* * *
I spent the rest of the festival setting up filming of the commercials for the States. Luckily, Paul knew one of the American directors who made commercials as well as films. He knew exactly what we needed. But everything took more time than I had expected, because we also had to rework a complete bottling plant for the American market.
It was February of ’57 when I finally called Buddy in New York.
“What are you tryin’ to do now?” Buddy asked. “Don’t you think you took enough of a beating the last time?”
“Buddy, it’s a new ball game,” I told him. “And I need your help with it. We’re moving it to Los Angeles.”
“Why Los Angeles?” he asked.
“Two reasons,” I answered. “We’re doing big promotion this time. TV commercials, and exercise programs with Mr. Atlas and Miss France. We are publicizing their physical beauty and our water. It goes together, hand in hand.”
“You got that already,” Buddy said. “Why do you need me?”
“Distribution,” I said. “You still have the connections with the Teamsters and the other unions who we need to deliver our water into the marketplace.”
“But I got a good deal here,” he said. “What makes it better for me out there?”
“One, sooner or later, they are going to nail you with the numbers game and you know they don’t like you. Especially since you are black and married with a white girl,” I said.
“You’re right there,” he said.
“I read in the papers they blew Anastasia away in a barber’s chair next to the Carnegie Delicatessen. How long do you think it’ll be before Cioffi has to get out or is killed, and you’ll have no protection?”
“Cioffi already quit,” he said. “He moved to Scottsdale, Arizona.”
“Okay,” I said. “Then you can become completely legitimate. Vice president of distribution of Plescassier America. I got you down for thirty grand plus expenses for the first year. We do better, you’ll do better.”
He was silent for a moment. “What do I have to do first?”
“Get us both a place to live,” I said. “Then find a warehouse near the L.A. waterfront where I can store the water. And this time we don’t do any bottling. All the bottles, half-liters and liters, will be bottled and labeled in France. It’s now the real McCoy.”
“How much time do I have?” he asked.
“We want to be set up by the fall,” I said. “So are you going to shake your ass?”
“And money?” he asked. “When I see some. I have expenses, too. Moving and everything.”
“I’ll send you ten grand tomorrow morning,” I said. “Is that okay?”
“That’ll help to start,” he answered.
“Good,” I said. “Let’s get going. And don’t get greedy. The Frenchman ain’t no asshole,”
15
It was early in the fall of 1957 that we finally got Plescassier’s promotion and new packaging into the States. In many ways, Paul had been a big help with the promotion of the television commercials because he had his clients make personal appearances on live shows and talk about their exercise and beauty regimens. By the time October came around probably everybody in the U.S. had either heard of or seen the exercise pamphlet that had been written under their names. Of course, the key was Plescassier water. No sodium. No sugar. No fat. Nothing but Plescassier could keep a body clean and healthy.
We did not do the first big promotion in Los Angeles or New York. Because of Paul’s connections to the Stardust, which had the Lido show from Paris, we were able to use this magnificent show to start our promotion in the U.S. Plescassier was being served at every table and food counter in the hotel. And the hotel comped every star we had obtained to come to Vegas for the national radio and TV programs. Of course, George and Annette, one or the other or both, were in the lobby to greet each guest and present them with their own signed bottle of Plescassier water.
It was really the greatest promotion that had ever been for water. God himself could not have poured more water on the earth in order to float Noah’s Ark than we did for Plescassier. I couldn’t believe that so many people had pitched in to make Plescassier a household name.
I was flying high. Everything I had always dreamed about was happening and coming true. And all the time I was losing everything: Giselle.
I didn’t know how, but it seemed that I was always working. She kept staying with J. P. as his hostess, because he was involved more and more with business dinners and social invitations. I didn’t realize then what it meant. Finally, as the last night of the Plescassier promotion in Las Vegas began, J. P. and Giselle came in from France. They asked me to meet them at the Sands Hotel at six in the evening. I was still stupid. I didn’t understand why they didn’t stay at the Stardust, where all the action was. But at six o’clock I went to the Sands.
