue just outside North Miami, where intimacy is bought and sold at health spas and men’s
clubs.
"I call them glitter down the street," said Ed Beinkowski, a city resident and member of the Westside Property Owners Association. He drives past the spas and their garish signs every night on his way home from work.
Located in unincorporated Dade County, the spas have concerned the Westside property and business owners since they began sprouting up in the early 1970s, said Ford Pollard, president of the group.
Although the association never has taken any action against the spas, "We’ve always been concerned with the kind of people they bring into our neighborhood," Pollard said.
"None of them is in the city so we can’t really do anything about them," said Diane Brannen, a North Miami City Council member and former president of the association.
A city ordinance, which regulates adult book stores, massage parlors and X-rated movie theaters inside city limits, has kept the spas out of North Miami -- but barely.
Three spas, one only a block away from North Miami’s northern boundary at NW 135th Street, lie north of the city. Seven are south of NW 119th Street, North Miami’s southern boundary.
Police call the spas "a pain."
Detective Jonas Sears of Metro-Dade’s Organized Crime Bureau said the spas are the focus of an investigation to determine whether they are providing more than just body rubs to customers.
The spa employes and managers who consented to interviews insist they’re only selling massages.
The spas under investigation by the Organized Crime Bureau include:
* A Play House, 14625 NW Seventh Avenue
* Cloud Nine, 13806 NW Seventh Ave.
* Public Relations, 13740 NW Seventh Ave.
* Gentleman’s Paradise, 660 NW 119th St.
* Eva’s Health Club, 1284 NW 119th St.
* The 7th Heaven Men’s Club, 11754 NW Seventh Ave.
* The Doll House Health Spa, 11628 NW 119th St.
* The Gazebo, 11440 NW Seventh Ave.
* A Touch of Class, 10798 NW Seventh Ave.
* Most Beautiful Girls, 9526 NW Seventh Ave.
"...Legitimate
health clubs> won’t even talk to you if you start asking for a certain type of girl or hinting about sexual favors," Sears said. "Some of these places will."
"Prostitution is a word game," Sears said. "We have to prove knowledge and intent. A lot of these places know this."
Sears said many of the spas require that the employes sign a contract in which they promise not to participate in any sexual activity on the job.
"This way, if we bust a girl the manager of the spa can say she signed a contract and he didn’t know what she was doing," Sears said. "There is a state statute against providing a space for prostitution."
He said the offense is a third-degree felony punishable with a fine of up to $5,000 and five years in jail.
The Organized Crime Bureau has made prostitution arrests at seven of the 10 spas in the past year and half, Sears said. The cases still are pending. The arrests were at: A Play House, Gentleman’s Paradise, Eva’s Health Club, The Doll House Health Spa, The Gazebo, A Touch of Class, Most Beautiful Girls.
The most recent arrest occurred on Aug. 17. A 24-year-old woman working at The Doll House was arrested on a previously issued warrant for prostitution elsewhere, Sears said. She was convicted on that charge, he said.
Sears said the Organized Crime Bureau wants to close the spas, but can’t without proving they are a public nusiance and then getting a court order.
The managers at four of the 10 spas allowed interviews. They said that everything that’s done inside the spas is legal, but none of the four would give his name. The managers of the other six spas failed to return repeated telephone calls.
"We’ve had no problems with the police," said the manager of The Gazebo.
"We run a very nice health spa. We have a membership here," he said.
Elias Legra, who owns the building that houses Most Beautiful Girls, would only comment briefly on his tenants.
"I’ve had no problems with them," Legra said.
Andrew Alexander, a spokesman for A Touch of Class, said the spas don’t deserve bad reputations.
"The spa is for hot-oil body rubs," Alexander said. "That’s it."
"This is a place a man can come and relax," said one woman, who asked that her name and the spa’s name not be used.
"We run a nice place just like any other business on Seventh Avenue," she said. "We just specialize in body rubs."
Most of the spas have been converted from small houses and stores that used to line the avenue. Customer parking is in the rear. The buildings have few windows and two-way mirrors allowing customers to be screened before they enter.
Once inside, customers usually have a choice of a hot-oil or alcohol rub at a cost ranging from $35 to $55 for a half-hour. Some of the spas accept Visa and Mastercard. Most are open all night.
