“How’d you like to live like this, Scott?” Lee asked. “Not bad, huh?”
Three gilt-framed portraits of Lee, one of them an almost life-sized photograph taken when he had an audience with the Pope, hung on one wall. Two cream-colored brocade sofas, an antique desk and chair, and several dressers barely dented the available floor space. A cocktail table held a malachite phone, an art deco bronze, two three-foot-tall gold candelabras, several cigarette boxes (one in malachite), assorted antique porcelains, and a cheap glass ashtray from a Vegas hotel. I later learned that Lee took special pleasure in taking mementos from the hotels where he appeared. Pilfered ashtrays, towels, and stationery became treasured objects to be displayed in Lee’s many homes. In the future, when I would remind him that he could have any number of those things if he just asked, he grinned like a bad little boy and said, “Yeah, but it’s more fun my way.”
The room’s most notable feature was a facsimile of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel frescoes painted on the ceiling. Looking up, I saw that Lee’s own face beamed down at us from amid the other cherubim and seraphim.
Lee next ushered us into his bathroom, a pleasure seeker’s paradise. I couldn’t imagine ever using a place like that to go to the toilet. A gigantic oval tub circled by marble pillars stood in the center of the room. Hot and cold water came from gold fixtures in the shape of swans. There was enough marble on the ceiling and floor to restore a Roman bath. Lee swelled with pride as he explained how he’d designed the room. Clearly, his philosophy of decorating was spend, spend, spend.
Last, Lee showed us his closet. Suits, sports jackets, and dozens of robes took up one long wall. The voluminous closet also held many of his costumes. I’d never seen so much lamé, so many furs, sequins, and rhinestones. Up close, the overall effect of those clothes dazzled me even more than they had when Lee wore them onstage.
Grinning, Lee pulled a few outfits off their hangers, spreading them on the floor. “I support the entire Austrian rhinestone business,” he laughed. Then he added, “Too bad you’re too big, Scott, to try a couple of these on.” Lee obviously enjoyed showing us his possessions. And I had loved seeing them the way I might have enjoyed seeing things like that in a museum. But it was hard to believe that one man had so much.
At the end of the tour Lee seemed suddenly tired, as deflated as a punctured beach ball. It was time to leave. Black and I thanked him for his hospitality and we headed toward the front door. On the way out Lee caught my arm and pulled me aside. “I want you to call me as soon as you get the medicine for Babyboy. Here’s my unlisted number,” he said, slipping a piece of paper into my hand. “Don’t forget! I’m counting on you.”
I put the paper in my pocket, expressed my thanks, and then Bob Black and I were outside in the afternoon’s fading light. We climbed into the 450, the wrought-iron gates opened, and our visit to fantasyland was over. As we headed into the late afternoon traffic, I thought I’d never see the place again. My life, my job, the real world, were waiting for me in L.A. With the benefit of hindsight, I wish I’d stayed there.
The entire afternoon at Lee’s had a weird quality; the man, his home, his strange houseboy, his relationship with Jerry O’Rourke, were all too complex for me to decipher. I’d sensed strong emotional undercurrents all afternoon that made me feel like I’d stumbled into deep water. Despite the display of wealth, the house had an unhappy, unhealthy atmosphere. I made up my mind to mail Babyboy’s medicine and then forget all about Liberace and his bizarre household. But when I got home, I even forgot to mail the medicine.
Two weeks later I put on the slacks I’d worn to Liberace’s brunch and realized the piece of paper with Lee’s phone number was still in one of the pockets. I’d forgotten all about my promise to send some ointment for his dog’s eyes. The next day, I called to apologize. Carlucci answered the phone and he recognized my name immediately. “I’ll get Lee at once,” he said, adding, “he’s been hoping to hear from you.”
When Lee came on the wire I apologized for taking so long to get in touch with him. “I’ll mail Babyboy’s medicine today,” I assured him. “You should get it in a few days.”
“Oh, no!” Lee exclaimed. “I don’t want to wait that long. Why don’t you get on the next plane and fly up here at my expense.”
“Hey, it’s really not that important,” I replied.
Lee interrupted, an odd note of urgency in his voice. “Let me decide what’s important,” he said. “Scott, you’d be doing me a great favor if you’d fly up here this afternoon.”
