by Nancy Bacon
When Jim and I were in London, we ran into Sammy Davis, Jr. He had been invited to ‘The Big Smoke’ by Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, to appear at the Royal Command Performance at Victoria Palace and he had arrived in town a few days earlier. He would also do a two-week engagement at the Pigalle. Jim, being a member of the press, had been invited to opening night, and I was in a fever of excitement at the prospect of my first English nightclub. We stepped out of the taxi and Jim held my arm as he guided me down the flight of stairs that led to the Pigalle. The place was packed. I saw Judy Garland and Sid Luft as we made our way to our table and Jim grinned at them and said, ‘Are you two following us?’
Everybody who was anybody was there that evening and Sammy gave one of the best performances of his life. He was onstage for over two hours, almost three hours, actually, and still the audience would not leave. They screamed and whistled and pounded on the tables and chanted ‘Encore!’ and ‘More!’ He sang until he was hoarse, his tuxedo as limp as a wet rag, then finally he begged to be allowed to go home, saying he would love to stay all night but he had to meet someone very special at the airport the next day. The audience laughed and applauded and yelled, ‘Way to go, Sammy-baby’—they knew he meant his steady companion of the last few weeks, May Britt.
I have never seen such a reception for a performer as Sammy received that evening—with the possible exception of Judy Garland’s Carnegie Hall appearance. The English newsmen seemed to dig Sammy as much as he dug London. Jim and I would be taking a walk and see Sammy and May, hand in hand, strolling along like a couple of tourists, with a covey of fans and reporters following at a respectable distance. We covered a lot of ground, Jim and I, during the next couple of weeks. My neck was permanently cricked from staring up at street signs: Fleet, Regent and Bond Streets, White Hall, Pall Mall, Piccadilly, the Strand, etc. And I was slightly dizzy from trying to see everything at once as we cocktailed at the American Bar at Grosvenor House or the Dorchester Hotel or The Top Hat, or lunched at Les Ambassadeurs. There were so many American actors silting around I sometimes had trouble remembering I was in a foreign country.
We saw Robert Mitchum across the lobby of the hotel one day and Jim, who had known him for years, invited him to dine with us that evening. I was in ecstasy as I had wanted to meet him for the longest time. He was one of my favorite sex symbols during that era. I began at once to anoint myself for the big evening, I had my hair done and was in the process of trying on and rejecting every gown in my wardrobe when Jim lurched through the door, roaring drunk. He leaned against the bureau and stared at me with bloodshot, half-closed eyes, a sneer on his face. My heart sank. As mentioned earlier, Jim had had a running bout with the bottle for a couple of decades. Sometimes he won, sometimes the bottle did. It looked like the bottle had the edge this night.
Jim may have been brilliant in other areas, but he was a typical alcoholic; that is, one was never quite sure what he would do next. He might try to bash my brains out with a Scotch bottle or weep uncontrollably and beg me to forgive him and stay with him forever. After a little over a year with the unconventional writer, I was of the opinion that he would more than likely try to bash my brains out with a Scotch bottle. Violence had thus far outweighed remorse. I had grown up in a place and an era where domestic violence was the norm… it was the devil I knew.
I hurried to him and put a hand on his arm and tried to get him to sit down. He pulled away and unbuckled his pants and stepped out of them then flopped upon the bed, still wearing his jacket, shirt, tie, and shoes. ‘Come over here and suck my cock,’ he slurred, his rheumy eyes glittering from between the saggy folds of flesh. (Jim used to say that he had been born with more wrinkles than John Houston had acquired in a lifetime.) He fondled himself and stared at me, that hated and evil grin upon his mouth. I knew that if I refused he would beat me up and probably toss me out of the window as well.
‘Oh, Jim,’ I groaned, suddenly tired to death of playing his alcoholic games and wanting so much for this trip to go right. ‘Why did you have to get drunk—tonight of all nights!’
‘Didn’t have to—wanted to,’ he mumbled. ‘Ran into John Ireland downstairs and we bought a few rounds.’
‘But what about tonight?’ I asked. ‘Did you forget that you invited Robert Mitchum to have dinner with us?’
