by Bill Moody
“You got some proof of that?” Coop asks.
“I can get it, I think. I’ve got somebody looking into it now.”
“I should have known. When will you know?”
“By tomorrow, I hope.”
“Okay. I’ve got an idea. Let me run it by Trask. I’ll tell him you’ll be down to make a statement about your talk with Buddy Herman in the morning. In the meantime, stay off the streets. It’s dangerous out there.”
“Coop?”
“Yeah?” He’s already on his feet.
“Gallio gave me twenty-four hours.”
It’s after midnight when I stand under the shower for ten minutes, letting the hot water penetrate my bumps and bruises. Toweling off, I inspect myself in the mirror. Not too bad for having been sacked by a former NFL lineman. A few scratches on my face from the shrubs, but my hand is okay. It’s what doesn’t show that hurts.
Natalie is already asleep when I come out of the bathroom, breathing easily, her hair spread out over the pillow. I watch her for a few moments, then pull the light blanket up over her and tiptoe out of the bedroom, fighting the urge to go back inside and slide in next to her.
I go back to the kitchen, make some coffee, and grab Louise Cody’s diary. There has to be something in here that makes Gallio want it so badly, something I can hold up to him and use against him. I put some Keith Jarrett solo piano on the cassette player with the volume way down and settle on the couch with coffee, cigarettes, and the diary, feeling like a student cramming for an exam.
I skim through the early entries, which sound much like the ones from the other diary Louise showed me. The voice is that of a young girl, stars in her eyes, set on a show business career, getting her first big break in a new show, new hotel-casino.
April 1955—It’s finally happened, but I still can’t believe it. After four auditions, I’ve been chosen for the Moulin Rouge show in Las Vegas!!!! Yes! Yes! Yes! We leave next week to start rehearsals. I can’t wait. I know some of the other girls; but there are more coming from all over the country. I feel really special, and I just know the show is going to do well. I looked at myself in the mirror and said, “Girl, you are something!”
Later, after she arrived in Las Vegas to begin rehearsals, Louise wrote,
There’s one part I don’t like though. We’re living in some houses built just for us—the Cadillac Arms, they’re called. They’re really nice, and my roommates Marva and Josie are sweet girls. We’re having lots of fun cooking, talking about our costumes, and helping each other with the dance steps, but the contract we had to sign, well, I just can’t believe it. Right up there on top, in big letters, it says we are not allowed to go to any of the Strip hotels. Not that we have time, but sometimes I feel like we’re in a prison. I guess I shouldn’t complain. The rehearsals are going well, and the band is coming in next week. I can’t believe it. It’s Benny Carter!!! Maybe—no, I won’t even think about that now, it’s probably bad luck.
May 1955—Maybe I should have thought about it more. We had our first rehearsal with the band this afternoon, and there he was, that sweet baby Wardell, sitting there in the saxophone section, smiling and winking at me real cool like. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him. He looks tired though, and I know he’s still into that bad stuff like he was on Central Avenue in L.A. I’m so glad he’s here, but there hasn’t been any time to talk much, and those men that run the casino have been getting too friendly, especially that Anthony Gallio and his brother. I just smile and take his compliments, but he’s going to be a problem. I have to be careful though. I know he doesn’t like me talking with Wardell. “Keep your mind on the show, sugar,” he told me yesterday. Sugar? What does he think I’m thinking about? We open in two weeks.
—The band is fantastic. Benny Carter wrote all the music, but every time I dance by, all I can see is Wardell. I stayed around today to listen to the band’s special numbers and Wardell’s solos. That sweet baby can sure play his horn. Sometimes I feel like he’s playing just for me, but I know that will never happen. He’s got a wife and baby. He must miss them. We talked yesterday, and he took me out for coffee, carrying that little book of poems he always has with him. Sometimes I feel like he’s a teacher and I’m his student. He talks different with me than he does with the other boys in the band, tells me I should read books.
