[Juliana 02.0] Olympus Nights on the Square

by Vanda

  “Since he’s been home he’s been focusing on my career, less on his own; he hasn’t gone on many business trips.”

  “How thoughtful. And you think he can get your career going?

  “It’s obvious you don’t.”

  “Remember how we used to be? During the war? I know it’s a terrible thing to say. It was such a serious, deadly … but … I miss it. The war. How we were.”

  “I know,” she said softly, looking over at Richard, who stood near the piano, talking to Johnny. “Every moment mattered. Life was … much more alive.” She sighed, “Now, everything is a steady stream of ordinary.”

  “And we were together. At least some of the time.”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember that day at Reggios?” I asked.

  “We can’t talk about that here,” she whispered with a big grin, having the same memory as me.

  “You weren’t wearing underwear.”

  “Al.” She nodded in the direction of Richard.

  “I was so shocked when you told me, but excited too. And then when we were seated, and I put my hand on your knee under the table I—”

  “Al—”

  “I ran my hand inch by inch up your leg—”

  “Al, it’s warm enough in here without you—”

  “And then I touched your—”

  She took in a deep breath. “I better get back before I … Maybe we could meet somewhere.” I watched her scurry away, wishing I could grab her back.

  Chapter 7

  MAX FOUND A cheap, worn-out building in Times Square, on 42nd Street—the crummiest street in the city. One cold September morning, the wind whipping our coats, we stood comparing Max’s dream building with the one we saw in front of us. That pile of rubble didn’t look like it could ever end up as a fancy nightclub.

  “You sure this is a good idea?” I asked before we bought it. “We’re in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “The Latin Quarter and The Diamond Horseshow aren’t far,” he said.

  “Far enough. And they’re beautiful. This building is … Everyone, especially tourists, thinks of Fifty-Second Street as the place for nightclubs.”

  “We can’t afford that.”

  “But what if no one comes to our place?”

  Max stared straight ahead, as if he could see our nightclub already standing there. “We’d lose all our money,” he said, matter-of-factly. “We’d owe a lot of dough, without having any way to pay it back. No one would ever trust us again. We’d pretty much be ruined.”

  “Oh, gosh.” I looked up to see if there was a grin on his face. There wasn’t.

  “But remember, Al, you’re the one who said we could do this.”

  “And we can! We can.” Can’t we?

  Our building was sandwiched between two run-down grinder movie houses with marquees whose picture titles weren’t always polite. The whole street smelled of popcorn and hot dogs because it was lined with cheap eating places like Nedick’s, Hector’s Cafeteria, and the automat. In the street, clouds of white smoke poured from manhole covers. The subway station had a ferocious ventilating machine that tore the hats off people’s heads as soon as they entered. The city had huge signs at the entrance saying, “HOLD ONTO YOUR HATS.” Soldiers and sailors, in spite of the war being over, still mobbed the area, trying to see all of New York City in twenty-four hours. Tourists poured in to see hit plays like The Glass Menagerie, which was changing the whole way we thought about theater even if the New York Times did think the language was too flowery.

  It wasn’t terribly unusual to see a veteran who’d lost a leg or arm in the war leaning against a building with a cup. Carlitos’ newsstand, along with all the others in the Square, was lined with muscle magazines, tell-all rags, and the daily newspapers. You had to be a veteran or blind to own a newsstand. Carlitos was definitely not blind; he was always catching sneaking peeks at his magazines.

  Back in the days when I was really poor, Carlitos was always yelling at me for standing at his newsstand, reading his latest Cue. It was the only way I could keep up with Juliana’s career. I mean, I was only looking at one column in the whole dang mag, so why should I buy it? I was buying unhomogenized milk to save the two cents, so I wasn’t gonna spend money to read one lousy column in a magazine. Carlitos didn’t see things same as me. “Hey girlie, no reading the merchandise. I’m tryin’ to make a livin’ here,” he’d say and then tighten his tie. The tie thing meant he might call the cops, so I high-tailed it outta there.

  Down the block from where Max was building his club was Hubert’s Dime Museum. Its front had creepy pictures of people screaming and twisting themselves into knots. A guy near the door yelled, “Laaadies and Gentlemen, be mystified, be horrified, for only fifteen cents. See the amazing Alberta, half-man, half-woman; faint at the sight of Ethel, the Bearded Lady.”

