The word had come down last week, and I knew that both Ed and Margaret were disappointed at the cancelation. So was I. I’d enjoyed photographing everyone from Mary Pickford and Joan Crawford to Milton Berle and the radio pair Fibber McGee and Molly. But if I was “not myself,” it was because I was mourning Peter Keeley, not the “Night of Stars,” as Margaret assumed.
“I certainly understand how you feel. Ed and I were shocked, too, but what can you do?” Margaret said as we pulled up in front of the apartment building.
I followed them upstairs into their apartment and now Ed let loose a bit.
“So unfortunate. And Jules Stein had arranged for the entire cast of this movie that’s coming out, Du Barry Was a Lady, to appear—Lucille Ball, Red Skelton, Gene Kelly. I had a little bit of patter all worked out about being Kellys together. I guess I’ll have to call Stein Monday and let him know the whole thing is off,” Ed said.
I knew Stein was the reason the “Night of Stars” had always been so, well, star-studded. I’d photographed Stein with Ed when Jake Arvey, the alderman from the Jewish Twenty-Fourth Ward, brought the young eye doctor and impresario to Ed’s office.
A short, intense man, Stein was in his mid-thirties then and Ed had just taken over Cermak’s term. Stein explained that he had left South Bend, where his father ran a dry goods store, for Chicago at eighteen to attend the University of Chicago. After graduation, he’d gone on to study ophthalmology at Rush Medical College. He supported himself during his student days by playing in a band for Jewish weddings and bar mitzvahs, later taking over management of the group. When Prohibition created hundreds of speakeasies that wanted entertainment, he began representing all kinds of musical acts. Of course, all these places were run by the Outfit. And while no one ever came right out and said that Jules Stein was in business with Al Capone, they obviously had an understanding or Stein’s clients would not have been booked.
He became so powerful that even the legitimate ballrooms had to go through Stein. He started to represent famous bandleaders—Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller—and, if a nightclub owner wanted to hire one of those bands, they were expected to take some of Stein’s lesser acts, too. It worked the same way with the groups. Stein would book them into the Palmer House alright, but in return, they might have to play a roadhouse in Cicero, too. No complaining or else …
Though Dr. Stein had been a practicing eye doctor, he wasn’t fitting many pairs of eyeglasses anymore. He set up his Music Company of America and eventually left Chicago for the West Coast. Once in Hollywood, he expanded the company and it became a top agency for movie stars. But Stein had stayed in touch with Ed, and invited him out to California last year.
Ed had traveled out west with Jake Arvey. Jake acted as a kind of patron for Stein and for the Chicago Jewish businessmen who were rising to national prominence. They all came from the same neighborhood in the Twenty-Fourth. The Pritzkers, the Annenbergs, the Crowns, who’d changed their name from Krinsky, and the Korshaks were all wealthy and all rumored to have ties to the Outfit. Supposedly they’d gotten started by investing mob money in legitimate businesses. Not that Ed seemed worried about such connections. “We all came from the streets,” he’d say. And he’d been happy to put on a white tie and tails and sit between Louis B. Mayer and Jules Stein at a fancy dinner in Los Angeles.
But the fellow he talked most about when he came home was Sidney Korshak, whose brother Marshall worked in the city treasurer’s office. Sidney was a lawyer who divided his time between Chicago and Los Angeles. Ed said he seemed to know every single person at the dinner—actors, writers, directors, and all the executives. He had told Ed that if he ever needed a star for a bond rally or his Christmas benefit to give him a call. I asked Ed why he had so much clout out there. “He represents the unions,” Ed had said. “He could shut down production on any movie set in the world.” Clout.
We were drinking coffee and eating chocolate chip cookies in Ed and Margaret’s living room now, looking down at the frozen lake. Ed was shaking his head.
“I keep thinking of all the great shows we had in the past,” he said.
“Will you ever forget Frank Sinatra?” I asked.
In 1939, the Harry James Band was appearing in Chicago, and Ed had asked the bandleader to perform at the Christmas benefit. James hadn’t wanted to commit the whole band, but instead sent a small combo, along with the band’s young singer, named Frank Sinatra.
