Annie’s contract is nearly up at the Slipper, Frank and the guys have gone to L.A. and Celia is soon bored with filling in. She and Annie sit in the apartment watching the news. Now that Kennedy’s campaign is in full swing, and Frank’s renamed his crew the Jack Pack, their fundraisers are all the talk. “I thought Frank didn’t like that name Rat Pack,” Celia says.
“He doesn’t. He tried the Clan for a while but it didn’t sound so good to Sammy.”
“Are we part of the Rat Pack?”
“I think you have to have a dink.”
“What about Sam Flood? Or Giancana or whatever his name is.”
“I think he’s got his own: the Whack Pack.”
Celia giggles and smacks Annie’s leg. “You think that stuff’s true?”
“Didn’t you see him on TV last year, those hearings with Robert Kennedy and he kept taking the Fifth?”
“I was too busy biting the heads off chickens. Wait! I remember one night in The 92, a trial was on TV and the Boys kept calling some guy a cocksucker.”
“That was the Senate Committee racketeering thing.”
Celia recalls a gangster sitting at the courtroom table under a bad hairpiece and sunglasses as a lawyer asked him if it was true he disposed of people by having them stuffed in a trunk. The gangster took the Fifth on each question, chuckling as he did. The lawyer asked if he was going to tell them anything or just giggle like a little girl.
“Giancana’s that guy?” She looks at Annie. “I thought the Boys mostly own hotels and stuff.”
Annie shrugs. “Just smile and look pretty’s what I say. Thank you for the fur coat, sir.”
Celia picks at her nails. “Do you think I’m just a female impersonator?”
“What!” Annie nearly spits wine down her sweater. “Who said that?”
“The stage manager at the Dunes. And then he corrected himself and said impressionist.” Celia scans Annie’s face. “I sing standards. Everyone sings those songs. Why is it when Frank sings, or Sammy, nobody calls it a gimmick?”
“Sammy told me once Frank got on him years ago, told him he was emulating him too much, that it was flattering and all but Sammy should get his own sound if he was gonna be big. Personally I think Sammy sounds more like Vic Damone.”
Celia gives her a pleading look.
“What’s wrong with a good gimmick. Everyone’s got one. Look at Dean with his drunky bit, his Southern drawl—he’s from Stubenville, for chrissake. Sammy talks like he’s an Englishman half the time onstage and he’s a coloured kid from Harlem. Far as I’m concerned, we gotta up the gimmick factor and put together a real act for you.”
Soon Annie is booked to headline at the Gaiety in Miami and asks Celia to come along. They stay at the Riviera and Celia phones around hoping to reconnect with Tina and Glenda. No luck. Frank and the guys are doing another mini summit at the Fontainebleau.
At dinner one evening, Frank introduces her to Bob and Don, a couple of producers from Warner Brothers. On any given night, one or both are happy to escort her through Miami’s nightlife. They take her to see Jerry Vale at the Eden Roc, Martha Raye at the Beachcomber, the big musical production numbers on the translucent stage of the Latin Quarter, where pretty girls in minuscule costumes dance up a storm. In the Latin Quarter, Celia’s eyes drift then settle on a familiar face one table over. Looks like Jacqueline Kennedy. Once the show is over, she excuses herself and heads for the pretty stranger.
“Hello. I’m Celia Dare. I just realized, you’re a friend of Frank’s! I think I met you in Vegas.”
The woman makes a pleasant face. “Hello. I’m Judy.”
“That’s it—-Judy Campbell. You’re the girl dating Jack Kennedy.”
Campbell shoots a look round her table. “You’re mistaken. I’ve had occasion to meet Senator Kennedy but—he’s a married man.”
Celia blinks nervously. She’s gotten so used to parenthetical marriage the last couple months that she hadn’t considered discretion. “I must be confused. I’m sorry to have interrupted your evening. Nice to see you.” Retreating to her table she asks Bob and Don if perhaps they could all head over to the Gaiety and pick up Annie, get a bite to eat.
Don’s eyes flash. “Isn’t that where Zorita used to dance with her snake?”
Celia sighs. “Yeah-yeah.” They are out the door before she can do up her coat.
