Read Online The Education of a Very Young Madam by Ma-Ling Lee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ma-Ling Lee
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some good reasons to be upset. Not long before I met him, the love of his life, Rachel, had been abducted, taken to a warehouse, hung on a rope, and sodomized with various objects before being murdered and left to rot. Her naked, decomposing body wasn't found until some time after the fact. The police didn't know who did it then, and the whole thing had left Jackson a little crazy in the head. I don't know if he had been a nice guy before that happened or not—my guess is that he had always been an asshole—but I do know that it haunted him.
Later I found out that the guy who murdered Rachel was actually Joel Rifkin, one of the country's most notorious serial killers. I was in a holding cell in New York—long after I'd left Jackson— when they caught him. (I was there because I had been picked up during a routine bust of the Asian "massage parlor" I was running.) I was sitting on the floor of central booking playing spades with some other girls when I looked up at the television set, which was tuned to the local news. They were showing this video of the police chasing a truck on the interstate. The police had tried to pull this guy over for not having a license plate, but he didn't know that was all they wanted, so he tried to run. The chase ended with him
running into a pole, after which they found the body of a dead prostitute in the bed of his truck.
I was laughing at the stupidity of this guy when they flashed a picture of his face. It was Joel Rifkin, and I recognized him instantly. He'd come into one of the clubs 1 had worked at several times. I'd even danced for him myself once or twice. He was the kind of guy who was often looking for girls for hire, and that was the scary part. I knew for a fact that he had kept company with working girls lots of times and nothing bad had happened to them. Most of the time he acted like any other customer, so no one had any idea that we should be afraid of him. Sometimes people just snap without warning, I guess, but that made the whole thing even harder to wrap my head around. When I saw his face, I just kept repeating out loud, over and over again to no one in particular, "I know that guy. I know that guy." I think I must have been in shock. My whole body went cold, and I vowed never to watch the news again. To this day, I never have.
Later I found out that Rifkin preyed on ethnic women who worked in the sex industry and that he scouted for his victims at strip clubs in and around big cities like Boston and New York. That was why I knew several people who had had contact with him. It was freaky. I don't know why he targeted that type, but he obviously had some serious issues. A friend told me that he killed another girl I knew, a beautiful Spanish hooker named Venus. She was five months pregnant when he got her, and he cut out her baby and left the two bodies in two different Dumpsters in Central Park. I don't go to Central Park anymore either.
What happened to Jackson's girlfriend was the kind of thing that people just never get over. Eventually, I started to understand that and realized that if Jackson couldn't get over it, then he probably wasn't going to change. The idea that he might always be the way he was frightened me more than the beatings themselves. One night, for no reason at all, he lost it on me so bad that I had to run into the bathroom and lock the door to protect myself.
All I had on that night was my pajamas, with eleven dollars in the pocket for some reason, and a pair of socks. Still, I decided it would be better to crawl out the window than to face Jackson. There I was, all by myself with barely anything on, and the only thing I could think to do was call Andre. I had memorized his number, so I went to find a pay phone and called him. Luckily he answered and didn't hang up when I started crying hysterically. He just asked me what was wrong. When I told him, he said, "Stay there. I'm sending someone to pick you up."
Andre brought me to the apartment
Later I found out that the guy who murdered Rachel was actually Joel Rifkin, one of the country's most notorious serial killers. I was in a holding cell in New York—long after I'd left Jackson— when they caught him. (I was there because I had been picked up during a routine bust of the Asian "massage parlor" I was running.) I was sitting on the floor of central booking playing spades with some other girls when I looked up at the television set, which was tuned to the local news. They were showing this video of the police chasing a truck on the interstate. The police had tried to pull this guy over for not having a license plate, but he didn't know that was all they wanted, so he tried to run. The chase ended with him
running into a pole, after which they found the body of a dead prostitute in the bed of his truck.
I was laughing at the stupidity of this guy when they flashed a picture of his face. It was Joel Rifkin, and I recognized him instantly. He'd come into one of the clubs 1 had worked at several times. I'd even danced for him myself once or twice. He was the kind of guy who was often looking for girls for hire, and that was the scary part. I knew for a fact that he had kept company with working girls lots of times and nothing bad had happened to them. Most of the time he acted like any other customer, so no one had any idea that we should be afraid of him. Sometimes people just snap without warning, I guess, but that made the whole thing even harder to wrap my head around. When I saw his face, I just kept repeating out loud, over and over again to no one in particular, "I know that guy. I know that guy." I think I must have been in shock. My whole body went cold, and I vowed never to watch the news again. To this day, I never have.
Later I found out that Rifkin preyed on ethnic women who worked in the sex industry and that he scouted for his victims at strip clubs in and around big cities like Boston and New York. That was why I knew several people who had had contact with him. It was freaky. I don't know why he targeted that type, but he obviously had some serious issues. A friend told me that he killed another girl I knew, a beautiful Spanish hooker named Venus. She was five months pregnant when he got her, and he cut out her baby and left the two bodies in two different Dumpsters in Central Park. I don't go to Central Park anymore either.
What happened to Jackson's girlfriend was the kind of thing that people just never get over. Eventually, I started to understand that and realized that if Jackson couldn't get over it, then he probably wasn't going to change. The idea that he might always be the way he was frightened me more than the beatings themselves. One night, for no reason at all, he lost it on me so bad that I had to run into the bathroom and lock the door to protect myself.
All I had on that night was my pajamas, with eleven dollars in the pocket for some reason, and a pair of socks. Still, I decided it would be better to crawl out the window than to face Jackson. There I was, all by myself with barely anything on, and the only thing I could think to do was call Andre. I had memorized his number, so I went to find a pay phone and called him. Luckily he answered and didn't hang up when I started crying hysterically. He just asked me what was wrong. When I told him, he said, "Stay there. I'm sending someone to pick you up."
Andre brought me to the apartment
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