Dean and Me

by Jerry Lewis

  Harold lowered the pistol. He was still angry, but he had inched back from the boiling point. “This one time,” he said. “This one time. But if he ever—”

  “He will never,” I said.

  “Ever,” he repeated.

  “Won’t happen,” I swore.

  Harold gave Dean one last dirty look and exited the men’s room, leaving us to stare at each other for a second. Dean was white, and I was whiter. The quiet was deafening.

  Then Dean said, “I’ve never seen a more stupid son of a bitch—you could’ve been killed!”

  Flashback to the beginning of my Mob education: The time was 1947, and the place—what better place?—was Chicago. The Chez Paree was one of the great nightclubs, and the club’s owners, Mike Fritzel and Joey Jacobsen, were very nice guys who were also, let’s just say, very nicely connected, in a town that prized such connections above all else. The Chez Paree was a beautifully maintained operation, both in its main public room and its private Key Club, and in those days, it was the home base to the most important wiseguys in Chicago.

  I, being a mere babe in the woods at the time, didn’t fully appreciate this fact. Dean had played Chicago as a single, so he knew the score. (He also came from Steubenville!)

  Talk about Chicago and a thousand stories float around my brain. Like the night—it was our second time at the Chez Paree—when a bulky gentleman with a hoarse voice poked his head into our dressing room and invited us to come sit at Joe Fischetti’s table.

  Now, for me, the name Fischetti rang no bell—hadn’t I seen it on a bakery somewhere? But as Dean put his arm around my waist and led me very assertively toward the Key Club, he explained that in Chicago, the name meant three brothers—Joe, Rocky, and Charlie—who were forces to be reckoned with.

  The brothers were cousins of Al Capone, Dean said. Charlie Fischetti, who had been Capone’s chief lieutenant in the twenties, now ruled Chicago, along with Capone’s old accountant, Jake Guzik, and Tony “Joe Batters” Accardo. Rocky and Joe worked closely with their big brother—they were one big happy Family.

  And now they were at their table with almost twenty guests. One of the men stood and introduced himself as Joe Fischetti, then proceeded to introduce everybody else to us. We met Rocky and Charlie, and their wives. Mr. and Mrs. Tony Aiuppa, the Cheech Pitashes, the Johnny Ambrosias, and Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Feldman. (Arnold grabbed my lapel and said, “One of your people, Jerry.”)

  “And there in the back,” Joe continued, “are Anthony Verlatti, Jake Cleveland, and”—he smiled—“the notorious Carmine, the cop.”

  “Is he really a cop?” I asked Dean. He gave me a nudge that told me I’d better save the Idiot for the act.

  We sat. “You two are absolutely terrific,” Joe told us. “We had a ball watching the two of yiz put on your skits.”

  Dean and I smiled, and there were murmurs of agreement and raised glasses all around the table.

  “Hold on a second,” Joe said. “How rude could this be?” He turned to us. “What will you fellas have to drink?” A waiter materialized instantly.

  “Jack Daniel’s rocks for me, and a . . .” He masked his mouth with his hand and lowered his voice, so I listened even harder. “A Shirley Temple for my partner,” Dean said. To the general merriment of the table.

  I shot him a look. He shot me one right back: We still had a second show to do. Once, in Los Angeles, I’d had a hard drink before we went on—another social situation—and Dean might as well have been working with Johnny Puleo, the harmonica player. So no more hard drinks.

  We sat and made casual conversation. The men all loved Dean, and the women even more—and they looked at me like they wanted to burp me. Not the worst situation, as I was in the process of discovering! It was great for my partner to be unbelievably handsome and charming (and famous), but it wasn’t hurting me one bit to be young and funny (and famous).

  It seemed that Carmine was the clown of the group. He told us jokes, and he told them poorly... jokes that we had heard in gym class many years earlier. Dean and I laughed politely, but where the others were concerned, it was quickly apparent that Carmine told the same dirty jokes whenever the group was gathered. The women were rolling their eyes, as if to say, Dear God, not again....

  We sat for around forty-five minutes, smiles frozen on our faces, and then we had to excuse ourselves to get ready for the second show. Everyone at the table said they’d be staying to see it.

