by Vanda
“No. Who’s saying those ridiculous things?”
“Everyone in Washington. It’s almost the only thing they talk about these days. I couldn’t go home to Grandma yet. I thought maybe Maxwell could give me some advice, since he knows about being one of those.”
“You’ve known all along Max has been looking for you, haven’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I mean, Alice.”
“Al. That’s what my friends call me.”
“Why?”
“It’s my name. You didn’t let yourself be found. Did you?”
“Miss Al, I care a great deal for Maxwell, but I was very afraid to see him again. Afraid I’d fall into a sinkhole of sin.”
“A sinkhole of sin?” Oh, this was too much.
Max walked in. My look of anticipation cued Scott, and he turned in his chair, gripping the back, rising. Max seemed to stop breathing. “Scott. Is it really you?”
“Scott and I have been having a nice talk, and now, I think you should take him into your office and continue that talk. Don’t you, Max? I have some work to do around town, and I won’t be back for a few hours.”
“Won’t you come into my office?” Max said, leading the way. Scott followed. I told Lili and her accompanist and the waiters to take off the next couple hours.
I was locking the door on my way out when Virginia appeared. She wore a flower-print dress with a thin, white-fringed wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “Al.”
“Virginia,” I croaked. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for Max. I went to The Haven, but they said he’d dashed over here. I’m cooking him dinner at his place, and I wanted to make sure spaghetti and meatballs was all right. Not terribly exotic, but Max has amazingly prosaic tastes for such a worldly man.”
“…Why don’t you call him?”
“Because I’m here. Is he in there?”
“Uh …” Should I lie? It wasn’t like Virginia was his real fiancée. She had to know this was going to happen sometime. But I didn’t want to be the one to tell her.
“Well?" she asked. “Is he in there?”
“Yes and no.”
“You mean he’s with a man. Let me in. I’ll wait for him at one of the tables till he’s finished.”
“Uh, Virginia, it’s—Scott.”
The sound of her heels hitting the pavement as she walked away reverberated in my ears for days.
Chapter 30
THE DAY FOR the opening of The Haven came, and Max sent me to a special hairdresser. The finest, of course. When I emerged from the beauty salon, all coiffed and buffed, my hair didn’t look much different. Short to my neck with tight curls. I’d told Francois he better not give me one of those powder-puff styles. I think I scared him. It could’ve been my fist pointing at his new nose.
Max had me fitted for a navy-blue, strapless, floor-length gown with a New Look flair. I’d never worn strapless before, so I worried I’d step on the hem and pull the whole dang thing off what Juliana called my “boyish body.” That would not make a good impression at the opening of Max’s new Swing Street club, but it might get the headlines Max wanted.
Max wore his black tie and tails, and as usual, looked dapper; his Rhett Butler mustache neatly trimmed. He’d even flown down to Florida for a week to get a tan for the occasion. Men and women in formal clothes arrived in limousines and strolled up the red carpet where Max and I stood waiting to greet them. He was my escort. Journalists and photographers recorded the moments.
One early arrival was Mayor O’Dwyer with his new wife, the sexy fashion model Sloan Simpson. The crowds parted as Agnes de Mille, who’d been the choreographer for last year’s hit, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, stepped out of her limo. She was a longtime friend of Max’s. While they were talking, I shook Iva Wither’s hand, who had played Julie Jordan in Carousel and was getting ready to open the same show in London, in June. “Miss Withers,” I said, “I really enjoyed watching you work.”
“Oh? You saw Carousel?”
“Yes, of course. You were wonderful.”
“Which night were you there?”
“I’m not sure. It was three years ago.”
“I did have a good night that night, didn’t I?” She laughed, and I laughed with her.
Lots of Broadway show people, chorus boys and girls, milled about, hoping to be noticed by someone, anyone. Virginia Sales arrived on the arm of Scott Elkins, an unexpected pairing. As the two stepped out of Virginia’s limo, a flash of memory shot into my mind. June 1941. Six months before the war that few expected, or wanted, I walked along a street like this with the kids I’d grown up with: Danny, Aggie and Dickie. Almost ten years ago. How excited we’d been to see all those limos. Now, it was almost mundane to me, and I had no idea where Aggie, Dickie, and Danny were. I was the most unlikely of our group to still be in the business, but I think I was the only one who was. Occasionally, I’d check Variety, but I never saw their names, not even in bit parts.
