Phyllis looked over at Dorothy. “Now there’s an idea for you, Dorothy. Since you’re so disturbed by the fact that there’s another Dorothy McGuire in show business, change your name.” Phyllis was smiling, although she was trying hard not to totally let her puckish sense of humor give her away. “We could be the McGuire Sisters, plus Dorothy.”
“Right,” said Dorothy. “I should change my name. Why doesn’t the other Dorothy McGuire change her name?”
Phyllis said, “I think we already had this conversation before you arrived, Christine.” Phyllis dismissed any further discussion of the two Dorothy McGuires issue by saying, “Tell us more about Dan Rowan.”
“He shot down two Japanese planes and was wounded when he was shot down himself over New Guinea. He was a fighter pilot. Flew something called a Warhawk, which sounds ever so daring. Won the Distinguished Flying Cross with Oak Leaf Clusters, the Air Medal and the Purple Heart.” Christine was warming to her topic.
“Wow!” said Phyllis. “All that and good-looking too.”
“Well, you can forget about Dan whatever-his-last-name-is because he and his buddy aren’t going to be our main act. We’ve got Carson, who is mucho married,” groused Dorothy.
“Tonight they’re not the headliners. But if they’re as up-and-coming as Louie seems to think they are, maybe soon?” said Phyllis. Dorothy thought she detected a note of wistfulness in Phyllis’ voice. “We should see if Louie will line up Rowan and Martin for a future gig. Maybe invite them to come see us open for Carson?”
“Is that wishful thinking on your part, Sis? Aren’t you content with the many guys falling all over themselves to go out with you? Why, I read just yesterday in Sheila Graham’s Hollywood Today column that you were sleeping with President Kennedy,” said Dorothy.
Dorothy said it as though she were making a joke. She could tell instantly from the expression on Phyllis’ face that she’d hit a nerve.
Rather than deny or discuss the comment, Phyllis said, “We’ve only got about an hour and a half before show time now. We’ve wasted all this time gossiping. Shouldn’t we be going over the program?” Phyllis seemed irritated by her sister’s offhand remark about the newly-elected President of the United States.
The trio, known for the choreographed dance moves that accompanied their singing, began briefly recapping the order of songs for that evening’s show and practicing their synchronized movements to the tunes, a revolutionary approach which the Andrews Sisters and the McGuire Sisters popularized.
*
Sam “Momo” Giancana deplaned at McCarran Airport on May 30, 1960 and headed for the Excelsior, the new hotel that had opened January 1, 1960. Sam hadn’t missed one of Phyllis’ opening night appearances in three years.
The black-tinted limousine that picked up the colorful gangster at the airport featured a black driver holding a sign that said only “Sam.”
Sam was wearing his signature fedora with the contrasting ribbon band and large dark glasses. His short, schlumpy stature could not be hidden by his expensive suit. His squatty Sicilian frame made the expensive sharkskin suit look rumpled. He sported a three-day stubble. He planned to shave before joining the McGuire Sisters for a late dinner. Sam was not a good-looking guy. You can dress a bulldog up, but it’s still a bulldog.
Sam had an important meeting with a man named Robert Maheu. Maheu said he represented American interests in Cuba, corporations that had been appropriated by Castro during the 1959 revolution when many foreign businesses were nationalized by the rebels who overthrew Fulgencia Batista. Maheu contacted Johnny Rosselli, Sam Giancana’s right-hand man in Vegas. The large companies wanted something done about Castro. They were losing money. Could the Mob help?
In reality, Maheu represented the CIA.
Johnny said he’d ask his boss. Sam, in turn, had his own demands. The meeting Sam was heading toward now (under the alias Sam Gold), would lay them out.
When first approached to meet Maheu, Sam said, “We should meet in Chicago. The meeting will be safer. I have Chicago under control.” Maheu insisted on Las Vegas, so Sam was on his way to Louis “The Lip” LaFica’s hotel, the Excelsior, where Sam “Momo” Giancana would listen to the proposed project and be present as the McGuire Sisters opened for newcomer Johnny Carson.
When Sam reached the small private conference room, the first thing he asked was, “Is this room wired?”