  “You know, we don’t change our material from show one to show two,” Dean said.

  Joe Fischetti gave us a look, from heavy-lidded eyes, that would have frozen running water. “You change anything...,” he said in a low, raspy voice. Then one corner of his mouth turned up in a faint semblance of a smile. “... and I want my money back.”

  The phone in our suite at the Palmer House rang promptly at nine the next morning. Since we had turned in at close to six A.M. and told the desk to hold all our calls, I assumed it was an emergency.

  Not quite, but close. It was Johnny Ambrosia, telling us we were going to play golf that afternoon with Charlie Fischetti at the Bryn Mawr Country Club, one of Chicago’s premier courses.

  Dean told Johnny, “Jerry doesn’t even know how to hold a caddy. He doesn’t play at all!”

  Johnny: “If Charlie Fischetti invites him to play, he just learned.”

  He said a car would pick us up at noon. We were to go to the club, eat lunch, have a couple of drinks (again with the drinking!), and play a round of golf. Dean was excited about the prospect of playing this famous course, but I could also tell he was nervous about what, exactly, his partner was going to do out there.

  We decided to just go and have fun, if possible. Our first show was at eight o’clock that night, and we had to get back to prepare for that, so it would be tight. We figured a noon pickup would get us to the club around one, and, what with meeting and greeting and having a couple of drinks and lunch, we wouldn’t be able to tee off until at least four P.M. It was early April and the sun set around six, but maybe with Charlie Fischetti, it set later! Who knew? We’d go, we’d see....

  We did the meeting and greeting in the men’s grill—a magnificent replica of an English golf-club bar, with everything in it imported from Scotland and the English countryside, plus general golf memorabilia collected since the turn of the century.

  We order lunch while waiting for the booze. The drinks come. It’s one o’clock in the afternoon and I’m drinking what the big boys are drinking . . . boilermakers: shots of twelve-year-old Haig & Haig whiskey followed by Budweiser chasers.

  Oy vey, as my Grandma Sarah used to say.

  All I can think about is the eight P.M. showtime that we have to make ... sober!

  Dean has a couple and I have a couple, and bit by bit, we’re starting not to care so much about the eight P.M. show. . . . And suddenly Charlie says, “Okay, let’s eat.”

  The waiters start to bring platters of food. And more platters of food. And more platters of food. It looks like we’re in ancient Rome, for Christ’s sake! Charlie and his pals dig in, laughing and having a great time. Then come coffee and dessert, and that runs another half hour. Finally, it’s tee time.

  Dean is all excited about the game. I don’t know what to think. The foursome is Charlie, Dean, me, and Jake Friedland, a Chicago lawyer. But there are also two extra carts for some very intimate friends of Charlie’s who will be following us on the course—just in case we need to move a tree.

  Charlie tees up his ball, saying, “I have the honor.” We hadn’t hit a ball yet, and he has the honor? On the other hand, who was going to tell him he didn’t have it? Not me!

  He hits the ball and it makes the fairway, about sixty yards out. Nobody laughs. Charlie decides to take a mulligan, which I later learned meant a second swing. He hits a pretty decent shot this time, then Jake gets up and, without a glance at where he’s aiming, hits a beauty—not so far, but down the middle. Dean’s up next. He blasts that drive at least 240 yards d
own the fairway, dead center, and he looks terrific doing it.

  Then Charlie says, “Okay, kid—let’s see if you really never played before.”

  This actually makes me feel a little better, because I literally don’t even know how to hold the driver. (I’m using Dean’s club.) Dean whispers, “Just swing easy, keep your eye on the ball, keep your head down, don’t sway too much, and be sure you follow through.”

  “Is that all?!” I scream.

  As in life, I proceed to make funny from what I fear. I look like Ray Bolger as The Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz... no spine to speak of, and certainly not standing upright. I sway like a weed in the wind, look out at the fairway, sway some more... hold the club too low... then too high . . . then sway some more. Dean and the guys are hysterical at my antics. Good God, I think. I may get through this yet.

  After doing all the body English I know (and more), I finally strike the ball.