Naïve I may have been, but not naïve enough to believe Lee wanted to see me that desperately just so I could give him some ointment for his dog’s eyes. I was almost certain he’d try to put the make on me if I came to Vegas—and I didn’t know how I’d react when and if he did. Lee, the man, didn’t attract me. However, the glitz and glitter of Vegas did. I saw no reason why I shouldn’t make a quick trip at Lee’s expense. But I made up my mind to drive up in my own car so I’d have some degree of independence.
“Come straight to the Hilton when you get here,” Lee said, “and ask for Ray Arnett. And, Scott, thanks a lot. I can’t tell you what this means to me.”
The drive took five hours. It was dark when I arrived at the Hilton. The last time I’d walked through these doors Bob Black had been with me. Now I was walking through them alone, feeling sophisticated, worldly, and in complete control of the situation. There’s nothing to worry about, I told myself; you can give the man the medicine, see a few shows, and have a blast. I was determined to make the most of the unplanned trip.
Ray Arnett met me in the lobby acting even friendlier than he had before. He told me that Lee was onstage at the moment but that he couldn’t wait to see me again. In the meantime I was his guest. Anything I wanted—a room, a meal, drinks, gambling—were all to go on Lee’s tab. That suited me fine.
“But first,” Ray finished, “Lee wants to say hello.”
I followed him through the hotel, past the casino, down a maze of hallways, until we arrived backstage. On our way through the wings we passed Jerry O’Rourke. He gave me what I felt to be an unfriendly look, which I ignored. We found Lee in the makeshift dressing room in the wings that he used for quick changes.
“Here’s your friend,” Ray said happily.
Lee beamed at me. “Hello, Scott,” he said, reaching for both of my hands. “I knew I could count on you.” Lee introduced me to Bruce, his valet, who was busy fussing over Lee’s incredible costume. “I’ve got to finish the show,” Lee explained, “but I want you to stay right here and wait for me. Bruce will keep you company.” Then Lee was gone, his rhinestoned outfit flashing fire as he headed back on stage.
Throughout the rest of the early show Lee was in and out of the dressing room, making unbelievably fast changes. He seemed very up, almost hyper, a far different Liberace from the man I’d met two weeks ago. I didn’t have time to wonder why he seemed so happy, because Bruce kept up a constant stream of chatter.
I remembered Bob Black telling me that many men in show business, from the most macho leading man to the humblest dresser, were homosexual. But I’d dismissed his remark as idle gossip. Now I began to realize Black had not been exaggerating. I eventually learned there would be a gay connection, however tenuous, in most of Lee’s activities.
Between the two evening shows Lee invited me to his formal dressing room. “I always eat between acts,” he explained, “but I seldom have such pleasant company.” He smiled at me and those cool blue eyes suddenly lit with genuine warmth. Walking at his side, I intercepted a dozen curious glances in my direction. Again, I caught O’Rourke watching us from the wings, looking angry.
Carlucci was waiting for us in the dressing room. He seated Lee, tucking a napkin under Lee’s chin solicitously as he prepared to serve us. Carlucci continued to cluck and fuss like a mother hen throughout the meal, telling Lee to eat more of this and skip some of that. It was an astonishing performance, made more so because Lee seeme
d to follow the directions without thinking. Lee kept our conversation very light, telling me he was grateful I’d gone to so much trouble to help Babyboy. “People have been advising me to put the old dog to sleep,” Lee said. “But I could never do something like that! He’s my oldest friend.”
Then Lee asked about my family, my background, how I knew so much about animals. I gave him a thumbnail sketch of my life, telling him about my mother’s illness, the many foster homes I’d lived in, and my dream of becoming a vet or an animal trainer. Lee listened intently, his eyes brimming with an emotion I couldn’t read. I remember thinking I’d misjudged him. He had seemed remote and preoccupied at the brunch two weeks earlier. Face to face and one on one, Lee was warm, sympathetic, and very likable. I couldn’t help responding to him.