“No, Sir,” said an agent present, Parnell McIntire. Of course, McIntire was lying. The tapes were turning and would be listened to many times over.
Parnell looked like he had just stepped off the set of a western movie, gray ten-gallon hat and all. The two men stood out in the otherwise hatless room, one wearing a fedora, one a cowboy hat. Hats were going out of style ever since JFK was pictured during the presidential campaign, hatless, his full head of hair ruffled by the breeze. The Rat Pack who affected hats now (Frank Sinatra, Peter Lawford, Dean Martin, Joey Bishop, Sammy Davis, Jr.) were still wearing fedoras like Sam’s, but the hat as high fashion for men was going the way of the dodo bird.
McIntire was about as far from resembling a federal agent as you could get, which was probably why he was tapped for this job. He was a tall, handsome good old boy from McHenry County, Texas, a former Sheriff. But he was also up-and-coming in the CIA in Washington, D.C. Six foot three inches, he had a thick mane of white hair that made onlookers think of television star Lorne Greene as Ben Cartwright on Bonanza, which premiered in color in 1959. You could almost imagine Parnell McIntire living on the Ponderosa.
Sam was not one to waste time or mince words. He asked, “What do you want done?”
“We would like Fidel Castro to have an accident,” said Parnell, with a pronounced west Texas accent.
“You want Castro whacked?” Sam said.
“We’d prefer it look as though he had an accident,” Parnell repeated.
“How about poison pills?” suggested Sam. “We got some stuff that you put in food and it’s lights out. Plus, we got a guy down there, Juan Orta. He’s on the inside. He’s inside Castro’s government. He’s not too happy with the way things are going. He can deliver the pills to the target.” Sam paused and then added, “What’s in it for me?”
“We’ll pay you $150, 000,” said McIntire.
“I want something else, besides,” replied Sam, glancing at the dapper Johnny Rosselli seated to his left.
“What?” asked Parnell.
“I want you to bug Phyllis McGuire’s dressing room. I want to know if she’s seeing someone else and, if so, who.” Sam lit up one of his omnipresent cigars. One of Sam’s nicknames, besides “Momo,” was “Sam the Cigar.”
“We can do that,” said Parnell, matter-of-factly. “When do you want to meet again?”
“I’ll give you guys two weeks to check out what’s going on backstage. The girls open for Johnny Carson tonight. You should know something in two weeks. You bring the tapes two weeks from now. I’ll get the pills to Orta in Cuba after I hear what you’ve got. Handle your part of the bargain, and I’ll make sure that Juan Orta finds his way into Fidel Castro’s kitchen,” said Giancana, rising from the table and extending his hand to shake Parnell McIntire’s.
“You’ve got a deal,” said Parnell, reaching down from his much greater height to shake the older man’s hand.
*
Backstage before Opening Night is nerve-wracking. It was nervous-time right after the hotel opened, and it would be butterflies again tonight, as the McGuire Sisters opened for Johnny Carson.
Carson came out and did a noticeably blue joke. “I had a girlfriend in high school who had an angora sweater. We were parked on Lovers’ Lane once. We were there for quite a while,” said Carson, as he adjusted his cuffs, a tic he often incorporated into his act. “When her head came back up, it looked like a chicken had exploded in my lap.”
Louis The Lip laughed nervously from the back of the packed room; he was assessing how this racy material was going over with the crowd, after he had bragged about
the wholesome shows at the Excelsior.
Seguing smoothly, Carson went on more innocently, “You know the sound a sheep makes when it explodes?” He looked expectantly around the room; no one responded. “Sis Boom B-a-a-a-h.” He punctuated the sheep sound punchline with the boy-next-door smile that millions would come to know and love during Carson’s years on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, 4,531 episodes that commenced in 1962. Johnny was still “the Great Carson-I” from Iowa and Nebraska in spirit, the little boy who wanted to be a magician when he grew up.
The McGuire Sisters were pros. They were prepared, as always. Phyllis, however, was particularly jittery, because she knew that Sam “Momo” Giancana was there. She liked Sam very much. She also liked Dan Rowan very much, but not in the same way. Phyllis was concerned. The paths of the two men must not cross. She would do everything she could to keep Sam in the dark about any other suitors. She knew intuitively that Sam was territorial and possessive.
