One Shining Moment

by Gilbert, Morris

  They moved to the door of Lylah’s office, and Mario motioned for Christie to stand to one side. When she was clear of the door, he opened it and stepped in—then stopped abruptly. “I think it’s all right for you to come in, Christie,” he said in an odd tone of voice.

  Christie stepped inside, and she too stopped dead still.

  “Mr. Valentino . . .” she gasped, and could not say a word more.

  Valentino was smiling at the two of them, his dark eyes filled with humor. “I apologize for coming without an invitation—but I had to come to Chicago, and I thought it would be a good time to talk with your sister. Is she here?”

  “Oh, yes,” Christie breathed. “I’ll get her—don’t go away, please, Mr. Valentino!”

  As the young woman left the room, Valentino gazed at Mario. “I think you looked a little—vigilant, shall we say—when you came through the door.” He pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a platinum lighter, then asked, “Were you expecting trouble?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Your family—what do they think of Capone?”

  “That he’s a killer.”

  “So I hear.” The handsome face of the actor grew tight, and he said no more. The two men stood there quietly, and then the door opened and Christie entered with three others.

  “This is my sister Lylah, and her fiance, Jesse Hart, and this is—”

  “Hello, Carl. How are you?” Valentino nodded to Thomas, then shook hands with Jesse and finally bowed slightly to Lylah. “I’ve seen you on the stage, Miss Stuart—in Macbeth. Brilliant!”

  Lylah said in a tone of astonishment, “Thank you, Mr. Valentino.”

  “I suppose you know why I’m here?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Lylah admitted.

  Valentino glanced at Christie, who burst out, “Oh, Lylah, Mario and I got Jerry to fly us to New York. I showed Mr. Valentino the script of The Gangster, and I asked him to read it—and to do the part if he liked it!”

  Jesse was staring with unbelief at the dark face of the most famous actor in the world—but Mario was staring at Christie. Finally Lylah said with a laugh, “Well, my sister is quite bold. I guess the Salvation Army does that to you.” Then she asked directly, “Did you like the script, Mr. Valentino?”

  Valentino puffed on his cigarette, holding everyone’s attention. He loved attention and had all that one man could handle—still this little moment of drama revealed his delight in playing a role. He saw their faces fixed on him, and he knew that he held their future in his hands. Finally he nodded, “Yes—I thought it was a powerful piece of writing.”

  Lylah said quietly, “If you took the part, it might be dangerous.”

  “So this gentleman tells me,” Valentino nodded. The thought seemed to please him, and he added, “I don’t think that will be a factor.”

  “But money will be,” Carl said. “We don’t have the money you’re accustomed to, Rudy.”

  “I understand that. Would you like to discuss a percentage of the profits—say 10 percent?”

  It was a princely offer, for with Rudolph Valentino as the star, the success of The Gangster was a certainty.

  “That’s more than generous of you,” Lylah said instantly. “I agree, of course. And I believe that this role will add another dimension to your career.”

  “That is why I came,” Valentino nodded. “It’s a bold attempt, and I’m tired of playing sheiks and Latin lovers.” He glanced at Jesse, saying, “I understand you are the scriptwriter. I have a few suggestions—could we talk about them?”

  “Name the time!”

  “Ah, then tomorrow at ten. I’m staying at the Hotel Bel Aire.” He smiled and bowed slightly, “Good night. I trust that we’ll make a little history.” He turned and smiled at Christie, saying, “I admire courage.” Then he left.

  As soon as the door shut, the room exploded in laughter; pandemonium reigned. Carl was jumping up and down, his eyes bugging even more than usual, and he was shouting, “I don’t believe it!” shrilly.

  “Come on, we’ve got to tell everybody,” Jesse said, and he left the room at once with Lylah and Carl.

  When they were gone, Mario turned to Christie, his face stiff. “Well, I’d be pretty dumb not to see God in this! Do you think Valentino knows he’s an answer to prayer?”

  “I don’t know, Mario. God uses all sorts of men for his own purposes,” Christie said. “But as long as you know it’s God, I’m satisfied.”

  Mario said slowly, his eyes fixed on hers, “I guess you know I love you, Christie. And I know one more thing—you’ll never marry any man who doesn’t know God.”

