by George Baxt
“Why, you lucky children,” gushed Woollcott insincerely, “and what is Miss Engri like?”“Like nothing real,” commented Mrs. Parker, tapping Van Weber’s hand for his attention. She needed more champagne and got it.
“Flo’s been telling us about his big season coming up,” explained Van Weber as he replenished Mrs. Parker’s and Singer’s glasses.
“A big season. Probably the biggest of my career.” Ziegfeld was staring at the smouldering end of his cigar as though it were a crystal ball and his big season was therein predicted. “I’ve got Show Boat to open my new theatre on Sixth Avenue.”
Mrs. Parker clapped her hands together, looking like an evil waif. “A new theatre! Oh, goodie! Just what New York needs. What’s it called?”
Ziegfeld’s chest expanded. “The Ziegfeld.”
“That figures.”
Woollcott piped up, “You can’t exactly expect him to name it after a competitor.”
“Lucky Edna,” said Mrs. Parker, thinking of Miss Ferber, whose best-selling novel was the basis for the musical version of Show Boat. “This should undoubtedly make her a millionaire.”
“Let’s hope it makes us all millionaires,” said Ziegfeld.
Woollcott announced, “Miss Royce is reading Proust.”
“How?” inquired Mrs. Parker. Singer had a coughing fit, and Charlotte Royce stared at the sleek-haired man approaching the table with a big smile on his face.
“Why, hiya, Lacey, I thought I spotted you when I was dancing with Opal.” George Raft didn’t wait to be invited to join the table. He kidnapped a chair from an adjoining group and wedged himself between Van Weber and Mrs. Parker. Van Weber looked less than overjoyed and Mrs. Parker wondered who had dared manufacture the cologne the dancer was wearing. Raft didn’t seem interested in introductions. “Lacey and I are old buddies, ain’t we, old buddy?” He made a fist and then feinted an old-buddy jab at Van Weber’s arm. Van Weber was uncomfortable and did not offer Raft a drink. Raft seemed impervious to anything but himself.
Mrs. Parker wanted to hear more about the old buddies. “How long old buddies are you old buddies, old buddy?”
Mrs. Parker didn’t like Raft’s smile but managed to look agreeable while waiting for his answer. “I was at Lacey’s party a couple of weeks ago,” he said.
“It seems there was everybody at that party but the schola cantorum,” commented Woollcott.
“I guess they weren’t asked,” said Raft. Jacob Singer stifled a groan.
“Did you know Rudolph Valentino?” continued Mrs. Parker.
“Did I know Rudy Valentino?”
“That’s what I asked you.”
“Do you know how far back him and me go?”
“I give up. How far back?”
Raft roared with laughter while punishing the table with his fist. Near the orchestra, under an arch that led to the dressing rooms, Texas Guinan was keeping an eye on Raft, an angry expression on her face, both hands on her hips and her right foot tapping an ominous staccato beat. “I’m gonna tell you how far back Rudy and I go.”
“I’m all ears, Mr. Raft.” She was glad he was all mouth. “I met Rudy just after he got off the boat. He was a greenhorn. A dumb wop kid what couldn’t even speak our lingo. But, baby, could he dance.”
“You were his dancing partner?” Mrs. Parker took a gentle sip of champagne or whatever it was.
“Ha ha ha! Dancing partner, she asks!” Raft’s chair was tilted back, and the others were waiting for him to spill, but God was on his side. “Listen, lady, Rudy and I were dancing partners, all right, but not the way you think. We were paid to truck the old broads around at tea dances.”
“Oh, taxi dancers,” said Mrs. Parker.
“That’s it. The dames paid us to dance with them. And, baby, that’s one lingo Rudy could converse in. He’d shove his legs between their thighs and then jolly them around the floor crooning some wop love songs in their ears, and, baby, what tips they gave him. That’s how he became Joan Sawyer’s dancing partner.”
“And what became of you, Mr. Raft?” asked Woollcott.
Raft’s skin was thick enough to protect a fortress. “Here I am, kiddo, alive and kicking. Let me tell you, there was a lot of us kids taxi dancing back in the old days. Besides Rudy and me there was Denn—” And suddenly he caught himself.
“Yes?” Mrs. Parker’s eyes couldn’t leave Raft’s face. Van Weber suddenly found his voice. “Tell us, George, what’s this news you may be going to Hollywood?”