At most of the spas, customers are greeted by a smiling woman and led into a dimly lit, sparsely furnished lobby. In some, cheesecake posters hang on the walls.
An employe at one spa, A Play House gave a tour to a Herald reporter, leading him down a narrow hallway to a small, private room where massages are given.
To open a spa in Dade County, operators must get an occupational license from the county’s Tax Collection Division. The cost of the license depends on the size of the building. The 10 spas on NW Seventh Avenue pay between $44 and $450 a year for their occupational licenses, according to figures from the county’s license section.
"The women working in them don’t need a license or degree to give a body rub," Sears said.
Once the licenses are granted they change hands frequently, Sears said.
"Most of these places aren’t that new," he said. "They are just in new locations. What they do is change locations when they get tired of a certain spot."
For example, he said, The Gazebo used to be where A Touch of Class is now. A spa called the Happy Time Health Studio used to be at the Gazebo’s present location.
All of these changes took place in less than three years, Sears said.
"We don’t hurt anybody," said one of the women. "If people want to come in they come in. We don’t ask them to.
"Regardless of who talks to you or what they say it makes our businesses look bad."
TENDING THE BEACH TENDERLOIN
Miami Herald, The (FL) - October 18, 1984
Author: IRENE LACHER Herald Staff Writer
Deep into the vice night, the market prevails over men and women. Everyone is a buyer or a seller, and all the world’s a store.
They take in the temperate breezes on Ocean Drive and gobble nut mixes at the bars of world-famous hotels. They find each other behind theater walls of mammoth cardboard women south of 23rd Street and Collins Avenue, where warnings tempt: "If you blush easily, if you embarass (sic) easily, if you are not 18, This show is not for you."
Girls seek the money and kindness of strangers on the street, calling out to them from second-story windows and hotel porches, plunging into new laps at dark bars where they issue breathless invitations.
There are girls who dance exotic through the night only to be locked behind club doors until dawn, nothing extracurricular allowed. There are peep show dancers who punch holes in the walls between them and their customers in a ruthless search for tips.
This is a place that harbors no outsiders, that ultimately changes even its adversaries. The vice night can scramble reality for cops who linger in it too long, making them forget that sex exists outside the marketplace.
But a few certainties remain.
This world is cash only, sorry Mr. Taxman, and the men -- bosses, customers, lovers -- pay the bills. Men ply the night streets in slow black Cadillacs and girls are girls forever, until they are suddenly old women.
THE STRIPPER
She flirted with the idea of becoming a cop, but getting that far seemed too complicated so she became Luscious Laura, the newest young thing at the Gayety Burlesque.
She once sold magazines in Pennsylvania and newspaper subscriptions in New Jersey. She made pizza, served cocktails as a Playboy bunny in Atlantic City and ushered diners to their tables in a restaurant that hadn’t changed its menu for 54 years.
She was 20 years old and a newlywed.
"New marriage, new career," she said and laughed.
Laura Garcia was new in town two months ago, fresh from New York where a coin toss had determined where she would begin life as a wife. She had spent those first days answering want ads for waitresses and such, but that wasn’t working. And so she found herself in a 20th Street office off Collins Avenue, one flight below a peep show, listening to a man ask if she had ever taken off her clothes in public and if she happened to own a G-string.
"If it were up to me, I’d walk around naked 24 hours a day. I hate clothes," she said boldly. She told him she would have to buy the G-string.
When Laura Garcia visited a peep show for the first time ever later that day, she went as one of Leroy’s girls. Leroy Griffith, who also owns the Gayety Burlesque Theatre around the corner, guided her past a Coke machine and display case with whips and vibrators to one of 16 booths lining a round arena the
size of a boxing ring.
"All you have to do is dance, but you have to be nude to do it," he said.
Griffith slid a golden token through a slot below a window. A light bulb dimmed behind the glass, and the shadowy figure in the ring came into focus.
Griffith began stuffing bills through another slot and the dancer came to their window, swinging her hips faster as the money piled up.
Laura stared at the woman. "When I first saw her, I was like, whoa, she was stark naked, nude, I mean completely. He said, ’Do you think you can do it?’
