by Jim Fusilli
“Mimmo,” Benno said, “buy a GI another drink, huh?”
“No,” Mimmo replied.
On a long walk up to Elysian Fields, taking Observer Road along the Lackawanna tracks, then to Adams Street, Benno told Bell the number of soldiers from Narrows Gate killed in action was up to 31. He noted that gaining the upper hand over the Japs and the Nazis meant the good guys got killed faster and more often. “The price is high, no?” he asked as they took the crest to the park.
They found a bench that overlooked the piers, busy with work, and the shipyard, where sparks flew and metallic clatter rose, the air smelling like old eggs. On the Hudson, ships moved slowly, angling for a berth or heading to sea, tugs scooting port and starboard.
Benno’s hat was tilted on the back of his head, the sleeves of his pale blue shirt rolled above his biceps. Bell stretched out his legs and his Army-issued shoes reflected the sun. Benno dug into his pocket and produced a melting Turkish Taffy bar. He bent it, stretched it and passed half to his friend.
“I’m in possession of stolen goods,” Bell noted.
“Mimmo should’ve blew you the rickey,” Benno replied as he chewed. When he was finished, he tossed the wrapper toward a Public Works can. “Let me guess where you went.”
“How do you know I went anywhere?”
“You didn’t wish me happy birthday,” Benno replied.
“Happy birthday.” They shook hands.
“Your face is red, so you been in the sun.”
“They’ve got sun in a lot of places,” Bell said.
“I’m thinking the Army could’ve put you up by Santa for what you knew.”
True. But they put me on an island in the East River.
“So nobody was too happy you asked about Operation Husky,” Benno continued. “Maybe they can’t throw you in jail, but they’re not going to let you walk around in public until it’s over. Right?”
“It’s your nickel, Sal.”
“Now they figure you could be useful, seeing how you know Farcolini and the crew.”
“I don’t know the crew. Or Farcolini.”
“You tell them that?”
Bell hadn’t had a chance to tell them anything. Tyler’s instructions were as vague as they were firm: Go find out what Farcolini is planning next. Bell couldn’t decide whether Tyler was dumping or testing him.
When Bell didn’t reply, Benno said, “You tell them about me?”
Bell shook his head.
“Mimmo ain’t going to tell you nothing. You know that.”
“They don’t,” Bell replied.
Benno stood and scanned the park. When he was satisfied they were alone, he sat and, his voice low, said, “Listen, even if they don’t know you’re a Jew, the Army knows your mother wasn’t Italian, right?”
“So?”
“Everybody knows you ain’t getting in the crew if you’re half Polish. Hell, you’re lucky to get in if you’re Italian.”
“Nobody wants me to join the crew, Sal.”
“Sure,” Benno teased. “The American Army doesn’t want someone who can find out when they’re invading Sicily.”
With thumb and forefinger, Bell rubbed sugar from the corners of his lips.
“I’m right,” Benno said.
“Maybe. But I don’t intend to spend the rest of the war in Narrows Gate.”
“Why not?” Benno asked. “I’m gonna.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Everything was breaking Bebe’s way. The musicians’ strike against the recording industry meant a shortage of new music for the radio, so the trumpeter’s label released an old song featuring Bill Marsala on vocals. To make it seem fresh, they issued it under his name and it hit big, the lyrical theme touching the folks at home who were waiting for their sons, brothers, fathers and neighbors to return.
Klein negotiated a deal with the label for Bebe as a solo act, then booked him on Your Favorite Tunes, where each week he charmed millions of listeners with his sweet small-town kid from Jersey routine, taking on any song the producers threw at him and singing the bejesus out of it, almost always better than the familiar version. Bebe mixed boyish dignity and desperation to develop an appealing on-air persona. Soon, everybody was rooting for Bill Marsala. Women lined up at the stage door.
Klein said, “You know, Bill, the appeal here is that you sound like a kid again.”
“No shit, Phil.” They were in the dressing room, Bebe changing into a fresh suit to rush off to another appearance. “I know what plays.”
“Sure, Bill, but—”
“And whatever you do, don’t ever tell me how to sing.”
Klein saw his client as mercurial rather than difficult. Marsala felt pressure acutely and had to be handled. “My point is, you’ve got your own little corner of the popular music world.”