“I don’t know who’s spreading them rumours,” replied Raft jauntily. “But the Warners are gonna test me out at their Brooklyn studio next week. But you know, you can’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.”
“But you can count them while they’re laying eggs,” said Woollcott, his voice dripping icicles.
“I think you’re fascinating, Mr. Raft,” complimented Mrs. Parker, hoping a bolt of lightning wouldn’t strike her. “I mean, here you sit, an actor manqué, who knew Rudy Valentino, has danced with Opal Engri, is an intimate of Texas Guinan’s—or is that a secret?”
“Hell, no, Tex and I are good buddies.”
“Why, Mr. Raft, I just think you’ve got one hell of a future ahead of you.”
“Gee, thank you, lady, that’s real nice of you.” A waiter arrived and knelt beside Raft, saying something they couldn’t hear, but causing Raft’s mood to alter. “Guess I gotta get going. My master’s voice.” Surely he meant “mistress,” thought Mrs. Parker. Raft pushed his chair back and got up. “Well, it was nice meeting you all.” But he’s met no one, thought Mrs. Parker; he’s barely said a dozen words to Lacey Van Weber. She watched him strut away like a bantam cock.
“What an absolutely strange young man,” said Mrs. Parker. Then she turned to Van Weber. “Ostensibly he came to say hello to you and then proceeded to ignore you almost totally.”
“George is a pushy son of a bitch.” They’d almost forgotten Charlotte Royce had a voice.
“Then you know him well,” observed Woollcott. “Everybody knows him around town. He tried to get me to do a dance act with him a couple of months ago.”
“He didn’t even say hello to you!” Mrs. Parker seemed appalled. She wasn’t. She was tired and bored and frustrated. She knew there was something important about this night; there were clues to be heard between the lines and the innuendos. To be heard from Engri and Liveright and Van Weber and from Raft, especially from Raft who had been stopped in midname. Denn … Denn what? Denn who?
“Sure, he didn’t say hello. Why should he? There’s bigger fish for him to try and fry. There’s Flo here. He’s dying to get into a Follies.”
“He’s a very good dancer,” acknowledged Ziegfeld, “but I don’t like his reputation.”
“And what reputation is that?” inquired Woollcott, not having forgotten he’d been told Raft was an errand boy for the mob.
“His underworld associations.”
“Don’t you have underworld associations?” Woollcott spoke evenly and without embarrassment. Mrs. Parker thought he was being terribly brave and would tell him so at the first opportunity. She was liking him tonight. He was being a good sport. It was long past his bedtime but not long past his bitch time. She had a suspicion he was catching his second wind and didn’t even demur as Van Weber refilled his glass. She didn’t dare look at her wristwatch. She didn’t want to know what hour it was. She didn’t want to suffer Cinderella’s fate and go fleeing from the ballroom leaving behind a champagne glass. She wanted to stay up all night until Lacey Van Weber came to call for her at eleven A.M.; she wanted to be in her early twenties again, flirtatious and outrageous and romantic. The rasp in Ziegfeld’s voice shattered her mood.
“What do you mean, Mr. Woollcott?”
“What I mean is don’t you need the underworld’s financial support for your productions? We all know that’s where George White finds money for his Scandals and Earl Carroll procures his for his Vanities."
“That’s
where they got the dough for my show,” said Mrs. Parker from out of nowhere.
“And what show was that?” asked Ziegfeld, grateful for the temporary reprieve.
“What? You never heard of the show I wrote with Elmer Rice? Shame on you, Mr. Ziegfeld. It ran four weeks or so. Close Harmony. I wanted to call it Close Call. That was two years ago. A very depressing experience.”
“I’m investing in Mr. Ziegfeld’s productions.” All eyes were on Lacey Van Weber. “My money is in Showboat, Rio Rita and next year’s Follies. I think it’s going to be a banner year for all of us.”
“Do you have underworld connections, Mr. Van Weber?” Woollcott was cool, without a trace of champagne in his voice. He had lit a cigarette and was holding it with the devil-may-care flair of a man of the world.