"I said, ’Leroy, there isn’t much I can’t do.’ "
Laura was given 10 minutes in the arena, the time marked by a bell that would signal six shift changes an hour. The idea was to amuse the patrons with variety, encouraging them to feed$1, $5 and $10 dollar tips or, at the very least, the 50-cent tokens that bought those in the booth little more than a minute of darkness.
All plumpness and blue eyes, Laura entered the ring. She began to dance and wiggle at the circle of booths that were empty except for one. The man in the shadows began to tip her, first slipping her a $5 bill, then a $10, then a couple of ones.
She later learned that her first customer was her boss, Leroy Griffith.
That night Laura went home with $60, tax free. "I know women who work in factories, breaking their backs for $30 a day. I said, ’I don’t want to be like that.’ "
She is careful about certain things. She once threatened to call the cops on a bunch of boys crammed into a booth, breaking the house rule of one man, one booth. She won’t be as adamant as some of the girls who demand tips from their customers, knocking on the windows, even punching holes in the walls for the extra money.
"You can’t be a beggar with a gun," she says.
Not long ago Laura graduated to the theater downstairs, where the girls are on salaries ranging from $250 to $400 for seven hours of dancing spread over a seven-day week. On Halloween, her new husband Pete, 24, will be part of the act. He will dress as an executioner in a black cape and release his bride from a cage.
At first Pete was bothered by his wife’s line of work, but no more.
"I don’t get jealous because I know she loves me and she won’t go with anybody else," Pete said. "And sometimes I feel that other guys fantasize on my wife and they can’t have her and I can."
THE VICE COPS
Charlie Reed was too much of a workaholic to let an opportunity pass, even this once. He and Tony Holt had spent years of nights hunting for prostitutes, piling up some 300 arrests a year. But this night they were supposed to be toasting goodbye to all that. A new supervisor had taken over their unit and they were going back to patrol.
Holt and Reed were with a few other officers last month, drinking their goodbyes at the Fontainebleau Hilton Hotel’s Poodle Lounge, when Reed caught the eye of a blond woman at the bar. They exchanged smiles. Reed went over to her.
Minutes later in room 1022, provided gratis by the hotel for undercover work, Sgt. Reed had made an arrest, 24-year-old Kristi Lynn Gables. Then he dared Tony Holt to do the same.
Two hours passed and Holt spotted another blond chatting with men at the bar. Holt struck up a conversation. The woman told him she went with men to help with her rent. Holt asked her how much help she needed. She said it ranged from $200 to $300.
"That’s a lot of help," he said.
They went upstairs and talked some more. The woman had to specify what she would do for the money before Holt could arrest her. As they negotiated, Holt heard Reed’s beeper go off in the hallway outside the door.
Holt began tapping his watch furiously. "Must be something wrong," he mumbled, but he managed to consummate the arrest of 22-year-old Beate Palmowski anyway.
"She was from Germany," Holt said later. "She didn’t know what was going on."
It’s all in the hustle, the banter that goes into an arrest. Take them by surprise. Dissemble at all costs.
The officers amuse themselves with their own pretense. They pose at whim as a tire store owner from Tennessee, a maritime attorney, a retired landowner, a pig farmer from Ocala, a tobacco warehouse operator from North Carolina with money to burn.
"I told one I was a plastic surgeon," Holt recalled. "She wanted to know how much it cost to fix a scar on her face. So I examined her face."
New identities don’t always do the trick, especially after a few arrests. You look like Tony, the girls say. No, I don’t, Tony says. Sometimes they fall for it. Sometimes they don’t.
One prostitute named her price even though she recognized Holt from prior arrests.
"I said, ’What are you doing? We’ve arrested you several times.’ She said, ’Hey, I was greedy.’ "
The women work the bars at conventions, Visitor and Convention Authority schedules tucked in their purses. They walk Collins Avenue between Fifth and 23rd streets, bankrolling a taste for cocaine.
They tempt vicious odds. There was Michelle Orfino, whose arrest was interrupted when she went into labor and had to be rushed to Jackson Memorial Hospital. There was 61-year-old Suzanne Gerny who promised the experience of a lifetime because she had a lifetime of experience. Failing that, she offered a refund. There was Karen Bush, who, only months before her death, answered a judge’s query as to her guilt or innocence by pulling up her shirt.