“Little?” Using the mirror, he fixed his bow tie, one of the three dozen he owned.
“I’m suggesting you take care to protect your image, Bill,” Klein said as he brushed his client’s jacket. “Don’t betray your fans.”
“Don’t worry about my fans, Phil. I know what they want.”
The press loved him, this kid coming out of nowhere, always ready to give them something they could use, a new angle. He hosted a barbecue for them at his modest home in the Valley. He toured VA hospitals with Rosa, a down-to-earth sweetheart. He appeared in a newsreel encouraging people to buy war bonds. Hollywood took note: He looked good on the silver screen. Radio played one of his V-Disks and he had an unexpected hit, the union furious until Frankie Fortune sent Rico Enna to shut them up, Boo Chiasso standing nearby.
Then Bebe’s label settled with the union in early ’44 and he had two more hits, both tender ballads that stroked the yearning women felt for their loved ones overseas. For young girls, Bill Marsala was the sweet, caring boyfriend they hadn’t yet found. They hung his picture on their bedroom wall and kissed it before they climbed in bed at night, their saddle shoes and bobby socks tucked away.
Enna and Klein put him on the road. He played small clubs to cause a furor among his fans who couldn’t get in, especially kids who were too young for the rooms. Bebe apologized—“But I’ll be back to see you. You bet”—and sure enough, next time around, he played a ballroom or theater, building to an engagement at the Paramount on 43rd Street in New York City, the kind you bragged to friends you saw, holding on to the ticket stub for the rest of your life. Times Square flooded with crazy humanity, the excitement electrifying, every seat sold in advance, klieg lights bouncing off the clouds, cops on horseback. “Look, isn’t that sweet? There’s his mother and father,” the fans shouted, pointing at the dumpy Sicilians, Hennie in fur, Vincenzo in that same old suit. Inside the theater, girls with dimpled knees and fleshy thighs screamed and swooned. Women—with their hair done up, tight sweaters, skirts cinched at the waist, and high heels—felt an ache in the hearts, their men far away and maybe tonight Bill Marsala would give them an hour’s worth of solace, his appearance a brief respite from the war. When the show ended, they demanded he return to the stage. He did, sheepishly. He blew kisses. You could see him blush from the mezzanine.
And so on, all across the country, from Maine to New Mexico, Oregon to Alabama. Each city alive, primed by stories in the local press, in the national magazines; Bebe on the radio, his new album a smash, five songs on the charts. Then the big night: The houselights dimmed, the orchestra began, a spotlight at stage left—Bill Marsala!
But a few reporters weren’t charmed. Cynical by nature, they took a hard look and saw a façade, a rank opportunist. Men his age—at 28 years old, he wasn’t a boy singer, no matter how young he appeared with those skinny arms and legs, jug-handle ears and bow ties—were dying in defense of liberty overseas. Other entertainers enlisted and served, ballplayers, too, sons of senators and congressmen. The draft board says Marsala has a bum leg? He’s making a movie with Ray Bolger, a dancer. The studio says Marsala has it all: voice, charisma, a flair for comedy. “Wait ’til yo
u see him,” the MGM flack said, “in a sailor’s suit.” Like there was no such thing as irony.
And of course everybody knew he was running around with any broad in Hollywood who’d have him. You could measure his potential by the women who stitched themselves to his side, the quality improving with each hit record, each tour. He’s at La Dolce Vita with this one, at the Mocambo with that one, at Lucy’s on Melrose with yet another. The reporters remembered Rosa, the way she greeted them at the barbecue, serving Italian food, explaining the difference between manicotti and stuffed shells, telling them how Bill’s Aunt Dottie made the best pastries on the East Coast, maybe in the whole country. They heard he stashed her out in the Valley and wouldn’t let her drive. And now she’s pregnant and Marsala stays at his bachelor pad in Beverly Hills, his bedroom wearing a revolving door.
Yeah, but what can you do? You write this and the studios cut you off, the label too, you’re no good at the clubs, you can’t get a reservation at a restaurant, your sources dry up and you’re on the copydesk, the graveyard shift.