Virginia looked more beautiful than usual with her hair up in that new, feathered, allure style. Her dress was a black rayon-faille that both clung to her body and fell in drapes around it. She wore a string of pearls with matching earrings. Scott looked handsome in his black tuxedo and homburg, his overcoat hanging open.
Bertha, the hatcheck girl, took Virginia’s mink coat and Scott’s hat and topcoat. The maitre’d directed them to their seats, and I instructed him to have the waiter bring their drinks on the house.
When I turned back around, I noticed Bertha leaning against the hatcheck booth, staring at me. She was a hefty girl with a broad smile. Her clothing was usually drab, but for this night, she wore an off-the-shoulder, beige gown with a huge cloth flower tacked to the center of her rather large breasts. She quickly busied herself counting tickets when she saw I’d caught her. It wasn’t the first time.
A young piano player played ambient music on the cavernous stage that had small balconies at various levels up the sides. For a hefty price, wealthy patrons could be served their meals on those small balconies and be seen throughout the whole performance.
On the main floor, tables and chairs made of the finest oak surrounded the large dance floor on three sides. The red leather banquettes hugging the edges of the room were of the softest leather. Upstairs, there was a smoking lounge where men could go and be men and talk business. No women were permitted up there. This venture set Max back quite a sum, and I’d invested in it myself. We hoped to start breathing again in a few months.
“Al,” Max whispered into my ear. “Over there by the bar, talking to Mae West and Liberace. Next to Franklin Dodge. The woman in the dress that blinks under the lights. That’s Dorothy Kilgallen.”
I jolted backwards.
He wrapped his arm around mine, pulling me forward. “I’m going to introduce you. I want you to get friendly with her. Ask her to lunch.”
“After what she did to Barney Josephson?”
“And if you don’t smile at her and be your sweetest-self, she’ll do the same thing to us, and we’ll end up on the dole. You have a new client who’s counting on you, and Juliana is opening at the Copa in May. You need this woman. Loyalty to Barney will get you a place on the bread line. Now, come. Plaster a phony smile on your mug, and let’s get to work.” He demonstrated with his own wide grin. “That’s what I like to see,” he said as I grinned back. “All part of the job.”
As we approached the creamy-white bar that sat a little to the left—made all the more prominent by the deep-red rug that covered The Haven’s floor—I saw Dorothy Kilgallen smiling in her sequined, deep-blue, New Look gown. She had a small hat perched on top of her head, and tight brown curls hugging the nape of her neck.
As we drew close, I remembered what she had written about Canada Lee, the famous colored actor, who’d been on Broadway starring in all the colored productions during the war. Brooks Atkinson, the critic, said he was the best Negro actor America ever had. A few years back, he even played a white man in whit
e make-up. But she accused him of kissing a white woman in Café Society, Uptown, and that somehow proved Canada and Barney were communists.
“Dorothy,” Max said brightly, “I want you to meet my assistant, Alice Huffman. No, let me correct that. At the Mt. Olympus, she was my assistant. Over here at The Haven, she is the manager, full charge.”
“A pleasure, Miss Kilgallen,” I said as our gloved hands met. “I love reading your column, and I wouldn’t miss your radio program. They both let us know what’s really happening behind the scenes.”
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, too, Miss Huffman. I’ve heard so much about you.”
My stomach jumped. What? What?
“Have you met my husband, the actor, Richard Kollman?” She dragged him away from the bar, where he hung onto the edge. He seemed already to have begun celebrating. He saluted me and went back to caressing the bar.
“I saw Juliana’s show at the Onyx. Quite impressed.”
“And yet you didn’t mention her in your column.”
“All in due time, Miss Huffman. She’s new. I’m waiting.”
“Waiting till she’s a star? Aren’t you afraid of missing your chance to discover her?”
“A star? That’s a tall order. She may have to wait in line.”
“Juliana doesn’t wait in line for anyone. Be sure to catch her show at the Copa in May. You’ll see what I mean.”