But he told me to be careful of Gallio and the other men who run the casino. “This place ain’t exactly what it seems,” he told me. When I asked him what he meant, he wouldn’t talk about it anymore, so I didn’t press him. I think I know what he means.
I finish my coffee, thinking about that entry. What did Wardell mean? He was almost twice Louise’s age and had been around long enough—Benny Goodman, Basie, Earl Hines—to know how things went down, especially in mob-run clubs. Living in Detroit, Wardell must have played in enough of them. He was also smart enough to know that if you just stick to the music, you’ll be all right.
I go back to the diary. The rest of the entries lead up to opening night and confirm many of the things Louise has already told me.
Tuesday—Opening night and I still can’t believe I’m part of this. I’ve never seen so many stars and celebrities. Joe Louis is the host, the heavyweight champion of the world! They just kept coming in big limos—Harry Belafonte, Sammy Davis, and the man, Nat King Cole!!!!—dressed so fine, and there were photographers everywhere, even some people from Life Magazine. They took pictures of us backstage and told us our photo.would be on the cover. Mama will be so proud when she sees that. I felt like I was in a trance during the first show. I was so excited I almost missed my cue, but all it took was a wink from Wardell to settle me down.
The casino was packed with people, and everybody loved the show. The band was just cookin’, and Wardell never sounded better. I hate to see him hanging around with Teddy Hale though. Teddy’s one of the dancers. I know what he and Wardell are doing before the shows, but I can’t say anything to Wardell. It’s not my business.
Wednesday—The first show was just like last night. More celebrities, a full house, photographers everywhere wanting us to pose with people. Josie and Marva and I went back to the house like we always do to get something to eat and rest up for the late show. I’ve never been so happy. We talked a lot about all the gorgeous guys at the club, and they treat us like we’re stars. Hey, we are!!!!
But by the time we went back to the hotel, I knew something was wrong. We were supposed to start at two o’clock, but somebody came to our dressing room and said there would be a delay. I peeked out in the hallway and saw some of the musicians talking in little groups. One of them who’d seen me talking with Wardell told me they were waiting for him.
We waited forty-five minutes but finally had to start anyway. The casino was packed again, and people were getting restless. When we made our first entrance, I never saw anything so sad as Wardell’s empty chair in the sax section. Teddy Hale wasn’t there either. I hoped everything was alright, but I had a bad feeling. Wardell never came back the whole night, and nobody was talking, but everybody said Benny Carter was mad.
Thursday—I don’t know how I can write this. Somebody called the house and told us Wardell was dead. They found him in the desert, and the police have Teddy Hale. I wanted to go right over to the club, but I was scared. All I could think about was Wardell’s wife and baby. When we got to the club, it was real quiet backstage. I tried to talk with one of the musicians. He told me Wardell overdosed. “You mess with that shit, baby, it’s going to happen sometime.” I cried then. I don’t know why. I wanted to yell at Teddy Hale, but they told me it wasn’t his fault. Wardell had been into this for a long time. We do the shows, but I’m so sad tonight I just want to go home. I laid awake half the night thinking about that poor baby lying out in the desert. I wonder who found him?
Friday—We had a meeting today. Mr. Gallio and some other men talked to everybody in the show and told us that it was too bad about Wardell, but that we had a show to do and we�
�d better do it right, told us not to even talk about it. These men don’t care about Wardell. They just want to make money. Well, that’s this business I guess, but it’s not right. They already have another saxophone player, Sonny Wells, Wardell’s friend. He even looks a little bit like Wardell, which makes it even harder for me to watch the band, so I just try to remember my steps and concentrate on the show.
Sonny Wells. There wouldn’t have been time to bring someone up from Los Angeles right away, and I imagine Sonny scuffled with the arrangements of a show like this. He was a jazz player first. Still, Benny Carter would have pulled it together.
I remember somebody interviewing a jazz musician once. “Do you read music?” the writer wanted to know.
