I knew he must be the boss. I smiled back and said, “Hi, are you the owner of this restaurant?”
“Yeah,” he said with a nod, then rose and came around the screen.
“I’m Teddy Lynch,” I said, getting down from the chair. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but I’m singing in the show next door, and they’re going to close it in a week if we can’t find enough money to keep it going . . . so I wondered if you might come and see a performance and, if you liked it, you and your friends might put up some money. We have a little, but we need more!”
I stopped because he was kind of smiling, looking me over and liking what he saw. “Why are you girls out beating the bushes for your producer?” he asked. “Why isn’t he?”
“Oh, he is,” I insisted, “and so are all the other actors. But there’s so little time left . . . Will you come? Please . . . it’s a great show, eh, Betzi?!”
I turned to my friend, who was sitting like a princess on the barstool, and said, “This is Betzi . . . she is absolutely the most beautiful and outrageously funny comedienne on Broadway . . . She’s in the show, too, and you’ll love her.”
“Hi,” Betzi said, smiling her most beautiful smile. And with that, the boss of that dear little Italian restaurant was hooked.
He came two nights later, with his entourage, saw the show, and afterward invited the entire cast for dinner at his restaurant. But he gave us no money. The day we closed, a chauffeur drew up in a black limo, got out in front of the theater, and came over to me as I was waiting for a cab. “Miss . . . you know my boss likes you very much. He wants you to come to Florida . . . with us.”
I stared at him, so shocked I couldn’t answer.
“Will you?” he went on. “He is very important, you know. He can get you a job there.” He leaned closer and whispered, “You know who he is, dontcha?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
“He’s Lucky . . . Lucky Luciano!”
My God, I thought.
“You can drive with us,” the chauffeur said, as if this would be reassuring.
“In that car?” I pointed to the limo.
“Yes, it’s a great car, bulletproof, too.”
“I’m sure it is . . .” I replied. “But really, I can’t. Thank you just the same, and please thank your boss, too. You see, I’m already booked, starting in two weeks at the Embassy Club . . . I’m singing with Henry King and His Orchestra. Tell your boss that Alice Faye is heading up the floor show and she’s great . . . You come and see us, too, before you leave.”
The chauffeur shook his head. I’m sure he wasn’t looking forward to giving Mr. Luciano the bad news. “Too bad,” he said. “It’s so beautiful and warm in Miami.”
As he spoke, I could feel the Miami sun’s rays beating down on me. I wished for a second that I was the kind of girl for this part, but I wasn’t. Moments later the chilling winds of winter reminded me that I’d better start walking home. There were no taxis in sight.
Heading back to the apartment, I wondered what Mother would say if I told her Lucky Luciano, the famous gangster, had invited me to go to Florida with him. I did tell her years later, when he was being deported to Italy and his face appeared on the front page of the New York Times.
She was appropriately horrified. “You knew him, Teddy?” she exclaimed. “How?”
CHAPTER 3
DEBUTANTE SINGER
I opened at Al Howard’s Embassy Club, way over on the East Side, exactly two weeks after Fools Rush In closed, and sang with Henry King’s orchestra. It was the dead of winter, 1935. The crowd there was mixed, with tables of Broadway celebrities next to tables of foreigners, and an occasional society foursome looking very out of place.
One night Al asked me to sit with friends of his. At the table, the waiter held out my chair. “Champagne?” he whispered in my ear.
“Coke,” I replied.
When Al promptly kicked me under the table, I realized that was the wrong answer. I turned to the man next to me and said, “I’ve changed my mind. May I have champagne?” At once a bottle of Dom Pérignon appeared. The man edged closer to me and proceeded to tell me all about himself. I guess he assumed I’d be spending the rest of the evening with him. I was saved by the orchestra, which had just started to play my number, “Stormy Weather.” “I’ll be right back,” I said as I dashed to safety on the bandstand, never to return.
I was taking a risk. Any young girl who defied the rules of those who owned clubs like the Embassy could get herself into big trouble by refusing to go out with an important customer—especially if he was a backer.