Rowan was everything that Giancana was not. He was handsome, six foot two inches with dark wavy hair. Smart. Charming. A war hero. Sam was just stubby little Sam. Phyllis knew that a puppy could turn on its master and rip its throat out if the pup were mistreated. Sam’s puppy-dog-like devotion to her could go south if she misbehaved. She would have to be on her best behavior.
Lately, Phyllis had been misbehaving, most of the time with Dan Rowan. She had personally invited the handsome half of the comedy duo to come see the sisters open for Carson. “Why bother going through our manager?” she said to Dorothy and Christine. “I’ll just pop over to the Sands. Rowan and Martin hang out there. I’ll see if I can deliver the message personally. They’ll be more likely to come if I ask them myself. Maybe I can float the idea of teaming up for a future show.”
Phyllis had been successful in more ways than one. Perhaps a bit too successful for her own future good.
Just then, the very handsome man she was thinking about, knocked on her dressing room door.
“Are you decent?” a pleasant male voice asked.
“As decent as I’m likely to get,” answered Phyllis with a small laugh, letting the questioner make up his own mind.
The door opened slightly, and Phyllis rose to greet the handsome straight man of the Rowan & Martin comedy team. Like Martin and Lewis, Dan was the Dean Martin good looking one, while Dick Martin was Jerry Lewis, the less-good-looking funny man.
As far as Phyllis was concerned, Dan Rowan put Dean Martin’s looks to shame. Phyllis wasn’t a fan of boozy married Italians and had steered clear, so far, of both Martin and Sinatra. She might make an exception for a married Irish politician who also just happened to be President of the United States. John Fitzgerald Kennedy was married, yes, but he and his lovely wife, Jacqueline, seemed to have an arrangement that allowed JFK more leeway than most married men. Phyllis couldn’t deny that she found the Harvard-educated Boston boy from the big Irish Catholic family charming, but she was not nearly as turned on by his attention as she was by the thought of Dan Rowan, the handsome single man now approaching her. His touch left her weak in the knees, and Phyllis wasn’t usually a weak-in-the-knees kind of girl.
Phyllis could feel herself growing warm all over in anticipation of Dan Rowan’s embrace. She knew that this was not a convenient time to have those old familiar feelings.
Dan moved gracefully to Phyllis’ side. He slid both arms around her waist. “You nervous, honey?” he asked the beautiful brunette.
She could smell the faint aroma of the expensive pipe tobacco blend Rowan smoked. The odor was so much better than Sam Giancana’s smelly Cuban cigars. Phyllis knew she couldn’t stay in Dan Rowan’s arms too long. If she did, she’d want to stay there forever.
“I’m nervous when you’re holding me like this. I just spent two hours in hair and makeup.” Phyllis said, pulling away. Her excuse was not the complete truth.
Rowan laughed, a hearty male sound that boomed in the small room. “Hey, don’t be nervous because I’m here. Be nervous because soon you’ll be out there,” said Rowan, gesturing toward the door that led to the stage. Then the conversation turned serious. “I wanted to ask you something, Phyllis. I’m having a birthday on July 22nd. I’d like you to go with me to France. I’m taking a look at a barge that is permanently moored in the Seine in Paris. It might be a great retirement idea to spend part of the year on this barge. Part of it in some warm state. California. Florida. Maybe even here in Vegas.”
“Oh, Dan. I don’t know if I can get away from the Excelsior for that long. We’re set up as the opening act for almost any new talent that Louie thinks is going to be big in the near future. I’m going to have to check. See what the girls have to say.” She busied herself replacing the few strands of hair that had fallen out of place when she kissed the handsome interloper and snuggled on his comfortable chest. Her heart was beating faster than before Rowan’s entrance, and Phyllis felt herself falling under his spell. She wanted to say, “Yes! I’d love to go with you to Paris.” That would be her heart talking.
What Phyllis was really thinking, what her head was saying was, I’m going to have to see if I can get away with this. If Sam finds out, there’ll be hell to pay.
“I don’t need an answer right this minute, Phyllis. But I’d sure like to take my girl to see Paris. You ever been to Paris, Phyllis?” Rowan tilted his head and gave her an appraising look as he asked this question. He seemed both inquisitive and admiring. He touched her chin and tilted her lovely face up toward his, moving in for a kiss before Phyllis could disentangle herself.
