Behind the Candelabra

by Scott Thorson

  I would have cried like a baby if I’d had the time. Lee and I had been looking forward to this day for months, planning what he’d wear, who we’d see, which parties we’d attend after the Academy Awards ceremony was over. Michael Travis had designed special costumes for the event and Anna Nateece had designed magnificent furs to go with them. How I wished I could turn back the clock, start the week over. I couldn’t believe I wouldn’t get to see Lee in those costumes performing the Oscar-nominated songs. I couldn’t believe I’d never see Lee again, that he hated me enough to send detectives to the penthouse to forcibly evict me. But I knew no one else would have dared give orders like that; they had to come from Lee himself.

  My next call was to Mr. Y, the underworld figure who had systematically insinuated himself into my life over the last year. I told Y what had happened and asked him to help me get out of the penthouse in one piece. My biggest fear at that moment was that Schnelker and his men would beat the hell out of me once I opened the bedroom door. Mr. Y warned me not to leave the penthouse with anyone, even if they promised to take me to a hospital.

  “Do you know how easy it is to get rid of a body in the hills outside L.A.?” he asked. “Stay put until I can send help.”

  Believe me, I had no intention of moving after talking to Y. He promised to send some of his employees, men he trusted to handle any situation, to help me in any way I required.

  More than anything, I wanted to talk to Lee, to ask why he was doing this terrible thing to me. I called through the door, asking to speak to Heller. When he got there I said, “Seymour, what the hell’s going on here? Does Lee know what’s happening?”

  “Lee wants you to leave,” Heller replied. “These are his wishes.”

  I felt he was telling the truth even though I didn’t want to believe it. Despite all our problems I loved Lee and I thought he still loved me. This just couldn’t be happening. “Let me talk to him,” I begged.

  Heller’s voice seemed devoid of feeling as he said, “What would it take to get you to leave?”

  I knew he was talking money but I didn’t want money, I wanted Lee. “Just let me talk to Lee first and I’ll go peacefully.”

  “You’re sick,” Heller said. “You should go to a hospital.”

  I felt he didn’t give a damn about me or the state of my health. All the hospital talk was so much crap as far as I was concerned, a ploy to get me to open that door. Heller would follow Lee’s instructions to the letter and Lee’s instructions were to get rid of me, one way or another. The four goons outside my door were living proof of that.

  “You can’t talk to Lee,” Heller repeated.

  I was beaten and I knew it. Further resistance was useless. I had no choice but to leave the penthouse. I agreed to go and told Heller I wanted my clothes, all the things I’d brought with me when I left the Tahoe house. But time was running short. Lee was due within minutes. Heller wanted me out of the building before Lee arrived. One thing for damn sure, I had no intentions of leaving until I heard Y’s men arrive. My clothes were in another room so there’d probably be no time to dress or pack after they showed up. When I heard new voices in the hall I opened the door, grabbed a fur coat and my jewel case, and headed for the elevator.

  Mr. Y had sent four men, led by the manager of his gay nightclub. There was a lot of pushing, shoving, and shouting as they escorted me out of the building. Once we reached the parking lot I asked to be allowed back in to get my clothes, but one of Schnelker’s men blocked access to the private elevator.

  Losing what little self-control I had left, I began to shout obscenities and threats. The nightclub manager was trying to get me into his car when Pat Swanson, my real estate agent, arrived on the scene. I’d been looking at property with her earlier in the week and we were supposed to go out again that afternoon. Swanson would later serve as a witness to the day’s events, but she wasn’t much help at the moment.

  There I stood in my nightclothes, wearing a coat and carrying the jewel case, wanting to return for my clothes and my money, while Y’s men and Schnelker’s had a Mexican standoff. Suddenly the whole thing seemed pointless. The one thing in the world that I cared about was Lee and I had the sick feeling I’d never see him again. The club manager, exhibiting a pretty cool head, got me in his car, and the next thing I knew we were driving down Sunset Boulevard, leaving my home, leaving everything I owned and loved behind.

