by Nancy Bacon
‘Unfortunately, an hour later, I might not be happy with that.’
Errol was one of the true livers. He believed in living every pulsating moment to the hilt. That’s what life is all about, really, the living of it; I mean, after all, a plane could fall on your head tomorrow and there you’d be with all those unfulfilled dreams—still unfulfilled. I completely agree with Errol and perhaps he was the first man in my life that taught me to live fully and completely. It is my contention that the reward of a life well spent is a death that is easy on your relatives. Errol said, in his biography My Wicked, Wicked Ways, ‘I love all the simple things of life; breathing, eating, drinking, frolicking, fishing, all the f’s. I love fundamental excitement. A baked fruit-bread can be as exciting to me as a visit to see a Rembrandt My favorite occupation: a prolonged bout in the bedroom. The greatest calamity: castration. What would I like to be at seventy? At seventy I confidentially hope I will have had at least eight more wives, have grown a stomach that I can regard with respect, and can still walk upstairs to the bedroom without groaning or aching.’
Unfortunately, my darling Errol did not live to see seventy—or anything close to it. He died, still a young man, still feeling, still living it to the hilt in a big stone house on the north side of Jamaica overlooking the Caribbean.
paging doctor casey
Over the next couple of years, I had dozens of bit parts in as many forgettable movies and television shows and my ardor for fame and fortune had begun to wane a little. I didn’t really enjoy acting that much and I thoroughly hated getting up before dawn and making that long drive to the studio in the dark, while sane people were still asleep in their warm beds. However, the pay was good so I continued to take whatever job came my way.
But I didn’t want to be just another pretty face. All my life, I’d craved knowledge, hungered for substance. From the time I could put two words together, I’d become a voracious reader, devouring the written word like a vampire at a blood bank. Don’t get me wrong; I wanted recognition, but I realized I didn’t want to see my face on the silver screen. I wanted to see the words ‘Screenplay by Nancy Bacon’ or ‘Based on the Novel by Nancy Bacon.’
My roommate, Jody Holmes, and I were living in a very nice, new apartment on Franklin Avenue and I had a decent car for once and modeling jobs were more plentiful than ever. I was raking in big bucks when I was suddenly struck with appendicitis and was rushed to a Burbank hospital for an emergency appendectomy. When I came to the next morning, still a little groggy and in a great deal of pain, I glanced across the room and saw the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my life.
Even without makeup, Kathy Smith was a naturally exquisite creature with piles of rich chestnut hair tumbling about her sun-kissed, peachy skin and framing her perfect oval face like a painting. She was a model, of course, and told me she’d just signed a three-year contract to be spokeswoman for Vic Tanny’s Health Clubs. She was as friendly and kind as she was beautiful, therefore it didn’t surprise me in the least that she had a steady stream of good looking men visiting her every day and night.
One of those gorgeous hunks was a big, burly, sultry Italian dude from Brooklyn, New York, Vincent Edward Zoine. He had dropped the ‘Zoine’ and added an ‘s’ to Edward and went on to become the fabulously successful television doctor, Ben Casey. But the day he walked into my hospital room to visit his friend Kathy, he was just another out of work actor—albeit one with an incredible Adonis physique and melting velvet brown Latin eyes. Even before he became TV’s surly surgeon, Vince was already experimenting with the possible cures for mattress fatigue and other common Hollywood ailments. He spent most of his time hanging around Santa Monica Beach, lifting weights, flexing his bulging biceps for the beach cuties and working on keeping his tan permanent while he dreamed of getting a movie contract or getting laid—and in those lean years it was usually the latter.
I was preparing for my first trip to the bathroom since my surgery and I was still awfully shaky and couldn’t seem to straighten up all the way. As I was making my way across the room, crablike, suddenly I was scooped up in a pair of strong, hairy
arms and carried into the bathroom and deposited upon the throne.
‘Take it easy,’ Vince smiled warmly. ‘I’ll wait outside the door if you need me.’
