by Joe Corso
“I figured you were going to do something like that,” Tarzan replied. “By helping Bernstein and his buddy Morgenstein, you kind of neatly painted them into a corner. They have no choice but to help ya.”
“Yeah,” Red said, “but my way is painless. I’m not shakin’ ‘em down for money and I don’t want to take over their business so I think what I’m askin’ for is reasonable and far less expensive than they thought it would be. They knew they’d have to give me somethin’. They figured it wouldn’t be money. No, they thought I was gonna ask for a piece of Columbia Pictures. They seemed relieved when I told them I was going into the movie business on my own. I told ‘em that all I wanted was their expertise and their partnership with my movies, plus . . . I wanted him to look at Swifty. He knows I sent him a winner with Jimmy the Hat, so I think he’s probably pretty curious about Swifty. Hopefully, he likes what he sees, even though I really don’t care what he thinks of the idea. I want Swifty in pictures so Swifty is gonna be in the movies. That’s what I want . . . period.”
Shooter and Piss Clam walked in. Shooter approached Red.
“Hey boss. I hear you’re havin’ a blast next Saturday night. Are we invited?”
“You kiddin’?” Red said. “Sure you’re invited – you and Piss Clam over there, sulkin’ at the bar.” Piss Clam had been preparing for the big “No” but when he heard Red’s remark, he perked up.
“Thanks boss. We were talking about the bashes you throw and we never been to one and we were kinda hopin’ we’d be invited.”
“Well, now it’s official,” Red said. “You’re both formally invited. You guys did a great job.” Trenchie walked in and joined Red at the table. He heard the tail end of the conversation.
“Red, did you call your regular customers to tell them about the party we’re havin here?” Trenchie asked.
“Yeah, I made all the calls. Everybody I spoke to said they’d be here. Especially when I mentioned that we’re havin’ a surprise guest entertainer and a few Hollywood mogul – types attendin’ the party.
chapter twenty-seven
On a Wednesday morning, a black stretch limo was waiting outside LaGuardia Airport where Moose met Bernstein, Morgenstein and their families and took them straight to The Starlight Club. Shortly after his return from California, Red had instructed Moose to hire an interior decorator and completely revamp a vacant house in Corona Heights. His California guests would stay there. Moose called a contact in Manhattan who specialized in the rental of fine furniture and working with the decorator, each piece was hand selected and matched to the décor as designed by the interior specialist. This area of Queens appeared to be questionable, far from upscale, but the two families entered to find an elegant home, resplendent with its golden walls, silk drapes and tulle–crowned canopy beds. Red assured them that they would all be perfectly safe there. This was mob territory – Red’s country. There was no such thing as “unsafe” here.
News spread fast in the neighborhood and word was that some Hollywood mogul would be staying in the area for a few days. Neighbors were advised to be on their best behavior. But to ensure their privacy, Red had Shooter remain with the Bernstein and Morgenstein families, on a sofa bed in the finished basement.
On Thursday, Red had his club chef prepare an eight course feast for his dinner guests – oysters rockefeller, pasta fagiole, antipasto, caesar salad, intermezzo, prime rib, tiramisu, and all the champagne, wine and other spirits that his guests could hold. Red wanted to show The Starlight Club in all its glory – lights on, band playing, guests dancing – “Starlight Fever”, he liked to call it. The Morgensteins, Bernsteins and Red’s other invited guests were served in the formal dining room. Red invited Marco, the famous clothing designer that he had met long ago and he had introduced him to Trenchie. Marco in turn introduced Trenchie’s wife, Mary, to the high fashion world of couture. Red invited Marco and his wife, Karen, to join them for dinner, which they gladly accepted. Trenchie and Tarzan brought their wives as well.
“Absolutely delicious,” Larry Bernstein raved with each bite he took. Conversation at the main table split, as it always tended to do, into separate discussions with men talking about the fights and the women talking about all things children and shopping. Lydia was excited to meet the one and only Marco of fashion fame and she found his wife Karen to be most enjoyable. Morgenstein and Bernstein, even though clearly out of their element, were surprisingly at ease among these ‘rough’ men.