At the Gaiety, they catch the tail end of Annie’s act, before the chorus girls do their goodbye dance. While they wait for Annie to change into civilian clothes, Bob and Don take the opportunity to chat up the other strippers, tell them about the dearth of pretty girls in Hollywood, how producers are always scouting for new talent.
When Annie comes out, cloaked in her mink, dark curls spilling from her updo, she suggests they all head to Ricco’s for a late dinner, and that perhaps Celeste and Barbie should come along. Annie doesn’t care for Bob and Don and their would-you-like-to-come-up-and-see-my-celluloid-etchings bullshit, so bringing along two tomatoes seems the ideal way to get a free dinner without even having to talk to one’s benefactors.
They’ve just ordered the wine when a voice calls out, “Jesus Christ, it’s Westerly Wind, and the Daredevil.” Frank. Next to him is his girl, Juliet, her long dancer’s legs folded under the table against his. At the same table is none other than the woman not-dating-Jack-Kennedy. Frank sends them drinks.
Annie nudges Celia. “Sitting between Judy and Frank, that’s Joe Fish.”
“Who’s he?”
“Joe Fischetti—Al Capone’s cousin. The Fischetti Brothers run the Fontainebleau.”
“Al Capone’s cousins run the Fontainebleau?”
“Sure. You can bet him and his pals contributed to Jacky-boy’s campaign too.”
“If Robert Kennedy is trying to crack down on—why would they—”
“Because if they get Jack in, he’s theirs. He’ll call off his brother.”
Celia hears Stewart’s voice: Mobsters are like boa constrictors. Once you’re in, you’re in till you’re dead.
A few nights later, Frank and the guys throw a farewell party to mark the end of their Miami Summit. Celia and Annie arrive at cocktail hour and already the place is jammed. Annie spots Joe Fish talking with Judy Campbell again. “Hey, they’re with Skinny D’Amato.” She pulls Celia in their direction. “You’ve got to meet Skinny. He owns the 500 Club in Atlantic City and one of these days we’re gonna get you on that stage.”
“Oh, please. I don’t want to have to talk to her.”
“Well, I don’t either. She’s always announcing that she prefers the company of men; probably yodels it down Jacky-boy’s pants every chance she gets.”
“She’s going to hear you.”
“Fat chance. She prefers the voices of men. —Hey, Skinny!” Annie’s tone melts into honey.
A hard-eyed Italian turns around. “Look who’s here. West is East!” He kisses her cheek and gives her a hug, his body shivering against her in playful ecstasy.
She grabs his face in both her hands. “Skinny, you gorgeous hunk of man. You gotta get down to the Gaiety. I’m only there a couple more nights. In the meantime, meet my best girlfriend, Celia Dare.”
Judy saunters off to join Frank and Sam Giancana.
Smiling to herself, Annie links her elbows with Skinny’s and Joe’s elbows. “So, boys, what’s cookin’ these days?”
At dinner, Annie and Celia sit with Frank and Juliet. Judy Campbell has taken the seat next to Dean, which puts a scowl on Celia.
“So Frank,” Annie says, “how do you know Judy? Sam Flood sure seems fascinated with her.”
Frank shoots her a look. “She’s got a little class, West. Lotta guys are attracted to that sorta thing.”
Annie smiles. Juliet glances toward Campbell who is tilting her head to Dean. With a little heat in her tone, Juliet inquires, “Yes, but how do you know the lovely Judy, Frank?”
He flicks his cigarette at the ashtray. “Parties. Here and there. She was married to some deadbeat actor a
few years ago.”
“What exactly does she do?”
He shrugs. “Family’s got money. She paints a little, Sunday artist.”
“Oh. An artistic party girl,” Juliet purrs. “How intriguing.”
Annie ups the ante. “You know who she looks like? Jacqueline Kennedy. Hmm, Miss Campbell is pals with Jack Kennedy too, isn’t she, Frank? Didn’t you introduce them?”
Frank glares. “West, you don’t know fuck all so maybe you better shut your trap.”
“I rather like listening to Miss West,” Juliet interjects. “I find her thoughts insightful and her voice melodic.”
“Broads are ruining my goddamn appetite,” Frank growls. He throws his cigarette into the dregs of his Jack Daniel’s and leaves the table.
Annie bats her eyes at Juliet. “Sorry. That woman just gets on my nerves.”
