‘Some prostitute look like housewife, some housewife look like prostitute.’ : Mister Charlie’s Problem

Mr. Charlie was unhappy.

He stared gloomily at the floor and tried hard to convey the message that this whole business of trying to keep hookers out of his motel was almost too much.

“Some prostitute look like housewife,” he was saying, “and some housewife look like prostitute. How you know?”

His friend, Mr. Kuo, nodded in agreement. “Some have driver license!” he added in a proper tone of incredulity.

Mr. Charlie shook his head. “Heavy duty,” he said sadly.

We were sitting in a $40 room of the Chateau Motel on Sepulveda Boulevard, in what has been described by local merchants as the New Center of Prostitution in the San Fernando Valley.

I don’t know what the Old Center was, but that is not essential to the column.

The room was equipped with a water bed, a mirror on the ceiling and a television set over which adult films are offered for those who require . . . well . . . exterior motivation.

“Debbie Does Dallas,” perhaps. Or the current favorite, “She Wants You.”

There are no telephones in any of the Chateau’s 44 units, Mr. Kuo explained, because customers were stealing so many of them they were all removed.

I believe that’s what Mr. Kuo said.

Both Mr. Kuo and Mr. Charlie, which is what they prefer being called, are Chinese, and, while Mr. Charlie does quite well with English, Mr. Kuo does less well.

As a matter of fact, I only understood about 30% of what he said, but since I only understood about 40% of what my mother said for 70% of her life, that isn’t too bad.

I was at the Chateau to begin with because it was recently named by police as the worst place on the block as far as hookers are concerned.

Or I guess you could say it’s the best place on the block as far as hookers are concerned, but the worst as far as everyone else is concerned.

In the past year, 125 arrests have been made at the Chateau, 80 of them involving prostitutes.

This has not pleased the surrounding merchants, especially those who sell gentle, homey items like flowers and doilies and stuffed teddy bears, so they prevailed upon the police to turn up the heat on the hookers.

Well, sir, if there is one thing an L. A. cop understands it is rousting hookers, so they went to Mr. Charlie and told him to clean up or face the consequences.

Which brings us to the $40 room with the water bed and the mirror on the ceiling and the closed-circuit TV set, but no phone.

Mr. Charlie manages the Chateau for Mr. Yung, who speaks no English at all. Mr. Kuo, as I understand it, is Mr. Charlie’s friend.

I decided to talk with whoever understood anything at the Chateau because too often all the play is given to those in the attack and not always to the attackee.

“Why,” I asked Mr. Charlie and Mr. Kuo, “Do you allow prostitutes to use your motel?”

Mr. Kuo began to answer but couldn’t find the proper English words and handed it over to Mr. Charlie who, Mr. Kuo explained, was educated in Australia. Sydney, I believe.

“Don’t know who bad,” Mr. Charlie said helplessly. “Know 80% of prostitute, not 20%.”

In one instance, Mr. Charlie said, he demanded identification from a woman who, as he saw it, was dressed like a prostitute but who, as it turned out, was the wife of the man accompanying her.

“They both very angry,” Mr. Charlie said. “Walk out.” He stared forlornly out the window. “Heavy duty,” he said.

Mr. Charlie emphasized that he was no friend to hookers. He is going to hire a security guard and raise the height of a surrounding fence in order to keep them out, he said.

Then he showed me a large sign in the lobby of the motel that says “No Prostitutes.”

There is also a sign that says “No Pets” and one that says “No Checks” and another that sums it all up, “No Change, No Ice, No Matches.”

No kidding.

The Chateau, in addition to a nightly rate, also rents rooms in three-hour increments for $24.

Mr. Charlie has been asked to end the hourly rate, but objects that “regular people” like to rent the rooms for a few hours of fun.

“Nothing wrong with that,” he said indignantly.

“Managers bring secretaries here,” Mr. Kuo added, grinning.

Mr. Charlie pointed at me. “If you bring secretary here and I ask for I. D., you don’t like!”

“I don’t have a secretary,” I said.

“Too bad,” Mr. Charlie said.

I don’t know if anyone has a sure-fire method for recognizing hookers. Not all of them wear red hot-pants anymore.

They wear designer jeans and satin jogging suits and sometimes, I guess, simple little print dresses with aprons.

I said to Mr. Charlie, however, that I doubted if many regular housewives would be checking into his motel. Secretaries, maybe, but not housewives.

Mr. Charlie replied that he is being forced to assume everyone is a prostitute and that assumption is causing a decrease in business.

“Even normal people scared to come here,” he said.

Mr. Kuo sighed.

“Heavy duty,” he said.