  Hubert’s Dime Museum, which mysteriously cost fifteen cents to enter, was famous for its flea circus; but I never saw that ’cause as soon as I saw Ethel, the Bearded Lady, I ran out, terrified. She reminded me of that dream I’d have sometimes where I’d wake up and see I’d grown a beard during the night.

  The out-of-town boys, in tight blue jeans and open shirts, would strut down the street and end up in front of our place. “Come on, Max,” I said one afternoon, grabbing his arm when I saw him eyeing one of the boys. “We have work to do inside, and you promised Shirl.”

  “No, I didn’t. You did. But you’re right. Bad for business.” He reluctantly headed back inside to talk over plans with the contractor.

  Soldiers and civilians overflowed the bars, and if they didn’t have the price, would leer at prostitutes parading their wares up and down the street. Businessmen on holiday from the Midwest in their trilby hats escorted the girls to the many hotels for transients. The war was over, so you never saw a woman on the street in slacks anymore. The nancy boys—Max hated them—dressed up for the evening in make-up and flashy outfits to strut the square. They always managed to score as long as there were no cops around.

  Despite this odd collection of humanity choking the streets of Times Square, there never was one speck of trash anywhere. We were the post-war generation, and during that first year, we were filled with nothing but hope.

  Chapter 8

  February 1946

  OVER THE NEXT few months, the club was transformed from an ugly building into a glamorous work of art with fountains on both sides of the stage spraying upward toward the high-beamed ceiling. A huge dance floor, made of the best wood, surrounded the stage on three sides. There were reproductions of famous Greek statues sprinkled among the tables, chairs and banquettes. When customers entered his club, Max wanted them to feel like they were leaving the earth and being elevated to Mt. Olympus, which was the name he ultimately chose—Max’s Mt. Olympus.

  With the club almost physically ready, Max began thinking about the entertainment. He started grooming me to work with talent, so I could be in charge of hiring some of the back-up people and could one day be a talent manager like he’d been in the thirties. Once he trained me, I’d know enough to make Juliana into a star. Of course, I couldn’t tell Max that was my dream. Juliana and Max hadn’t spoken since before the war, when she married Richard. Max taught me how to choose the Maxine Goddesses, or The Maxines for short; they were the chorus babes he expected to outdo the Copa Girls.

  “You’ve never been to the Folies Bergere, have you?” he asked. We sat at a table with notepaper and a pile of the girls’ pictures in front of us. The girls we were auditioning lined the walls and snaked around the room in tights and leotards.

  “What’s the folly berger?”

  “Folies Bergere,” he pronounced, in what I suspected was perfect French. “It’s a nightclub in Paris. They have the most beautiful girls in the world. We must have girls just as beautiful. First, we’re going to send home any girl who is less than 5’8”. We want tall, leggy girls. Watch. Learn.”

  Max pulled on his gray suit jacket that he�
��d folded over the back of his chair and walked to the line of girls; he tapped the shoulders of the ones he deemed too short and pointed them toward the door.

  “The next thing I want you to learn is how to choose the right breasts.”

  “What?” A warm pink ran up my face. I’d never heard a man say that word right out in public, and right to a girl’s face.

  “Girls at the Folies Bergere all have about the same breast size. Wait! I’ll show you.” Max sprinted toward his office and came back with a thin book. “This is a souvenir program from the Folies Bergere in ’35.” He thumbed through the pages. “Here. Look at this.” He pointed.

  “Max! Those girls have no tops on!”

  “I know. Do you see the size of their breasts?”

  “No.” I had my hands over my eyes.

  He pulled my hands from my face. “Look! This is important.”

  “You’re not going to make the Maxine Goddesses do that, are you? We’ll get closed down.”

  “That’s the way they do it in Paris. We can’t do that here. Our girls will wear gowns that show off their figures. Sometimes, custom-made togas to match the theme. The pictures in this program will give you an idea of the breast size we’re going for. Not too big, not too small. I’ll choose today, but I want you to study this program and choose next time. It’ll be part of your job.”

  I flopped into my seat. He couldn’t be serious. He wanted me to look at girls’ breasts as part of my job? Besides my own, Juliana’s were the only ones I’d ever seen, and I liked looking at them, but ... I stared down at the pictures. I’d never seen pictures like these before. Page after page of girls wearing nothing on top but necklaces! How was I gonna do this job?