“I have all sorts of connections, Mr. Woollcott. I know a great many people with links to the underworld. Who doesn’t? I invest in the stock market, and we all know what a shadowy enterprise that is. Look around you, Mr. Woollcott, and what do you see? You see a cross section of the wealthy, the near-wealthy, and the wish-to-hell they were wealthy. Everyone’s cheek by jowl here. The crooked and the legitimate and the illegitimate.” Good heavens, thought Mrs. Parker, when he articulates he really articulates. Jacob Singer sat with his arms folded, listening and absorbing. He was admiring Woollcott. “Does that answer your question?”
“Well, it’s a lot of words,” replied Woollcott.
“The Times ran their review of Close Harmony with the obituaries.” Mrs. Parker shook her head sadly while Woollcott glared daggers at the interruption.
Ziegfeld said to Charlotte Royce, “I think it’s time we left.”
“Oh, sure, Flo.”
“Miss Royce?”
“Yes, Miss Parker?”
“I’m supposed to call you at twelve noon tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m glad you reminded me.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to try you later in the day. Something’s come up.” She smiled at Van Weber, who smiled back. Oh, good, she thought, he still cares. “When will it be convenient later in the day?” She pronounced each word carefully, trying not to slur them.
“Any time around six or so. I always rest for an hour or so before I leave for the theatre.”
“That’s just dandy.”
Suddenly a roar went up from the crowd, and Mrs. Parker wondered if somewhere unseen by her Christians were being thrown to the lions. From the ceiling came a downpour of balloons and confetti.
“Wheel” yelled Charlotte Royce. Mrs. Parker was unsurprised that she was the “whee” type. The orchestra was blaring away, “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” Singer said something to Woollcott that made his entire being come close to bursting with pride. Mrs. Parker saw the look and would later describe it as something akin to a sixteen-year-old girl receiving her first kiss.
“By God, what chaos!” shouted Van Weber.
Mrs. Parker drew herself up regally and told him, Henry Brooks Adams wrote ‘chaos often breeds life.’”
“Who was Henry Brooks Adams?”
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport.”
At which moment, all hell broke loose. Police came Pouring into the speakeasy, some bearing arms, other wielding axes. “Oh, shit!” said Singer, not hearing Texas Guinan making the same statement because she was standing near the orchestra.
“What joy!” exclaimed Woollcott; “my first raid! Isn’t it glorious! Do you suppose it was like this at the decline and fall of the Roman Empire?”
Singer shouted to his group, “Follow me!” He grabbed Mrs. Parker by a wrist and pulled her toward the arch that led to the dressing rooms. Mrs. Parker wondered if there was a mouse on her left until she realized it was Miss Royce who was making squealing noises. Ziegfeld had grabbed the girl by both arms and was pushing her ahead of him. Mrs. Parker saw Horace Liveright straining under the weight of Opal Engri, who had apparently fainted or decided she wanted to be carried in somebody’s arms. Mrs. Parker doubted Liveright was man enough to survive the ordeal. One of the detectives in charge of the raid stood in the archway. He recognized Singer and wigwagged an index finger at him signifying “naughty naughty,” and Singer told him to do something to himself which is a physical impossibility.
Backstage, a policeman caught George Raft trying to hide himself in a foul-smelling bathroom. Raft offered him ten dollars to forget he was there. They settled on twenty. Lily Robson was struggling in the arms of a massive police matron. “Stop groping me, you fucking old lez,” shrieked Lily Robson.
“Wait here,” said Singer to Mrs. Parker as he hastened to run interference for Lily Robson.
Singer said something to the police matron, who said, “Says who?”
“Says me,” snapped Singer as he showed her his badge. The woman was slavering, and Singer thought of punching her, which would have meant a demotion to foot patrolman and an assignment to the wilds of Staten Island.
“Oh, gee whiz, pal, thanks!” cried Lily Robson as Singer now propelled her and Mrs. Parker through a back door.
“You certainly know your way around here!” cried Mrs. Parker with admiration.
“This place has been raided under a dozen different names,” Singer told her. “Here we go. Turn left.” The alley led them to West Fifty-seventh Street.”
“Oh, good,” announced Mrs. Parker, “I live just down the street. Who’s for a nightcap?”