In one of Bush’s last arrests, she lamented the injustice of it all. She talked about the customer who gave her $500 to squat in a chair and bark like a dog while he masturbated.
Then she made her case: "Why are you arresting me? You should arrest him. He’s crazy."
THE MEN OF BURLESQUE
Business stinks.
Used to be that Harry Ridge’s place would draw the likes of Frank Sinatra and Eddie Fisher. Art Carney would come by the Place Pigalle and drink like crazy. In its busier days, the club at 22nd Street off Collins Avenue drew a dynamite bomber, an angry Korean who came in blasting two revolvers and Vietnam vets in wheelchairs who would sling back drinks on Harry.
Harry’s place isn’t busy anymore. The problem, he figures, is go go girls. When bawdy comedianne Pearl Williams retired six months ago, Ridge decided the 29-year-old club needed a new image. He changed the club name from Place Pigalle to Go Go 22. He painted his club front a disconcertingly deep shade of blue, bleu celeste. All he got was a headache.
"Go go brings in bad types. They want to give you trouble," Harry said.
Harry wants to put more class into his club. He told the city he wants to rename it Club 22. The city told him to lighten up and paint the club front prairie sky.
A few of Harry’s people are making progress. There’s Luigi, a piano player with tendonitis and three layers of gloves, who spent 28 years entertaining the 5 a.m. crowd. Then a couple of months ago, he was "discovered" playing tunes in the Fontainebleu lobby. "Now I’m a celebrity at the Eden Roc," Luigi burbles.
Still, Harry Ridge thinks that at the age of 76 he should probably get out of the business.
"With me, the age is wrong. The nightclub business is wrong... We have a lot of people working here for years. It’s not good. Show business needs young people. I don’t belong in it. Some of the showgirls don’t belong in it."
Things aren’t much better at Leroy Griffith’s Gayety down the street. Griffith still operates his notorious Pussycat Theater on Biscayne Boulevard, but he shut down the Paris Theater on Washington Avenue less than five years ago and his plan to convert it into condominiums never materialized. Business on the Beach isn’t what it was when Griffith set up shop here in 1960.
One day, says theater manager Bud Luther, the Collins Avenue corridor of adult entertainment will all be gone.
"How can you sell tickets in a theater when they’re selling that sort of thing on cable? You can’t resist change. The past and 35 cents will get you a cup of coffee at McDonald’s."
They take in the temperate breezes on Ocean Drive and gobble nut mixes at the bars of world-famous hotels. They find each other behind theater walls of mammoth cardboard women south of 23rd Street and Collins Avenue, where warnings tempt: "If you blush easily, if you embarass (sic) easily, if you are not 18, This show is not for you."
Girls seek the money and kindness of strangers on the street, calling out to them from second-story windows and hotel porches, plunging into new laps at dark bars where they issue breathless invitations.
There are girls who dance exotic through the night only to be locked behind club doors until dawn, nothing extracurricular allowed. There are peep show dancers who punch holes in the walls between them and their customers in a ruthless search for tips.
This is a place that harbors no outsiders, that ultimately changes even its adversaries. The vice night can scramble reality for cops who linger in it too long, making them forget that sex exists outside the marketplace.
But a few certainties remain.
This world is cash only, sorry Mr. Taxman, and the men -- bosses, customers, lovers -- pay the bills. Men ply the night streets in slow black Cadillacs and girls are girls forever, until they are suddenly old women.
THE STRIPPER
She flirted with the idea of becoming a cop, but getting that far seemed too complicated so she became Luscious Laura, the newest young thing at the Gayety Burlesque.
She once sold magazines in Pennsylvania and newspaper subscriptions in New Jersey. She made pizza, served cocktails as a Playboy bunny in Atlantic City and ushered diners to their tables in a restaurant that hadn’t changed its menu for 54 years.
She was 20 years old and a newlywed.
"New marriage, new career," she said and laughed.
Laura Garcia was new in town two months ago, fresh from New York where a coin toss had determined where she would begin life as a wife. She had spent those first days answering want ads for waitresses and such, but that wasn’t working. And so she found herself in a 20th Street office off Collins Avenue, one flight below a peep show, listening to a man ask if she had ever taken off her clothes in public and if she happened to own a G-string.