The reaction from the audience in the stadium had stunned Ed. Margaret and I had tried to explain to him what it was about this skinny young man that made teenage girls scream.
Ed had been fascinated. He’d made a point of talking to Sinatra at the party for performers after the concert in the Lake Shore Drive apartment. I’d heard all about how much Chicago reminded him of Hoboken. Sinatra had told Ed that he felt he was wasting his time with Harry James, and his dream was to sing with the Tommy Dorsey band. Ed was friendly with Bobby Burns, Dorsey’s manager, who was at the party, and introduced him to Sinatra. A week later, two dozen roses arrived at the office, with a note from Sinatra. He was now the main singer of the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra, and would be happy to appear at Ed’s benefits at any time. “And thank Nora for that sheet music,” he’d written. I’d given him a copy of the song “Chicago.” “Tell her I’ll learn it and sing it for her one day.”
“That was such a great night,” Margaret said. “Awful not to have anything at all this year. All the service people in town would love to see Lucille Ball!”
“It had to be somebody high up that put the kibosh on the “Night of Stars,” Ed said. “We better just go along. I can’t be seen to be involved in anything.”
“How about a scaled down show that has nothing to do with you?” I asked. “Let the movie cast perform somewhere. Not sponsored by the city. A free event for all your troops, Margaret.”
“Easier said than done, Nonie,” Ed said. “The cast expects to be here in two weeks. Who could put something like that together so quickly?”
“What about Mariann’s brother Jim? He’s a producer and seems like a doer. At least let me call him and set up a meeting in your office.”
Mariann’s brother was a real Chicago fellow, I thought, as he walked into the office the next morning. A tall, broad-shouldered, well dressed man in a camel hair coat, he held his fedora in one hand with the other outstretched across the desk for a handshake with Ed. Good-looking, dark hair and blue eyes. Early forties, I’d say. He already had a plan.
“The Chicago Theater,” Jim Williams said to Ed and me. “It’s the classiest place in town, right in the Loop—and the manager’s a pal of mine. He’s willing to substitute our event for the usual stage show that goes on before the movie. An audience of only three thousand, compared to the twenty-five thousand you’ve gotten at the stadium, but Nora told me you want something smaller, and they will all be in uniform.”
“Sounds good,” Ed said, “but I have to be hands off.”
“Is it okay that we list Mrs. Kelly as the patroness? Part of her work for the troops,” Jim suggested.
Ed nodded.
Jim went on, “So, as I understand it we’ll be presenting a performance by the cast of Du Barry Was a Lady that’s being released in a couple of months, right?”
“Yes,” Ed said. “Jules Stein arranged for the whole group to come to Chicago before we knew the ‘Night of Stars’ was going to be canceled.”
“We won’t waste this opportunity,” Jim said. “We can put on a great show. There is just one problem. Du Barry is an MGM picture, and Paramount bought the Chicago Theater from Balaban and Katz. The studio might balk at promoting the opposition.”
Ed smiled. “Bessie,” he called out. His secretary opened the door. “Could you please get Abe Balaban on the phone? Use the New York number.”
The Balaban brothers and their sister’s husband, Sam Katz, had built most of the fancy movie theaters in Chicago, then expanded throughout the Midwest. Now they were doing very well for th
emselves in Hollywood and New York. They were friends of Jake Arvey, so strong supporters of Ed Kelly.
In the end, Abe Balaban called his brother, the president of Paramount pictures, and by the time Jim left the office the Chicago Theater was ours. No charge at all.
“Before I go,” Jim said, “there’s something I want to tell you, Ed. My grandfather and your father were close friends.”
I was surprised. “Mariann’s father never mentioned that connection when we met him,” I said.
“That’s because I’m not Ralph Williams’ son. He’s always been Pa to me, and no distinctions were made in our family but my mother was a widow, and I was just two when they married. My dad was Jim Ryan. He was on the force, as was his father, another Jim Ryan. He and your father Stephen Kelly were cops together in Bridgeport,” he said to Ed. “You and my dad were born about the same time, and I guess played together as little boys. Anyway my mother knew about the connection. She used to point out stories about you in the papers.”