But the Hearst empire mocked him. They had the clout, and Marsala had thrown the first blow. Klein had warned him against backing FDR in public, saying USO shows for the troops was one thing, politics another when even in a landslide 40 percent is for the loser. But Marsala ignored him and on election night celebrated in Hearst’s face, taunting him to rival reporters. Though Klein pleaded, three weeks of attacks in print followed, claiming that while Bill Marsala was catting around Hollywood, cozy with this one and that, his pregnant wife fled to New Jersey and our boys are dying overseas. Finally, Klein got the flow tapped and an uneasy peace ushered in ’45. Then Marsala sent Hearst’s columnist a telegram announcing the income line on his tax return was $1 million.
That broke it.
By heart, Klein could recite the column that followed: “Mothers of America, when you say your prayers tonight, put in a kind word for our hero Bill Marsala who, though he dances on the silver screen, is too infirmed to march with your sons in defense of our freedom. Mr. Marsala gleefully informs us from his new home outside sunny Los Angeles that he earned $1 million in the past year. Think of how many war bonds he’ll buy for your boys with that.”
Twenty minutes after he read it, Marsala found Klein on Hollywood Boulevard, having flannel cakes at Musso & Frank’s. Before he could slide off the banquette, Marsala shoved the Examiner in his face, snapping his glasses and smearing his jowls with newsprint. Two days later, Klein watched as a baby blue Cadillac Sixty Special was delivered to the carport outside his bungalow office on Sunset, a gift from his lone client.
Bebe and Rosa named the boy Bill Jr. Rosa wanted her dad to be godfather, but Bebe thought Anthony Corini, who was running the crew in Farcolini’s absence, was a better choice. He sent the request up the chain—Enna to Fortune, who stopped it cold. “He’s busy. Ask Hearst,” he replied by telegram, mocking the singer. To Fortune’s mind, Bebe hadn’t changed. He was still a punk. He hid behind his fame and talent like he used to hide behind Hennie when somebody threw a punch at him in the schoolyard. He couldn’t wait for Bebe’s star to flame out. He promised he’d put him down himself.
Bebe knew it was Fortune who cut him off. Corini liked him. Geller did, too. He earned like Man o’ War—the sold-out dates at the clubs they owned, points on every contract he signed, jukeboxes paying off like a slot machine stuck on three bells. He knew Corini had plans for him; Ziggy Baum said so. The way Bebe saw it, he had immunity. Talent was the only coin that mattered. You make, you take. What else?
Just in case, Bebe sent a gold watch to Farcolini in Sicily.
Two more songs from Bebe’s debut album made the charts. Life magazine ran a spread featuring Rosa and Bill Jr. In the photos, Rosa wore dresses made by Orry-Kelly. On the cover was a stark depiction of the invasion of Okinawa in which 12,000 American troops were killed.
A Hearst columnist called Marsala “the most hated man in America.”
The movie musical was a hit, Bolger and Bebe dancing their way through a three-day pass in the South Pacific. Bebe sang two songs. In one, he stood on a pier, his hat over his heart, and sang a love song, all the while staring at the sun setting, an American flag flying in silhouette in the distance. “You mean everything to me,” he sang, the lyric hitting home twice. It topped the charts for six weeks.
To stem the heat from Hearst, Klein suggested Marsala donate a portion of the profits to charities sponsored by the Los Angeles Examiner and the New York Journal American, both part of the newspaper magnate’s chain. “How about he kisses my ass in Macy’s window instead?” Bebe replied as he tried out his new golf clubs. He made his mind up: he was going to seduce Marion Davies, mistress to that fuckin’ hypocrite Hearst.
Instead, he went to FDR’s funeral at the White House. They treated him like a nessuno, a nobody. He had to beg his way in. He made a pass at a woman at the Hay-Adams Hotel and she slapped his face. He called Narrows Gate, but Hennie wasn’t home.
He returned to California certain that Harry Truman didn’t know who he was. Farcolini hadn’t acknowledged his gift. His throat ached, but it was time to make another album. The charts the arranger sent over were shit—music for kids. The baby cried whenever he lifted him. He saw a photo of Mussolini and his mistress hanging upside down from scaffolding, their bodies riddled with bullets. Then came the news that Hitler killed himself. Everyone was looking at Europe, victory in sight. No one was looking at him.
