Judy and I

by Sid Luft

  Judy was not impressed, but she feigned great interest.

  As Bir Hakeim went around the turn I thought the jockey should be on the outside, because he got left at the gate and Bir Hakeim was well tuned. “The horse goes right through the pack and gets shut off. Then he goes to the outside, then he ducks in again.” Now, Judy sat up as though she was watching a race, forgetting the “darling” lesson. “The horse got beat by thirty lengths. Dead last by thirty.”

  Judy interjected, “Is that good or bad for us, darling?”

  “Bad. I lost $15,000 bucks.” I went back to the barn and found the jockey. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I was furious. He didn’t answer me because he didn’t understand English.

  Julio pointed to Bir Hakeim. “Look at his eye. It’s blue—he got kicked to the face with a rock.”

  Judy was ready to cry. “Darling,” I reassured her quite naturally, “it’s a happy ending.”

  I thought Ted would have to know. Mad as hell, I boarded the train, along with the Chickenman. He was planning to get off somewhere between New York and Baltimore. We ate dinner together, and after four or five drinks I came to the conclusion Ted and I were screwed.

  When I got back to New York I immediately got on the phone. “Ted, we’ll get our money back. Next week Bir Hakeim will be at 30 or 40:1. All we have to do is bet $2,000 and get our money back.”

  Again, the track was muddy, the way the horse liked it. I went to Baltimore with $5,000 cash and found Julio saddling up Bir Hakeim. The horse was 30:1 in the racing form.

  “You go and see what price he is.”

  I looked at the board and he’s 9:1. “From 30:1 that’s some fuckin’ drop,” I said.

  “Don’t worry,” Julio said, “it’ll go up.”

  By the time the horses got on the racetrack for the parade he’s 8:1; five minutes to post and I haven’t bet a quarter yet, he’s 6:1. I go up to the window, and Bir Hakeim is 5:1. I bet $1,000, he’s 4:1, I go to another window, he’s 2:1. Bir Hakeim went off at 5:2. From 30:1 to 5:2.

  I sat with Henry Parr, who later became the president of Pimlico. Bir Hakeim was running in the lead; when they went around the bend, he was about five lengths in front; when they hit the stretch, he’s ten in front. He won by eighteen lengths. At least I won back $5,000.

  “You see, when the odds are broken down like that it means Julio and the Chickenman are betting all over the country. And that’s how I came to understand: you never trust anyone in racing, darling.”

  Judy cocked her head. “Nooo, that’s not it. Much better before.”

  I was learning how to say “darling” in a soft and melodic way. However, as much as Judy was fascinated by the track, she never quite understood a claiming horse.

  18

  IT WAS VIRTUALLY IMPOSSIBLE to be cool around Judy. She was spinning a web around me, and I seemed more than willing to be caught. I did not want to feel trapped; my goal was to avoid any kind of pressure cooker, which was tough to do, since I so entirely lusted after her. I anticipated some sort of confrontation with Vincente, and this bothered me even more. Fortunately it never happened.

  In January 1951, Judy was booked to perform on the popular radio program The Bob Hope Show. There was a comedy sketch, dialogue with Judy, singing, and orchestration. Judy asked me to attend the broadcast. She also wanted me to be present afterward at the Brown Derby, where she was to discuss her career with Abe Lastfogel and Judy’s former costar Fanny Brice. Backstage I noticed Judy needed but one look at the script before she knew it. She would read it through in ordinary conversation, and the words would fall flat. Then in front of the audience she’d breathe magic into the dialogue. The audience’s reaction was awesome: they tore up the studio.

  We left the highly charged atmosphere to meet Abe and Fanny for dinner. The subject at hand: What should Judy Garland do next? William Morris was a powerful agency, with offices worldwide, and Lastfogel had some ideas. He suggested that Judy follow the lead of Danny Kaye, currently a giant success at the London Palladium. “Go to England, leave the country.”

  Fanny Brice agreed. “You need to move on with your career.”