When it was time for him to return to the stage, I followed him out to the wings. Bruce greeted me like an old friend and we visited throughout the show. Each time Lee came into the dressing room to change costumes he seemed happier and more energetic. Obviously, performing charged his batteries rather than depleting them. After the second show ended, Lee asked me to join him for a midnight supper in the Hilton penthouse.
“It takes me a while to unwind after doing two shows,” he said apologetically. “I’ll probably talk your ear off.” He changed into street clothes but left his makeup and jewelry on. We rode the elevator to the penthouse in silence. Lee seemed preoccupied while I continued to ask myself what I expected to gain from this trip to Vegas. So far there’d been no opportunity to see other shows or even to play the slots. It had been Lee, Lee, Lee all the way.
The penthouse was only slightly less luxurious than Lee’s own home—however, even my untutored eye could see it had been done in better taste. While Lee and Carlucci talked I walked to a window. Vegas glittered beneath me, more alive at two in the morning than it would be at two in the afternoon. Behind me, Carlucci fluttered around his master, fixing drinks and preparing to serve us. But Vegas—seductive, glittering, sleepless Vegas—held my complete attention.
8
Lee removed his stage jewelry and handed it to Carlucci, dismissing him with a curt nod before we began to eat. The houseboy gave us a sad, almost wounded look before he stalked out the penthouse door. Two o’clock in the morning seemed like a weird hour to have a meal, although Lee assured me that it was part of his normal routine. Normal or not, I felt disoriented, as if I had jet lag. But he appeared wide awake and full of nervous energy. He ate quickly, greedily, saying little. When he finished he walked over to a sofa and, patting it, indicated that he wanted me to sit beside him.
“Alone at last,” he said, grinning at his use of the old cliché. Then his face grew unexpectedly somber. “Scott, I feel I can trust you and—I have to talk to someone. I’ve gotten myself into an awful mess.”
Not knowing what to say, I just nodded.
Lee lowered his head to his hands. “It’s Jerry, my protégé,” he said, his voice beginning to rise. “I’ve created a monster, a monster! I gave that boy everything—discovered him—made him a part of the act—put his name up in lights! Arid what thanks do I get?” As Lee spoke, he became terribly agitated. Suddenly tears began to pour down his face as though a tap inside him had been turned on full force. I moved closer and patted his shoulder. As I later learned for myself, Lee had a habit of putting things in the worst possible light when he was upset with someone.
That night, he wept for what seemed like an eternity. When the emotional storm passed he told me a story of a relationship gone awry. Jerry had been with him for three years and the last year had been a nightmare. According to Lee, Jerry was drinking heavily, getting in fights. One night in Tahoe he’d taken an expensive Mercedes, a car that belonged to John Ascuaga (the owner of the Nugget Casino in Sparks, Nevada), for a joyride. Pursued by the police, Jerry wrecked the car and wound up in jail. Lee, afraid the press might find out what had happened and ambush him as he walked into the jail, had fearfully gone to bail Jerry out. Although Ascuaga, an old Liberace friend, refused to press charges, Lee told me it had taken all his influence to keep the incident out of the courts and out of the papers.
“Jerry is ruining me,” Lee moaned, “ruining my image. I can’t stand bad publicity. My fans. . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Why don’t you fire Jerry?” I asked, not knowing Lee always relied on others to do his dirty work.
“I can’t,” he moaned. “I signed him to a contract and it has six more months to run. How can Jerry be so thoughtless, so ungrateful, after everything I’ve done for him. He’s a monster!” Lee moaned.
His shoulders hunched. Stage makeup streaked his face. He looked shrunken, vulnerable, and very alone. Although I didn’t know why he’d chosen me as a confidant I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Here he was, the biggest star in Vegas, and yet, when the curtain went down, I could see he was completely alone. Logic told me that if he had any real friends, anyone he could trust, he’d have confessed his problems to that person rather than to a comparative stranger.
“I hate my life,” Lee said, looking through red-rimmed eyes. “Do you know what it feels like to have no one you can trust, no one you can talk to?”
I nodded, thinking, damn right I do; I hadn’t known a completely safe, secure day in my life.
“Can you imagine how isolated I feel? I never know if people like me for me, or if they like me because I’m Liberace. I’m surrounded by takers. They’ve all got their hands out. Gimme, gimme, gimme!” Lee wailed. “Everybody wants a piece of my action!”