I can still see Al sitting at a table each night, way at the back of the restaurant, surrounded by a group of men in tuxedos, who were rumored to be gangsters, and only smiled when the floor show began and Alice Faye appeared. She was blond and beautiful. I thought she had a great voice. Rudy Vallee thought so, too. He was mad for her!
I remember the night Alice stopped me after I finished performing. “Teddy, dear,” she began, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Al has asked me to let you know that you are through as of Saturday night.”
I was stunned! I knew I was singing well. Henry had even spoken to me about doing some recordings with him. I must have looked forlorn, because Alice patted my hand. “Teddy,” she said, “it’s awful and I’m so sorry. It’s not because you aren’t good. You’re great, kid. But it seems Al has been pressured by one of the backers to let his girlfriend sing with the band, and he can’t say no, the bastard!” With that, she ran to meet Rudy.
I stood there, hardly able to stop the tears. But by the time I reached the apartment, I decided it didn’t matter. I was not going to spend another minute feeling sorry for myself or angry with whomever it was who got me fired. I just had to get another job, and fast.
After about two weeks with no luck, I began to get scared.
My brother Ware, determined to help keep my spirits up, suggested we go out on the town for fun. Off we went, stopping first for a drink at the then famous bar at the Weylin Hotel at 40 East 54th Street, where cabaret artist Guy Rennie was appearing. When I told him what had happened to me, Guy grabbed my hand and pulled me hurriedly through the lobby of the hotel to the new Caprice Room, which hadn’t even opened yet—it was soon to be one of New York’s most prestigious supper clubs. There, rehearsing a number, was a dance team, with Latin bandleader Enrique Madriguera at the piano.
“Rico!” Guy called out, at the same time pushing me into the room. “Heard you’re looking for a singer. This is Teddy, Teddy Lynch, one of those debutante singers. She was in New Faces, and she’d love to sing for you.”
Well, that’s how it happened. Enrique needed a singer. I needed a job. I auditioned, and in a New York minute I was engaged by him at $100 a week to sing with his orchestra. But more than that, I was to be part of the floor show. When the lights dimmed and the orchestra started to play, I stood under a baby pink spotlight and sang the chorus of “Two Cigarettes in the Dark,” while the dancers, their cigarettes aglow, whirled about the room, interpreting the song.
I got a call from Betzi Beaton, who was about to open in the Ziegfeld Follies. She wanted me to meet her for lunch at the Algonquin before she had to dash to the costumer’s for a fitting. We hadn’t seen each other since Fools Rush In. Anna Della joined us, and we three hardly ate. There was so much catching up to do!
Betzi was now living in a one-room apartment in the hotel, and suggested I move in, too, since Ware and I had lost our lease. She told me that Frank Case, who owned the Algonquin, was a family friend, and would make a special price for her and I if we took an apartment together.
I thought it was a great idea, and within a month we were ensconced in a neat first-floor apartment, right over the main entrance on 44th Street. Our strategic location gave us an uninterrupted view of everyone coming and going. Friday at noon was the best time to see celebrities. If we saw someone special come in, we’d check our makeup, dash down the fi
rst-floor stairway to the lobby, and hastily walk to the Oak Room, where our friend Raoul, the headwaiter, would seat us at the table to the left of the doorway, so we could see and be seen.
The Algonquin was far more than it appeared to be from the outside. Entering through those creaking revolving doors, one half-expected to find a second-rate hotel. Instead there was an inviting lobby, with comfy chairs and huge leather couches. To the left of the front desk were the famous Algonquin dining rooms. To the right, behind a curtain, was a humming switchboard, where operators took messages for the famous. And there were always famous people in residence—John Barrymore and the great contralto Marian Anderson were on our floor. Frank Case gave her a piano, and from time to time we could hear her vocalize, very softly. Then there was the famous Round Table, where Alex Woollcott, Heywood Broun, Robert Benchley, Franklin P. Adams, Alfred Lunt, Charles MacArthur, George Kaufman, Moss Hart, and Dorothy Parker would meet.