  Abe had brought Fanny along to back him up. Judy admired Fanny, a brilliant, multitalented woman: she sang, painted, and wrote. (Her son, Bill Brice, inherited the gift and became a well-known West Coast painter.) Judy had made two films with her. In 1938’s Everybody Sing, little Judy was on her way to becoming a “national asset.” The New York Times reported, “It is, of course, only fair to admit that Judy Garland of the rhythm, writin’ and ’rithmetic age is a superb vocal technician, despite her not exactly underemphasized immaturity.”

  Their second collaboration was the Ziegfeld Follies of 1946. In this all-star musical revue, Judy performed a sequence called “The Interview.” Bosley Crowther in the New York Times described Judy as demonstrating “promise of a talent approaching that of Beatrice Lillie or Gertrude Lawrence.” But the public was not accustomed to Judy in a sophisticated role, and she was quickly returned to the girl-next-door persona.

  Judy was listening to Fanny and Abe, and they did a good job of persuading her. I had to agree: as much as I was reluctant to see Judy leave, the Palladium would be a marvelous career move. She was about ten pounds overweight, and on her petite physique any extra weight was magnified on the screen. In any case, there were no film offers. She would not have to worry about one pound singing in concert.

  When Judy was in front of the cameras, which she had been most of her teen and adult life, she’d been on either Benzedrine or a diet or both. It was the bane of her life. Unlike other actresses, she could not successfully camouflage extra weight, especially as she was so active, dancing and singing in revealing costumes. She could even be underweight and still appear heavy or out of proportion on screen, a tremendous cause of unhappiness for her.

  Dottie Ponedel had come into Judy’s life around the same time as Fanny Brice. It was on the set of Everybody Sing that Sydney Guilaroff, the chief hair designer at MGM, had introduced them. Dottie was famous for doing Marlene Dietrich’s makeup. She was adept at creating glamorous screen images, and she changed Judy’s from wholesome teenager to beautiful young woman. She threw away the caps Judy wore on her teeth and the rubber discs that reshaped her nose. They rapidly became pals, drinking and hanging out. Dottie, colorful and uneducated, supported Judy’s antics. “Beans,” Dottie’s brother, was Sinatra’s makeup person for years, so they provided another illusion of family for Judy.

  As for her actual family, at MGM mothers were expected to report on their children to the studio, and Judy’s mother had been on the payroll for this purpose. There’d been times, however, when Ethel begged MGM to slow down Judy’s work schedule, just as decades later I was to beg her agents, Freddie Fields and David Begelman, to slow down her concert and film work (she could never work forty consecutive concerts without the use of drugs). And, like Ethel, I was frustrated in that my requests were ignored. At one point Ethel had suggested Judy quit the film industry when her weight dropped to eighty pounds during the making of Presenting Lily Mars.

  Judy had been an effervescent teenager, and in some sense it’s understandable that she would have been mad at her mother for spying on her during those years. But Judy chose to feel permanently betrayed, much as, years later, she would feel betrayed by Hollywood when she was not awarded the Oscar for Best Actress for her performance in A Star Is Born.

  Ethel was eventually taken off the payroll, once the studio heads were content that Dottie was keeping Judy happy and in tow. These responsibilities led to MGM paying Dottie extra, although she did not ask for it.

  I absorbed the conversation in our prime booth at the Brown Derby. I was trying to adjust to the idea of Judy leaving. She was not eager to go. Fanny was persuading her to say yes, “make it definite.” I kept thinking of her performance at the studio, and the extraordinary ability she demonstrated in relating to a live audience. Lastfogel was pointing out, again, the
tremendous success Danny Kaye had enjoyed at the Palladium. “It would be no different for you, honey.”

  London was an especially good choice for Judy, since the majority of her overseas fan mail came from Britain. She’d been receiving worldwide fan correspondence for years without reading any of it. Tully was in charge of doing that. The studio’s publicity department answered the requests for pictures, providing a five-by-seven-inch glossy of the star on receipt of one quarter for postage. Then the letters, which ran into the thousands, would be boxed weekly and forwarded to the William Morris Agency. Tully would go in and sort it out. In those days the letters were generally of sympathy and encouragement, very much like the “Love Letter” in Billy Rose’s column. Sentiments like “Go get ’em, Judy.”

  Judy looked to Fanny, and by the time we left the Brown Derby it was agreed that Judy would be booked at the London Palladium for April.