A moment later I rapped rather weakly upon the door and Vince opened it, flashed me his sexy smile, gathered me up from my undignified seat and carried me gently back to my bed. Kathy introduced us and I learned they were just good friends, with no romantic entanglements to speak of. Vince shook my hand, fixing me with one of those sober, dark-eyed stares that was soon to become his trademark as Dr. Ben Casey and I was hooked.
Kathy left the hospital the next day but Vince kept coming back to see me and when I was released, he drove me home. After that he would drop by the apartment every day to see how I was getting along, often bringing Chinese food or deli sandwiches to keep us busy. He often teased that if I had not just undergone major surgery he would be devouring me rather than an egg roll! I learned everything about his background during those long, lazy afternoons when we lolled in front of the television set and talked for hours. He had been a college swimming champion as well as a contender for Mr. Universe and he still worked to keep his large frame in top notch condition. He was sleek and trim as a jungle cat without an extra ounce of fat any place on his body and his face was as perfect as the rest of him.
When my doctor pronounced me completely recovered, Vince took me out to Don the Beachcombers to celebrate and from there to his Hollywood hills bachelor pad. Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards glittered below his window like so many sparkling jewels spread out on a jeweler’s black velvet cloth and the sweet, soft summer breeze pushed gently through his drapes. He put on a stack of Ray Charles and Frank Sinatra albums, took me tenderly in his arms and began dancing me slowly around his big, luxurious living room.
I was so young and he was so handsome and the music was so romantic, the night so jewel-like, that I fell in love with a thud that could have been heard all the way to the San Fernando Valley. He kissed me then, taking my breath away, then scooped me up and carried me into his bedroom and lay me carefully upon the silken folds of his mammoth king-size bed where he proceeded to administer postoperative care.
We were both perfect physical specimens in those young years and it seemed only natural that we should get together every so often to admire our beautiful physiques and feel each other’s muscles. We had a lot in common. We were both health food nuts and loved to work out at the gym and go for long, brisk walks. When we were together, we’d sweep into a restaurant somewhere, our heads held high, our carriages proud and erect, and every head in the room would swivel to watch us pass. We were like a pair of gorgeous young animals and we gloried in it. never tiring of being stared at—or of staring at ourselves in his full-length mirror.
After we had made love, Vince would leap out of bed, pulling me with him, and we’d pose and preen before the big mirror on his closet door, loving our reflections almost as much as we loved one another. Vince had a surprisingly good voice, a deep, sexy baritone, and he would throw back his head and belt out a verse or two of the currently popular songs. Vince was so joyous in bed that his partner could not help but be infected as well. He would gaze down into my face, his dark eyes shining like brown diamonds, and he would laugh with the sheer pleasure of how good we felt together.
‘Open your eyes,’ he would demand, ‘look at me when I’m loving you.’ He would keep his drapes and doors open in his bedroom which afforded us a panorama sweep of the bright city below and he would stare rapturously out across the broad expanse of twinkling lights. ‘I feel like we’re making love on them,’ he would whisper huskily. ‘They look close enough to touch.’ His hot, smoldering gaze would devour my face. ‘If I could, I’d reach out and scoop up a handful and give them to you.’ (He once gave me a handful of peanuts, his dark eyes somber and his voice deep with emotion when he sa
id, ‘I wish they were diamonds.’)
Vince had been dating Joan Collins when I met him but he stopped seeing her when our romance burst into flame. I remember the night he asked me to be ‘his girl’ and how cute and gentle and shy he was about it. He had come from the school of hard knocks and was leery of most people, suspicious and distrustful of their motives, but I guess he must have trusted me because we were soon inseparable.
It was only after months of dating that I began to notice a serious flaw in my hero. He loved the ponies and couldn’t seem to stay away from the track. Of course, his gambling is legendary now, but in those days, it was something of a shock to see someone so hooked on horseracing. During racing season I was often left alone while Vince spent his time at Hollywood Park, Santa Anita or Del Mar. When he won, he was delightful, taking me out to the best restaurant in town and buying me any crazy gift that caught his fancy, but when he lost (which was often) he would sulk in black, surly moods of anguish and then our lovemaking would be violent, deep, dark and frightening. He would demand that I tell him I loved only him and make me promise to never leave him.