  It soars back over my head and lands about forty yards behind the tee box. The laughter is deafening. Then they all head down the fairway to make their second shots. Dean can’t wait to get to his ball: He hit such a great drive that he’s thinking maybe this could be one of those days.

  I go pick up my ball. “What do I do now?” I implore. Dean waves me over to him, and we watch as the others hit their shots. Charlie, farthest from the green, goes first. He sets up, swings at the ball, and hits it hard. The ball sails... and sails . . . and lands in the trees, out of bounds.

  “Let’s get another drink at the clubhouse!” Charlie yells.

  Charlie and Jake’s cart turns and starts back up the path; the two carts full of bodyguards follow. Dean and I stand dumbfounded. We later learn that if Charlie doesn’t like the way he’s playing, he has a drink, then goes home. In fact, Charlie Fischetti has played only about thirty holes in the twenty years he’s been a member at Bryn Mawr.

  As all the carts go up the path to the clubhouse, Dean says, “Look at this shot. I could’ve hit an easy eight-iron and putted for a bird.” Fuming, he takes out his eight-iron and hits the ball stiff to the pin, maybe two feet from the cup. Then he turns and gets in the cart. “Let’s go, Jer— it looks like this ain’t gonna be our day,” he says. We go back to the clubhouse and make nice with the guys, just like nothing ever happened.

  After a bit, Dean and I are getting hammered again. We catch each other glancing at our watches. Then Charlie notices. Thank God, he looks sympathetic. With an eight-o’clock showtime and an hour-and-a-half ride back to Chicago, we are officially excused. We stand and make our apologies, but as we head to the door, Charlie calls, “You better hurry—I got my regular table for the eight-o’clock show!”

  I felt bad for Dean: Though I wasn’t a golfer, I understood his disappointment. For someone who knows and loves the game, a great golf course is like a beautiful, slightly unattainable woman—full of challenges, surprises, difficulties, and delights. Dean was like a man who’d been stood up. It was a long, quiet ride back to the hotel, not a time for humor. A good time to get unhammered.

  In the dressing room at the Chez, I was drying my hair while Dean shaved and muttered to himself. “Lloyd Mangrum played that course and won the Tam O’Shanter there. Jeez, I probably would’ve done terrific if I had half a chance.”

  I had a brainstorm.

  That night I phoned Johnny Ambrosia and asked him the name of the pro at the Bryn Mawr Country Club. The next morning, I pried my eyes open at eight sharp and phoned that pro, who was a hell of a nice guy and very excited to hear from me. I explained what had happened with Dean the day before, how frustrated he was that he couldn’t finish his game.

  “Where can I reach Dean now?” the pro asked.

  “At eight A.M.?” I said. “In his room, I hope.”

  The pro called Dean and told him he was a big fan (true), told him he’d heard he was in town (also true) and was a big golfer, and asked if Dean would accept his personal invitation to play eighteen holes with him on the coming weekend.

  When Dean rushed into my room, he looked like a kid who’d found out Santa was coming. He jumped up and down on my bed, yelling, “I’m gonna play with the pro at Bryn Mawr! I’m gonna play with the pro at Bryn Mawr!” For the next two days, he whistled, hummed, and sang around the suite and our dressing room at the club. I’d never seen him like this before.

  Saturday morning came, and out he rolled at 6:30 A.M., fresh as a daisy on one hour’s sleep. I stayed at the hotel all morning, taking pictures (my big new hobby, which I could finally afford) and silently praying that Dean would play well. That was stupid of me—he always played well.

  Around two in the afternoon, there’s a bang on the door like only Dean banged on the door. I open it and Dean’s standing there with his bag of clubs standing next to him and his scorecard stuck to his forehead, covering his face. (You just wet the card and stick it to your forehead—works every time.)

  I take the card from his head, and behind that scorecard is the face of the happiest man I ever saw in my life. I look at the card. The pro shot a 71, and Dean shot a 74—three strokes’ difference! I jump into his arms, yelling, “I knew it! I knew it!” and the clubs fall to the floor with a big clatter—which, since it’s 1:55 in the afternoon, shouldn’t be a big deal, except that some people might still be asleep, especially the ones who were at our club the night before till 5:30 A.M.