“Well how about that!” Ed smiled at him. “The Chicago Irish are all one big clan.”
Both men had big grins in the photograph I took of them.
Problem solved.
A very different tenor to the next meeting in Ed’s office. These were two University of Chicago fellows, both Nobel prize winners in physics. Arthur Compton looked like a small town midwestern businessman, and indeed he was from Ohio. I’d photographed him with his wife at the Hall of Science during the Century of Progress. She was a McCloskey, and we’d toured the Irish Village together. Enrico Fermi could only have been Italian, very courtly. A small man, balding, with a nice smile.
As soon as I’d taken the photograph Ed said to me, “Why don’t you call Margaret and tell her about our meeting with Jim Williams.” I knew he wanted me to leave—this was a private meeting.
I gave it an hour and then came back. The men were gone.
“What was all that about?” I asked Ed.
He was sitting at his desk, rubbing the holy medal. He didn’t answer right away.
“They’re conducting some experiment at the university next week,” he finally said. “Compton says the lab they built under Stag Field is very secure. Perfectly safe. But they want me to have six fire engines on hand just in case.”
“Oh,” I said. What else had they discussed, I wondered.
After a while, Ed said to me, “The last time I was in Washington, the president asked me if I knew Compton and I said yes. Then he talked about letters that Einstein and other scientists had written to him, warning that the Germans were working on a superbomb. The scientists urged him to get the US working on a comparable weapon.”
“Is the University of Chicago experiment part of that?” I asked.
Ed nodded. “We shouldn’t even be talking about this, Nora. I think Franklin was sorry he said anything to me. We were alone, waiting for Grace to wheel in the drinks trolley so he could mix the cocktails. I was telling him how well the steel plants in Gary were doing. Three shifts per day, same as the Ford plant that’s manufacturing airplanes now. He smiled and said, ‘We Americans are good at getting things done when we put our minds to it. We’d better be. I just hope those scientists are as productive as our assembly line workers.’ That’s when he brought up Compton.
“He hinted that something big was going to be happening in Chicago. I said, ‘No better place for it. After all, we gave the world the Century of Progress.’ And then he got very serious, almost glum, and said that he only hoped it was progress.”
“Jesus Christ, Ed.”
“Then Grace arrived with the drinks cart and the rest of the gang came in. Franklin put on his big grin.”
“And did he say any more to you later?”
“Not another word.”
“I wonder if Eleanor knows about this project,” I said.
“She wasn’t there. Of course Mrs. Roosevelt usually doesn’t come to the Children’s Hour—that’s what Franklin calls cocktail time. He’s a remarkable man, Nonie. I’ve always said that Roosevelt was my religion but to see him now … if ever there was a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, it’s FDR. And yet, most of the time you’d never know it. In the same way he makes you forget that he’s crippled, he keeps the worst possibilities at bay. I don’t know how he does it.”
“Women,” I said. “It’s the women he has around him.”
Ed smiled. “He does have quite a harem. Grace Tully has taken over Missy LeHand’s duties and is just as devoted, and now he’s got the queen of Norway living at the White House. His two female cousins visit him in Washington, are on call at Hyde Park, and Grace told me a Mrs. Johnson comes to dinner when Eleanor is away. Though that’s not her real name. She’s an old friend of the president’s. A very old friend.”
“Who? Oh, no, not Lucy Mercer. That’s mean, Ed. Eleanor would be devastated.”
“She’ll never find out. Anna Roosevelt told me her father needs to be admired unconditionally, especially now that his mother has died. And Eleanor is too honest to give him that kind of approval, so…”
“Lucy Mercer,” I said again. And, once more, Ed shushed me.
“Nora, please.”
A superbomb, Franklin Roosevelt’s old flame, and the stars of Du Barry. Just another day in the mayor’s office.