Jack Cochran was in the lobby waiting for me. I shook his hand. “Congratulations!” He smiled. “You’ve really done it. Nobody really believed that the States would accept Plescassier.”
“I wasn’t alone,” I said. “I had a lot of help along the way.”
He looked at me. “Do you know why J. P. wanted you to come here today?”
“Not really,” I answered. “I thought maybe he wanted to get in on some of the fun.”
Jack shook his head. “Not really.”
I looked at him. “Then what?”
Jack looked into my eyes. “He wants to get married.”
“Here?” I asked. “Why not in France?”
“It takes thirty days for the banns to be posted in France,” he said. “And he has to be married now.”
“So what’s the rush?” I asked.
“Under French law he needs a male heir in order for him to keep the company in the family. Without a male child, seventy-five percent of the company and the inheritance would be taken over by the French government.” Jack watched me closely. “That’s almost like ninety million dollars now.”
“Okay,” I said. “So he gets married here, that’s no problem. He still hasn’t got an heir yet.”
“You still don’t understand, do you?” Jack asked.
I stared at him. Then lights began going off in my head. “No!” I said. “Not Giselle!”
Jack spoke softly. “She’s already pregnant.”
I couldn’t speak. All I could do was stare at him.
He took me by the arm. “We better go to the bar and have a drink.”
I followed him in silence. I was almost in shock. He ordered both of us a double scotch on the rocks.
“Drink it,” he said. “We both need it.”
The scotch burned its way down my throat, but I didn’t give a damn. I gestured for another. “But Giselle’s my girl. We love each other.”
The second scotches were set on the table. Jack picked up his glass. “J. P. and I are lovers. We love each other, too.” He swallowed his drink. “But, Jerry, we’re American, they’re French. They have their own ways that we don’t even understand.”
“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t understand why they even bothered to come here and tell me.”
“Giselle still loves you. J. P. respects you. She wants you to give her away in marriage and J. P. wants me to be the best man.” He suddenly began to laugh. “It’s crazy. Really crazy.” He looked at me. “What the hell! Let’s go upstairs and congratulate them.”
* * *
They had the biggest suite in the Sands Hotel. Three bedrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen, and four bathrooms. It was half of the floor at the top of the Sands. One of J. P.’s housemen from France was acting as the butler. He nodded at me as we came in the door and went into the living room. J. P. and Giselle were seated side by side on the couch. There was an ice bucket with a bottle of Dom Pérignon on the coffee table in front of them.
J. P. rose to his feet and held out his hand to me. “Hello, Jerry,” he said.
I shook his outstretched hand, but I couldn’t speak. I was
looking at Giselle. She had never looked more beautiful. I tried to remember how old we were when we met. It was in 1944. I was twenty-one when we had been transferred to Paris. I remembered her birthday. July the fourth, American Independence Day, she was going to be twenty-two. Maybe she was only a few months older than I was, but I always felt she was younger, she was just so beautiful.
She looked up at me as I stood in front of them. “Hello, Jerree. Please sit down.”
Jack and I sat down in the chairs in front of them. J. P. poured the champagne. “Salut!” he toasted.
I didn’t raise my glass. I was still silent, watching her.
J. P. spoke to me. “You really did everything you said you would do in America. I thank you for what you have done. We would not have been able to do this without you.”
I didn’t answer.
“I want us to be friends,” J. P. said. “There are difficult things ahead to overcome. Both for Giselle and me. But we still feel the same about you and Jack as our lovers. Love and friendship do not have to die because of circumstances. The world does not accept Jack’s and my lifestyle. We all have to make sacrifices.”
I turned to Giselle. “And how do you feel?”
There were tears in the corners of her eyes. “I love you, Jerree,” she whispered huskily. “I will always love you; you will have to believe that.”