Of course, there was the cat and the lobby was her home. And who can forget the funny old elevator that seemed to crawl up and down the floors behind gilded latticework, and the grandfather clock, which stood right in front of where Miss Bush sat. Miss Bush was a fixture at the Algonquin. She sat behind the curtain, hair piled high, perched atop a throne like a queen, overseeing the busiest switchboard in the city. From her command post she handled John Barrymore’s calls to the West Coast, made sure that Marian Anderson got her tea with honey, and saw to it that Damon Runyon reached Rose Bingham, Walter Winchell’s girl Friday, for an important charity show appearance. A one-woman Central Intelligence Agency, Miss Bush pretty much ran the Algonquin. She oversaw incoming and outgoing everything, including love, money, and the inside scoop on what was really going on in the hotel—with staff and guests alike. It was not unusual for Betzi and me to come dashing in breathless to get our latest calls from her. Miss Bush would also happily take care of calls from men we didn’t want to speak to, redirecting them out into infinity.
CHAPTER 4
BAILEY
I was meant to open at the British Colonial Hotel in the Bahamas for a six-week run and had taken the train from New York to Miami, where I caught the ship from Miami to Nassau.
I went to Paradise Beach every day to swim and lie in the sun. I sang every evening in the show, then was free to do as I wished the rest of the time. I had fun, because the hotel was filled with many friends of mine from Greenwich and New York who were on vacation. Most evenings they came to hear me sing. Then we danced till midnight. One moonlit night we all went skinny-dipping in the hotel pool, which was a no-no. The hotel security guards were called out by the management, and I didn’t want to get caught. Fearing I’d be reprimanded (or worse) if I was found, I quickly grabbed my clothes and raced to my room.
Jean Donnelly knocked on my door the very next morning, bearing exciting news. She told me that, after I’d left, she had introduced her friend Fred Stein to my friend Betzi Beaton, and it was love at first sight. From the moment they met, they were inseparable. I searched her face for signs of a broken heart. “Don’t worry, Teddy,” she said. “I wasn’t in love with him anyway. What I need now is a room. I can only stay till next weekend.”
“Then stay with me,” I said, pointing to the twin bed. “It won’t cost you anything.”
“Okay, good night,” she said. And with that, she slipped under the covers and in moments was fast asleep. When she awoke, we talked about the great romance. Jean was excited and more than a little proud that she had played matchmaker for these two extraordinary people. Fred, so brilliant, dark, and handsome, was completely smitten with the beautiful, blond Betzi. “Now someone has to introduce someone to me,” she said petulantly.
I laughed. “Okay. You might meet that someone at Paradise Beach. Come on, get dressed, let’s go. There’s a boat leaving for the island every half hour!”
By the time Jean had to return to New York, there was someone for her—a very tall Cuban boy from an extremely wealthy family. There was someone for me, too. He was a handsome, blond, blue-eyed Adonis, Bailey Balken by name, and he was wildly anxious to get me away from the rest of the crowd. A Williams graduate, he was divorced and now part of the New York scene. He’d been vacationing in Nassau and was in the audience the first night I appeared at the British Colonial . . . and every night thereafter, sometimes with others, most times alone, and always wanting me to go out with him.
Finally, we met one morning at Paradise, had lunch, went for a swim, raced each other out to the raft, and spent the rest of the afternoon just catching up on our lives “before Nassau.” One morning very early, we sailed to an uninhabited island about a mile away. We spent the day exploring and had a picnic lunch on a little knoll under a palm tree. I felt he was more than special. In fact, I felt such a closeness with him that I told him about what Dad had done to me. Then, like a couple of natives, we went swimming naked.
When I told Jean about it, she was wide-eyed. “Oh my God, Teddy! You are crazy! One doesn’t go swimming naked with a man one doesn’t expect to have an affair with! And then what? You did it?”
“Well, not really,” I replied.
“What do you mean ‘not really’? Either you did, or you didn’t!”