“I see. Then it must be true what they say. You are Juliana’s manager.”
“I have no idea who ‘they’ are, but it’s all the work of Richard Styles. He’s her manager. I’m merely a fan.”
“Richard Styles, hm? I don’t think I know him. No matter, you and I must have lunch. And soon. I think we have a lot to talk about. Take my card.” She reached into her purse. “Call my secretary. She’ll set something up.”
“Al!” Walter called out.
“Excuse me, Miss Kilgallen.” She nodded and turned to talk with Max who was getting a drink at the bar.
Walter Liberace stood at the bar, flirting with Franklin Dodge while holding hands with Mae West. He’d been a big hit in the Las Vegas clubs, which made him filthy rich, I’d heard. And always anxious to stand out. I guess that explained the pink tuxedo.
“Hi there, Walt. I mean, Liberace.”
“Hello, Al, and of course you know my date, Miss Mae West, the lovely.”
“The lovely what, handsome?” Miss West said, shaking one of those treacherous hips. “Do you mean me or … you?” Everyone laughed at her perfect imitation of herself. Walter—uh—Liberace merely smiled. They pecked at each other’s lips.
“All right,” Franklin Dodge said, doing a little dance and waving his hands over his head. “Everyone look casual, but face this way.” He snapped his fingers two times. “Smile, Love Bunnies!” We were bombarded by a blast of flash.
As we blinked away the yellow spots, Walter Winchell and his wife stepped up to the bar.
“Walter,” Max said, “you remember Miss Alice Huffman. Now, you say some nice things about her in your column tomorrow. She’s going to make a big splash in this nightclub world.”
“A splash, huh?” Mr. Winchell said, taking a drag from his cigarette, then shaking my hand. I couldn’t believe I was shaking Walter Winchell’s hand. I wished my father could see me. “We’ll see about that. I’ve never heard of a woman running a nightclub.” He turned to his wife. “You dear?”
She shook her head no.
“Well, I think it’s wonderful,” Miss Kilgallen said. “We’re entering a new world, Walter. You’d better watch yourself. We girls might take over.”
“Hmph,” Mr. Winchell said, shaking his bald head.
“Don’t worry about mentioning me in your column, Mr. Winchell,” I said. “I’ve been managing Lili Donovan, who’s opening tonight for Mable Mercer. I’m sure you’re going to want to talk about her in your column. And in May, Juliana.”
“We’ll see.” He took his wife’s elbow and yanked her toward his table. My stomach knotted. As he walked away I remembered that I should’ve gotten his card, asked him to lunch. A woman couldn’t ask a man to lunch. Could she? With his wife right there?
“Dorothy,” Max said to Miss Kilgallen as he drew in smoke through his cigarette holder. “You must come to the Mt. Olympus next week to see the new show. Our headliner will be quite a surprise.”
“Maxwell, don’t leave me in suspense. Who?”
“That’s a secret,” he whispered, then winked.
“Oh, Maxwell, you are too cruel.” She pouted.
As Max guided me away from the bar, I asked. “Who’s going to be our new headliner at the Mt. Olympus?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll catch Dorothy’s column tomorrow and find out.”
I slipped from Max’s grasp. Everyone seemed to be seated, waiting to be served. This was my chance for a moment alone. I was headed toward the exit when … “Hey, you don’t belong in here.” The voice of our bouncer, Joey, boomed above the clatter from behind the bar. “Delivery boys ain’t ’lowed to come through the main dining room. Go out and take the back door.”
“Hey!” LeRoy, Lili’s colored boyfriend/ex-manager, shouted back. “I ain’t no deliv’ry boy, man. I’s a musician! And a customer.” He puffed out his chest. “See? I even wore a tie for ya’lls shindig. I ain’t no slob. I knows things.”
Oh, gosh he’d even worn a nice gray suit, and still he wasn’t dressed right. I hurried over to the bar. What to do? What to do? My eyes quickly scanned the dining room. It was crowded with well-dressed men and women mingling about. It didn’t look like they’d noticed what was going on by the bar. Yet. I didn’t see Max anywhere.