And I didn’t think I ever would, but when Jim suggested a stint in Las Vegas, dancing in the chorus line at The Sands Hotel, I jumped at the chance. So, it was off to Vegas, like Dorothy skipping down the yellow brick road toward an unknown and slightly frightening Oz. (Gamblers and gangsters and hookers—oh my...)
vegas baby
Back in the day, The Mob owned most of Sin City and it was rumored that the desert was littered with the bodies of those foolish enough to try and cross the big guys. I settled into a little bungalow just down the Strip a ways from The Sands and put on my dancing shoes: four inch stilettoes. I wasn’t eighteen yet but I pasted on a double pair of thick false eyelashes, plastered on another layer of Max Factor Pan-Cake Makeup, shimmied into a G-string the size of dental floss and made my debut. With my wholesome baby-face I didn’t look anywhere close to being twenty-one, but little things like birth certificates didn’t mean much in Sin City.
The Rat Pack (Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Peter Lawford, Joey Bishop, Sammy Davis Jr.) was appearing at the same club nightly and shooting the movie Ocean’s Eleven during the day. I had had a huge crush on Dean Martin for as long as I could remember. Those dreamy, melting brown eyes. That soft sensuous mouth. The thick, tousled, black curls. The ultra-cool, laid back persona. Damn! I wanted that man!
Between every show, I raced to the curtained-off area backstage and waited breathlessly for Dean to pass by. He would pause, gaze appreciatively at my pert, heaving bosoms, sigh deeply, and move on past. One night, he stopped, took my hand in his and pressed a dime into my quivering palm, murmuring, ‘Call me when you’re twenty-one.’
After about a month of constant, adoring surveillance, I was finally invited back into the inner-sanctum where the Rat Pack drank, partied, and made love until dawn. But none of the boys dared lay a glove on me. Word had come down from The Chairman of the Board, Frank Sinatra, that I was underage and could only be ogled from afar. So honed my drinking skills and picked up intel no young lady should ever hear!
My cozy little bungalow was nestled among some trees behind the famous and notorious El Rancho, a hot spot for Mafia, molls and seething vendettas. One night, it was torched and burned to the ground: a clear sign it was time for me to get out of Dodge.
satyr
Jim Henaghan. Just his name brings a smile to my lips and a chill to my heart. He was both brilliant and mad, fair and deceitful, tender and dangerous, and I fell wildly in love with him.
He was a writer by profession and a world traveler by choice, having spent much of him time living abroad and visiting countries almost at random. He was fond of the bottle and would often begin drinking in Paris and wake up with a hangover in Italy or Spain, not remembering how he got there. ‘I saw a hell of a lot of great countries that way,’ he laughingly told me. He had been a script writer back in the 40s, penning classics for Alan Ladd, Gloria Swanson, Ingrid Bergman, Humphrey Bogart and other stars of their ilk, but when I met him he was working (sort of) for Batjac Productions, John Wayne’s movie company.
Jim and Wayne were buddies from way back, with a sort of Butch Cassidy / Sundance Kid type of relationship and I loved being around them when they were reminiscing about some of the pranks they’d pulled. We were having dinner one night at Au Petit Jean’s in Beverly Hills, when Jim turned to Duke and asked him, ‘When you were Marion Morrison growing up on the farm, did you ever imagine in your wildest dreams that you’d someday be a world-famous movie star?’
To which Duke honestly replied, ‘No—I thought I’d be president of the United States.’
Duke was great fun and hanging out with him was like spending time with my father or older brothers. He was so easygoing and natural I often had to remind myself that he was the biggest star in world (at that time), a living legend, bigger than life. But all I saw was a good man, a little wary now and tired, but still willing to embrace new ideas. He was in the process of putting together the epic film, The Alamo, which he would co-write, star in and direct—his directorial debut, as a matter of fact, so he was understandably nervous.