“Pat Lawford can’t stand her either,” Juliet replies. “And you don’t want to hear what Dean’s Jeannie has to say.”
Annie gazes over at Judy, scattering perfect subdued laughter like petals over Dean. She looks back to Juliet. “Perhaps we’re just jealous,” she offers. Their eyes lock as both blurt a stereophonic “Na.”
After dinner and three umbrella drinks, Celia heads for the dance floor where Dean foxtrots with the artistic party girl. “May I cut in,” she asks.
Judy looks mildly appalled. It seems Celia has been a boor again. “My feet are getting a little tired anyway,” she says and coasts away on a cloud of grace. Celia deflates.
“You must have been hankering for a dance real bad,” Dean says as he takes hold of her. “I should’ve come for you earlier instead of trying to con poor Judy into being my wife-spy.”
“I thought I was your wife-spy.”
“You didn’t like the job.”
“I’d do whatever you wanted me to.” She gazes up.
“Be careful what you say to an old man. I got a weak heart.”
Celia rests her head against him. “Do you fly out tomorrow?”
“Yes, ma’am. Got some recording to do in Los Angeleeez …”
“I’ve hardly seen you. Are you having an affair with her?”
“Judy?” Dean smiles. “I’m too tired for that.”
“What does Sam Flood do?”
“He’s a businessman. And none of your kinda business, so do yourself a favour and stay away from businessmen. Find yourself a nice dentist.”
A lump in her throat, she excuses herself to head to the washroom.
By four in the morning, the crowd is down to a smattering. Celia concocts excuses to stay until she notices Dean heading for the door. Annie catches hold of her elbow and hangs on. “Let’s get back to the hotel. Last call for the Annie Taxi.”
“Don’t!” Celia wobbles in her shoes. “Where’d he go? You made me lose Dean!”
“You’ve had a little too much bug juice, lambchop. Come on—”
“No! I have to talk to Dean. Frank knows where he is.”
“Come on, you can call Dean tomorrow. You’ll thank me in the—Jesus!”
Celia yanks free and stalks over to Frank.
Minutes later, she weaves her way down the hall to Dean’s room.
As she sits on his couch, a nightcap in hand, Dean raises his glass. “Drink up and be somebody,” he says.
Celia looks into her scotch and tries to think of what to say. “Remember I was talking about getting an agent?” She concentrates on not slurring. “I’m going to New York soon and I’m going to get one—I wanted to get your advice.”
“Well, there’s a few guys who handle dancers and chorus girls …”
Her eyes suddenly brim. “Dean. I’m not just—you don’t take me seriously. You don’t get it … Judy doesn’t love you. Not like I do.”
He sets his drink down. “I think we gotta get you some coff—”
“No, I think I love you, Dean.” She dumps a little of her drink in her lap.
He takes her glass away. “You don’t wanna be in love with an old man like me. You need a good sleep’s what you need.”
“I want to be with you. Take me to bed. Please. Dean?”
He sighs. “Trust me, I don’t deserve the honour.”
“No. Stewart, stop saying—”
“Stewart? See—”
“Why did you bring up Stewart? It’s none of his business. He’s …”
“I’m going to put you in a taxi.”
“No! Please don’t send me away, please don’t send me away …” She’s crying flat out now.
“Okay, okay. You’re okay.” He pats her back.
She gasps and punches weakly at his chest trying to talk through sobs. “I—I—I love …”
“You wait right here.” He comes back with a pill bottle. Dumping one into his palm, he says, “Maybe I should just give you half a’one.” She cries harder. “Na, this is an emergency; open wide.” He lays the tablet on her tongue and feeds her water.
Just swallowing the pill seems to calm her. He holds her hand and she flops against him.
“Too much excitement for one night. Come on now, let’s put you to bed and your ol’ pal Dino is going to sleep on the couch.”
“I don’t want you to sleep on the couch,” she croaks. “Sure you do. I snore. Hell, you might snore your own self.”
Celia jolts awake. It’s two-thirty in the afternoon. Still fully dressed, her shoes are on the floor. Dean and his things are gone. A note sits on the night table: Goodbye, sugar. Had to catch my flight. Knock ’em dead in the Big Apple. Dino.
