by Nancy Bacon
‘More and more I began to notice the huge, black bruises and cuts on Jayne whenever I saw her,’ Rusty told me once. ‘I knew what was happening; Sam was beating her up again—but what could I do? She apparently liked it—even begged him to beat her.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t know, Nancy—I just don’t know…’
The more Jayne got into LSD the more she rejected reality. For a woman who once loved babies so much that she refused to take birth control pills, she now turned on her offspring and seemed to want to kill them.
One passage in Rusty’s book stands out in my mind for its horrible sickness. Sam Brody had telephoned Rusty and as they were talking, Rusty asked, ‘Is it true that you really beat up Jayne Marie?’ (The daughter.)
‘Well-yes. I mean, I whipped her with the belt. But I never hit her in the face. Not that Jayne didn’t want it. I was whipping her with the belt and Jayne was screaming at me over the intercom, ‘Beat her! Kill her! Black her eyes like you do mine! If you love me, make her bleed. I want to see some blood. Make her bleed!’ That’s when I stopped. She wanted me to beat her daughter up, but she didn’t want to watch. I was letting her hysteria motivate me. I was sick. I just dropped the belt and stopped. So help me God, Cooz, I never hit the child in the face!’
The scene turned my stomach and I visualized the terrified teenager, Jayne Marie, running out into the night and walking to the nearest police station where she stammered out her horrible story to the officers on duty. It became a court case, of course, but with the cunning and sadistic Sam Brody as Jayne’s attorney, little Jayne Marie didn’t stand a chance. She was sent back home to endure as much as she could before fate freed her from her mother’s tortured, demented grasp.
Then there’s Rusty’s recollection of another grim incident: Rusty had gone to Jayne’s house at her request to look over some business papers that needed attention. He says:
‘I couldn’t have been gone more than five minutes when the air was pierced by a blood-chilling scream. My God, I thought, Sam is killing her. I raced through the house to the red leather office, certain that I would finally have to confront Sam physically. Rushing into the office, I stopped in my tracks. Jayne was climbing the bookshelves, her throat filled with such screeching noises that she sounded more animal than human.
‘What’s the matter?’ I was completely baffled.
‘The lizards, the lizards! The fucking lizards!’ she screamed. ‘Look at them! Oh, my God, look at them!’ She clung to the shelf with one hand and poked her finger toward the desk.
‘I started to ask what lizards when I heard Sam’s voice: ‘Do it, Baby, do it. Beautiful. Eat the little pussy, little lizards eat the little pussy.’
‘My head jerked to the right—there huddled in the corner was Sam, crouching and masturbating, eyes set and glassy. His tongue kept flicking his lips as he hammered himself toward some incredible satisfaction.
‘That was the last time I ever saw Jayne Mansfield, and the memory of that ugly moment haunts like the specter of the photographs of her horrible ending.’
On July 29, I967, on a dark and deserted stretch of Louisiana highway, Vera Jayne Palmer Mansfield Hargitay Cimber met her death at the age of thirty-three. Also dead was the driver of the automobile and the last lover Jayne would ever have, Sam Brody. They apparently had crashed into the rear-end of a slow-moving truck—and their fast-moving automobile climbed right up inside the truck’s entrails, slicing off the top of the sedan as well as the heads of the three occupants in the front seat. The three children, Mickey Jr., Zoltan, and little Mariska, escaped injury when some suitcases fell on top of them, protecting them from the final impact.
Jayne had been a Hollywood movie star and sex symbol for exactly thirteen years. A very short-lived career for a girl who wanted to be the biggest superstar in all the world—but it was thirteen years too long considering the way she used them. Poor little Jaynie would have all the rest she needed now.
My reaction was typical, I suppose. I was shocked—but not too surprised. Rusty called at dawn of that tragic morning, his voice husky with emotion and unshed tears as he tried to piece it all together. He had loved Jayne and had been one of the most important mainstays in her life for ten of her turbulent years. He did not know what to do with himself.