“You be talkin to a arteest, man. That what I is,” LeRoy continued, strutting near the bar. Bar customers stared. Some took their drinks and slipped away. “And I’s here on accounta my old lady’s singin’ tonight jes’ the way I learned her.”
“‘Less you talkin’ about Miss Mable Mercer,” Joey said, “and you better not be talkin’ bout that grand lady, we don’t got no colored girl singers here tonight, so buzz off ’fore I throw ya out on your keester.”
LeRoy hopped up on a bar stool, daring Joey to do something.
Joey grabbed him around the chest, pinning his arms to his sides, and yanked him off the stool. “You ain’t stayin’ here, nigger, disturbing these nice—”
“Uh, no, Joey,” I said, too quietly. “Maybe you shouldn’t uh—”
“You!” LeRoy said to me, pushing against Joey’s thick arms. “Call off your goon, will ya?”
“Al, you know this jungle bunny?” Joey asked.
“Please don’t call him that.”
“Oh, we got ourselves a real New Dealer here, and we’s sposed to lay right down ’n kiss her damn feet. Look, you! Tonight’s Con’s big night. I jes’ wanna sit and listen. So’s I can sees she’s doin’ what I learned her and you hasn’t gone and messed her up. I ain’t gonna spoil your—hey, baby!”
I spun around. Lili was hurrying toward us. Oh, God, no. I ran to her before she could reach LeRoy. “Lili, you can’t see him.”
“But he’s feelin all hurt inside and depressed. I ain’t gonna jus’ leave him like dat.”
“You hear how you’re talking? All the time you spent in elocution classes, and one look at LeRoy and it’s all gone. He’s the last thing you need if you still want the career that’s sposed to start tonight. Do you still want that?”
“Yeah! I mean, yes, but …” She looked come-hither and innocent at the same time in her slender, black-velvet dress with the upraised, satin collar.
“Go back. I’ll take care of it.”
“Ya won’t let Joey hurt him?”
“No. Turn around and go backstage.”
She nodded and left.
“Hey, baby!” LeRoy cried out from some deep inner place; Joey’s thick arms were still wrapped around his skinny body.
“What’s going on, Al?” Max came over. “Who’s the Negro?”
<
br /> “A friend of Lili’s. He wants to hear her sing.”
“Oh, Jesus, tonight? We’re loaded down with celebrities and columnists.”
“What do I do, Max?”
“He’s not even dressed.” Max reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a business card. He scribbled something on the back. “Give him this. It’ll admit him and a date—not Lili, a colored girl—the very next time Lili appears here. When’s that going to be?”
“If all goes well tonight, next month.”
“I wrote Harold’s number on the card, so he can rent a tux on me. Maybe it’s time we did follow Barney’s lead. I don’t know. Here.”
“Don’t you want to give it to him?”
“Oh, no. He’s not going to like this, and you’re the manager.”
Max walked away, and I stepped toward LeRoy, trying to look confident. I don’t think Miss Viola Cramden, my old acting teacher, would’ve been proud of how I was playing my part. Max was right. LeRoy wasn’t at all happy with our second-rate handout solution. “You white folks figger you gots answers for everything, doncha? But ya’ll see. Ya’ll see.” His eyes were as cold as daggers aimed at my heart. He grabbed Max’s card from my hand and did a little curtsy. “Oh, thank ya missus. I jes’ don’ knows what I woulda done wit’out the likes of you.” He tap-danced over to Bertha to pick up his fedora and sauntered out of the club, doffing his hat to the couple who were entering.
After that, I really had to go outside and be by myself. The March night was cold. A whole sky full of stars shone down on me as I stood there shivering, clutching my arms around my bare shoulders. I could hear the faint sound of the orchestra playing “Do the Hucklebuck.”
I couldn’t really see the stars. I just wanted to, so I imagined how they’d look up there if I could see them. The glare from the neon lights was in the way. I remembered how it was when I stood in my backyard in Huntington and looked up at the sky and the stars would be there looking down at me like protectors; they were always there. Different in winter than in summer. But always there. That was long before I knew anything about homosexualism, inversion, perversion, or colored men who wanted to kill me.