by Nancy Bacon
The Frank Sinatra of Paris, Eddie Constantine, was one of Jim’s old and close friends (Henaghan knew everyone, everywhere!) and we spent quite a lot of time with him. Eddie was an expatriate and also one of the most celebrated movie stars in the world, and yet, ninety-nine percent of his fellow Americans have never heard of him. He was a young Jewish boy in Los Angeles in 1949 and he thought he could sing. He wasn’t terribly attractive (his face was craggy and pock-marked) so he had some trouble getting jobs.
He decided to try Europe. The way he tells it, he was performing as a way-down-the-bill singer in a Paris show that starred the sad little sparrow, Edith Piaf, and as he walked by her dressing room one night she reached out and pulled him inside. ‘She kept me there for eight months,’ he said wryly. And in gratitude for his heroic effort to keep her content, she got him a bit part, playing an American detective in a French movie. He was so cute in the part, and his accent so fetching, that French audiences demanded to see more of him. In just two years he had become the biggest box-office star in French movies. His fans were all over Europe and the Middle East. He made millions. His fame was so great at one time that a theater in Dusseldorf, Germany, played his films twenty-four hours a day, fifty-two weeks a year! He out-grossed Bardot, Gabin, the best of them everywhere he played. Monstrous, bigger than life posters of Eddie with the title of his latest flick were everywhere. They were pasted on walls, alleys, fences, buildings; literally everywhere you looked there was Eddie towering above you. What an ego trip it must have been for him to saunter down a Paris boulevard and see himself each step of the way.
Europe has always been the playground of the rich and famous, and they pretty much had it to themselves until the late thirties when a handful of ballsy (but broke) actors started trekking over to grab their piece of the rainbow. Actors who couldn’t make it big in Hollywood descended on Paris, Madrid, and Rome like locusts, some of them never to be heard of again; others got rich beyond their greediest dreams. For the ones who found the going tough at first, dubbing foreign films is a way to earn the rent. Back then, all European producers tried to get their wares into English-speaking markets, so they needed genuine accents, and they paid about ten dollars a day for them. Once in a while the actors are all busy acting, and saw film producers button-holing strangers in tourist hotel lobbies and hiring them to dub movies into an English version. I worked in a couple of those flicks myself during my stay abroad.
It was fall in Paris, lovely, crisp, cold. Jim had found an apartment and we had set up housekeeping together. He was still drinking steadily, but his violent fits came less often and he was able to do some writing so that we had food on the table. We were listening to the radio one evening and heard the announcement that Elizabeth Taylor was dying in a London hospital. Jim put through a call immediately, spoke at length to whoever was on the other end, quickly scribbling down notes as he spoke.
He replaced the receiver, gave me a wink and a ‘Ah-ha—we’re in business, little Nancy!’ and placed another call, this time to New York. He spoke to the publisher of Motion Picture magazine and told him that he had the inside scoop on Taylor’s illness, that he had, in fact, interviewed her personally and was willing to peddle his ‘secret information’ for five thousand dollars. There was a moment’s silence—then Jim’s face split into a wide grin and he slammed the receiver down, whirled me about the room and laughed like a kid.
‘We did it,’ he chortled gleefully. ‘I got that prick Podell to go for five grand!’ Nothing would do but we had to go out on the town and celebrate the money we didn’t have yet.
Well, the celebration lasted for the better part of the week, with Jim getting more bombed (if that’s possible) with each day. Suddenly he had a mere three days to get his piece in on Elizabeth Taylor—but he was still drunk and sick and surly. ‘You’ll have to do it for me, little Nancy,’ he moaned piteously from beneath a silken quilt. He had the shakes and insisted that only another shot of booze would help. He poured a water glass full of the amber liquid, and trembling as though he had palsy, he downed it in one gulp. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said when he was able to speak again. ‘I’ll tell you what to write and you type it up for me, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I agreed reluctantly. I had been typing Jim’s gossip columns for several months, so I knew a little about his style. However, as he had taught me how to type and as he only uses two fingers to type with, that’s the way I learned.
It took me all day to write that story on Elizabeth Taylor. Jim crashed and slept through the whole thing. When he awoke I was finished with the article and was editing it. He was amazed and delighted as he read it over and promptly stuffed it into an envelope for mailing.