The evening began to wind down and Shooter got the signal from Red that it was time to bring around the car. Shooter crossed the street to the limo parked in the lot and drove it around to the front of the club where he gathered the California guests, and headed back to the hotel – the beautifully redecorated home in Corona Heights. Shooter parked the car in an alley beside the house and settled himself comfortably into the basement.
The following day was fight day. Red, Bernstein, and Morgenstein spent the day at The Starlight Club relaxing and talking business. Shooter drove the women to Karen and Marco’s home in Rye, New York. It was palatial – once owned by the Bloomingdale family. Shooter waited while the ladies lunched and drove them back in time to join the men for early evening coffee and cordials at the club.
Red checked his watch and alerted everyone that it was time to leave for the fights. When everyone was comfortably seated in the limo, Shooter pointed the car toward Sunnyside Gardens. The stretch limo slowly made its way to the arena entrance where he let his passengers off. There was a double spot by the curb only a block away, perfect for the long car. Shooter parked there and hastily began his walk. He didn’t want to miss a single fight. These were Red’s fighters. This was a special night.
Trenchie, Tarzan, and Piss Clam took their seats at ringside saving Joey Bones a seat while Red, Larry, and John Morgenstein walked down the long hall toward the area reserved for the fighters. They passed a few doors before entering the second one immediately before the end of the hall. The last room was reserved for their opponents. Red wasn’t a superstitious man, but he did have one request and it was that all of his fighters occupy the same room before a fight. Maybe he thought the fighters would motivate each other, or engage in conversation to briefly take their minds off the coming bouts, but whatever it was, it was an instruction, more like an order, and the fighters obliged.
Red walked into the room with his two guests as their trainer, Gil Clancy, was giving the fighters their last minute pointers. When Clancy saw the men, he smiled and walked toward them. Red introduced the legendary trainer to the movie moguls and then requested a few moments in private with his three fighters.
“Sure,” said Clancy and he promptly departed.
Swifty was the first to speak. “It’s good to see you Red. We thought that maybe you wouldn’t make the fight.”
“I told you boys that I would be in your corner come hell or high water when the fight started. Now are you boys in shape?” Red asked.
“Yeah, don’t worry about us,” Henri chimed. “We talked it over and decided that if we have to fight on a steady basis, we might as well be wearing championship belts.” Red looked at Gonzo.
“And what about you big guy? Are you ready for a championship belt?” Gonzo smiled as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“I’m with them,” he said pointing at Swifty and Henri. “We think it would be great for you to have three champions in your stable and we made up our minds that we’re gonna do it. We’re all gonna become champions. The only problem we have is with Swifty and Henri.” Red looked at the two men with concern showing on his face.
“Do these two have a problem?”
“Well, they fight at the same weight and they both can’t hold the same title, so one of them is going to have to move up or down a weight class. Swifty volunteered to work toward putting on a few pounds on and move up in class.” Red looked relieved.
“Well now, you had me worried there for a second, but I think that’s a good move if it doesn
’t weaken you, Swifty, or pit you against much bigger men. What do you think about moving up a class Swifty?”
“Well, I’m fighting at one sixty now. If I gained a pound or two, I’d automatically be put in a different class so . . . yeah, I think I can handle it. In fact, the way I’m bulking up, I think it would be natural to move up a weight class.”
“Good. Then it’s settled – eventually, I’ll have three champs in three different weight classes.” Red summoned his two guests to join them and introduced his fighters. He pulled Swifty aside and said, “Mr. Bernstein would like a few words with you.” Bernstein didn’t say anything to him at first. He just looked him up and down as if he were buying a horse. Swifty was waiting for him to check his teeth. Bernstein mentally measured his height and pictured one of his leading ladies standing beside him.
“How tall are you Swifty?” Bernstein asked.
“Five eleven,” he replied.
