“I can’t shuffle.”
“Two steps left, back, two steps right, back, while we’re doing the song.”
“It’s not dignified.”
“Dignified!” Bat clapped a hand to his forehead and wandered amongst the furniture, then sat down opposite. “Wyatt, listen. You’re here because you need dough. So do I—or any day now I’ll be feeding the fishes in the East River. You know any better way to steal six thousand in six weeks?”
Wyatt chewed on his lower lip.
“Well?”
“Nope.”
“Then trust me. The show must go on. Let’s try it again.”
Wyatt grudged off the sofa, Bat joined him, and they positioned themselves side by side, each with an arm about the other’s waist.
“Just shuffle—two steps left, two back—here we go. One and two! One and two! Now right—one and two! One and two! You’re getting it! One and two! Hotsytotsy! One and two! Hey, we’ll knock ‘em dead! One and two! We’ll pack the Palace!”
They work in a large spotlight, center stage of the Belasco Theater, which is on the north side of 42nd Street west of Times Square adjacent to the Stuyvesant and Victoria. Wyatt runs through his letter, Bat his humorous recitation, and then the duo works with Al, the piano man, on the song-and-dance. Considine has not yet arrived, but Eddie Foy sits center aisle in the dark house offering suggestions.
Foy has had a string of his own hits on Broadway, from “Piff! Paff! Pouf!” to “The Earl and The Girl,” but now, semiretired, he appears principally in other shows, in skits with his seven kids, such as “Fun With The Foys” and “Slumwhere In New York.” He does indeed owe Bat. In 1878, while starting out as half of the hoofer team of Thompson & Foy, he was booked into Ben Springer’s variety hall in Dodge City, and there one night, backstage, looked horrified into the muzzle of a six-gun. It belonged to Ben Thompson, a man-killer who was naturally mean and naturally drunk. Thompson would undoubtedly have nipped Eddie’s career in the bud, and show biz would have been the lesser by Seven Little Foys, had not a friend of Ben’s, young Deputy Marshal Masterson, sweet-talked him out of pulling the trigger.
John Considine shows up, greets those onstage, and seats himself a row to the rear of Foy. It was Considine, whom he’d met in Denver, who had bailed Bat out of the brig on the concealed-weapon charge, and Considine who’d just sold his theatrical empire to Marcus Loew for six million. A word from him over a drink or three at the Metropole was enough to put any performer’s name in lights. He’d done as much for Charlie Chaplin and Marie Dressler.
“Curtain, Bat!” yodels Eddie.
“Going up!” Bat comes downstage. “Now Mr. Considine, this’ll be rough, we haven’t had much time to rehearse. Anyway, picture us in full Western rig, boots and guns and tin stars and all—we’ll give ‘em their money’s worth. So here goes ‘Masterson & Earp!’ Okeh, Al, okeh, Wyatt.”
He moves off, Al tickles the ivories into a fanfare, and Wyatt moves into the spot.
He freezes.
“‘Howdy, folks!’” hisses Bat.
“Howdy, folks,” Wyatt begins, and freezes.
“‘My name is Wyatt Earp!’” hisses Bat.
“My name is Wyatt Earp. I’ve been marshal in Dodge City, Kansas, and Tombstone, Arizona—but you know all about that,” he goes on in monotone. “But maybe you don’t know this. Some years back, the President of the United States offered me the job of U.S. Marshal in Arizona, and I turned him down. Maybe you’d like to hear the letter I wrote him. This is how it went.”
Al segues into “Poor Butterfly.”
Wyatt freezes.
“‘Dear Mr. Roosevelt!’” hisses Bat.
“‘Dear Mr. Roosevelt. Thanks a heap for the offer, but I am going to say no. Sure, I’d like to work for you, and for this great country of ours. But it would be bloody work, I’m afraid. Arizona is still woolly, and if I were marshal, not a day would pass but some youngster would try me out on account of my reputation. I would be bait for grownup kids who had fed on dime novels. I would have to kill or be killed—and you know which it would be. No sense to that. I have taken my guns off, and I don’t ever want to put them on again. So let me spare the lives of these boys, Mr. President, and serve Old Glory in a private capacity. Thanking you again, I remain, Respectfully Yours, Wyatt Earp.’”
Al pounds the piano as Wyatt backs awkwardly out of the spot.