“But you’re going to marry him, and you will move to France and live with him. We will not be together. I love you, Giselle, but I don’t understand your kind of love.” I felt tears coming into the corners of my own eyes.
“Love me,” she said. “And give me away in marriage with love, Jerree, please.” She reached for my hand. She held my hand for a moment and looked at me and then she kissed my hand.
It was then that I knew it would never be the same. It would again be a whole new world. I turned over her hand to her palm and kissed it. “Congratulations and love, my darling,” I said. “I am going to get in touch with Buddy right now and we will give you the greatest wedding that Las Vegas has ever had.” Then I turned to J. P. “I can never thank you enough, but I want you to know that I really appreciate everything that you’ve done for me. I have only one wish for you.”
“Tell me,” he said shaking my hand and then kissing both of my cheeks, French style.
“May all of your children be boys.”
16
By the end of 1959 we were grossing ten million dollars a year from Plescassier. J. P. was keeping two million dollars for the share that the French company owned. Sixty-five percent was Plescassier America profit. And I had thirty-five percent of the company. I was making almost one million dollars for myself. By now, Evian and other French waters had begun coming into the States. They, too, were promotional-minded companies.
J. P. and Giselle had been having promotions of their own. Two girls. One in 1958, the second in 1959. I sent them congratulations and sent a diamond and gold necklace for each of the babies.
Jack called me from Cannes. “J. P. is disappointed. He needs a male heir.”
“I’m sure they are both working on it,” I said.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Jack said. “Don’t forget, J. P. is a Frenchman. He’s not going to blow his fortune because all he has is daughters.”
“If that’s what Giselle has, he has no choice. They are his children, his family. He can’t just throw them away,” I said.
“You’re forgetting one thing, Jerry. J. P. is still gay. He’ll sell his company and keep all the money rather than give it away to the government. You know the French tax laws,” Jack replied. “That way he keeps it all. His family and his money. He’s big now in French society; it’ll be easy for him to move into an important government position.”
“And then what happens to you?” I asked.
Jack laughed. “I’ll manage. I’ve got a lot of stock property, both in France and the United States. But, most important, J. P. and I will stay together.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m glad everything is fine with you. Just keep in touch.” I wondered at the time if Giselle would be in or out. But Giselle had made her own choices.
And, of course, again in 1960 Giselle and J. P. had another baby girl. They called to tell me the news. What no one had told me was that J. P. was planning to sell his company now. That was in November and there was a new excitement in the air. John F. Kennedy won the election for president in the U.S. It was a breakthrough in America’s belief that only a Protestant could be elected to the highest office in the land. Kennedy was a Catholic and a World War II veteran. It was really a feeling that a new generation had taken over the government, and along with this it gave America a new hope.
Since I had been a New York Democrat, I called Annette to ask her to dinner for my own private celebration.
I wanted to go to Nicky Felder’s Restaurant on Sunset Boulevard. I had a great deal with Nicky. In Paris during the war he was my sergeant when we were running the jeep hustle. After the war, he had gone into his own family business, so when his father passed away, Nicky moved his restaurant to Los Angeles. His New York-style restaurant was a big success in Los Angeles. Annette already had plans, but I went to dinner anyway.
I made a U-turn just as the light turned red at Sunset Boulevard. I drove the car a half block and pulled up in front of Nicky Felder’s. The parking valet opened my door.
“Slick U-turn, Mr. Cooper.” He smiled. “The cops were at that light just two minutes before you.”
“I’m a lucky man.” I laughed, slipping him a fiver. “Don’t scratch it up. I haven’t paid for it.” Nicky’s valet guys were notorious for dings and scratches.
The doorman opened the glass doors and I walked into the restaurant. The restaurant was jammed. Nicky moved through the crowd toward me.
“Hi, Jerry, you alone for dinner?” he asked as he greeted me.
I nodded.