  Vincente moved temporarily out of Evanview, and Judy returned to the house to be with her daughter, Liza, while she designed her Palladium act with Roger Edens and Oscar Levant. She had wanted me to spend time at the house, but I found it impossible to stay there. I could not sleep in another man’s bed, nor was I going to hang around a rival’s home. It could have been an issue between us, but Judy was understanding, and we continued to meet at my apartment.

  She was diligently at work with Roger and Oscar. It was Oscar who suggested the Al Jolson hit “Rock-a-Bye Your Baby.” He recognized that Judy shared with Jolson the same kind of power over audiences. “Rock-a-Bye,” along with Jolson’s “Swanee” and “Carolina in the Morning,” subsequently became associated with Judy. Meanwhile, Roger created the vocal arrangements; together they built a dynamic forty-five-minute act.

  I followed my investments. The script for Man o’ War was about to be rewritten yet again in the hopes of pleasing the horse’s owner, Sam Riddle. I was fortunate that my polo-playing silent partner, Ted Law, trusted me. He knew I enjoyed managing Walfarms, I had an eye for horses, and I raced them for a pretty good profit. There were no outstanding pressures in my life other than the ongoing battle for more money with my ex-wife. Lynn had finally divorced me in December 1950, but the decree wouldn’t be final for months.

  In March, Judy began her own divorce proceedings, going before a superior court judge and giving testimony as to why she desired for her marriage to Vincente Minnelli to end. At this juncture Vincente cooperated, giving custody of Liza to her mother in a legal separation.

  Neither the court proceedings nor my business interests intruded in our affair. I was sure to find a way to be with Judy. I had accompanied her to several Bing Crosby broadcasts where she was the guest entertainer. Again, the audience demonstrated their exuberance and brought the house down each time. When Judy expressed insecurities about performing in London I would only have to counter, “Look how you’ve proved yourself these past few months onstage, in front of a live audience, darling.”

  Still, Freddie Finklehoffe had been calling me for weeks. I wasn’t around my usual haunts, and he missed me at the track. I had managed to avoid meeting him and dealing with his double-edged curiosity. When we finally spoke, he informed me that he was aware Judy had moved out of Evanview. I quickly reassured him that she was back. This confused Freddie. “It didn’t hang?” I said, “No, Vincente’s out.” Not knowing where to go with that, he brought the subject around to business—in this case, a horse. Freddie had known I was interested in buying a certain filly. In the interim, I had actually decided against it. I suspected the horse carried a bad infection, and I was correct. Unaware of this, Freddie went around me and bought the horse himself. He was duped, but he couldn’t admit it to me. So by the time we met for lunch at the Cock’n Bull, he was on his third scotch and asking me more questions about Judy.

  “I hate to admit this to you, Freddie,” I said, “but I’m crazy about the girl.”

  His eyes hit the ceiling. “I hope you’re jesting, pal.”

  “I think it’s love.” I was playing with Freddie, as I knew he must really have that sick horse on his mind. At the same time, I knew I was in love with Judy. I said, “Frankly, Freddie, it’s a little nuts for me to get involved with a woman so much in the eyes of the public, every move detailed. Sure, it’s been fun and games and a conquest.” Freddie was turning green. I thought the truth was, I was wanted, sought after. Judy was a great boost for the ego, and it was even deeper than all that.

  Freddie had named his filly Don’t Tell Ella after his first wife, Ella Logan. Unfortunately, Don’t Tell Ella was sick for six months after purchase. She never ran and she never became a brood mare. I attempted to explain to Freddie how the breeding of mares generally belongs to dynasties of families who have, for generations, studied bloodlines. It was an area I wouldn’t touch, out of my reach. He looked bemused and ordered another double scotch.

  Freddie didn’t crack until years later, when he asked me to buy two of Don’t Tell Ella’s offspring, as if I were responsible for his grand error. He had boarded them in a broken-down barn in Northridge that he hadn’t visited in two years. We went out to see them one rainy day, tramping about a quarter of a mile through mud to a paddock. There stood a creature with a big head and no legs. He looked like a funny pony. “He can’t run, Freddie,” I said. “It’s not a racehorse.” We found the other horse, just the opposite: a black stallion we couldn’t get near. He was totally wild and untrainable. “You’re a Harvard graduate, Freddie, but you ain’t got no horse sense, baby.”