“Not enough to hurt my playing,” the musician said.
Wardell’s death was obviously a turning point for Louise. In the remaining entries all the joy is gone, but she starts making some closer observations, paying attention to what she sees and trying to make sense out of it. By mid-June she’s getting more and more observant.
June 15—I still can’t believe Wardell is gone. I’ve heard his wife came up to claim his body and take him back to Los Angeles for burial. Not even a funeral for us to pay our respects, but everyone in the show gave some money for flowers. Everything is settled down now. The press is gone, but the casino is still full every night. I’ve been trying to remember something Wardell said when I look round the casino.
I stayed after the show tonight talking with my new friend Elizabeth, and while we were talking, I saw Mr. Gallio and those other men go in the casino cashier’s cage and come out with bags. “There goes the money,” Elizabeth said. “They do that every night.” She’s right, and she should know, she’s a blackjack dealer. I’ve been watching, careful like, but it’s true. I don’t understand it. We get paid every week, so they must be saving some, and I know the band is getting paid because no one is complaining, but something is wrong. I can feel it.
June 30—I don’t feel like writing in this anymore, but I’ve seen too much. Mr. Gallio is bothering me again, and his brother Carlo. They both want me to go out with them. Just lunch or dinner. Tell me. Marva and Josie both got boyfriends now, but they think I’m crazy to fool with those Gallios. Why’d he have to pick me? I know he could get me fired if he wanted. He got real mad the other night when I was talking to Pappy Dean, the new bass player. He was a friend of Wardell’s too. He keeps telling me to forget the whole thing, but how can I do that? I saw Mr. Gallio talking to Pappy too, real angry like, but Pappy just stared him down. I’m afraid for Pappy too. They still take the money out of here every night. Where does it go? It just don’t seem right, but I know I just got to shut my mouth and dance and look pretty. That’s all they want us to do.
The entries get more and more sporadic, but the theme continues. Reading between the lines, it’s clear Louise had some brief fling with Gallio, and then she either broke it off or Gallio got bored and went on to new conquests.
Gallio and his brother, and whoever else was in on the operation, were obviously skimming money out of the Moulin Rouge on a daily basis. Keeping the band paid was a good move. Nobody would complain or draw any attention to what they were doing, but something went wrong somewhere, because the hotel-casino closed without warning.
I can’t believe I’m writing this, but it’s all over. We did the first show tonight as usual, then went home. Marva cooked, and we were sitting around talking about some new costumes when the phone rang. Josie answered, but her face told us something was wrong. When she got off the phone, she just kind of stood there for a moment like she was in a trance or something. Then she told us the club was closed, and we weren’t even going to do the late show. We thought she was joking at first, but when we called around to the other girls, we got the same story from everybody.
We sat up all night talking about it, wondering how long it would be closed. The next day we drove to the Moulin Rouge to see for ourselves, and sure enough, there was a padlock on the door. What was going to happen to us now? Some of the band tried to get in to get their instruments, but there was nobody around. No Gallio brothers, nobody. We were finally told after a few days that the club would not reopen, and we had one week to get out of our apartments.
So that was it. Less than six months and the Moulin Rouge was history, and had made history. Louise wasn’t even aware of what she had been a part of. A white-owned interracial hotel-casino flourishing long before the bus boycott in Alabama. How much money could be skimmed from an operation like that in six months? And where did it go? Gallio’s pocket? Back to Chicago to be laundered, used for other businesses? Nobody would ever know.
I close the diary, rub my eyes, and listen to the final strains of Keith Jarrett moaning his way through “The Wrong Blues,” sounding almost like he can’t find his way.
I know just how he feels.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ace is already up when I walk around to the house, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, staring out at the pool. I open the sliding door. “Got some for me?”
“Sure,” Ace says. “Come on in. Where’s Natalie? Still sleeping?”