“No, I haven’t, but I’ve always wanted to go. And I’d rather go with you than with anyone in the world.” Phyllis had no difficulty saying this with complete sincerity. Sam had mentioned taking her to France, but she had demurred. Sam told her, “Someday, Phyllis, I’ll build you your very own Eiffel Tower here in the U.S.” (Sam made good on that promise.) Dan’s proposal was different, in Phyllis’ heart and mind.
Phyllis was not some innocent or naïve ingénue. She had been around. She knew the score. She was worried about Sam Giancana’s line of work. He might have made his reputation as a wheelman, but plenty of tough guys worked for him who did not confine their talents to simply driving the get-away car.
Phyllis didn’t want to endanger Dan Rowan. She also had less-romantic affection for the schlumpy little guy whose dad once operated a food pushcart in west Chicago. Sam had been more than kind to her. She didn’t want to hurt him and she didn’t want him to hurt her.
More importantly, she didn’t want Sam to come down hard on Dan Rowan simply for inviting her to accompany him to France. Sam must not find out about the invitation, even if Phyllis declined it.
Who knows what Sam would do?
*
When Dorothy left the white-carpeted central lounge area for the privacy of her own bedroom, her mind was filled with a variety of concerns. There was tonight’s show. There was Dan Rowan. There was Sam Giancana. And why did Phyllis react the way she did when I mentioned a romance with JFK? Dorothy knew nothing about such a liaison. She wasn’t sure she wanted to confirm it, if it was true. It sounded like more trouble for the McGuire Sisters.
Dorothy needed time to unwind, and a little less time playing the cautious older sister. It was a role she knew well, having served in that capacity for three decades, but even a warden or a headmistress deserves a few days off. Christine didn’t have the temperament to ride herd on her two sisters, so Dorothy, the middle sister, inherited the Mother Hen role.
Dorothy decided that she’d spend some time in the casino after the show, in those areas of the casino that were reserved only for high rollers and important people, where celebrities would be shielded from the stares of the common folk.
She picked up the phone in her bedroom to check with Louis “The Lip” LaFica. Louie would tell her where the hotel’s most important guests were going to be hanging out after the show. And that’s where she met the enchanting Lorne Greene look-alike in the gray ten-gall
on cowboy hat, Parnell McIntire.
*
Several drinks and many hours after the successful opening night for the McGuire Sisters and Johnny Carson, Dorothy found herself completely enthralled with Parnell McIntire. He was charming. Old School. A gentleman. Even though she had a boyfriend back in Ohio, she couldn’t help but be entranced with this tall, handsome stranger. At thirty-four, she was old enough to enjoy his company for as long as he was willing to escort her about town.
“How long are you going to be in Las Vegas?” she asked Parnell as they parted that first night.
“I’ll be here at least two weeks. Maybe more,” Parnell said, undressing the singer with his eyes. His liquid brown eyes displayed great intelligence, mixed with so many other desirable traits that Dorothy found herself falling under Parnell’s spell.
She joked, “There’s something about a man in a ten-gallon hat…” Parnell just laughed, a manly sound. Dorothy said, “You remind me of Lorne Greene, the actor, only you have a better head of hair.”
Parnell laughed again. “I’ll take that as a compliment, then.”
“You should, because it is,” Dorothy countered. She really liked this guy. She asked, “What, exactly, brings you to Vegas, anyway?”
Parnell gave a vague answer. “Business,” he said.
At first, Parnell lied to her about his true line of work. But, as time passed, the wine flowed, and they were together on many other dates, he began to trust the most sensible McGuire sister and wanted to share more with her. He trusted her to be silent. He also had concerns for Dorothy’s sister, Phyllis.
Parnell couldn’t, in good conscience, continue to let Dorothy’s youngest sister consort with a dangerous mobster without emphasizing to someone in a position to dissuade her from her foolish actions that hanging out with Sam Giancana was potentially disastrous. Dorothy was that voice of reason that might cry in the Vegas wilderness. She had the best chance of persuading Phyllis to stop seeing Sam Giancana.
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