His pale little eyes suddenly lit up with a demonic glint and he sprang to his feet and stood glaring at mc. ‘So that’s it!’ He advanced toward me and I had to stifle a giggle at the sight he made—proper gray tweed suit jacket, neat tie, knee-length black socks, shiny black shoes, and no trousers. ‘So that’s what all this frenzied preparation is all about.’ He snatched the gown I was holding and flung it across the room. ‘You’re getting yourself all prettied up for Mitchum, huh? You want to fuck him, don’t you?’
‘Jim, that’s crazy, I don’t even know him,’ I protested, knowing it would do little good when he was in this kind of mood. Whenever Jim got drunk he accused me of every black sin known to man and insisted that I wanted to ball every guy we ran into during the course of the evening. Argument was out of the question. In fact, he hoped that I would start an argument because it gave him an excuse for a real knock-down-drag-out battle royal, a diversion he was highly fond of. ‘Really, darling, you know that’s silly—I love you and only you.’ I smiled sweetly and put my arms around him and kissed him, pressing my body close-anything to get him out of the mood he was in, and his mind off Bob Mitchum.
‘You sly little cunt,’ he giggled and grabbed a handful of my hair, twisting my head back, then shoved his face in close.
He smelled of strong whiskey and I gagged slightly and tried to turn away, but he held me fast. He stared into my face for such a long time that I was beginning to get frightened. I wondered what new sadistic plan he had in mind for me. Then abruptly he released me and began gathering up all my gowns, shoes, slacks, coats, etc. I watched in amazement as he stuffed them into the closet and locked the door then pocketed the key. He stepped into his trousers, buckled them, smoothed his coat into place and walked jauntily toward the door. ‘Well, gotta run—I don’t want to keep Mitch waiting.’ He opened the door, gave me a broad grin, and added, ‘I’d take you along, but obviously you haven’t a thing to wear!’ He slammed the door just as the ashtray I had flung bounced off and shattered on the floor.
Needless to say, I was furious. Not so much because he had dared to lock me in like a child, but because I would not get to meet Robert Mitchum. I had made my mistake by letting Jim know how important it was to me. I fumed for a few minutes then called the desk and told them I had misplaced the key to the closet, would someone be kind enough to bring up a pass key and open it for me? I slipped into Jim’s bathrobe and let the man in to unlock the closet.
I got dressed, then paced the floor, not knowing what to do next. I should be gone when he returns, I thought. But then I remembered that this wasn’t Hollywood, where any number of friends would have come to my rescue (and had, on many occasions since I had met Jim) and taken me safely home. I paced some more, ordered dinner from room service, along with a fifth of vodka, fumed, drank, watched the clock. It was after two in the morning and Jim had not returned. I was very angry by this time (and a bit looped from all that vodka) so I decided I would leave him. I began packing, wondering who I knew in Europe this time of year who would be kind enough to put me up until I could get plane fare back to the States.
Then I remembered that an old girlfriend of Jim’s, Elana Da Vinci, was ‘doing’ Europe this year. She had given Jim her Paris address when the three of us had been together in New York the month before. I found her address and quickly copied it down, then called a cab. I was gone without so much as a hairpin left behind to remind Jim that I had been there.
Elana whirled me about Paris for the next few weeks, but I don’t remember seeing anything. I kept thinking how much more fun it would be if Jim were there to explain it all to me and tell me the legends and history of each building and
work of art. He was a walking encyclopedia and could spin a yarn that would charm a cobra. Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer. I loved that arrogant, brilliant bum. I went back to London.
our paris
It was honeymoon time. There’s no other way to spend a summer in London, I decided then and there. Jim wanted to go on to Paris before the cold weather set in, so we made plans to leave our little love nest in the Mayfair. Our last day in London we walked all over town, revisiting the spots that had held magic for me—and memories that would always be a part of me. A fine gray mist hung in the air and the branches of the trees had traded in their leaves for a blanket of frost. A chilly drizzle had started by the time we arrived at Les Ambassadeurs for a farewell lunch. As we entered I noticed a sparkling group sitting off to one side. At closer inspection I saw that it was Elizabeth Taylor, Eddie Fisher, and a well-dressed and beautiful group of friends. They seemed to send off sparks they were so beautiful.