Mickey stopped by my house one afternoon, his eyes reddened with the many tears he had shed even though it was days later. He looked thin and old beyond his years, but there was about him a kind of peace, as if he knew that now his little Jaynie belonged to no one but him. For even as Jayne flaunted her indiscretions, Mickey remained the one man she truly loved throughout her life, and when he claimed her body and laid it to rest, it was almost the same as being back in the safety of Mickey’s strong, protective arms.
Jayne Mansfield’s life, both privately and professionally, had been a vast stage; the footlights were dimmed forever now and the orchestra pit was empty. The audience had gotten their money’s worth and had all gone home.
Her daughters fared better in spite of the odds, thank God. Mariska Hargitay is a famous TV actress, and, after famously following in their mother’s footsteps by posing for Playboy—making her the first daughter of a Playmate who appeared in the magazine herself—Jayne Marie bowed out of the scene and is rarely spotted in public.
laurence harvey, r.i.p.
In the late fifties and early sixties, Laurence Harvey was the darling of the jet set. As I said previously, he was British, handsome, dashing, suave, debonair, outrageous, a social climber and perhaps the first self-professed homosexual in show business. He adored brilliant, outrageous people and surrounded himself with the infamous. He seemed to have a penchant for older women, and his much-publicized love affairs and marriages were always with ladies several years his senior. (His unpublished love affairs were something else again!)
I met him for the first time at Trader Vic’s where I was dining with Jim Henaghan. Larry came sailing through the restaurant like a fluttering peacock, kissing a captain here, pinching a waiter’s ass there, nodding, beaming, bestowing his radiant smile upon the open-mouthed patrons as he swept toward our table. He had the aura of a swashbuckler about him and I’m still not sure in my memory if he was wearing a full, flowing cape that evening. If he wasn’t, he certainly gave the appearance of having worn one. He glided smoothly to a halt, unraveled gracefully into a chair, wrapping one slender ankle snake-like about his other ankle as he took my hand and kissed it firmly, gazing mischievously into my eyes. With a chuckle he dropped my hand, grabbed Jim in a tight hug and kissed him soundly upon the mouth!
‘Henaghan!’ he shouted joyously, ‘how the hell are you?’ He held Jim by the shoulders and looked at him with genuine warmth. ‘So the mad Irishman returns,’ he said fondly.
They exchanged friendly obscenities for a few moments and fell easily into recounting old times they had known together. I sat spell-bound, fascinated with the charming Mr. Harvey, captivated by his flawless speech and fetching accent, his movie-star perfect good looks, his enthusiasm and zest for life. I wonder if he knew he would die young? He seemed so intent upon living life to the hilt. Around every corner was a new adventure, a new pleasure. He was a true hedonist—one of the few I was to meet in my life.
He was doing a film with Elizabeth Taylor, he told us, a little piece of puff called Butterfield 8 which he detested, but it was made bearable by the presence of Elizabeth. ‘I simply adore her,’ he gushed, leaning forward to emphasize the point. ‘She’s something special—she’s as bawdy as a waterfront broad, and yet she’s so fucking majestic and sort of queenly I sometimes get the urge to drop to one knee when she enters a room!’ He laughed gaily, downed his drink in one swallow, and beckoned the waiter for refills all around. ‘She’s the most honest and open person I’ve ever met,’ he went on, deftly fitting a cigarette into a long, slim black holder. ‘I think I shall have to marry her. She has the power to make anyone—husband or lover—a superstar by mere association. And I most definitely wish
to be a super, super star!’ He leaned back, puffing contentedly from his chic holder, his eyes half-closed in thought. ‘Yes, I shall simply have to marry her,’ he murmured softly. ‘But I suppose I must wait until she tires of that Jewish lad, Eddie—you know, the boy who sings for a living.’
Actually, Eddie Fisher was not doing much singing during that period of his life. His main occupation seemed to be following Elizabeth at a respectable distance of ten feet, struggling with dogs, cats, children, luggage, hairdressers, and go-fers, while she snapped over her shoulder, ‘Hurry up, Eddie! Where is that stupid husband of mine now?’