  Lee arrived at the penthouse a few minutes after my departure. By then the maids were hard at work, straightening furniture and sweeping up broken china, erasing the evidence of what had taken place so that Lee wouldn’t have to face the harsh reality of my eviction by force. I suspect Heller spared him the more sordid and unpleasant details. Later I learned that the two men met out in the parking lot, where Heller reassured Lee I was gone.

  Lee’s two teenage French pals were with him in the limousine. I’m sure they’d had a delightful drive and were looking forward to the evening’s festivities, whatever that might include. Lee was running late and didn’t even bother going inside the building. Instead Schnelker, in his role as Lee’s bodyguard, jumped into the front seat of the limo, and they all set off for the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion at Los Angeles’s Music Center.

  I learned later, from depositions, that not once during the thirty-minute drive did Lee ask the detective what had happened in the penthouse that morning. Heller had assured Lee that everything was taken care of in accordance with Lee’s instructions, and that’s all Lee needed or wanted to know. He was determined to put Scott Thorson behind him as quickly as possible. It was his way, his lifelong pattern.

  Lee had his mind set on two things: the Academy Awards and the pleasure he would enjoy with his two houseguests later that evening. His cup was running over while mine had come up empty. Arriving at the nightclub manager’s house in my pajamas, looking like someone who’d just escaped a tornado, did nothing to improve my mood. I began calling the penthouse at once, trying to arrange to get my money and belongings.

  Meanwhile, the rehearsal at the Music Center went splendidly. Lee had a wonderful time mingling with the stars and playing the nominated scores. Rehearsal ended at three and he returned to the now-clean penthouse by three-thirty in time for a rest, a snack, and a pleasant visit with his new friends before he had to return for the Oscars at six. While Lee spent a euphoric afternoon in the penthouse, I made repeated efforts to contact him by phone. I knew we were finished, but I wanted to hear it from him, not from Heller or Johansen or some hired goon. It seemed the least Lee owed me. He had been my lover, my father, my confidant, and my best friend while I grew to manhood. He’d meant more to me than anyone in the world.

  By throwing me out, Lee not only deprived me of emotional and spiritual support, he also took away my job and everything in the world I owned. I knew I would never get him back, but there wasn’t any reason for him to withhold my personal possessions. When I couldn’t get any answer to my repeated phone calls, I finally called the police and asked them to help. But they said that since I’d voluntarily left the penthouse, there was nothing they could do. I had no choice but to deal directly with Seymour Heller.

  He finally agreed to permit me to return to pick up my belongings that night while Lee was at the Music Center enjoying his triumph. Not knowing exactly what to expect when I arrived at the penthouse, and fearing a repeat of the morning’s assault, I took an armed guard and a dog with me when I returned. Heller met me on the ground floor and showed me into the small room he’d been using as his base of operations that day. It was crammed with green plastic trash bags which he said held my belongings.

  I couldn’t believe it at first. Lee was tossing me out like yesterday’s garbage. Even more painful was the fact that my half brother, Wayne Johansen, was still on the premises and being treated like one of the family while I was told to take my trash and get the hell out of there. Heller made it very clear that I must not make any further attempts to contact Liberace; that it would be unwise for me to
return to Vegas despite the fact that my house, my furniture, my cars, and the bulk of my clothes were there.

  I left the building carrying those lousy trash bags, feeling a despair so deep that I can’t even describe it. And yet I still couldn’t believe what had happened. I was to have been Lee’s son; he’d even had me made over in his image. I had a reasonable facsimile of his face, but I would never again have him.

  24

  In 1980, when tennis star Billie Jean King was sued for palimony by a woman who claimed to be her former lesbian lover, Lee and I joked about the much publicized scandal. Lee laughingly said, “Billie Jean—what a guy!”

  And I rejoined, “You’re next, Lee,” in reference to the fact that, as his long-term lover, I could also sue him for palimony. At the time the thought of breaking up, of facing each other in a court of law instead of across the breakfast table, was so remote that we both laughed at the mere idea.