Funny. I’d been feeling sorry for myself, just eighteen and on my own. But I didn’t feel half as sorry for myself as Lee did. His sobbing finally slowed and he seemed to be getting control of himself.
“You’ve been good for me, Scott,” he said, sighing deeply before he squared his shoulders. “I feel better already, just getting that off my chest.” Suddenly his expression brightened. The man was an emotional chameleon. “I’ve got the most wonderful idea,” he said. “How would you like to go to work for me?”
“Doing what?” Lee’s question really took me by surprise.
“You could be my secretary,” Lee said.
“But I don’t type!” I answered honestly.
“Hell, Scott, I can pay people to type. But I need a companion, a bodyguard, someone to keep Vince off my back, someone I can talk to the way I’ve talked to you tonight.”
I didn’t know what to say. Lee obviously needed a friend but I suspected he wanted a full-time lover even more. I wasn’t sure I could fill that bill. We hardly knew each other. He was so much older and not terribly attractive in my eyes. Loneliness seemed to be the only thing we had in common. It could provide a strong bond, but would it be strong enough to bridge the huge differences in our ages and experiences? Could I really be the friend he so obviously needed? Knowing he believed it possible was incredibly flattering.
While I tried to weigh the pros and cons, Lee added, “I’ll pay you three hundred dollars a week and all expenses. You’ll be my right-hand man. Please, Scott, say yes.”
That tipped the scales. Being the kind of kid who spent every penny he earned and then some, I was perpetually broke. I’d just bought a new car but it really belonged to the bank, and I had no savings; just a couple of part-time jobs that didn’t pay near what Liberace was offering. What the hell, I thought; I had everything to gain and nothing to lose. There’d be no worrying about where my next meal was coming from, no more living from hand to mouth in homes where I was often an unwelcome stranger. With Lee I’d have a place to live, a chance to travel, and no financial worries, no worries at all as far as I could see. The more I thought about it, the more the offer seemed like the answer to all my problems as well as some of his. The fact that Lee would probably demand a sexual relationship was the only drawback to his proposition. He just didn’t turn me on. But I felt sure I could live with that part of the bargain. After all, Lee was almost sixty. How big a sex drive could he possibly
have?
“Okay,” I said. “I accept. When do you want me to start?”
“As soon as you can,” Lee declared happily.
We agreed that I’d fly home later that day, pack up my belongings, and return to Vegas immediately. By the time we finished making the arrangements Lee had left his earlier misery behind. I should have been prepared for his next move—but it took me by surprise. One minute we were talking, and the next he grabbed me. Whatever doubt I had about his sex drive vanished immediately. Lee wanted sex then and there! But physically, I couldn’t oblige.
My car was in the hotel parking lot and I could have—probably should have—headed back to L.A. But realizing I had no place to go, no prospects to compare to the future I’d just been offered, kept me from leaving. Instead, I got up and said, “Hey, this is way too sudden for me.”
Lee got to his feet too. “Scott, don’t worry about it,” he said. “I understand.” Getting up, he straightened his clothes and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink, which he sipped while our conversation limped along. It was four in the morning and I’d been up almost twenty-four hours. Stifling a yawn, I said, “I’d better see about getting a room.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Lee replied. “You’re staying here with me. Don’t worry. I don’t have any ulterior motives. I just can’t stand being alone.” Then he laughed. “I promise to stay on my side of the bed.”
I agreed to stay, reluctantly, not trusting him at all. We undressed and lay down on opposite sides of the king-size bed. I tried to stay awake, thinking he might try something the minute I fell asleep. But that night Lee was as good as his word. Within minutes, he was snoring noisily. Completely exhausted, I sank into a restless sleep. But the next morning Lee’s patience ran out. It was put-up-or-shut-up time.
That afternoon I flew back to Los Angeles in a daze. The sensible part of my mind said I had to be crazy to consider becoming Liberace’s companion. I could see that he was demanding, dictatorial, and used to getting whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it. But the loneliness, the vulnerability, he’d revealed touched me deeply. His need for companionship, for someone to care for, struck a chord inside me. I knew just how he felt because I felt the same way too.
Behind the Candelabra Page 7