That was the beginning of my writing career. It was also the beginning of the time I would spend as Jim’s alter ego. In the months that followed, whenever Jim was too drunk or too hungover to write his column and articles, I would do it. He was very careful, however, to make sure that each article contained his byline. At first, this didn’t bother me. After all, I was learning my craft from the master.
Then it did start to bother me.
Whenever Jim would receive a fan letter praising his writing, or a movie star or someone else of importance would write a note saying how much they enjoyed his last column, I would feel a little twinge of resentment. After all, those were my words that he was taking credit for. However, it just tickled Jim. He thought it was a real giggle to be fooling all those publishers and editors who were paying fifty cents a word (unheard of in those days) for knowledge, talent, and the Jim Henaghan by-line. I had learned my craft well, he said; no one could tell the difference in our writing style. In fact, my style was his style.
For the next several years, I was to earn a very good living as a writer. I owe it all to Jim Henaghan.
reeling through rome and yonder
Petty criminals by the hundreds populate the big cities of Europe, hiding out in places from which they cannot be extradited, living from hand to mouth rather than face justice on counts ranging from stealing library books to tapping the boss’s till for enough bread to get by on until pay day. They proudly wear the label expatriate and collar tourists in airports and train depots, offering to exchange their American dollars for the currency of that particular country. Anyone naive enough to fall for this oldest of scams says goodbye to his American dollars—as well as that friendly little chap who offered to help.
There was no accurate figure on the number of expatriate Americans residing permanently in foreign lands back in the sixties, but experts who were willing to guess put the figure at well above a hundred thousand. Add to these the itinerants who go away for personal reasons, vowing never to return, and stay a few years, and the number rose to close to a quarter of a million—I met my share of them while abroad and, in some cases, found myself envying their flamboyant way of life.
Perhaps my favorite expatriate (and certainly the most colorful) is Orson Welles. I will never forget the first time I saw him.
Jim and I had flown to Rome as he was trying to get some screenwriting assignments and knew several producers who lived there. We checked into a marvelous old hotel at the top of The Spanish Stairs, about a block behind the Via Veneto. Roberto (Jim’s producer friend) had sent over a gleaming black limousine and chauffeur which would be at our disposal twenty-four hours a day during our stay in Rome. We stepped inside and were whisked toward the outskirts of the town where Jim had an appointment at Cinecittà Studio.
The Tartars, a sword and sandal epic starring Victor Mature and Orson Welles, was shooting there. Jim disappeared someplace and I sat down to watch the action. All of a sudden, this apparition appeared striding briskly down the dusty path. It was Orson Welles, a plush velvet cape swirling about his rotund figure, black sunglasses hiding his eyes, a foot-long cigar clenched between his teeth, and a harried cluster of secretaries, valets, flunkies, groupies and go-fers scurrying frantically about him as they tried to stay apace. He looked neither right nor
left, but strode purposefully forward, His Majesty, the King, dictating orders in a clipped tone. A couple of secretaries ran gallantly alongside, trying to take it all down as their papers fluttered and scattered in the breeze. Ashes fell from the end of his cigar, a couple of flakes adhering to the lush velvet of his cape. Orson, without breaking stride, pointed a finger at the offending ash and immediately a valet sprang forward with a whisk broom and flicked the ash into oblivion.
It was the most ludicrous sight I had ever seen and I burst out laughing. Orson stopped in midstride, pointed a bejeweled finger in my direction, and boomed, ‘Who is that person?’ Immediately, his entourage began dashing here and there, asking crew members who I was.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, still laughing as I walked over to him. ‘I really am sorry, Mr. Welles, but the whole scene just hit me funny.’ I stifled a giggle and held out my hand. ‘I’m Nancy Bacon.’
He took my hand gingerly, a thoughtful set to his mouth, went ‘uhmmm’ then said, ‘So you found my entrance a bit too pompous, eh?’
‘Yes, just a bit,’ I laughed and to my delight, he threw back his head and boomed with laughter as well. He gave me a pat on the head, snapped his fingers at his gaping entourage and continued striding toward his destination, picking up the dictation where he had left off.