  By the end of March 1982, the laughter had ended. I was torn up over the callous way Lee had had me thrown out of the penthouse. You’d think that after all the foster homes I’d lived in, I’d have become an expert when it came to handling rejection. But Lee’s harsh eviction was the ultimate cruelty, the worst thing that had happened to me in my twenty-two years. It really hurt. I’ll never forget or forgive the way it was done: the plastic trash bags, my half brother’s presence, the private investigator with the arm that ended in a hook, being forced to leave the penthouse wearing pajamas, being told that any attempt to contact Lee or return to Vegas could be hazardous to my health.

  Any lingering doubts I may have had about my position were soon squelched by my so-called friend, Mr. Y. He made it plain that my life might be in danger if I went against Lee’s wishes. Heller had been quite clear the night he handed over my trash-bagged belongings. I was not to contact Lee, I was not to return to Vegas. “Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.” Unfortunately, this was my life and not a game of Monopoly. My actions and reactions over the next few months were based on what I saw as a very precarious, even dangerous situation.

  At first I stayed with the nightclub manager, Mr. Ys’ employee. Everything I owned, except my jewel case and a few clothes, were out of reach in Vegas. My bank accounts, thanks to my own drug habit and friends like Y, who kept me well and expensively supplied with cocaine, were soon depleted. He and his friend, Joe, were to be my closest associates and advisers during the months that followed as I tried to sort out my future without Lee. Losing him in such a brutal way helped to accelerate my drug usage—which in turn deepened my problems.

  My initial attempts at recovering my possessions met with failure. I’d asked a friend who owned a truck to drive up to Vegas and pick them up for me but he was denied access to both my tract house on Larrimore and Lee’s home on Shirley Street, where I kept most of my clothes. I couldn’t believe it when my friend returned with an empty truck. I’d been told repeatedly that Lee didn’t want to see me, but no one had said anything about him keeping my belongings. I just couldn’t understand why Lee had ordered his people to do that to me. Obviously I needed help—legal help—to recover all my possessions.

  During my years with Lee, Joel Strote, who worked for Lee, had acted as my attorney. But Strote would now be my adversary. I needed to be represented by someone who had no connection with Lee, who would be unimpressed by Lee’s fame and power. First, I asked a former foster mother to recommend an attorney. She sent me to two men who had handled her divorce. After a preliminary meeting with me, they concluded that the only means I had of paying for their services was with my jewelry. They asked that I hand it over, to be held in trust. It seemed like a good idea. I was staying with a known criminal, a man who supplied me with drugs. Clearly my jewelry would be safer in their hands than in mine.

  I firmly believed, back in 1982, that attorneys were men of strict moral principles, men who were above suspicion. I’d been taught to look up to educated men like that. Consequently, when those two lawyers said they wanted to put my jewelry into some kind of trust account, I thought they would act in my best interests. Although I didn’t realize it then, I was unconsciously looking for someone to replace the father role that Lee had filled in my life. Needing to trust and believe in someone made me vulnerable and careless. I turned the majority of my jewelry over to those two men and that’s the last I ever saw of it. Their offices were ripped off before they could put my valuables into safekeeping—or so they told me. Exit my first attorneys.

  At this point I asked Mr. Y to recommend legal counsel and he told me to contact David Schmerin. I called at once and made an appointment to meet with Schmerin at Joe’s house, a place where Schmerin was a regular visitor. Schmerin readily agreed to represent me in my efforts to get my belongings, house, furniture, cars, and clothing. I was angry enough to discuss palimony and he agreed that I might have a case. After a couple of preliminary meetings, all held at Joe’s home, Schmerin promised to contact Lee’s legal representative, Joel Strote, on my behalf. Several of my friends suggested I get out of town while Schmerin made the preliminary moves.