She wants to crawl into a swamp. The last thing she remembers is Dean tucking the blankets under her chin, and lullabying her good-night with “Return to Me.” His melancholy voice is wrapped around the ache in her skull now. She reaches for the phone.
“Oh, baby,” Annie moans sympathetically. “Come on back here and we’ll order room service. I’m a little hung myself.”
“I want to die. I propositioned him.”
“You and whose army. I’m impressed though. I heard he could be a real rat but I guess he considers you a lady.”
“He considers me a child. A trampy child.”
“You just got the booze guilts. You’ll feel better after some breakfast. You know what Frank says, I feel sorry for people who don’t drink. When they wake up in the morning, that’s the best they’re gonna feel all day.”
Back at the Riviera, Celia announces she can’t be in Miami a second longer. “I’ve humiliated myself—all those people who saw me stoned out of my tree last night.”
“Everybody there was smashed. I necked with a bellhop in the elevator. He was on his way to bring someone their breakfast just as I was getting home. That’s Miami.”
Celia insists.
“Can’t you hang on three more nights?”
She shakes her head.
Annie sighs. “I’ll give you the keys to my place.”
Thirteen
CELIA LIES ON THE LIVING-ROOM FLOOR OF AANNIE’S apartment, listening to Dean albums. Crumbs and bits of oily dried-out food are strewn on the coffee table and rugs. An old bread crust digs into one of her arms—she concentrates on sucking up all discomfort as penance.
Bumps and foot scuffles come from the hall. “Just drop it here. Great.” Annie’s voice. Then a knock. “Celia? Celia Do-da-Dare, you in dere? … Shit …” Louder knocks and muttering. “Christ! I said leave me the key if you go out.” Dean starts into “Volare” and Celia drizzles as she sings along. Annie pounds harder on the door. “You are in there. Celia!”
By the time Celia answers Annie is ready to bite her face off. “Were you just going to leave me standing out here?” She struggles a suitcase through the door. “Help with my bags or so—”
Celia grabs one, eyes puffy, nose red. “I thought you weren’t home till tomorrow.”
“You just been lying around here, mooning over some decrepit old whorehound?” Annie swishes through the apartment in a flourish of ermine and hair. “How’d you feel if he s
crewed you and went home to his wife. Huh?” She looks around. “Jesus … And another thing, if you’re going to lie down and die every time a man rejects you, do yourself a favour and put a gun to your head now. You go around actin’ like a man’s the main course and you’re doomed. Treat ’em like dessert.”
Celia wipes her nose. “Sometimes a person has to grieve, you know.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake—mooning is for suckers. Meanwhile someone’s been contemplating your career and I think it’s me.” Annie pulls a newspaper from the strap of one suitcase and tosses it on the coffee table. “There, take a gander. It’s circled.”
Celia picks up the paper. “Open call for tribute to Carmen Miranda … female singer between 25 and 35… able to dance and sing Samba. Portuguese an asset … So? I can’t speak Portuguese and I’m not twenty-five.”
Annie rips the needle off Dean’s drone and hangs up her fur. Celia looks her up and down, the tight skirt, the tighter angora sweater. “You went on the airplane with your boobs sticking out like that?”
“Why is it people with flat houses are always casting stones?” Annie glowers. “This sweater introduced me to a very nice lawyer, for your information. I was also invited to see the inside of the cockpit. What did you do today?”
Celia sets the paper down and stares at her bagging socks.
“Exactly. But you’re doing something tonight. You’re going to learn to do Carmen Miranda as well as you do Julie London.”
“I don’t want to be a female impersonator.”
“Oh, yes you do, missy. And I know just the gal to teach you. Go have a shower. I’ll order us some Chinese.”
Two hours later, they stand outside an apartment one floor up. High heels clip toward them and the door is opened with a flourish by a petite olive-skinned woman wearing a jewelled turban, a silk kimono and feathered mules. Her ruby lips part and both she and Annie exclaim, “Dahling!” as they kiss cheeks.
“Simone! Meet Celia; Celia, Simone.”
“Precious, aren’t you pretty!”
The voice, the hands—this is no girl. Celia recoils slightly but follows as Annie launches into descriptions of Miami, her Mae West act, the boas and hats she wore and last but not least, the need for a teensy-weensy favour. “Celia here is a fabulous singer—”
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