Jim and I attended a party Elizabeth and Eddie threw for the Russian Moiseyev Dancers when they appeared in Los Angeles. They had taken over P.J.’s (a popular night spot of the era) and the place was packed with stars and persons of importance. Larry had been dating Joan Cohen (widow of the hated movie tycoon, Harry Cohen) and we joined them at their table.
Elizabeth looked enchanting. She was the slimmest I have ever seen her, and when her weight is just right, she has a perfect figure; most sexy and bewitching. She wore a simple black sheath, skintight, and her dark hair was completely hidden by a close-fitting, caplike hat made of emerald green and black feathers. Her magnificent purple eyes sparkled with mischief as she watched Larry ogling the taut-assed young male Russian dancers. Joan’s eyes, on the other hand, narrowed jealously as she watched.
No one stayed any one place for very long; it was one of those parties where a lot of table-hopping went on. I chanced upon Larry and Elizabeth sitting at the bar on tall stools, deep in animated conversation and I stopped to listen. They were both laughing and I heard Larry say, ‘You know why I adore you? You’re as big a cunt as I am!’ To which Elizabeth replied, ‘Nobody’s as big a cunt as you are, Larry!’
‘Say you’ll marry me,’ he pleaded urgently, grasping her two hands in his and leaning in close and adoringly. She merely laughed and shook her head-much as a harassed mother will when her child is acting up. She and Larry were good friends and enjoyed the outrageousness of their lives.
The party went on into the wee hours-with everyone getting progressively drunker—with the exception of Joan who was getting progressively angrier as she watched Larry flitting about the room and flirting with everyone in sight. Finally, she asked Jim and me to drive her home. As we wound our way through the undulating mob, there was Larry, three young male dancers in his arms, his hands doing as much exploring as possible and his wine-scented lips seeking out Russian territory. He waved magnanimously before he was literally sucked up into the hugging arms.
Of course, Joan forgave him. No one could stay angry with Larry for long. He was too much fun and too cute. I remember when he did Walk on the Wild Side with Barbara Stanwyck. Everyone on the set was anxiously and nervously awaiting their first meeting. Larry had gained something of a prima donna reputation since his arrival on our shores and Miss Stanwyck, as everyone knew, was a tried and true professional; a real thoroughbred. Director and crew expected fireworks. Larry sauntered in, quite late, dressed in a brocade smoking jacket, his ever-present cigarette holder clenched between his perfect white teeth, a sweetly pungent odor of wine lingering about his breath. He hated doing this movie; he had not wanted to make it but he owed it to the studio, therefore he had no choice. However, he wasn’t going to make it easy on ‘the bloody bastards.’
Only his very closest friends called him by a rather odd nickname—Florence—and how Miss Stanwyck discovered this, no one knew. She put her hands on her hips, took her famous, legs-apart stance, fixed Larry with a steely gaze and growled, ‘All right, Florence, get your ass in gear—we’ve got a picture to make!’
Larry’s mouth fell open, he stared, everyone held their breath—then he threw back his head and laughed boisterously.
‘Ah, my dear Missy,’ he cooed, taking her hand and grinning broadly. ‘How delightfully you Americans speak.’ He kissed her hand and grinned roguishly, ‘Well, shall we get crackin’?’
Barbara’s nickname is Missy and no one calls her that without her permission, so it was her turn to gape. But only for a moment. She gave him a smack on the ass, grinned right back at him and said, ‘Right—let’s get crackin’.’
They worked wonderfully together during the entire shooting of the movie. Capucine, their co-star, did not fare as well, however. Larry detested her almost as much as he detested the script, and as he portrayed her lover in the film they were in many scenes together. I remember him complaining bitterly to the director that ‘kissing Capucine is like kissing the side of a beer bottle,’ and when the movie was completed he tried everything in his power to have his name deleted from the credits.
Hollywood, known for its stupidity, seemed always to cast Larry as a southern heel, and I feel that is one of the reasons his career did not flourish as it should have.