  It made sense to me. I knew Lee would be angry when he learned that I now had an attorney. In the past all of Lee’s lovers had left quietly after he tired of them. But I was furious at the way I’d been treated and wanted to strike back, to hurt him as much as he’d hurt me. If that wasn’t sufficient motivation, my home, my furniture, my cars, and my clothes were still in Vegas, a place I dared not return to without Lee’s okay. I knew Lee wouldn’t hesitate to use force to get rid of me; vivid memories of the scene at the penthouse offered graphic proof of that. I also feared that pushing Lee, getting an attorney to represent my interests, might make Lee decide to rid himself of me for good. Leaving town temporarily seemed like the better part of valor.

  By then I’d learned that Lee had taken a number of steps to sever our ties and keep me from getting near him. Each one poured salt in my still fresh emotional wounds. I was told that the locks on all the properties we’d shared, including my own home, had been changed; the various phone numbers at all those properties had also been changed. I couldn’t contact him in any way, short of going to Vegas, which I took to be risking a physical confrontation. But there was one way I could still get to him and I intended to take full advantage of that situation during the next few days.

  Lee had neglected to cancel the joint credit card that we’d held for years. I used that card to finance my stay in Hawaii and, believe me, I checked into the best hotel and ate at the best restaurants. Sure, it was wrong; I know that. But doing it gave me a great deal of satisfaction. Lee was holding hostage my mail, my severance check, all my worldly possessions. I still had no more than the things I’d taken from the penthouse. But I did have that credit card, and I took tremendous satisfaction in every charge I made on it. I could imagine Lucille Cunningham’s self-righteous outrage when she got the bills—and Lee’s after she gave him a full report. Score one for my team!

  I didn’t return to Los Angeles until my attorney told me he was close to arriving at a settlement with Joel Strote. We continued to meet at Joe’s house. Then, one evening in Joe’s presence, David Schmerin told me that “Liberace was going to be a tough adversary, that he would litigate this thing all the way and that he had very deep pockets and could hire the best counsel.”

  I don’t claim to be an angel; I’m more than willing to accept my share of blame in regard to my breakup with Lee. I know my drug use caused a problem. But the facts speak for themselves. Lee had known about my using coke for months and apparently accepted it. We didn’t argue about drugs. Once, when Mr. Y left some cocaine in the house after a visit, Liberace actually asked when Y would return to pick up his “medicine.” As I said before, Lee and I moved in social circles where marijuana and cocaine were as accepted as liquor. Although he may have abhorred my drug habit, Lee had not chosen to get rid of me until he’d found a suitable substitute in Cary James. Then and only then did Lee act. And when he acted he used force, assault
and battery, and ultimately extortion, to rid himself of me.

  Less than one month after I’d been tossed out of the home Lee and I shared, Schmerin told me that he and Strote had reached an accord, a meeting of the minds. Before Schmerin spelled out the terms of the proposal they had agreed on, he made sure I understood that I would not get my property, not one shirt or sock, not one thin dime, until I signed an agreement.

  In anybody’s book, withholding someone’s property, especially when it’s done to force them to do something, is illegal. In criminal cases it’s called extortion; in civil cases, conversion. Although the legal document was twelve pages long and carefully couched in lawyer’s mumbo-jumbo, the intent was simple. I was to get $75,000, three of my six cars, three dogs, and my clothes. I would be permitted to return to Vegas briefly to pick up my personal possessions. Seymour Heller would personally guarantee my safety and escort me through my house so I could pack my clothes.

  In return for the money, the cars, the dogs, the return of my personal property, I would be required to sign over to Lee the title to my house on Larrimore, currently worth $200,000, and give its contents, which I estimated to have a value in excess of $50,000, to him as well. In addition, I would be required to sign over to Lee title to three cars, my Chevrolet van, an antique Cadillac, and an Auburn.

  True, some of these things had been gifts from Lee. But they had been given to me freely. I held clear and legal title to them. There had never been any mention of the fact that they would continue to be mine only as long as Lee cared for me.

  The agreement also specified that I would give up any other claims against Liberace—of any nature. I believe that was included in the text to ensure that I wouldn’t sue for assault and battery or, more important, for palimony. Last but far from least, the document included a clause that prohibited me from revealing the true nature of my relationship with Lee.