"If it were up to me, I’d walk around naked 24 hours a day. I hate clothes," she said boldly. She told him she would have to buy the G-string.
When Laura Garcia visited a peep show for the first time ever later that day, she went as one of Leroy’s girls. Leroy Griffith, who also owns the Gayety Burlesque Theatre around the corner, guided her past a Coke machine and display case with whips and vibrators to one of 16 booths lining a round arena the
size of a boxing ring.
"All you have to do is dance, but you have to be nude to do it," he said.
Griffith slid a golden token through a slot below a window. A light bulb dimmed behind the glass, and the shadowy figure in the ring came into focus.
Griffith began stuffing bills through another slot and the dancer came to their window, swinging her hips faster as the money piled up.
Laura stared at the woman. "When I first saw her, I was like, whoa, she was stark naked, nude, I mean completely. He said, ’Do you think you can do it?’
"I said, ’Leroy, there isn’t much I can’t do.’ "
Laura was given 10 minutes in the arena, the time marked by a bell that would signal six shift changes an hour. The idea was to amuse the patrons with variety, encouraging them to feed$1, $5 and $10 dollar tips or, at the very least, the 50-cent tokens that bought those in the booth little more than a minute of darkness.
All plumpness and blue eyes, Laura entered the ring. She began to dance and wiggle at the circle of booths that were empty except for one. The man in the shadows began to tip her, first slipping her a $5 bill, then a $10, then a couple of ones.
She later learned that her first customer was her boss, Leroy Griffith.
That night Laura went home with $60, tax free. "I know women who work in factories, breaking their backs for $30 a day. I said, ’I don’t want to be like that.’ "
She is careful about certain things. She once threatened to call the cops on a bunch of boys crammed into a booth, breaking the house rule of one man, one booth. She won’t be as adamant as some of the girls who demand tips from their customers, knocking on the windows, even punching holes in the walls for the extra money.
"You can’t be a beggar with a gun," she says.
Not long ago Laura graduated to the theater downstairs, where the girls are on salaries ranging from $250 to $400 for seven hours of dancing spread over a seven-day week. On Halloween, her new husband Pete, 24, will be part of the act. He will dress as an executioner in a black cape and release his bride from a cage.
At first Pete was bothered by his wife’s line of work, but no more.
"I don’t get jealous because I know she loves me and she won’t go with anybody else," Pete said. "And sometimes I feel that other guys fantasize on my wife and they can’t have her and I can."
THE VICE COPS
Charlie Reed was too much of a workaholic to let an opportunity pass, even this once. He and Tony Holt had spent years of nights hunting for prostitutes, piling up some 300 arrests a year. But this night they were supposed to be toasting goodbye to all that. A new supervisor had taken over their unit and they were going back to patrol.
Holt and Reed were with a few other officers last month, drinking their goodbyes at the Fontainebleau Hilton Hotel’s Poodle Lounge, when Reed caught the eye of a blond woman at the bar. They exchanged smiles. Reed went over to her.
Minutes later in room 1022, provided gratis by the hotel for undercover work, Sgt. Reed had made an arrest, 24-year-old Kristi Lynn Gables. Then he dared Tony Holt to do the same.
Two hours passed and Holt spotted another blond chatting with men at the bar. Holt struck up a conversation. The woman told him she went with men to help with her rent. Holt asked her how much help she needed. She said it ranged from $200 to $300.
"That’s a lot of help," he said.
They went upstairs and talked some more. The woman had to specify what she would do for the money before Holt could arrest her. As they negotiated, Holt heard Reed’s beeper go off in the hallway outside the door.
Holt began tapping his watch furiously. "Must be something wrong," he mumbled, but he managed to consummate the arrest of 22-year-old Beate Palmowski anyway.
"She was from Germany," Holt said later. "She didn’t know what was going on."
It’s all in the hustle, the banter that goes into an arrest. Take them by surprise. Dissemble at all costs.
The officers amuse themselves with their own pretense. They pose at whim as a tire store owner from Tennessee, a maritime attorney, a retired landowner, a pig farmer from Ocala, a tobacco warehouse operator from North Carolina with money to burn.
"I told one I was a plastic surgeon," Holt recalled. "She wanted to know how much it cost to fix a scar on her face. So I examined her face."