Woollcott, out of breath, leaned against a storefront. Ziegfeld hurried Charlotte Royce into a taxicab and they sped away. Singer offered Lily Robson, who was half naked, the use of his jacket, but she settled for a loan of five dollars and a taxicab. Van Weber said to Singer and Woollcott, “I’ll see Mrs. Parker home.” Mrs. Parker happily accepted the arm he offered her, sending her goodnights over her shoulder at Woollcott and Singer and promising to be in touch with them late the next day. She next wondered if Mr. Van Weber was expecting her hospitality for the remainder of the night. If he was, then he was a winner.
Texas Guinan had eluded the raiders. She was at the desk in her office above the club that was reached by a secret staircase, shouting into the telephone at her sleepy lawyer viciously underlined instructions to get his fat ass downtown and spring her kids. Five minutes later she had the ear of a very sleepy police commissioner, telling him in language that would have made even a longshoreman blush that she expected a refund of all the under-the-table thousands she had paid him and his minions to keep her latest enterprise raid-free. He countered with numerous apologies and explanations, claiming total confusion at the foul-up and assuring her she could open again tomorrow night.
“The place is a wreck!” she screamed into the phone. “Your gorillas went at it with axes and crowbars!”
The commissioner assured her a police department work gang would arrive first thing in the morning.
“They’d better!” threatened Guinan as she slammed the receiver on the hook. She stalked down the stairs to assess the damage and in the backstage hallway saw George Raft sneaking out of the bathroom. “You miserable son of a bitch!” she shouted, hurling herself at him, pulling at his hair and scratching at his face.
“Lay off, Tex, lay off,” shouted Raft while attempting to save himself from serious damage.
“I told you to stay away from Lacey Van Weber! He can’t stand the sight of you!”
“That’s a load of shit! We’re old buddies!”
“You’re such old buddies that he warned me to keep you away from him!”
“Oh, yeah? Why’d he invite me to his party?”
“You crashed his party, you pushy Hungarian lounge lizard! You took Valentino and Mercury and crashed it because you knew with Valentino in tow you wouldn’t be stopped at the door! And then look what happened!”
“How’d I know Horathy would be there? Stop scratching me, you fucking whore, or I’ll bust your fucking jaw!” He now managed to grab her wrists, but it didn’t control her feet. Her volcanic rage would n
ot spend itself. She kicked his shins and tried to knee him in the groin.
“You miserable little hunkie greaseball, you’re finished around here, y’hear me? You’re finished!”
Sid Curley was pleading with his eyes. He couldn’t plead with his mouth because it was sealed tight with masking tape. His hands were bound tightly behind him, and his feet were damp. They were being held firmly in a bucket of setting cement by two gentlemen of dubious origins. One had a knife scar down his right cheek running from his ear to his mouth. From that mouth there hung a dead cigar. His grip on Sid Curley’s left leg was like an iron vice. The man holding Curley’s right leg was bald due to a metal plate in his head, a souvenir of the late war. He was missing part of his right ear, and although not yet thirty years old, he had a full set of ill-fitting false teeth. Sid Curley started to struggle again. He’d been struggling ever since the two goons had caught up with him at his boarding-house on Eleventh Avenue near Forty-third Street, convenient to Times Square and also, unhappily for Sid Curley, the Hudson River. A cloth dampened with ether had rendered Curley harmless in the hallway outside his room, and the goons were able to carry him out to their waiting sedan without incident. The proprietress of the boarding-house, a reformed pickpocket, was familiar with the sight of bodies being removed from the premises, alive or otherwise. She was rather sorry to see Curley go. She liked the little man. He kept his room tidy and himself never less than dapper. He paid his rent promptly every Friday morning and sometimes wrapped it around a freshly purchased American Beauty rose. But the lady had long ago recognized that sooner or later circumstances would overtake Curley and payment would be exacted. Curley knew this, too but, like other paid informants, always expected that he would be the one to survive.
When the ether-induced fog had cleared, Sid Curley’s mouth was taped, his hands tied behind him, his feet tied to the legs of the chair in which he was seated, while the two evil-looking nemeses mixed the cement in the tub conveniently supplied by the captain of the garbage scow that was now sailing toward midriver. When the texture of the cement satisfied the goon with the steel plate in his head, Curley’s feet were untied. He fought ferociously to keep his feet from being submerged in the deadly concoction, but to little avail. It only brought him a crack on the jaw that rendered him unconscious again, this time bringing him a rather sweet dream of his mother and sister seeing him off at the train station in Baronowitsch, a little shtetl on the Polish-Russian border.
