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So, why am I walking to Francesca’s restaurant, then? Curiosity, I guess. Because she’s a breadcrumb to follow, which is my favorite thing to do. And also because... who knows? Maybe talking to Francesca will lead me to something of interest to write about for Dig a Little Deeper. And if not, then, oh well. I’ll have wasted a couple hours getting to meet a famous madam. No big deal.
I reach Francesca’s small restaurant and peek in the window. And there she is. The woman I recognize from my online research. She’s standing behind a counter, talking to a stout man in a white apron. As I was hoping, the place isn’t bustling at this time of day. In fact, Francesca looks downright relaxed behind the counter.
As I grip the door handle, my stomach ripples with nerves. But I’ve come this far. I’m not turning back now. “Hi there, Ms. Laramie,” I say, coming to a stop before her. “My name is Georgina Ricci. I was wondering if—”
“If you’re a reporter, don’t bother. I don’t talk to reporters.”
“Oh, no, I...” Crap. What now? “Can we go to a quiet spot? I just need five minutes of your time.”
“For what purpose?”
It’s a great question—one I don’t know how to answer.
“The film rights to my story have already been sold,” Francesca says, her arms crossed over her chest. “And I’m not interested in doing any more interviews about my life story.”
“I’m not here to interview you like that. I’m just here to... get information for... someone. A friend of mine. One of the girls who used to work for you. She was targeted by a blackmailer. She’s too famous to have come here herself. Could we speak privately, please? This is sensitive.”
Francesca looks me up and down. And just when I think she’s going to tell me to piss off, she turns to the stout guy in the white apron. “Mind the counter for me.” She looks at me. “You’ve got five minutes.”
I follow her through the restaurant’s tiny kitchen to an even tinier office that’s barely big enough for a small desk and chair. She closes the door, refolds her arms over her chest, and glares at me with hard, suspicious eyes. “Which girl?”
“Isabel Randolph.”
Francesca nods. It’s a subtle movement of her head, but unmistakable. Which is how I know my assumption about Isabel is spot-on: she did, in fact, work for Francesca at some point.
“Someone figured out she used to work for you, and now he’s blackmailing her.”
I’ve fudged the truth a bit. Made it sound like Troy is presently blackmailing Isabel, which I don’t believe is the case. But I had to think of something to justify my presence here.
“Sorry to hear that. But it’s not my problem.”
In a flash, my mind sorts through the various interviewing tactics I learned in school—ways to get an interview subject to open up—and quickly settles on confrontation. “Candidly, Francesca, I thought maybe you could be the one blackmailing Isabel. Her four-picture deal has been all over the news. She’s a big target now.” Francesca opens her mouth, clearly ready to curse me out, but I add quickly, “Although Isabel told me, quite vehemently, you’d never do that to her. I just wanted to come here and meet you and get a read on you myself.”
Francesca scoffs. “It’s well documented I went to prison for eighteen months longer than I needed to, simply because I wouldn’t give up a single name. Not of my girls, or my clients. And I never will.” She narrows her eyes. “What are you? A paralegal? Some sort of private investigator?”
I shake my head. “I’m just trying to help Isabel. All her dreams are coming true, and now someone is threatening her.”
Francesca shakes her head and exhales. “You know what really pisses me off? That anyone even has any leverage to blackmail her at all. There shouldn’t be any shame attached to what she did. Same with what I did. There was a demand for a particular service, and I filled it. Simple as that. My girls were adults who came to me. I never solicited or trafficked anyone. They were all models and actresses who wanted to earn extra cash in between jobs. And I always told them, they had absolute discretion regarding what they would, or wouldn’t do. That’s what I told the clients, too. ‘Treat my girls right, because if you don’t, they won’t do anything with you, no matter how much money you offer.’ And yet, just because money changed hands, these girls, some of whom went on to become highly successful and famous, like Isabel, have to deal with assholes threatening to ‘expose’ them for their pasts? Where is the justice in that?”
“It’s not fair at all.”
“Are the men who used my services looking over their shoulders, worried someone might expose them? No, they’re not. Because nobody cares about them. And yet, here I am, a felon, just because I ran a business in LA that’s perfectly legal in New Zealand. It infuriates me that I’m the felon here, when I can think of a client who should have been thrown in jail a long time ago for hurting several of my girls. But does the DA want to pursue him? Nope. That asshole terrorized my girls, without consequence, and yet I’m the one who had to go to prison and watch him collecting his Academy Awards on TV.”