New identities don’t always do the trick, especially after a few arrests. You look like Tony, the girls say. No, I don’t, Tony says. Sometimes they fall for it. Sometimes they don’t.
One prostitute named her price even though she recognized Holt from prior arrests.
"I said, ’What are you doing? We’ve arrested you several times.’ She said, ’Hey, I was greedy.’ "
The women work the bars at conventions, Visitor and Convention Authority schedules tucked in their purses. They walk Collins Avenue between Fifth and 23rd streets, bankrolling a taste for cocaine.
They tempt vicious odds. There was Michelle Orfino, whose arrest was interrupted when she went into labor and had to be rushed to Jackson Memorial Hospital. There was 61-year-old Suzanne Gerny who promised the experience of a lifetime because she had a lifetime of experience. Failing that, she offered a refund. There was Karen Bush, who, only months before her death, answered a judge’s query as to her guilt or innocence by pulling up her shirt.
In one of Bush’s last arrests, she lamented the injustice of it all. She talked about the customer who gave her $500 to squat in a chair and bark like a dog while he masturbated.
Then she made her case: "Why are you arresting me? You should arrest him. He’s crazy."
THE MEN OF BURLESQUE
Business stinks.
Used to be that Harry Ridge’s place would draw the likes of Frank Sinatra and Eddie Fisher. Art Carney would come by the Place Pigalle and drink like crazy. In its busier days, the club at 22nd Street off Collins Avenue drew a dynamite bomber, an angry Korean who came in blasting two revolvers and Vietnam vets in wheelchairs who would sling back drinks on Harry.
Harry’s place isn’t busy anymore. The problem, he figures, is go go girls. When bawdy comedianne Pearl Williams retired six months ago, Ridge decided the 29-year-old club needed a new image. He changed the club name from Place Pigalle to Go Go 22. He painted his club front a disconcertingly deep shade of blue, bleu celeste. All he got was a headache.
"Go go brings in bad types. They want to give you trouble," Harry said.
Harry wants to put more class into his club. He told the city he wants to rename it Club 22. The city told him to lighten up and paint the club front prairie sky.
A few of Harry’s people are making progress. There’s Luigi, a piano player with tendonitis and three layers of gloves, who spent 28 years entertaining the 5 a.m. crowd. Then a couple of months ago, he was "discovered" playing tunes in the Fontainebleu lobby. "Now I’m a celebrity at the Eden Roc," Luigi burbles.
Still, Harry Ridge thinks that at the age of 76 he should probably get out of the business.
"With me, the age is wrong. The nightclub business is wrong... We have a lot of people working here for years. It’s not good. Show business needs young people. I don’t belong in it. Some of the showgirls don’t belong in it."
Things aren’t much better at Leroy Griffith’s Gayety down the street. Griffith still operates his notorious Pussycat Theater on Biscayne Boulevard, but he shut down the Paris Theater on Washington Avenue less than five years ago and his plan to convert it into condominiums never materialized. Business on the Beach isn’t what it was when Griffith set up shop here in 1960.
One day, says theater manager Bud Luther, the Collins Avenue corridor of adult entertainment will all be gone.
"How can you sell tickets in a theater when they’re selling that sort of thing on cable? You can’t resist change. The past and 35 cents will get you a cup of coffee at McDonald’s."
XXX TURNS TO ZZZZZZ: BEACH ADULT CINEMA SHUT
Miami Herald, The (FL) - June 26, 1989
Author: DAVID ZEMAN Herald Staff Writer
For more than a decade, the Roosevelt Theater has leered lasciviously at passing motorists as they slide across the Julia Tuttle Causeway into Miami Beach’s business district.
But the adult movie theater closed with scarcely a whimper this month, canceling -- perhaps forever -- the South Florida showing of Seven Minutes in Heaven.
Merchants along 41st Street wonder what took so long.
"In two years here, I don’t think I saw a half-dozen people go into that theater," said Paul Steinberg, a lawyer who works across the street.
His figures do not include the lawyers in his office who used to jokingly don raincoats when they crossed the road for popcorn. Only for popcorn.
It’s hard to conceive that the same theater that bowed out with sex romps was originally called the Lemonade Theater when it opened in 1949 because free lemonade was served during intermission. The Roosevelt showed first-run movies then and even put on plays before converting to "adult" flicks about 15 years ago.