DECEMBER 18, 1942
Ed had gotten good at welcoming celebrities. He had me read up on where they were from and find some way to connect their hometown with Chicago. When Lucille Ball arrived with her husband, a good-looking dark-haired fellow from Cuba named Desi Arnaz, Ed began by talking about her hometown.
“I understand you’re from Celoron, outside of Jamestown, New York. A friend of mine named Al Neary used to run the carousel on the boardwalk there. I hear it was quite a vacation spot. He was from the South Side. Started here during the World’s Fair, the first one. Ran a kind of carnival on the midway and then headed out to New York.”
Lucille Ball was nodding her head. “I remember him,” she said, “from when I was a kid.”
“Must have been fun growing up in a resort town,” I said.
“It was,” she said. “There was a ballroom there where big bands played. I even got to sing along with a few of them.”
“Okay, Lucy,” her husband said. “That’s enough. The mayor isn’t interested. It was a real hick town. Lucy got out as soon as she could. My name is Desi Arnaz, Ed. I’m from Havana. Lots of men from Chicago in Havana.” He smiled at Ed as if the two of them were sharing a secret.
“Yes there are,” Ed said. “I’ve made quite a few trips to your city. A friend of mine raced his horses at the Havana track.”
“Did he win?” Desi Arnaz asked.
“He did alright.”
“Men from Chicago usually do,” Desi Arnaz said.
The Outfit again, I thought. There was a silence. Lucy spoke up.
“I’m not saying I’m a great singer but I can always put across a song. I did two numbers in Du Barry Was a Lady. A Cole Porter score, but a silly story. The janitor in a nightclub falls in love with the hatcheck girl, that’s me, May Daly. I had to dye my hair red for the part, but I think I’ll keep it this color.”
“You should,” I said. “It looks great. And there is something about being a redhead, isn’t there, Ed?”
Ed laughed.
Lucy went on, “May is in love with another guy. The janitor gets hit over the head and imagines that he’s Louis XV and all the other characters are in his court. I’m Madame Du Barry. Nutty, I know, but my songs are great. This one’s a duet with the king but I’ll sing both parts.” And she did.
If you’re ever in a jam, here I am.
If you’re ever in a mess, S.O.S.
If you’re ever so happy you land in jail, I’m your bail.
It’s friendship, friendship, just a perfect blendship,
When other friendships have been forgot, ours will still be hot.
Now when she’d started singing, Ed a
nd Desi had stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. True, she didn’t have a great voice, but what she could do with her face. Her eyebrows went up and down. She batted her eyes, puffed out her cheeks. This beautiful woman became a joyful clown before our eyes. I was laughing and clapping along from the beginning and by the time Lucy had reached the end of the chorus Ed and Desi were smiling too. “La da la da la da dig dig dig,” she sang and gestured for us to join. We did. You couldn’t resist her. “La da la da la da dig dig dig,” we sang. The door to Ed’s outer office opened. Bessie O’Neill, his secretary, stood looking at us with five or six of the men waiting for appointments behind her.
Lucy started a new verse.
If you’re ever down a well, ring my bell.
I doubt if City Hall had ever known such a performance. Lucy finished by dancing down the main hallway, past open doors and applause.
A good half hour before I could get Ed and Lucy lined up for the photograph. By then Lucille Ball had reverted back to being a glamorous movie star and the picture was okay, but it was Lucy the clown who had the real talent.
“You know, Mr. Mayor,” Desi said, “my wife needs a better agent. She’s been trying to get in to see Jules Stein. No luck. I understand he’s a friend of yours.”
Ed smiled. “Bessie,” he called out. “Could you please get Dr. Stein in Los Angeles?”
Desi Arnaz took the call in the private booth in the back of Ed’s office. He came out smiling. “We have a meeting with Stein next week, Lucy,” he said. “He wants to talk about setting up a production company with me. How about that?” He turned to Ed. “I remember when I played in Xavier Cugat’s orchestra how scared Cugie was of all your crowd.”
Desi pressed his finger against his nose and pushed it down. Not our crowd, I wanted to say. Ed, speak up. Don’t let him think you’re connected to the Outfit. You’re the good guy, Ed. Tell him. Tell him.
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