Silence in the Belasco.
Bat steps in. “He’ll kill ‘em with that, Mr. Considine! Now I’ll do a recitation and pick up the tempo—okeh, Al.”
Al starts a sprightly rendition of the popular “It’s Tulip Time In Holland.”
“Howdy, folks. I’m Bat Masterson, at your service! Now folks, picture a lonesome cowboy out on the prairie tending herd at night and writing a letter to his ladyfriend far, far away. He’s pining for her, and here’s what he might write. It’s called ‘The Cowboy’s Profession of Love.’”
Bat removes his derby, claps it over his heart, and goes down on a knee.
“‘Dearest: My love is stronger than the smell of coffee, patent butter, or the kick of a young cow. Sensations of exquisite joy go through me like chlorite of ant through an army cracker, and caper over my heart like young goats on a stable roof. I feel as if I could lift myself by my boot straps to the height of a church steeple, or like an old stage horse in a green pasture. As the mean purp hankers after sweet milk, so do I hanker after your presence. And as the goslin’ swimmeth in the mud puddle, so do I swim in a sea of delightfulness when you are near me. My heart flops up and down like cellar doors in a country town; and if my love is not reciprocated, I will pine away and die like a poisoned bed-bug, and you can come and catch cold on my grave.”
Al pounds the piano as Bat rises and takes a deep bow. “I’ll have ‘em rolling in the aisles with that, Mr. Considine! It’s sure-fire!”
Silence in the Belasco.
“All right, now for the grand finale, Mr. Considine. You’re gonna love this number—George M. Cohan wrote it for us—that’s right, Cohan himself! It’s called ‘Mr. Earp & Mr. Masterson!’ Okeh, Wyatt.” His partner joins him in the spot. They position themselves side by side, derby tipped, slouch straightened. “Now remember, Wyatt, for God’s sake,” Bat backhands, “left, one two—back, one, two.” He smiles. “Okeh, Al, let ‘er rip!”
Al squints at the sheet and rinky-tinks an intro.
(To PIANO ACCOMPANIMENT)
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Mr. Earp...”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Mr. Masterson...”
(SUNG IN UNISON)
“We were faster than corn-plasters with a gun!
We stuck up for the law—
Beat the badmen to the draw—
Before the shootin’ was begun—we won!”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Mr. Earp...”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Mr. Masterson...”
(SUNG IN UNISON)
“On the dodge from us they didn’t run so far!
Made their play—got their fill—
Pushin’ daisies on Boot Hill—
In the West we were the best—we wore a star!
We laid ‘em low...
We hung ‘em high...
Like the town of Tombstone we’re too tough to die!”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Wyatt Earp...”
(SPOKEN SOLO)
“I’m Bat Masterson...”
(SUNG IN UNISON, SLOWLY, WITH FEELING, HATS OFF)
“We can’t last—what’s past is past—we’re going gray.
Shed a tear upon our grave—
Tell your children we were brave—
When we’re gone they’ll carry on for the U.S.A....
Tell ‘em how we made our stand—
Bringing JUSTICE to this land—
(UPTEMPO, HATS HIGH, BIG FINISH)
Now we thank you, Ladies and Gents—give us a hand!”
; Silence in the Belasco.
Eddie Foy appears out of the dark below the spot.
“I’m sorry, Bat. Sorry, Wyatt. Broken heart for every light on Broadway, y’know.”
“But where’s Mr. Considine?” demands Bat.
“Oh, he pulled out, halfway through the song-and-dance. It’s not a bad turn, just needs some polish. But cheer up—you’re set for tonight with some lulus! You can pick ‘em up at the stage door of the New Amsterdam—the Ginger Sisters!”
“The Ginger Sisters?” said Wyatt.
“Hot-diggety-dog!” said Bat.
Eddie Foy had gone, and they stood in the spotlight like two suitcase troupers who’d just got the hook and tickets to the next town.
“You were right,” charged Bat. “You can’t dance.”
“You couldn’t carry a tune in a bushel basket,” charged Wyatt.
They glummed at each other.
“No use belly-aching,” said Wyatt.
“Spilt milk,” said Bat.
“Where do we go from here?”
“Damifino. Trust me—I’ll think of something. What sweats me now is those permits. Not a damn word from Lucca.”