Yet even its detractors concede that the sex palace has become a part of the local fabric.
Thomas Coltrane, who runs a realty office next door, said the theater has guided many customers to his otherwise nondescript office.
"A 75-year-old lady once called me and said, ’I just can’t imagine how to get to your place,’ " said Coltrane. "I told her we were right next to the dirty movie theater. She said, ’Oh, I know exactly where you are.’ "
The marquee has been empty since building owner Ted Konover bought out the lease from the theater’s operator, Irwin Knohl, the first week in June. Konover, who purchased the building in 1985, and Knohl both refused to be interviewed.
However, Steinberg said Konover has shown him plans to build a restaurant, stores and offices where the Roosevelt stands abandoned at 770 41st St.
Peeking inside the fingerprint-smudged glass doors, visitors can still ogle the posters promoting coming attractions.
There’s the sentimental Legend of Lady Blue, a movie "for those who still remember the first time"; Satin Suite, a "film" that won the praise of Hustler’s discerning art critic; and a medical docudrama, The Naughty Nurse.
Rabbi Gary Glickstein of nearby Temple Beth Sholom recalled when the Roosevelt began promoting Debbie Does Dallas two days before the temple was to host an Israeli Independence Day festival in 1975.
Panicky elders from the temple prevailed on the Roosevelt to delay the ad campaign for a week.
"It’s probably the best thing that’s happened to Arthur Godfrey Road in the last 10 years," said Steinberg of the closing. "This is the gateway to Miami Beach and the business district. To have a large marquee advertising triple X-rated movies is not the first impression you want people to have."
The Roosevelt might have fallen victim to a take-out mentality, said Joe Bueno, manager of Video Variety in Miami Beach. Bueno said adult movies make up 50 percent of his store’s weekend rentals.
But the adult movie theater closed with scarcely a whimper this month, canceling -- perhaps forever -- the South Florida showing of Seven Minutes in Heaven.
Merchants along 41st Street wonder what took so long.
"In two years here, I don’t think I saw a half-dozen people go into that theater," said Paul Steinberg, a lawyer who works across the street.
His figures do not include the lawyers in his office who used to jokingly don raincoats when they crossed the road for popcorn. Only for popcorn.
It’s hard to conceive that the same theater that bowed out with sex romps was originally called the Lemonade Theater when it opened in 1949 because free lemonade was served during intermission. The Roosevelt showed first-run movies then and even put on plays before converting to "adult" flicks about 15 years ago.
Yet even its detractors concede that the sex palace has become a part of the local fabric.
Thomas Coltrane, who runs a realty office next door, said the theater has guided many customers to his otherwise nondescript office.
"A 75-year-old lady once called me and said, ’I just can’t imagine how to get to your place,’ " said Coltrane. "I told her we were right next to the dirty movie theater. She said, ’Oh, I know exactly where you are.’ "
The marquee has been empty since building owner Ted Konover bought out the lease from the theater’s operator, Irwin Knohl, the first week in June. Konover, who purchased the building in 1985, and Knohl both refused to be interviewed.
However, Steinberg said Konover has shown him plans to build a restaurant, stores and offices where the Roosevelt stands abandoned at 770 41st St.
Peeking inside the fingerprint-smudged glass doors, visitors can still ogle the posters promoting coming attractions.
There’s the sentimental Legend of Lady Blue, a movie "for those who still remember the first time"; Satin Suite, a "film" that won the praise of Hustler’s discerning art critic; and a medical docudrama, The Naughty Nurse.
Rabbi Gary Glickstein of nearby Temple Beth Sholom recalled when the Roosevelt began promoting Debbie Does Dallas two days before the temple was to host an Israeli Independence Day festival in 1975.
Panicky elders from the temple prevailed on the Roosevelt to delay the ad campaign for a week.
"It’s probably the best thing that’s happened to Arthur Godfrey Road in the last 10 years," said Steinberg of the closing. "This is the gateway to Miami Beach and the business district. To have a large marquee advertising triple X-rated movies is not the first impression you want people to have."
The Roosevelt might have fallen victim to a take-out mentality, said Joe Bueno, manager of Video Variety in Miami Beach. Bueno said adult movies make up 50 percent of his store’s weekend rentals.
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