“We didn’t . . . I mean, we didn’t go the whole way,” I said. “I felt he understood me. When I told him what Dad did to me and how horrible I felt when he called me a ‘dirty little Jew,’ Bailey just kissed me, held me, and said ‘forget it.’ ”
Her eyes narrowed. Jeannie had already figured out what happened. I stopped and took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll tell you the truth. Yes, we did make love, and it was wonderful! Maybe it wasn’t love, but it was just the most exciting experience I’ve ever experienced. He’s very sweet and kind. He wants me to live with him!”
Jean sprang to her feet. “You can’t, Teddy! You’re a lady!”
“No, I’m not! I’m a woman, and I think it’s about time I lived like one.”
“You can’t, not in the world you were brought up in. Think of your mother!”
“You think of her!” I shot back. “I’m not in that Greenwich world anymore. I have no plans . . . only dreams.”
“Well, I pray you wake up before you get too involved and get your heart broken.”
And with those friendly words of advice, Jean left. I finished my six-week engagement at the hotel, singing each night, swimming and sailing each day in the sunshine with Bailey, and becoming much too romantically involved. Was this love? I was beginning to think so, since Bailey was so adamant about staying together that he was now suggesting we get married.
When summer arrived, Betzi and Fred were on their honeymoon. I was still living in the apartment at the Algonquin and started studying with the young composer and songwriter Gene Berton while I was dating Bailey. I had finally introduced Bailey to Mother before she left for the Vineyard with my little sisters. He was surprised when she suggested we wait at least six months before marrying. The idea of his having been recently divorced didn’t please her.
On the other hand, my mother’s ultimatum didn’t please him, either. He didn’t want to wait. “Come live with me,” he begged.
“You know I can’t, not now,” I said, secretly wanting to. “When I get back from singing at the Wardman Park Hotel in Washington next week, we’ll go up to the Vineyard to Wild Acres, and you’ll see where I grew up. We can sail and swim at South Beach.”
“We can’t make love there.”
“We can make love here . . .” I replied, and in minutes I was in his arms.
About a month later I got a message from Bailey asking to meet. We were supposed to go out on a date that evening, but whatever it was, it couldn’t wait. I was so excited to see him. He was sitting on my couch when I walked into my apartment. I ran to kiss him. He leaned forward and tried to clear his throat. “I don’t know how to say this, Teddy,” he said, looking up at me, “but . . .”
“But what?”
“But . . . I can�
�t marry you!”
I went cold. I put out my hand, but he didn’t take it. He just kept looking at me.
“Why? Are you still married?”
“No. It’s not that.”
“Then what is it? Are you ill? Dying from some disease . . . or . . . don’t you love me anymore? Is there someone else?”
“No. I love you, Teddy,” he spoke softly. “But . . .”
“But what?”
“It’s just that I can’t marry a girl who has Jewish blood in her veins.”
I looked at him, not believing what I was hearing. “But you knew this, Bailey. You knew this when we first met. Remember, I told you . . . we were lying on the beach, telling each other everything.”
“It was different then. We weren’t in love.”
“I was.” I turned away from those memories, the memory of our affair. I struggled to stifle my tears.
“Think,” he began, “think of what might happen to a child . . . if we had one.”
“Don’t worry, Bailey, we won’t now.”
“I love you, Teddy. Can’t we go on as we are? I don’t want to lose you . . .”
“You just did!” I said. And with that I picked up a carafe of ice water from the coffee table and hurled it at him, drenching him from the waist down.
“Damn you, Teddy!” he yelled, then turned and ran out of the apartment, dripping water all over the floor and down the stairs to the lobby.
I closed my eyes and stood there, the empty pitcher in my hand, my heart breaking, knowing that for Bailey I was only someone to have fun with, but not good enough to be his wife and the mother of his child. I shuddered at the realization that Hitler just crossed the Atlantic and had invaded the American home and my life.
I put down the pitcher, walked over to the window, looked out, and saw Bailey. He was still dripping as he got into a cab, which quickly disappeared down 44th Street, taking him out of my life. Only then did I burst into tears.
CHAPTER 5
Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty Page 3