He looked out toward the dining area. “Give me a few minutes,” he said. “Have a drink on me at the bar.”
I looked at him., “You forgot something.”
Nicky looked puzzled for a moment, then caught on. “It got busy early, Jerry. I’ll get it straightened out in five minutes.”
“We had an agreement, Nicky,” I said. “I gave you twenty grand to put a bottle of Plescassier on each table. You’ve got twenty cases a day to keep you supplied, and it doesn’t cost you or your patrons one dime.”
“Relax, relax, it’s my mistake.” Nicky patted me on the shoulder. “Calm down, have yourself a drink, and I’ll get everything straightened out.”
I watched him as he moved into the dining room. Nicky could take one look at the room and know who needed water, who was getting impatient waiting for food. It was like radar that only a professional had. The restaurant business was rough, but Nicky Felder’s was the hottest place in town. But it’s not easy when you’re on top. Nicky told me to relax, but his face was tense, and a fine patina of perspiration almost hid his greeter’s smile. I shrugged and squeezed my way toward the bar and got myself a Glenmorangie, neat.
Nicky was a genius in stacking his bar. From five-thirty until midnight, the bar and the cocktail tables were filled with the greatest-looking hookers in town. Nothing but eights, nines, and tens. If you could throw them on any baccarat table in Monte Carlo you would be a millionaire just picking up the naturals.
I leaned my right elbow on the polished mahogany bar. I lit a cigarette and drew the smoke into my lungs. Jesus, this was the life, I thought to myself. As I looked around at the beautiful women I thought about Giselle. I’d come a long way from after the war in Clichy, France. Life was a ball breaker then. No money. Everything was a hustle. If it had not been for Giselle and J. P. I guess I would have been on the street running numbers with Buddy.
A girl’s voice came from behind my shoulder. “Do you have a menthol?” It was a husky voice and I always liked husky voices.
I turned to look at her. Beautiful hair and lovely eyes. Nine and a ha
lf. I held up my pack of cigarettes. “Only Dunhills,” I said.
“Sorry,” she said, and began to turn away.
“What’s your brand?” I asked.
“Anything cool,” she answered.
I flagged one of the bartenders. “Give the lady a package of Dunhill menthols, on me.”
The bartender was a schmuck. He pointed at a pack half open in front of her. They were Kools.
“Asshole,” I said to him, picking up the half-empty package of Kools and throwing them behind the bar. “I think those have gotten stale. Now give her a fresh pack of Dunhill menthols and just for good luck a fresh pack of Kools, and the lady can take her choice.”
He stared at me, then moved like a flash. Two packs, both opened and held for the lady’s choice. She took the Dunhill and he lit it for her.
I smiled at him. “Now you’re being a gentleman.” I slipped him a twenty. I watched as he nodded his thanks and moved down the bar.
She let the smoke drift slowly from her nostrils. “You must be somebody. You’ve got a lot of style. Thank you.”
“I’m nobody,” I said. “But you’re a beautiful lady.”
“Are you eating alone?” she questioned.
“Not if you join me for dinner,” I said.
I watched her nod and smile, then held up my hand to catch Nicky’s eye. It took a few minutes for Nicky to show up. He was seating a few large tables. I could see that the one-liter iced bottles of Plescassier were already at each of the tables and were being poured into iced glasses for the patrons. I was satisfied.
Nicky was smiling when he got to me. He kissed the girl’s cheek. Nicky was famous now for his kisses on every girl’s cheek. He also made sure that every girl in the bar was tabbed for drinks and dinner just in case she didn’t connect with someone. He made a smooth introduction. “Jerry, Sue Ellen. Sue Ellen, Jerry.” Then he turned to business. “Dinner in the dining room or the Sweethearts table in the bar?”
“You know the table I like,” I said. “The corner banquette in the cocktail room, you got it available?”
Nicky waved his hand grandly. “It’ll be ready in three minutes.”
The Predators Page 30