Jim returned soon after that and we got into our waiting chariot and drove back to Rome. We went to The Excelsior Hotel, and just as we stepped inside this big, burly dude came charging through the door, almost knocking us down.
‘Watch where you’re going, movie star,’ Jim growled and grabbed the guy’s arm, wheeling him around to face us. It was, I saw, Victor Mature. He looked blank for a second, then scooped Jim up into his massive arms and gave him a big bear hug.
‘Henaghan, you old son-of-a-bitch! What in hell are you doing in Rome?’ He set Jim back upon his feet and stood smiling fondly down at him. They exchanged information and Vic glanced at his watch and cursed. ‘Christ! I’m late. Should’ve been on the set twenty minutes ago. Listen, how about dinner tonight? Meet me in my suite—I’m staying here—about eight or so?’ He gave Jim a slap on the back that almost finished him off, and went barreling through the door, bellowing at a couple of fellows to follow him.
‘Great guy, Vic,’ Jim said, taking my elbow and steering me toward the dining room. ‘It’ll be fun to talk over old times with him.’ We sat down and accepted menus from a waiter and Jim ordered cocktails. A moment later the waiter appeared with our cocktails, bowed low, and murmured in a thick Italian accent, ‘Your drinks, Senior Prick.’ My mouth fell open and Jim half-rose from his chair, stared, then laughed boisterously. ‘Charlie! How the hell are you? I was going to call you later on today.’
The ‘waiter’ set down the drinks and hugged Jim, and they got into a lot of fond curses as they pounded one another on the back. This was getting to be a habit, I thought, wondering who this new member of Jim’s European family would turn out to be. Possibly a fallen prince or an exiled king. One could never be sure with Henaghan. He was, it turned out, the legendary Charlie Fawcett. Legendary because of his outrageous behavior and way of life.
Charlie had left his wealthy, social Virginia family before World War II to join the French Foreign Legion. He served admirably in the legion during the war, then went to live in Rome where he became, next to the Pope, the most respected citizen of that city. Charlie Fawcett lived just for the good he can do, and he had absolutely no regard for money. He was married once to the Baroness Von Thyssen, a billionaire German lady, and when she committed suicide, he walked away without a penny because that is the way he wanted it. Whenever there was a catastrophe in Europe (an earthquake, a disastrous flood, a political upheaval involving refugees) Charlie Fawcett would go there to be of what help he could. Consequently, he had as personal friends the heads of state of many nations. If you were going to Iran, Charlie would give you a note to the Shah. If it was Morocco, Charlie would slip you a message to hand to his pal the King. And if you were short of money, Charlie would give you what he has in his pocket. According to his multitude of friends, Charlie Fawcett was without a doubt the best unofficial ambassador America ever had abroad.
It was a delightful luncheon, listening to Jim and Charlie reminisce about the good old days in Europe before the tourists ruined it.
‘Remember Jerry?’ Charlie asked Jim over coffee and brandy. ‘He’s doing pretty good now—ever since King Farouk bailed him out of that jam he was in. He just opened a new restaurant right around the corner. The Luau, he calls it—you’ll have to take your charming companion there for dinner one evening.’
They were referring to Jerry, proprietor of Jerry’s Bar, a little place off the Via Veneto, down one flight of steps and across the hall from the famous Bricktop’s bar. Jerry was another expatriate who had been created along with hundreds of others at the end of the war. The kind who fell in love with a foreign country and elected to remain there. Jerry was an Italian from New Jersey and had decided that he would stay on and open a restaurant. It was a tiny little place, hardly any larger than your average American hamburger joint, and it had an American jukebox and a big, friendly kitchen that welcomed anyone who wished to come back and have a hand in the preparation of their dinner. It was almost always filled to overflowing with American actors, most of them broke—or between pictures—who knew that Jerry would let them sign the tab until their ship came in. Well, as with most ships, they don’t always arrive when expected and one day Jerry had to face the awful truth. Not only was he broke, but he owed an astronomical two hundred thousand dollars! He sadly gave a farewell party at his little cafe and said a tearful goodbye to his freeloading friends.