“What sweats me is getting in the papers. Who-all’d you tell who I am?”
“Well, I had to tell Eddie, and he had to tell John Considine. Oh, and Cohan of course. But I asked him to ask everybody not to spill the beans. They won’t. And that’s only three people.”
Al ambled blinking into the spot with paper and pencil.
“Thanks, Al,” said Bat. “Want my autograph?”
“Got yours, Mr. Masterson.”
He turned to Wyatt.
“Can I have yours, Mr. Earp?”
They lined up that night at the tail end of a line outside the stage door of the New Amsterdam on West 42nd. The line was composed of fashionable old ginks hugging big bouquets of roses. Bat muttered to Wyatt that these were so-called “Stagedoor Johnnies,” adding that they should have thought of flowers, too. Wyatt said he couldn’t afford flowers. Bat said he couldn’t either. Then he had an idea, ordered Wyatt to hold place, and bucked the line through the door. Inside, he chinned with Pop, the doorman, who was reading a racing form, about a filly in the fourth tomorrow at Pimlico and inquired, incidentally, who the two gents first in line were waiting for. Pop clammed up. Bat fed him a fiver. Pop vouchsafed the info that the first two gents danced attendance upon Linda Belle Lowe and Dilly Sheldon, both chorines in the cast. Bat said thanks, stepped outside, instructed Wyatt to look grim as hell, and led him along the line to face the two gents at the head, both of whom had chins as bearded as billygoats. He then addressed them as follows:
“You, sir, are waiting for Linda Belle Lowe, are you not? And you, sir, are waiting for Dilly Sheldon, are you not?”
He glowered. Wyatt towered. The gents worked their chins as though chewing on tin cans.
“Gentlemen,” said Bat with marital finality. “Miss Lowe happens to be my wife, and Miss Sheldon is this gentleman’s wife. Just hand over those flowers and get the hell out of here,” he growled, “or our attorneys will have you in court tomorrow morning for alienation of affections. Now you git!”
They got. Shaking and quaking, the old geezers got rid of bouquets and decamped down the line as rapidly as their spavined limbs would take them, while Bat grinned at Wyatt and Wyatt gulped at the gall of it, after which they assumed places at the head of the line, each in possession of a dozen American Beauty roses.
You’d have known who they were if you had straw in your hair and took wooden nickels. In white high-button shoes they tripped through the stage door like twins, having poured themselves into identical long dresses of lavender silk cinched at the waist and ultra-decolleté in front and back, with shawl collars of ecru lace covering their upper arms and white kid gloves their lower arms to the elbows. Before the first two gents in line they hesitated. Pearl chokers circled alabaster throats, while high over each head, its red hair piled and captured in a snood of gold mesh, waved a sensational ostrich plume, one sister’s of pink, the others of pale blue. It was practically the only way to tell them apart, for each had bee-sting lips painted vermilion, cheeks blushed by rouge, and eyelashes laden with mascara. If the two gents first in line did their damndest to look like ding-dong daddies, the young ladies had no wish whatever to dissemble. They were sweet patooties and proud of it. When they warbled “Ireland Must Be Heaven, For My Mother Came From There,” strong men wept. When they chirped and undulated hips to “Aba Daba Honeymoon,” they brought down the house. They could only be the Ginger Sisters.
“Mr. Masterson?” asked one.
Mr. Masterson removed his hat and inclined politely from the waist. “At your service, ma’am,” said he with a virile smile. “Just call me ‘Bat.’”
“Mr. Earp?” asked the other. “The real, one-and-only, honest-to-golly Wyatt Earp?”
Mr. Earp glared at Mr. Masterson.
The white-jacketed arm of a waiter parts green velvet curtains and places before Wyatt a three-pound lobster. It seems to stare at him from the platter, and he returns the stare.
“What in hell is this?”
“That is a lobster,” says Bat.
“What do you do with it? Wrassle it?”
“You eat it,” says Bat. “Or take it home for a doorstop.” The girls go into gales of laughter while the waiter’s arm is thrust thrice more through the curtains, bearing three more lobsters.
“We weren’t born yesterday,” says Bat to the girls. “Sure, you go by the Ginger Sisters on the stage—but what’re your real names?”
“Do we really have to tell?” they appeal.
“Well, you know ours. Turn-about’s fair play.” The arm parts the curtains and passes in, one by one, four boats of melted butter.