  Next, we went on to the roundness of rear ends. When we got down to about sixty girls, we finally did the singing and dancing, the best part.

  Max and I agreed a lot on which girls were the good singers and dancers, and by the end of the day, we had thirty girls who would be the first Maxine Goddesses. Max said I had a good ear. I knew that must be true ’cause I loved sounds and could always hear the quietest sounds before everybody else. Like seagulls way out over the ocean. Before I could see them, I could feel their vibrations through my skin. That’s how I knew Juliana shouldn’t be singing ballads.

  While Max was hiring chorus girls and the finest musicians for the orchestra, he also looked for a head chef who would oversee the kitchen and create delicacies that could only be eaten at Max’s Mt. Olympus. Before we even opened, our club was filled with the most delightful scents because prospective chefs were in our kitchen trying out their masterpieces on Max and me. Besides the head chef, Max hired two assistant cooks and a renowned Chinese chef he’d lured away from the Stork Club to cook the Chinese food nightclubs were expected to offer.

  He hired a maitre’d, a hatcheck girl, and cigarette and camera girls. He even hired a fortuneteller, though he didn’t believe in them. Every nightclub had one, so his would too. He hired waiters, cleaners, and bathroom attendants. He expected me to sit in on every one of those interviews to learn, and I did. Except—when he was expecting a guy who was gonna sell him some cigarette coin-ops. For that, Max told me to go out and get lunch. Without him. I headed for the front door, but, at the last minute, I ducked behind a wall. A round guy in a gray suit, his trench coat open, and his porkpie hat pushed way back on his head, shoved himself through the glass door, not even taking his hat off. A cigar dangled from his mouth. He held out a stubby hand. “Hey, there, you must be Mr. Harlin’ton.”

  “Yes,” Max said, barely touching the man’s fingers.

  “Moose Mantelli from Paramount Automat. Sorry de boss, Mr. Miniaci could not be wit’ us today, very occupado, but he’ll be here for openin’ night wit’ some of his friends.”

  Max was staring at the guy behind Moose Mantelli. “Oh,” Mr. Mantelli said, “Dis here’s my cousin, Jimmy. I’m teachin’ him de business.” Jimmy was a big guy whose left eye, cheek, and lips were kind of flattened and melted together, so he hardly had a face on that side; it looked like he’d been burned in a terrible fire. He wasn’t so easy to look at. He wore a wide-brimmed fedora that covered his eyes. When he took it off, you could see thick brown hair covering his forehead; his left eye was stuck half-closed with no lashes and his hands were shoved deep into his overcoat pockets. Max put out a hand to shake and Jimmy slid out his. There was no thumb. Only a nub of flesh that wiggled. I swallowed down my gasp. Max took the thumbless hand in his, and I thought I was gonna be sick.

  Jimmy stayed put, while Moose walked past Max into the main room, looking around. He whistled his approval. “Well, you done pretty damn good for yerself, Mr. Harlin’ton. So, where ya want my guys to put ’em. In here?”

  “No!” Max said, panicked. He closed his eyes, calming himself. “Uh, well, Mr. Mantelli, I’m sure you know that would spoil the décor.” He plastered a big smile on his face.

  “Oh, yeah. Deckor. I know ’bout dat.”

  “I thought, perhaps, in this hallway down here.” Max led the way. Jimmy followed, and I crept behind them, wondering what was happening and why I couldn’t know about it.

  “It’s kinda outta de way,” Mr. Mantelli said. “You t’ink folks’ll find ’em?”

  “The men’s room’s down there.” Max pointed.

  “Good t’inkin’, Mr. Harlin’ton. You gotch yerself a good head for dis sorta t’ing, doncha? Should we sez ya gonna take four?”

  “Well, uh, with four … will the bonus from four cover my short fall?”

  “Let’s t’row in a juke box too.”

  “But this is a club. With live music.”

  “Dem ‘musical’ guys gotta take a break sometime. Don’t dey?”

  “But we have a relief—”

  “How many can I put ya down for?” He flicked a long ash from his cigar onto the rug.

  “One?” Max said, hesitantly.

