And here he is, shaking that money maker at the ripened old age of just 18. His name back then was Chan Crawford (no relation to Joan) and he would pick up the princely sum of $50 a night plus all the dollar bills old ladies could stuff into his sports support.
‘The women went crazy for him,’ says his old
pimp employer one London Steele (obviously, his real name). ‘He was shy at first,’ reminsces Mr. Steele, while smoking a gold-tipped pink Sobrani king-size (we’re imagining). ‘But he really knew how to work the stage.’ At which time tears well up in Mr. Steele’s eye (just the one) at the memory of sweet Chan, who would do anything to get the headlining spot.
‘No, no more cameras,’ says London (not to be confused with Glittering London). ‘Please, a little privacy.’ At which point he picks up a small dog, his box of Sobranis, a gold-plated lighter inscribed ‘To daddy’, a box of peach-scented tissues and makes his exit, not looking back.
Obviously we made that whole last bit up. Damn this imagination. It’s a curse. A curse, we tell you!