Jim, who had known Elizabeth since childhood (hers), stopped by the table and chatted for a moment. He introduced me and Eddie said, ‘We know Nancy. We met in Hollywood last year at P.J.’s —remember?’ How could I forget. It had been one of the highlights of my young life to meet the fabulously tragic and gorgeous Miss Taylor. Eddie had dubbed me ‘Little Liz,’ and that had been the most lavish compliment that I had been paid to date.
Actually, Elizabeth and her entourage had been expected for several days. Lavish preparations had been underway for some time at London’s largest studios for the epic Cleopatra which would star the queen of Hollywood; the most beautiful woman in the world. Jim had taken me to see the spectacular sets and I was completely flabbergasted to see the mighty river Nile flowing serenely and placidly through the back lot of Pinewood Studio. The ancient cities of Cairo and Alexandria towered above me in all their splendor. It was so unreal and fantasy-like to be standing in a London movie studio in 1960 and see the lifelike reconstruction of the very cities and river that the queen of Egypt had left her mark upon. Hollywood, I decided, was better at make-believe than any of the gods or goddesses who romped through the pages of Bulfinch’s Mythology.
I wanted to stay another few days and see some of the shooting but Jim convinced me that all of France awaited my charms—besides, London in the fall is cold, damp, and ugly.
We left the next morning, via the boat-train (so named because it transported you part of the way by train, part by boat) and curled leisurely through the rugged mountains and chugged slowly past the lovely white cliffs of Dover. Jim pointed out that the Strait of Dover separated England from France and also connected the English Channel to the North Sea. The mystery of the snow white cliffs is simply that they are made of chalk. This passageway was once referred to as the ‘key to England,’ and my imagination allowed me a glimpse of kings and queens and their royal court going about the business of being royal at Dover Castle. I wished that we had been able to see the Castle up close.
We arrived in Paris at dusk and took a taxi to a small hotel that John Ireland had told us about in London, the Hotel de Mont Blanc on the Rue Lariston. The narrow, cobble-stoned street ran parallel with and lay one block behind the Champs Elysees. We checked in, then went in search of nourishment.
The lights had begun to go on along the streets and a kind of transparent mist surrounded each one., giving the avenues and buildings a soft, pastel, mystic look. I could now see why Paris had been dubbed ‘The City of Lights,’ and why so many Americans had fallen in love with it and stayed on. We walked hand and hand down the Champs Elysees toward Fouquet’s (one of the more famous sidewalk cafes) and I saw the Arc de Triomphe towering in the far distance. I remembered all the wild stories Jim had told me about Paris and the outrageous and famous folks he had met there; his kind of people. Staying in a posh hotel and dining with other American tourists was not Jim’s idea of visiting a foreign country. He got acquainted with the natives and let them show him where the action was. I sincerely believe that Jim Henaghan was the first expatriate and soldier of fortune. And I also believed he lied about his age: He must be close to two hundred years old to have been and done as much as he had.
We dined on delicately roasted partridge that evening and then Jim suggested that we go to the Algerian section and watch a belly-dancing act. It was awfully dark as we got out of the taxi, the only source of light coming from a few puny poles that stood on the street corners. Jim took my hand and led me down a dark, narrow, cobble-stoned alley that was much darker than the streets had been. Every few feet there was a doorway set back from the alley, a tiny yellow bulb glowing faintly and softly and eerily illuminating the robed figure of an Arab. They slouched in the doorway and watched silently as we passed by; rich Americans slumming in the Algerian section... I could almost feel their hatred. We may not have been French, but we were white and, to these swarthy-skinned chaps, that alone qualified us for their hostilities and old grudges.
Once inside the tiny nightclub, as several belly-dancers jiggled just inches from our noses, Jim filled me in on the history of the Algerians. (Remember, folks, I had but an eighth-grade education and Jim was my Professor Higgins in almost all things. I have long-since graduated and now am a card-carrying Road’s Scholar.) Anyway, at that time, everything interested me. I was fascinated with the history and legends surrounding things I had heard only vaguely about.