  “How ’bout we sez two? You got dem udder rooms upstairs.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Max sighed.

  “I’ll get dis order in right away and have you up and runnin’ in no time.” He patted Max on the back, and they headed toward the post I hid behind. I scrambled to slide into the kitchen. Jimmy’s one good eye watched me. He moved toward me, and that face … my heart thumped. Was he gonna kill me? I opened my mouth to yell for Max, but nothing came out. Jimmy nodded at me and left to stand by Moose.

  I heard Mr. Mantelli saying to Max. “Glad to have ya in the neighborhood, Mr. Harlin’ton. Guys da likes of you gives a place class.”

  Max walked Mr. Mantelli, with Jimmy behind him, to the glass door, and then turned back down the hall. He leaned against the doorsill of the kitchen. “Al, what are you doing?”

  “Who are those guys?”

  Max sighed. “This isn’t something you should think about.”

  “I’m part owner. I gotta know.”

  “They’re … friends. In the club business, you need ‘friends’ like that to stay in business. We won’t talk about this anymore.” He walked away.

  * * *

  On February 14, 1946, Valentine’s Day, in Times Square, surrounded by ugly buildings, Max opened the Mt. Olympus. It was the fanciest, swankiest place in the area.

  For the opening, Max had everything decorated in red, white, and blue, with the theme of soldiers coming home to their sweethearts.

  Max hired “The Incomparable Hildegarde,” the highest paid supper club singer in the business, to be the headliner. We were terrified her salary would break us, and I tried to talk him out of it. I was having those visions of me moving into my own cardboard box down on the Bowery. But Max knew he had to take the risk if he was gonna compete with the top clubs. We held our breaths.

  Limousines crowded the block to drop off grand dames, dripping in furs and diamonds, on the arms of some of the richest, most powerful men in the country. Moose Mantelli introduced me to Mr. Miniaci and Mr. Frank Costello. Moose was always a disheveled mess with crumb
s sticking to his lapels, but Mr. Costello and Mr. Miniaci, the owner of Paramount Automat, were clean, and they wore expensive tuxedos that fit real good, and they smelled good too. Mr. Miniaci came with his wife, who was dressed in a silk Balenciaga—Max told me that’s what it was—and a silver fox stole. Moose’s cousin Jimmy wore a tux, and had his hands stuck deep in his pockets. That face. No date. He was scary.

  Hildegarde’s name was emblazoned across the marquee in red and white neon. Still, I don’t think Hildegarde’s enormous popularity was the only reason Max insisted on hiring her. I think it was his own private joke. Although we would never be a club that openly catered to homosexuals, having Hildegarde as our first singer was like a coded invitation to gays who knew how to be discreet and blend in. Hildegarde was one of their secret icons. They were there that night, invisible to the straights, but there, despite the State Liquor Authority’s law against serving alcohol to immoral persons like homosexuals.

  We needn’t have worried about Hildegarde’s salary. She knocked the audience on its rear, and the next morning, all the papers had stories on it. The Herald Tribune asked, “Can Broadway Golden Boy Do It Again?” The New York Post said, “You can’t keep a good man down, and that good man is Max Harlington.” Even Walter Winchell stepped away from the Stork Club to gush over Max’s return. Max was on his way. Now, if only I could convince him to hire Juliana.

  Chapter 9

  June 1946

  THE MT. OLYMPUS grew to be a popular nightspot, but not as big as Max dreamt it. It wasn’t rivaling clubs like “21” and El Morocco, and The Copa wasn’t intimidated. Yet.

  I rode around in taxis, and sometimes limousines, as part of my job. With Max’s help, I learned to wear gowns, and furs, and pearls. I had to wear the Dior New Look with its flared skirts that were kept bouncy by the frilly petticoats underneath. I’d resisted as long I could. I even joined The Little Below the Knee Club, which protested the mid-calf length of the New Look skirts coming out of Paris and influencing Ready-to-Wear. Christian Dior, in Paris, thought it was a great idea to put women back into long, puffy skirts with petticoats after years of wearing the mannish wartime styles. A lot of us didn’t want to go back to clothes that restricted our freedom of movement, so we kept wearing our skirts a little below the knee. When Dior visited New York, our club organized a march down Fifth Avenue against him. I felt like a traitor wearing those New Look dresses Max told me to wear.