“That works,” Bernstein mused. Then he asked Swifty some rather mundane questions, more to hear him speak than to gain information from him. He liked what he heard – clean, clear enunciation. Swifty’s voice didn’t have that John Barrymore timber to it – his voice was softer, more like Marlon Brando, and Larry was sure it would work on film. Satisfied with what he saw, Bernstein shifted his attention to his facial features. He was an expert in choosing a star. He hand plucked them using his own little battery of tests before granting a screen test and most every one of them had gone on to enjoy tremendous success – success that translated into dollars for the studio. When Red had sent James Roman to him, he knew immediately that he had a winner.
Bernstein examined Swifty’s face as if he were a surgeon. Swifty had blond hair. Most of his stars had black hair, including Roman. His nose wasn’t broken, but you could tell that it was a fighter’s nose because of the flesh that was built up on either side of it. Bernstein noticed the scar tissue around his eyes. It wasn’t much, but just enough to add some character. His skin was smooth and Bernstein had to admit that this fighter standing before him had an easy manner, was a handsome kid, and reminded him of a blond John Garfield. The only question mark was sex appeal – that unspoken something that makes the women swoon. Roman and Garfield each had it. Roman had animal appeal. It oozed from his pores. Larry wasn’t quite sure yet if Swifty would have this effect on women. But as long as Swifty could bring a little of the essence that Bernstein first sensed, that might follow.
“Thank you Swifty. I’d like to chat with you some more before I leave so put aside some time for me over the next few days.” Swifty smiled, exposing a perfect set of pearly whites. The smile, Bernstein thought. That was his gift, his smile. It filled the room and that wasn’t lost on Bernstein. Bernstein’s instinct was kicking in more with each passing second. This boy just might be his next star.
“Sure,” Swifty answered. “After my fight tonight, I’ll have plenty of time on my hands so whenever you want, I’ll be available.”
As Swifty walked away to join his pals, Red asked, “What do you think?”
“I like him,” Bernstein answered. “He has a good speaking voice. He is certainly a good looking lad but it’s his smile that gives him that star quality. Now we have to check out the acting. Can you fly him out for a screen test?”
“Sure. When?”
“Could you arrange for him to be at the studio next week?”
“Sure can. We’ll settle on a day and time later and I’ll confirm it with you before you leave.”
“Good,” Bernstein said. “Now that that’s settled, let’s go watch us some fights.”
When the four, six and eight – round bouts were finished, it was time for Henri to step into the ring. Henri had an aura about him – a quiet confidence that impressed Bernstein. Most fighters showed nervousness before a bout, but not Henri. He looked so relaxed he could have been in church. But he wasn’t in church, he was about to do battle with a man looking to beat in his brains and yet he didn’t seem the least bit concerned. His opponent was a rough looking black boy with finely cut muscles threading through his body. This would be the first ten– round fight on the card. Swifty’s bout was next and the last ten rounder of the night was Gonzo’s heavyweight fight.
The bell rang for the start of the fight and right from the beginning, Henri’s class and poise made a statement. He danced around the ring like a larger version of Willie Pep, the legendary featherweight champion of the forties and fifties, the man with the lightning quick jab and devastating left hook. In the ninth round, the fight eventually was halted because the other fighter could no longer continue. Henri had beaten him down. Bernstein, ever the eagle–eyed observer, was taking it all in.
It was now Swifty’s turn. Swifty, in his scarlet robe and towel draped around his neck to keep his body and muscles warm, sauntered through the door, threw a few jabs for show, and made his way down the aisle to the ring. Bernstein took a moment to soak up the reaction of the crowd, paying careful attention to the women. He jumped nimbly up the steps, swung himself through the ropes and danced around a bit, warming up. A glossy sheen of sweat coated his body indicating that he must have been doing the same in his dressing room. Red pointed out to Larry that most fighters come into the ring sweating to prevent being knocked out quickly. He explained that by working up a sweat in the locker room a fighter doesn’t come into the ring cold. If a fighter comes in cold he’s at a disadvantage and stands a chance of being knocked out quickly.
The women in the audience didn’t escape Bernstein’s notice either. His mind was racing with thoughts of this boxing world as a potential market for a good fight film. He would mention it to his team upon his return to California. His creative ideas were suddenly interrupted by a cheering section in the crowd.