Suddenly the door burst open and the portly king of Egypt, Farouk, strode purposefully toward the kitchen. He kicked everyone out and conversed privately with Jerry for several minutes. When they emerged, those closest to them overheard King Farouk saying, ‘Now, let’s have those hamburgers, my good friend—I’m ravenous!’ (Farouk never ate just one of anything!) The next morning all of Rome (it’s an incredibly small town) heard what had happened. King Farouk had paid off Jerry’s debts so that the little New Jersey guy could stay in business. Seems Farouk had become hooked on American hamburgers and Elvis Presley songs—and there was nowhere else to get them!
I met the good king several times during my visits to Rome and found him a fascinating person. He was quite obese, weighing close to three hundred pounds, and his main passion was, of course, food. After he had polished off a huge dinner, downed a couple of bottles of wine and a tot of brandy or three, he would burp, cast aside his napkin, and prepare himself for his second passion women.
In our chauffeured limousine, Jim and I went sight-seeing in style. Rome, the Eternal City, was everything I had imagined it would be and more. (It’s still my favorite city in Europe.) The great monuments of the past are still there in all their glory to be investigated and appreciated: The Forum, Colosseum, Lateran, St. Peter’s Church. We stood in the cobble-stoned courtyard of the Vatican and looked up at the balcony, where once a day the Pope would appear and bless the peasants who had gathered below to cheer him. Jim told me that during the war a tunnel had been dug that ran from one end of town down under the city and came out in the Vatican. They had used it to smuggle soldiers to safety, in or out of the city. Now, he said, with his satyr’s smile, they used it to smuggle in hookers for the ‘celibates’ who resided there! I found this information a bit shocking and hard to believe but Jim assured me that it was not only quite true but also a well-known secret among the citizens of Rome. I guessed even Cardinals and Bishops get the hornies every so often.
We visited Jerry’s new restaurant, the Luau, a couple of days later. It was done in Polynesian decor and the floor of the bar area was a wall-to-wall aquarium. It really felt strange to walk across the floor, glance down, and see whole schools of goldfish, tropical fish, turtles, etc. swimming lazily beneath your feet! It was lighted from the inside and slim slip
s pf seaweed swayed hypnotically with the motion of the water as brightly-colored fish darted through them. Down a couple of steps was the dining room, which was done in rather a woodsy Polynesian and held a huge, ceiling-to-floor cage at one end. This was the permanent home of Jerry’s pet falcon and many an inebriated customer claimed that the damn bird could actually speak—in Italian!
Van Heflin was seated at a table with Guy Madison and a couple of other people. When he saw Jim they got into that hugging, back-slapping routine and then he invited us to join them. I think Guy Madison was still carrying a torch for his ex-wife Gail Russell (she died the following year from a failed liver due to alcoholism) because he looked very sad and forlorn and hardly joined in the conversation at all—which consisted exclusively of speculation about whether or not John Kennedy would be elected.
The next day everyone knew the outcome, of course, and all of Rome went on a binge that lasted a week. I’ve never seen so many delighted and delightful folks. They literally danced in the streets, stopping traffic and pulling people out of cars and cabs to join them in the dancing and cheering. Tony Steele and his new bride, Anita Ekberg, watched from the safety of the Paris Cafe while Jim and I made our headquarters at Doney’s sidewalk cafe for most of the frenzied week. We were joined periodically by John Barrymore, Jr., Guy Madison, and Orson Welles. They would pause for a Cinzano, watch the mob for a moment, then totter on down the Via Veneto toward the next rest station.
It took several days to sober up and restore our heads to some semblance of order, but we managed. We had another glorious week in Rome, then it was back to Paris.
The weather in Rome had been lovely; just enough bite in the air to make one feel alive and adventurous. Paris, however, was rainy, cold, and dreary. Jim’s temperament matched the inclemencies, and our fights became loud and frequent. In fact, most of Paris seemed to be in the same lousy mood. John Melson (an expatriate writer) was fighting just as bitterly with his mistress and one night, after an all-day brawl, Jim and I heard screaming, shouting, and running feet coming from the hallway. We rushed outside into the courtyard and there was little Johnny, naked as a jaybird, his wrists and throat slashed, running wildly through the garden. Someone threw a blanket over him and carted him off to the American Hospital.