‘Why do these clods insist upon casting me as a bloody bore?’ he asked me one afternoon as we sat at my pool, sipping wine. ‘The script looks good when I read it, then when the actual shooting starts it’s just so much muddle.’ He had made his big splash in Room at the Top, an English film starring Simone Signoret, where he played a cold, calculating young man who used women for social advancement and career connections. That part suited him perfectly as did his role in Darling, the movie that launched Julie Christie’s career. Larry’s favorite film, however, was The Manchurian Candidate, with Frank Sinatra. He simply loved working with Frank and had something of a schoolboy crush on him. (‘What a bright, bright man,’ he said to me once. ‘I’m actually in awe of him.’) But with these few exceptions, Larry’s Hollywood career was a bust.
When I heard that he had been cast in The Alamo with the big Duke, John Wayne, I couldn’t believe it. I somehow could not fathom Laurence Harvey with horse manure on his boots and a pistol strapped to his hip. He was not happy with the scripts that were presented to him and his personal life was unsatisfactory as well.
He was drinking too much and keeping late hours with unsavory companions. When I saw him in Darling I was shocked. He had aged considerably and looked tired and dissipated. It wasn’t just makeup; I knew Larry too well—he was most definitely an ill man. I wished I could talk to him and find out what was troubling him, but he was spending much of his time abroad those days. I remembered when I had first met him—how he would bop over, unannounced, in the wee hours if the morning, insist that I go back to bed he just wanted to chat a moment—then, making himself comfortable on the other side of my king-size bed, he would ‘chat’ for hours bout his life and goals. Finally he would drop off and I would get an extra blanket to cover him for the rest of the night. He always lay down on the top of the covers and insisted that I stay in bed and ‘not make a fuss’ over him. It would have been good to have another of those intimate chats with Larry during his unhappy period.
I saw him again at Elizabeth and Eddie Fisher’s second wedding anniversary party which was held at Au Petit Jean’s in Beverly Hills, he came bouncing into the room, gay as ever, kissed a maitre’d, pinched a few asses on his way to our table, grinning boyishly at everyone. But I could see the pain in his eyes and the weariness of expression. We were sitting with John and Pilar Wayne and Larry came tip-toeing over, leaned down, and kissed Duke on the ear. Without even looking around, Duke muttered, ‘Christ—it’s that nut, Harvey.’
‘Right you are, old man,’ Larry grinned and sat down with us for a moment He became quite drunk during the evening and insisted that I sing a folk song with him entitled Oh Shit!—which I did. George Burns accompanied us by humming and throwing one-liners at the rest of the guests— ‘I’ve got cigars older than this child,’ indicating me. ‘What’s she doing out so late?’
Larry’s fun and games and wild antics were becoming a bit of a bore to some of his old friends. He didn’t seem to know when to stop. He made a complete fool of himself one night at The Daisy. George Jacobs (Frank Sinatra’s valet), Mia Farrow, and Joey Tata (a young Italian actor), were having a
sort of birthday party for George. Larry came careening through the dimly lit room, spied them, and immediately joined them, calling for wine. He became quite drunk and surly and used such bad language that even those sophisticated show biz folks were embarrassed and disgusted.
‘I’d like to take a bite right out of you,’ he slurred thickly to George, a well-built black man.
‘Aw, you don’t want to do that, Mr. Harvey,’ George laughed uneasily. ‘I’m too old and tough.’ He slapped Joey on the back and said, ‘Why don’t you try this nice, tender young Italian here?’ He was trying to keep it light, play it for laughs, but Larry was dead serious.
‘No… don’t want no young Italian kid… want you.’ He moved in closer, swaying now with the effects of the grog and fixed George with a leer. ‘I’d like to munch up your big brown body… all of it,’ he mumbled as he almost fell from his chair.
This kind of conversation went on for some time with Larry becoming more frank in what he intended doing to George once he got him alone. It was clear that Mia was embarrassed and they all felt sorry for Larry; they had all been good friends and they were reluctant to ask him to leave. They tried to get him to eat something— ‘Come on, Mr. Harvey,’ George said. ‘Just have a little piece of my birthday cake.’
‘Rather have a piece of you,’ Larry responded.
‘Come on, Larry,’ Joey coaxed, ‘let us put you in a cab—you’d better go home while you can still walk!’