Larry looked around to see find the source. To his surprise, it was June, Morgenstein’s daughter, screaming in delight at everything Swifty did. She carried on like that the whole time, beginning with his walk down the long corridor leading to the ring. This had merit. If Larry’s partner’s notoriously picky daughter was attracted to Swifty, screaming like a teenager when he climbed into the ring, then most likely the women of America would have the same reaction seeing him on the big screen. This excited the studio head. Yep, he had a good feeling about this young fighter. This heightened his curiosity as to Swifty’s prowess in the ring.
Johnny Addie announced the fighters. Unlike the droning, modulating tones of other announcers who caused audiences to cringe, while taking forever to announce the names of each fighter, Johnny’s high pitched, staccato voice was perfect for this venue. Addie was all business and perfect for his time.
Swifty removed his robe and Bernstein noted the sculpted musculature of the young athlete – perfect for the big screen. The bell rang to start the first round and June, sitting with her girlfriends in the row behind Bernstein, bounced in her seat like a giddy school girl. Bernstein watched other women, sitting near ringside, as they looked admiringly at the young fighter. His attention returned to Swifty who had visibly changed from the docile likable lad he was introduced to in the dressing room, to a ferocious gladiator, stalking his opponent. Swifty didn’t have Henri’s finesse. Henri’s style was finesse, hitting but not being hit. When an advantage presented itself, Henri attacked like a tiger but not a second before. Swifty, on the other hand, moved relentlessly forward, daring the fighter to swap punches with him. Swifty’s advantage, as Red had said, was that he could knock an opponent out with either hand. Swifty fought toe–to–toe with his opponent in the first and second round. In the third round, his opponent threw a roundhouse right hand. Swifty ducked and the blow passed over him. But he then responded with a perfectly timed right uppercut to the jaw. Bam! That was it. His opponent was down for the count. Game over. Swifty had easily won the match.
Red’s last fighter was up. It was now Gonzo’s turn. Red was more interested in this fight than the other two. He had seen his other boxers fight, knew what to expect. Big Red had never seen
Gonzo fight. Gonzo seemed in good condition for a big guy. Henri, Swifty and Gonzo were all on the same training regimen. Gil Clancy, the hard task master, had made sure of that. His training methods produced champions. Red knew Gil wouldn’t take on a fighter without talent and he also knew that Clancy cared about his fighters. If they didn’t have the crucial skills needed for the sport, he would point them elsewhere, on to other dreams and goals. Gil had assured Red that each of these boys had champion potential. Clancy had worked hard with Gonzo to reshape his bar room brawling, bull–in–the–china–shop style, into something akin to a professional prize fighter, fighting with mind and skill. Boxing, Clancy always said, is 90% mental and 10% physical. What Clancy devised for Gonzo was a Marciano type style. He trained him to use his jab. In his previous fights, Gonzo had just come at his opponent wildly throwing lefts and rights, with abandon, looking for just a single punch to land. Now, he used his jab and followed it with a left hook or a right hand. Clancy would yell out, “Jab, jab, jab! Let it make an opening for your right hand. Again now – jab, jab, jab, now the right hand. Good! Now let’s do it again.” And so it went until Gonzo’s style was developed into something that resembled a more professional style.
The first round began and Gonzo took short steps shuffling, inching toward his opponent. The two men had a ‘feeling each other out round’, stalking each other, looking for weakness, getting to know the style of the other. It was only the first round but Gonzo hadn’t shown anything yet. Red wondered if he could punch. The round ended. The fighters returned to their corners. Clancy leaned into his boxer’s ear and said,” I spotted a flaw, a big one. I want you to look at his eyes, Gonz. Don’t look at anything but his eyes. Whenever he’s about to throw a punch, he raises his eyebrows. Now, when he does that, I want you to immediately throw a right to his gut and follow that up with a right hand to his head. Remember, first to his gut to drop his guard, then the head. Do you understand?” Gonzo nodded in the affirmative.