  Christie whispered, “Mario, you’re very close to God. I’ve prayed for you so hard! And the same God who saved Lylah after so many years—and the same God who brought Valentino here—he’s going to find you!” She came to him, her face bright with promise as he held her close. “God will give us to each other,” she said, nodding firmly. “He knows how much we love each other.”

  Mario held her, but his thoughts went to his family—and he was also wondering what Al Capone would do when he discovered his plans to stop production on The Gangster had failed.

  But Mario had seen God work, and now he knew that no matter what happened, he had to know this God who did such wonderful things.

  LOVE AND ICE CREAM

  Chicago was a difficult town to impress in 1925, but when the news broke that Rudolph Valentino was coming to star in a picture—the whole city was talking. The story broke in the Examiner and was written by Amos Stuart.

  The response literally swamped the fledgling Monarch Pictures, so much so that Lylah said in mock despair, “It’s going to be harder to finish the picture with Valentino than it was without him!” Crowds milled around at the gates, and Peter had to hire a security force to keep them from just walking into the lot. Reporters resorted to all sorts of stunts to gain access to the star—and to Lylah as well.

  “I’ve always wanted to be married to a wealthy woman,” Jesse grinned at her one day between takes. “One who could cater to my every whim and set me up in a mansion.”

  Lylah was made-up for her part, wearing a fashionable gown designed by Schiaparelli. It was a platinum silk crepe georgette, trimmed with metal bead embroidery and ostrich plumes. She had enjoyed working with Valentino, but the lights were so hot that she grew faint at times. “If you keep getting offers to write scripts from people like DeMille,” she said tartly, “I’ll quit and play with Adam all day—and spend your money.”

  The humor of the financial miracle that had taken place brought a sudden laugh from Jesse. “Funny, isn’t it, Lylah. A week ago we couldn’t afford a cab—now we’ve got bankers lining up trying to lend us money!”

  “Did you know Milton Sanderson came to see me yesterday?” She smiled at the thought, then reaching up, ran her hand down his cheek. “I’ve never seen you without a beard. Why don’t you ever shave?”

  “I’m too handsome,” Jesse shrugged. “My good looks have driven women mad. Some of them took to drink. Had to cover up to save them. What did Mr. Sanderson want?”

  “He wanted to lend me a lot of money.” Lylah smiled at the memory. “He was tickled to death, Jesse. Said his board came to him and begged him to get Monarch to take a loan with their bank. That was the same bunch that wouldn’t let us have a penny last month!”

  At that moment Carl appeared, his eyes bulging as usual. “Lylah, we’re waiting for you!”

  “All right, Carl,” Lylah answered. She stopped, reached out, and touched Jesse’s neat beard. “On our wedding day, I want you to shave.” She gave him a seductive look, fluttered her eyelids, and said, “I’ve always wanted to be driven mad by a handsome man!”

  “Well, if you insist—but you’ve been warned.”

  Lylah walked to where Valentino was waiting. He was wearing a powder blue suit with a matching tie. “Ready, Lylah?” he asked at once. He had been an easy man to work with, to Lylah’s surprise. She’d had
her experiences with famous actors—most of them not pleasant, but Valentino had been professional and very easy to get along with.

  “Yes, let’s do it.”

  Thomas gave them their instructions, and they did the scene with little difficulty. “That’s a take!” Thomas shouted. “Everybody take a break.”

  “That was good, Rudy,” Lylah nodded. “We’re ahead of schedule.”

  Valentino lit a cigarette and looked closely at Pete Stuart, who was standing to one side. “Your brother, he’s always very close.” He puffed thoughtfully, then demanded, “That gun he’s carrying, it’s not a prop, is it?”

  Lylah hesitated, then shook her head. “No, it’s real.”

  “Ah! You’re expecting trouble?”

  “I hope not, but Mario tells us that Capone is furious about what we’re doing.”

  “And you think we may have trouble with him?”

  “I don’t think so, Rudy. Amos says Capone is very sensitive to public opinion. It would make him look bad if anything happened to you.” She covered a smile, adding, “He also said that as much as he admires you, it wouldn’t be all bad if Capone did try to hurt you. If he did that, he’d have most of the women in America after him!”