  Maybe it was my imagination, but I swear Dean sang better that night. He built a nice relationship with that club pro and played there, over the years, every time we were in Chicago.

  When Dean was happy, the work was better. The same with me. When either of us was sad, the work broke down a little bit—not always so the outside world could see, but we knew. For now, though, we were happy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT’S A STORY AS OLD AS TIME: PEOPLE MEET, FALL IN LOVE, HAVE babies, fall out of love. The process is especially severe if one’s life changes radically while the other’s doesn’t.

  When Dean first met Betty McDonald, she was a reach for him—a fresh-faced, lacrosse-playing Swarthmore girl, the adored youngest daughter of a successful liquor distributor. Who the hell was Dean Martin in 1941? A tough Italian kid fresh out of Steubenville who had made it as far as Cleveland. A band singer with a handsome face (and as yet unfixed nose), a smooth manner, and a sixty-five-dollar-a-week contract with Sammy Watkins and His Orchestra.

  An upstart and a social climber, in the eyes of Betty’s family, when the two of them courted and married.

  And a national star when they came to grief and parted.

  Betty was as bowled over by Dean as he was by her. She dropped out of college and married him at eighteen, had their first child when she was nineteen. Three more babies came in quick succession, and with them, Betty’s bitterness. It’s hard in the best circumstances for a woman to be married to a traveling performer, and the best circumstances rarely exist. Four small children and an absent husband with a wandering eye are very far from ideal conditions. Betty began to drink. She tried using guilt and anger to hold on to Dean, failing to keep in mind the two key-stones of my partner’s character: First, he hated confrontation of any kind, and would go to great lengths to avoid it. And second, he devoted all his energy to living his life exactly as he wanted. He literally walked away from anything and anybody that got in the way of that principle.

  Maybe Patti and I stayed together as long as we did (thirty-six years) because she let me know, at the beginning, that she knew I’d face temptations on the road, and, being a man, I’d give in to them. She just didn’t want me to humiliate her. She called me on the carpet when I did that, and I did my best to be more discreet afterward.

  I don’t know what agreement—if any—Betty and Dean had. She knew how handsome he was, she knew what a magnet that was for so many women, and she knew his ways. What she—and he—had never counted on was his falling in love.

  It was the last thing Dean expected: He never liked being tied down. It happened in Miami, where
we were playing a four-week run at the Beachcomber Club at the end of 1948. This was the first time Dick Stabile ever worked with us, the first time we could afford our own conductor—the Beachcomber was paying us $12,000 a week. We were on stage on New Year’s Eve when Dean looked over at a ringside table and saw the Orange Bowl Queen and her ladies-in-waiting, one of whom was a pert, gorgeous, twenty-one-year-old blonde named Jeanne Biegger.

  It was (as they say) as if he’d been struck by the thunderbolt.

  I was thrilled to see my partner so happy, but I also understood his dilemma. It’s no small deal to be a Catholic father of four who wants— who needs—to get out of a marriage. Selfishly, I wanted Dean to be able to find a way. Betty represented all the pain of his young manhood. She brought back memories of what he was and where he came from, and Jeannie brought him thoughts of what he could be. And a performer needs to feel free in his mind to do his best work.

  I’ve seen the other side of that so many times in my career. When Jackie Gleason wanted to marry Marilyn Taylor, his wife, a devout Catholic, didn’t want to give him a divorce. For a while, Jackie’s work in The Honeymooners became stilted and uneven—but then, when his wife finally agreed to the split, he was a new man on and off the screen.

  I needed—the act needed—Dean’s best work. From day one, I understood that even though I’d been born funny, my partner’s magic was to bring it out of me in a way that looked effortless. I knew, selfishly, that if Dean wasn’t there, I’d be in trouble.

  Dean agonized about leaving Betty, and—freely admitting my personal stake in it—I advised him to follow his heart. He did. He moved Jeannie to a rented house in West Hollywood in early 1949, and Betty, back east with the kids but up on all the developments, served him with divorce papers.

  When a lot happens to you all at once, you learn fast. In the months after Dean and I first hit Hollywood, we learned plenty about the town, its workings, and its players. The two greenhorn kids who didn’t even know where Ciro’s was quickly became pals with its owner, Herman Hover.