A huge and magnificent set had been built in Brackettville, Texas, where the movie was to be shot and Jim had decided that we should fly down and see how his old pal was doing. Laurence Harvey arrived the same day we did for his role in the film. He was in a petulant mood, sulking about the ‘bloody Texas dust’ and pouting because he couldn’t get a decent drink in the local pub. ‘These bloody heathens serve nothing but that dreadful bourbon,’ he sniffed. ‘I’d rather drink gasoline!’
Jim was in one of his mischievous moods and immediately called the nearest big city and had one hundred cases of wine delivered to Larry’s dressing room. He instructed the deliverymen to stack the cases in front of the doors, as high as they could reach, until the small trailer was completed obscured by wooden cases of wine, then we hid in the foliage and waited for Larry to return. He came dragging in after the day’s shooting, tired and dusty, a frown creasing his forehead—and stopped short, staring up at the mound of wine higher than his head. He threw back his head and exploded with laughter. ‘Where the hell are you, Henaghan?’ he shouted. for this!’ Only my mad Irishman, a living satyr if ever there was one, could be responsible.
The next day Larry was in a charming mood and sat under an umbrella, daintily sipping his wine as he waited for his call. He had a habit of yawning hugely before going into a scene, claiming it relaxed him and cleared his head, but Duke didn’t know this. He called for Larry to take his position for the next scene and Larry complied, slowly sauntering onto the set and yawning mightily. Duke jerked off his hat and threw it on the ground, cursing and yelling at Jim, ‘Now look what you’ve done with your damn imported wine—my actor is falling asleep!’
Duke never did know quite what to make of Larry. They got along well enough, but Larry’s scandalous antics and candid homosexuality was a bit much for the conservative Duke. Later in the week they had a big scene coming up where Davy Crockett (Wayne) and Jim Bowie (Larry) and the others at the fort realize that they are completely surrounded by hundreds of Mexican soldiers.
It was a very impressive scene which required hundreds of extras and a great deal of time in setting up. The stone walls enclosing Fort Alamo were literally covered with ‘soldiers’—ammunition belts strapped across their chests, knives resting on their hips, as they stood or crouched above the small circle of men in the center of the dusty fort, their rifles at the ready. Duke yelled, ‘Action!’ and Larry came swishing into the fort with an exaggerated sway to his hips, one limp wrist practically flapping in the breeze as he minced toward the rugged group of men dressed in dusty buck skins and holding rifles. He jutted one slender hip out, placed his hand upon it and lisped sweetly, ‘I say my good fellow - where in bloody hell did all those fucking Mexicans come from?’
Cast and crew alike broke up with laughter and Duke jerked his hat off and
threw it to the ground, literally stomping on it with his high-heeled boots. ‘Goddamn it, Larry,’ he exploded. ‘Will you stop kidding around? We’ve got a movie to make!’
Larry smiled gently, kissed Duke on the ear and murmured, ‘But, Duke, dear, I’m not kidding.’
It was great fun being on location with Jim. He was the most brilliant man I’d ever met and I could sit for hours, dutifully curled up at his feet while he regaled me with scandalous stories of his past. He was the definitive raconteur and I never grew tired of listening to him. When we were sitting with Duke and he and Jim got into a drinking story-telling mood, I wouldn’t open my mouth all night, I’d just listen and try to imagine the splendor and excitement of it all. I was dying to travel and see the world, to taste and experience everything life had to offer, so just listening to these two world weary men fascinated me no end. Usually they got along really great (they’d been close friends for over twenty years), but sometimes they disagreed and this inevitably led to battle.
One night we were all sitting around in a small bar and grill and Duke and Jim were putting away shots of bourbon hand over fist. There always was a sort of competition between them and Jim would taunt Duke about his intelligence, sneeringly referring to him as ‘Movie Star’ and saying that it didn’t take a brain to be an actor, any dumb animal could be taught to do tricks in front of a camera. Usually their arguments were good natured and they would weave their way back to their bungalows, arm-in-arm, buddies to the end. But this particular night the bantering insults were not funny and before anyone knew what had happened, they both jumped up, knocking over the table, and Jim punched Duke right in the nose. Duke grabbed his nose and bellowed like a wounded bear and made a lunge for Jim.