Bebe couldn’t breathe. His pulse raced. The walls were closing in. From behind a cloud somewhere, somebody was laughing. The higher you go, the farther you fall. Fearing bad news, he wouldn’t come to the phone when Klein called.
One day Rosa looked out the window and saw him by the pool in his terry cloth robe, sobbing uncontrollably. She called Nino Terrasini.
The doctor was called in. “Nervous exhaustion,” he reported as he tucked his stethoscope into his bag. “What can you expect, given his pace? I can recommend a spa in Palm Springs.”
Nino put Bebe in the car. “He’ll be fine,” he said to Rosa. As he tickled Bill Jr. under the chin, he added, “I’ll bring Daddy back in tip-top shape.”
Hennie called, unaware Bebe was ill. “Your uncle has a message for him,” she told Rosa. “‘Grazzii dal vostro zio Carlo.’ Why is Farcolini thanking Bebe, Rosa?”
Phil Klein drove to the Valley. Rosa explained Bill’s sudden absence. “He needs a lift,” she added, dabbing at her own tears. Why wasn’t she enough? She’d given him her passion, loyalty, a son.
“Maybe I’ve got the tonic,” Klein replied. Though Marsala had warned him against discussing business with her, he told her Louis B. Mayer was offering a three-picture deal. And the record label was willing to renegotiate the contract on Marsala’s terms. “Let’s call,” he said.
“No phones at the spa,” she replied. “But we can send a telegram.”
The next afternoon, Bebe turned up in their driveway, the picture of health. “I’m back, kid,” he said as he hugged and kissed her cheeks. “Top of the world.”
She looked over his shoulder. Terrasini held up his hands and shrugged. It was V-E Day. The war in Europe was over. That was good news, too.
Now what? Little Boy and Fat Man leveled Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Japs threw in the towel and the Psychoanalytic Field Unit at the New York Public Library was shut down even before they swept the confetti out of Times Square. Sure, Leo Bell celebrated like everybody else, getting a random kiss on Broadway that left him weak-kneed, but he couldn’t help but think he’d missed an opportunity. He’d joined the Army, and they put him on 42nd Street. He made a mark at the OSS and they sent him to Narrows Gate. Most of the men he’d worked with were on their way back to Harvard, Yale, Princeton. Landis was down in D.C., Tyler, too. For two weeks, Bell sat at his desk, staring at the phone, reading a book a day the clerks pulled off the shelves for him, from Freud’s Civilization and Its Discontents to All Quiet on the Western Front. Looking for information abou
t the missing chain of command, he walked upstairs to the typists’ pool, but they were gone, too, their men on the way home. He bought coffee for the Negro janitor. Turned out he had a grandson who had fought in France and decided to stay there. “Paris is better than Normandy,” Bell said, mentioning the new American cemetery.
“Amen to that,” the man replied as they toasted with cardboard containers.
“They give you something to do yet?” Benno asked. They were sitting on the library steps, the truck parked on Fifth Avenue. It was a chilly afternoon, though the late September sun was bright.
Bell turned and pointed toward the façade. “I’m in charge.”
“Of who?”
“Yeah, well, that seems to be the question.” Bell looked up at the sky, as if he’d see a sign of an Indian summer. Imogene was back in school, but he was still hoping for that trip to the beach.
Benno stifled a yawn. He was coming down off a two-week celebration. He had made up his mind to throw one last good time at every dame he met since the war began. Not that he was scared of competition, but he figured the hour was ripe with everybody in an ace mood. Except Scatta, who lost her boyfriend when his B-29 crashed as it returned from a bombing run over Dresden. Benno saw her crying in the gazebo in Church Square Park and he held her, rocking her gently. Then he walked her home; the whole time he didn’t think of nothing but her broken heart, passing her off to her mother, who was crying, too, seeing as the war would never end for them. He told Gemma, who went to St. Francis to light another candle.
“Leo, I suppose it’s OK I ask you now what the fuck you did in the library for four years.”
“I was a messenger for a branch of the intelligence service,” Bell replied.
“A messenger?”
“I’d prefer if you emphasized the ‘intelligence service’ part of the job.”