  19

  I see America marching

  led by MGM,

  the other peoples of the world

  avidly cheering them,

  Judy out ahead.

  —James Simmons, “Judy Garland and the Cold War”

  THE TRIP TO ENGLAND would be the first time Judy had ever been out of the United States. As she was terrified of flying, she was going to sail aboard the Ile de France with Tully and Dottie. For the moment, Liza would stay behind with “Cozy,” her nanny.

  On the eve of Judy’s departure for England, she gave me a Cartier wristwatch. The inscription read, I’M WITH YOU, BABY, a phrase she had culled from my lingo when I’d reassure her with pet phrases like, “You can do it, darling,” and, “Remember, I’m with you, baby.” Judy had subtly suggested I make the trip to London with her. I refused to take the hint but was unable to tell her why: I didn’t wish to be trapped aboard ship with an entourage, tagged the “boyfriend.”

  The instant Judy left Los Angeles, I missed her. In fact, I longed for her. She sent me wires from the ship: “Darling, I love you” or “Darling, I miss you.” When the ship docked in England she had Tully contact me. Would I fly over for opening night? Judy was low, and she would love to see me. “She talks about you every day. ‘What’s he doing? Who’s he going out with?’ Why don’t you surprise her?”

  I had anticipated Judy would call when she arrived, that I would hear directly from her. Once more she’d asked Tully to contact me. Clearly, she still didn’t want to hear one iota of a rejection.

  I didn’t have to think twice: I flew to London, leaving my trainer Bill Sergeant in charge of Walfarms.

  From the moment the Ile de France had docked in Plymouth there’d been an overwhelming reception for Judy Garland, and it followed her all the way to the Dorchester Hotel in London. I surprised Judy at the hotel the night before she opened. We spent a wonderfully romantic evening together: dinner in the Dorchester Grill, then on to the Savoy, the 400 Club. Judy was out to have a ball. My arrival in London in time for her opening night at the Palladium was something to celebrate, but I also was aware of a kind of suppressed anxiousness on her part. We spent the night in her suite at the Dorchester, where I remained for the run of the show.

  On opening night Judy’s dresser rushed into her dressing room. “The Queen Mother’s coming!” She was so excited.

  I said, “Are you kidding, the Queen’s already here!”

  Judy laughed, but it was a nervous giggle. I
t was not going to be easy going out onstage, and she admitted this by asking me to hold her. She craved emotional support. I was awkward, self-conscious. I held her hand a moment and then I held her until she was ready to pose her entrance, carrying a subtle message for the audience in her composure. She was swathed in a saffron-color organza concoction dreamed up by Dottie and Tully. I patted her rump and off she whooshed.

  A curve of celebrities sat directly behind Judy onstage. At one point the rush of applause was so intense it actually propelled her onto one of the celebrities’ laps. I stood in the wings, holding my breath as Judy opened with Roger Edens’s “At Long Last Here I Am”:

  I thought it would never happen, but I finally got here.

  I’ve been all around the map an’ lots of places but not here.

  It seemed so far away, the trip seemed silly.

  I’d always heard them say, it’s a long, long way to Piccadilly.

  But when Danny Kaye first told me this is where I should wind up,

  I guess Danny must have sold me, I immediately signed up.

  And then I knew I’d get here, even if I swam.

  It’s hard to believe, but here I am.

  And now I admit I’m nearly overcome with delightment.

  I ask you, and quite sincerely, please forgive my excitement.

  I never thought I’d see what we call Buckingham.

  But that’s past . . .

  So hold fast . . .

  At long last,

  Here I am!

  By the time Judy got to the last line of the song, she could no longer hold back her emotions. She choked up as she sang, “Here I am!” The audience of over twenty-five hundred people began to cheer her on, shouting, “Judy you’re wonderful,” “Good old Judy.”

  Judy was sincerely moved, but she could not continue to deliver in such a halting voice. I stood there, my heart in my mouth, to see where she was going, and she made the decision on the spot. Instead of waiting to end the performance with “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” her signature number, she sang it right away. The audience was on their feet screaming for the rest of the concert.