  Valentino found that amusing, and the two spoke of the scenes that were to be made. But later that afternoon, Pete brought a man dressed in a black suit to see the pair. “Says he’s got a message he’s got to give to Mr. Valentino in person.”

  “Yes, I’ll take it.” Valentino took the envelope the man extended, opened it, and scanned it. “It’s a dinner invitation for you and me, Lylah.”

  “We don’t have time, Rudy!”

  “I think we’ll take the time.” He smiled at the messenger, a heavy-set individual with close-set eyes. “Tell Mr. Capone we’ll be glad to accept his invitation.”

  “Yes, Mr. Valentino. There’ll be a car to pick you up at seven, if that’s okay.”

  As soon as the arrangements were made, Lylah exclaimed, “Rudy, you can’t mean it! Dinner with Al Capone?”

  Valentino ran his hand over his slick black hair. His eyes glowed with excitement as he nodded, “Yes, it should be an interesting evening. I’ll venture we won’t be bored with Mr. Capone!”

  Valentino and Lylah got out of the black limousine in front of the Hotel Metropole at 2300 South Michigan Avenue. They were escorted to the fourth floor by two burly men with suspicious bulges under their coats. One of them was talkative and informed the pair, “Mr. Capone, he’s always liked the Metropole—got maybe fifteen or twenty rooms here. Up on the seventh floor he’s made a gym—punching bags, rowing machines, and weights.”

  “He likes to keep his men trim?” Valentino murmured.

  “Yes, sure, Mr. Valentino.” A lewd smile split the lips of the big man, and he winked at the actor. “Mr. Capone, he likes real men! You know how he tests his bodyguards?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Why, he throws good-looking broads at ’em! If they don’t go after the women, Mr. Capone gets rid of them.”

  “Shut up, Willie!”

  “I wuz just—”

  “Close your mouth!” The second guard apologized, “Sorry, Miss Stuart. Willie got his brains scrambled too many times when he was in the ring.” The elevator stopped, and he said, “Here we are, folks.”

  Two more guards outside a door turned to them at once. “Mr. Capone’s expecting you,” one said politely. He opened the door, and the guests entered. They found themselves in a room that could have been lifted from an Italian Renaissance setting: white marble underfoot, exquisitely carved cabinets filled with china and figurines along the walls, a chandelier of a thousand lights glittering overhead, and a servant in full dress bowing. “Mr. Valentino, Miss Stuart. I’ll get Mr. Capone at once.”

  As the waiter disappeared through a massive oak door, Lylah glanced around at the opulent furniture. “He’s got rich taste, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Valentino looked around, then shook his head. “I’ve been reading the stories Amos has been writing in the Examiner. They must have stung Capone—”

  He broke off, for the door opened and Al Capone came into the room. Lylah was impressed by the sheer animal power that flowed from the man. She’d heard from Amos that Capone was capable of anything. Once he’d told her of how Capone had personally executed three of his enemies: “He invited them to dinner at his apartment, and after he fed them, he had his hoods tie them to chairs. Then he took a baseball bat and beat them to death—that’s Capone!”

  “Well, now, it’s good to see you, Rudy,” Capone said, using the first name of the famous actor in a familiar fashion. He was accustomed to mixing with celebrities. Eddy Cantor, George Jessel, Joe Lewis, and many others had visited the big-time gangster. He shook Valentino’s hand, then turned to say, “And this is the little lady who’s makin’ a movie about Al?” He didn’t offer his hand, but his eyes glittered as he smiled. “Like to hear about that, Miss Stuart, but first, we eat, eh?”

  They sat down and waiters began bringing out the food. It was a feast fit for an emperor, but only Capone ate very much. He kept urging the food on them, all the while cramming his own mouth full and washing it down with wine. But he talked constantly as he ate, telling story after story of famous people he knew.

  Finally he wiped his lips with a snow white napkin and put his fork down. “They all come to Al, all the big ones. Did I tell you I met the president? Sure, I did! Nice fellow, too.”

  Valentino asked, “What did he say about your—profession, Mr. Capone?”