“Mine’s Helen Troy.”
“Mine’s Juliet Bard.”
“Enchanting,” says Bat to Helen.
“Juliet,” Wyatt repeats. The girls are seated in the center of the booth, Juliet beside him, Helen beside Bat. “How did you know I’m Wyatt Earp?”
“Eddie Foy told us—he had to. We don’t go out with any old body.”
“Old?”
“I mean nobodies.”
The arm appears with four lobster crackers on a silver salver. Bat distributes.
“What’re these?” asks Wyatt.
“Crackers. Get a good grip and use ‘em like pliers. Start with the claws.”
Wyatt watches attentively as the others commence to disassemble and devour the crustaceans. The arm removes a bucket of ice containing two empty Mumm’s bottles. It reappears, bearing another bucket of ice containing two full bottles of Mumm’s. Bat takes one and is about to pop the cork when Wyatt kicks him under the table and nods toward the curtains. The two men lean into the curtains and extrude their heads from the booth in order to hold a tête-à-tête.
“That’s four lobsters and four bottles of champagne already and a private booth,” says Wyatt. “What’s all this going to cost?”
“A bagatelle,” says Bat. “Anyway, it’s on me, pal. I run a bill at Rector’s.”
Rector’s is to the Gay White Way what Mrs. Astor’s palace is to Fifth Avenue society. A long, low, yellow-brick building on Times Square between 43rd and 44th, its amazements include a giant illuminated griffin suspended from its facade and the first revolving door in the city—the latter contraption having caused Wyatt, who had never seen one, some difficulty with entrance. Inside, the establishment is elaborately decorated in green and gold, walled with mirrors from floor to ceiling, and lit by crystal chandeliers. On the second floor are seventy-five tables at which the hoi polloi are dumped. For the elite, one hundred tables and two private booths are reserved on the ground floor. And it is to this level that the bon ton of New York night life come after the theater in jewels and silks and soup-and-fish to be greeted by George Rector, to sip and to sup, to see and be seen, to crowd the place by midnight every night. Through these portals have regular
ly paraded such personages as Diamond Jim Brady, who bankrolled the restaurant in its beginning, and Lillian Russell, and Florenz Ziegfeld of “Follies” fame, and Anna Held, who took tub baths in milk, and the Floradora Girls, and Harry K. Thaw, who shot Stanford White over Evelyn Nesbit, and Charles Frohman and Richard Harding Davis, and 0. Henry, whom few recognized, and young Billie Burke, and Victor Herbert, the composer who penned the immortal “I Want What I Want When I Want It,” and, neither last nor least, the legs of Miss Frankie Bailey, which were unveiled nightly at Weber & Fields’s Music Hall, legs adjudged by the stronger sex a national treasure and actually registered for copyright at the Library of Congress—not to overlook W.B. “Bat” Masterson, the Fearless Frontiersman, whose renown entitled him, on request, to a private booth.
Presently, in that booth, crackers crack and butter flies and bits of shell ricochet about like bullets.
“Are you married, Bat?” asks Helen Troy.
“Twice over,” states Bat, popping the cork of the fourth bottle and pouring.
“Twice!”
“I have two Indian wives. Cheyenne. Brought ‘em with me from the plains.”
“I appreciate your honesty.”
“Are you married, Mr. Earp?” asks Juliet Bard.
An arm parts the curtains and extends a menu and a pencil for Mr. Masterson’s autograph, which he provides.
“I am,” states Wyatt.
“Two Indian wives!” Helen exclaims, having thought about it.
“A chief can have two. And it’s very convenient—I want what I want when I want it.”
“But she’s in California,” adds Wyatt, “and a man gets mighty lonesome far from home.”
Juliet changes the subject. “I love to dance. Do you do the Bunny Hug, Mr. Earp? The Turkey Trot?”
“No.”
“How many men have you killed, Bat?” Helen inquires. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“If you don’t mind my not telling.”
“The Grizzly Bear?”
“No. But I do the Buffalo Wallow.”
A waiter’s arm is thrust through the curtains, removes the bucket and two empties, and replaces it with a bucket and two fulls. Wyatt kicks Bat under the table, and they put heads together outside.
“That’s six bottles!” worries Wyatt.
The Old Colts Page 5