“Yeah.” I grab a mug and fill it with coffee and sit down with Ace. He shoves a manila envelope across the table.
“This came for you yesterday. With all the—well, I just forgot.” I turn it over. It’s Cindy Fuller’s handwriting. Inside are several envelopes—a few bills, bank statements, junk mail, nothing important—and a note from Cindy.
Dear Evan,
Thought you might want these. I’ve been holding them for you, but I guess things are going okay in Las Vegas, eh? I got your letter. Evan, you don’t have to explain anything. Maybe the timing was wrong for us, or maybe it will be better some other time. Meanwhile, I’m in and out as usual, you know, the friendly skies, but if you feel like it, call me when you get back.
Love, Cindy
I put everything back in the big envelope and glance at Ace. “Cindy,” I say, “just forwarding my mail.”
Ace nods. He seems distracted, preoccupied. “You okay, Ace?”
“Yeah, sure. Exams today.” He takes another drink of his coffee and doesn’t even protest when I light a cigarette. “Look, Evan, I want you to know, if I’d had any idea any of this was going to happen, I would never have asked for your help. God, all I wanted to do was write a paper for a stupid academic conference that might get me a book contract. But all this, I just don’t know.”
I don’t say anything, just let Ace get it out in his own way.
“My life has been research, papers, teaching, meetings, that kind of stuff. When Janey died, a little bit of me died with her. I saw this Wardell Gray thing as a way to focus on something, keep my mind occupied.” He looks at me. “I mean, how do you deal with all this?”
“I don’t know if I am dealing with it, Ace. None of us knew what we were going to find when we started. That’s how things go. It’s not your fault. Digging up the past uncovers the unexpected.”
Ace smiles as if remembering something. “D.H. Lawrence had it right. Why doesn’t the past decently bury itself, instead of waiting to be admitted by the present? God, I wouldn’t like to think I’m responsible for setting all this into motion.”
“You’re not Ace, not even a little. Don’t even think you are. If anyone is responsible, it’s whoever killed Wardell Gray.”
Ace says, “Yes, I think you might be right.”
I push Louise’s diary toward him. “I want you to do me a favor, Ace. Can you make a copy of this, keep it in your office?”
“Of course. That’s the other diary you were talking about last night? Anything interesting in there?”
“Oh yeah, very interesting. Some of it may tie into your research. How important is the Moulin Rouge as historical landmark?”
“Vital, I would say. If Las Vegas had been a southern town, the opening of the Moulin Rouge might be considered by some to be the beginning of the civil rights mo
vement. Don’t forget, it was the first interracial hotel-casino. Discrimination was widespread in Las Vegas. Black entertainers performing on the Strip were denied accommodation at the hotels.”
“That sounds like the opening remarks for a lecture. Louise mentions in here that the dancers’ contract prohibited them from even going on the Strip.”
“I’m not surprised.” Ace glances at the diary. “The Moulin Rouge provided them a place to stay, and it clearly demonstrated that people in a mixed-race crowd could enjoy themselves in a public place without a riot ensuing. Eventually the other hotels loosened their policies regarding black entertainers. My God, is that in there? Would it be all right if I read some of that?”
“I’m sure Louise would have no objection. What about after the Moulin Rouge closed?”
Ace says, “Still important. I’ll have to check my notes, but I’m sure it was in the spring of 1960, the NAACP threatened to march on the Strip to demand integration. They finally met with the Nevada Resort Association and the governor. It was Grant Sawyer then. An agreement was reached that eventually led to desegregation on the Strip. Hell, it was signed at the Moulin Rouge.”
“So this Moulin Rouge Preservation Society is pretty important, then?”
“Oh, absolutely. There’s a campaign under way now to have the Moulin Rouge placed on the National Register of Historic Landmarks.”
An organization Louise Cody is a member of. If Gallio manages to buy the property, the Moulin Rouge will disappear forever. Another good reason to stop Gallio.