  “Hey, call me Al! Why, he didn’t say nothing about it.” Capone regarded the actor and shrugged his burly shoulders. “Look, I’m known all over the world as a criminal. I’m just a businessman, that’s all! I’ve never been convicted of a crime and I never had anything to do with vice. None of my people ever burglarized any homes while they worked for me. They might have pulled a job like that before they joined up with me, but not by my orders . . .”

  He went on for some time about himself, then looked at Lylah. “I been hearing bad things about this picture you’re making, Miss Stuart. But I look on myself as a public benefactor. Ninety percent of the people of Cook County drink and gamble, and I furnish them with those amusements. My booze has been good as have my games on the square—so why are you making me look like a gorilla in your picture?”

  Lylah was convinced that the man was a monster. He really believes all these things he’s saying, she thought. “What about all the men who’ve been killed in the gang wars, Mr. Capone? Don’t you think murder is wrong?”

  Capone gave her an angry look, one that had paralyzed many a strong man with fear. “Look, there’s the law of self-defense. It means killing a man who’d kill you if he saw you. Maybe it means that—but you can’t blame me for lookin’ out for myself!”

  Lylah and Valentino endured the man’s huge ego for some time and then finally rose to leave. “We thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Capone,” Valentino said, then smiled. “I hope you enjoy the film.”

  But it was to Lylah that Capone directed his parting words. “You’re a fine lady—but I wish you’d change your mind about me. That movie could do me a lot of harm. Why don’t you show my side of this thing?”

  Lylah did not hesitate. “I think you’re bad for the country, Mr. Capone. You stand for violence, and I can only make the film as honestly as possible.”

  Capone stared at her, then whispered, “Glad to meet you.” He waited until the two were gone, then moved stiffly to the phone on the table. He dialed a number, waited, then said with a fury in his voice, “Hymie—you know who this is? Yeah. Listen, pack your gear and come to Chicago. I got a job for you!”

  Mario had few connections with the family business. Nick had discouraged these and was pleased when his younger brother showed no inclination toward such things. He boasted of Mario’s success to everyone, proud of the young lawyer who was making a name for himself in the legal world.


  As a child Mario had a close friend named Tony Pappa. Tony was the son of one of Nick’s lieutenants, and as the two families lived close, the two boys became firm friends. However, Ralph Pappa had left Nick to go to work for Capone, and Tony had gone the same way when he was nineteen. Tony and Mario had drifted apart as a result, but they still fished together once a year at least and talked about old times.

  Mario hadn’t thought about Tony for some time, so was surprised when Pappa walked into his office one Thursday afternoon. “Hey, Ton!” he greeted his friend. “Come in and take a load off your feet!”

  “Gotta talk to you—private,” Tony grunted. He had his hat pulled down over his eyes and seemed nervous.

  “Why, sure, Tony. Come inside.” As soon as Mario shut the door, he turned to ask, “What’s wrong, Tony? You in some kind of trouble?” It was the first thing that came to him, for Tony had been in trouble with the law more than once.

  “Naw, Mario—I’m okay.” Tony bit his lip, then blurted out, “Look, I been walkin’ my feet off, tryin’ to decide what to do.”

  “What is it? Spill it, Tony!”

  “Well, I ain’t no squealer—you know what happens to a guy like that who works for Capone.” He hesitated, then his eyes narrowed. “How tight are you with this picture makin’ outfit, Mario?”

  “Monarch? What’s up, Tony?” When Pappa hesitated, Mario said quickly, “I’m going to marry Christie Stuart. She’s the sister of the woman who owns Monarch.”

  “Sister to Lylah Stuart and Amos Stuart?”

  “That’s right.” Mario stared at his friend. “Look, I don’t want you to get in any trouble for me, Tony. But you know me. Whatever you say stops right here.”

  Tony Pappa took a deep breath, then nodded. “I ain’t never done nothin’ like this before, but you’re my friend, Mario.” He hesitated, then said, “Al’s brought Hymie Holtzman in from Detroit. You know what that means!”

  Mario had heard enough to know that Holtzman was a paid killer. A chill went through him, and he asked, “Who’s he gunning for, Tony?”