According to Jim, France had won complete control over Algeria (except for that area that bordered the Sahara Desert) way back in the 1800s and for years the Algerians seethed and plotted to free themselves. They got their chance during the aftermath of World War II and the Algerian Independence Movement was born. They took another giant step in I954 and broke out in open rebellion. However, France waged war against the straggling troops of Arabs in I955 and gained control once more. Even though DeGaulie offered them autonomy (the right of self-government and independence) the Algerians were still pissed, and waiting for another crack at the government. (This was in I960; in 1962 Algeria finally became independent.)
I was a little nervous and glanced about the dimly-lit room. A sea of stern, immobile faces stared back at me. I shivered and told Jim I wanted to get out of there.
‘Just a minute, little Nancy,’ he said, digging into his pockets for some coins. He pulled out two American half-dollars and placed them on the edge of the table. ‘First we must tip the charming young lady for her lovely dance.’ He grinned—and I knew from the twinkle in his eye that it wasn’t going to be the usual tip.
The dancer swayed and bumped to our table, flung back the transparent panel of silk that hung between her thighs, held her arms over her head, squatted over the coins, gave a jerk of her belly muscles and stood up. The coins were gone! As I was still gaping, she reached between her legs, crouched slightly, and I heard the tinkle of the coins as they fell out of her vagina and into her waiting palm. She got a big hand for that one and we left.
Perhaps it was a throwback to his newspaper days, but Jim has an uncanny knack of smelling out important people. The fact that he was thousands of miles from the Hollywood beat did not dim this gift. He was on the telephone most of the morning while I tried to bathe and wash my hair in the tiny water closet that was all the way down at the other end of the hall. (Even in some of the more posh hotels, it was almost unheard of to have a private bathroom in the room. There was, however, a bidet in even the shabbiest of establishments. This stubby little porcelain bowl has been the butt of many an American joke, but I found it utterly delightful—and I did not wash my stockings in it!)
We went to the dining room for a continental breakfast that consisted of flakey, warm-from-the-oven croissant rolls, thick porridge, and strong, black coffee expresso, compliments of the management. A lovely green garden sprawled between the rooms and the lobby. There were several small white tables, each with its own private white telephone. (The French had a lot of telephones, it’s just that they usually didn’t work!) Jim ran into a writer friend of his, Johnny Melson, who had been
living in Paris for several years (another expatriate) and had been writing for American television, mostly for the Gunsmoke series. I remember someone at the table being quite amazed at this and asking him how in the world he could write westerns while living in Paris, France. Said Johnny, ‘What difference does it make where one lives? All the western stories I’ve ever heard of happened over a hundred years ago anyway.’
We left John, breathlessly awaiting the arrival of his Polish mistress, and took a cab to the George V Hotel. The lobby and bar were packed with the pretty people set and the decor was magnificently done in antique veined mirrors, ankle-deep carpet, and Louis the Fourteenth chairs. We took a table in the bar and ordered drinks and a few minutes later I glanced up to see Glenn Ford coming toward us, a smile of greeting on his face. He and Jim shook hands, hugged, and pounded one another on the back, and then I was introduced.
I was terribly impressed with Mr. Ford. He was darling in person. Sexy, a bit shy, handsome as hell, and so charming I was constantly blushing at his compliments. He and Jim exchanged old memories then he told us he was in Paris for the filming of his latest movie, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and Jim asked if he would make arrangements for us to visit the set sometime that week as he’d like to do an article for the fans.
‘Gotta keep making those bucks,’ Jim grinned by way of explanation. He was a little embarrassed that a writer of his talent and brilliance had to write for the fan mags. ‘Man, it’s expensive keeping a child mistress, let me tell you,’ Jim laughed and looked fondly in my direction. ‘This one keeps me broke just buying candy and bubblegum!’
Glenn laughed, then assured Jim that if I became too much of a burden he could probably handle a couple months’ supply of bubblegum.
We did Paris up royally and I met so many famous and beautiful and exciting people that space does not allow description.