by Ted Heller
“You sick Jewboy,” Mary said to him. That's when people knew it wasn't a joke anymore, that it wasn't a routine. There were gasps from every table, from every Jewboy in the place, from ten years old to seventy. “You want to tell people what you were saying when you begged me to kiss you and you were jerking yourself off in my room? Why don't you tell everyone that!”
Well, the lights came down real fast. You can imagine.
Aunt Rosie never booked the Beaumonts after that.
• • •
GUY PUGLIA: After four weeks Vic was sounding just like Crosby, [Bob] Eberly, or Fritz Devane. Jesus, he looked funny in that stupid domino vest. Enright's “girl” had knitted it for him but then he lost all that weight. It was one of those pullover deals, straight out of a Henry Aldrich movie. And it was hanging on him like a collapsed parachute.
He'd started seeing Lulu [Louise Mangiapane] back home—but this was Vic and he could never get enough tail. So I don't think he was missing her too much.
MAEVE CLARITY: The Four Threes Trio was booked into the Lynn Palaestra on Cape Ann for four nights. They would be singing with the Noel Galen Orchestra. The Galen band was opening for the Floyd Lomax Orchestra—Connie Bishop and Dick Fain were their singers then.
Before that, however, Vic had asked me out on a date. I was still living with my father and my brothers Jimmy and Tom. I knew they wouldn't approve of Victor, but . . . well, he and I went to the movies and had dinner a few times and we took walks along the Charles.
Now, I wasn't “that kind of girl.” I'd never been out on a date before, never even held a boy's hand. I was very demure. Vic was charming, very funny, but I had to explain many things to him, such as about time zones, what a vice president was, and what kidneys were for. But he caught on quickly to everything.
He had such crazy dreams back then . . . he just used to talk and talk. It's funny to think about it now. We'd be walking along the river and he would tell me he was the next Fritz Devane, how he was going to eventually try out for the Dorsey band or Benny Goodman. Walking around with him, I'd get such looks from the other girls. He was so dark and big and handsome and here I was, this pale skinny Irish girl.
But I think I was letting him down. He once tried to hold my hand and I snatched it away. I was very scared. What if one of my brothers ran into us? A few nights later he tried it again, and again I wouldn't let him do it. So he said, “How's about this instead, Maeve?” and he took my hand and put it on his pants. “Is this any better?” he asked me.
Now I was eighteen and very shy and . . . well, I didn't know much. This was all very new to me. I didn't know anything about boys. So I said, “Yes, Vic, this is better.” Because my hand on his pants seemed a lot cleaner to me than it being in his hand.
“Oh!” he said. His face lit up. “So leave it there.”
HUGH BERRIDGE: The first show we did was seamless. Vern Hapgood had drilled us well. Backstage, however, Vic was a mess. Teddy Duncan said he'd seen Vic upchucking on a box of reeds belonging to a tenor sax man from the Floyd Lomax band.
Vic had promised us he'd dye his hair blond or light brown. But he didn't do it. Rowlie was very upset by that and so was I, frankly.
I remember that Jack Enright's secretary had accompanied us up to Lynn. Rowlie really had a case on her, really thought she was quite the dish. Backstage she'd seen how oversized the vest was on Vic and she quickly went about doing some tailoring.
“Let Me Call You Sweetheart” went off without a hitch. We were clicking. But Vic was—as some Mediterranean types are wont to do—he was sweating. The lights were hot, there was no air-conditioning. It was his first time performing. He was sweating profusely.
Oh no! I remember thinking. The lyrics!
By the third song—I believe it was “The Song Is You”—the lyrics were gone. Vic would lift his arm and occasionally snap his fingers just to sneak a look at his sleeves. But by now each of his sleeves had become one long red blotch.
GUY PUGLIA: I'm backstage and this bald guy who plays trombone for the Lomax band is saying, “Hey, someone call a doctor! That guy's arms are bleeding all over!”
[The] girls, though, they ate him up. They wanted to mother him, that's what it was . . . they just wanted to drag him home or into a bush some-wheres and adopt him.
“Are his eyes turquoise?” I heard a girl ask another girl. And the second girl said to her, “Eyes? Who's looking at his eyes?”
• • •
ED SMITH: I was the assistant manager of Herbie's Duplex [a nightclub in Camden, New Jersey] right before the war. Herbie was Herb Shipman, who'd been in the record business in New York in the late twenties . . . but the real owners of the joint were the Pompiere crime family. We lined up some good acts but the bigger names in the area would play New York, Philly, Atlantic City, places like the 500 Club, the Hacienda, or the Mosque. We'd book a band or two and some comics. George Simms played the place a few times, Mackie Brine too. And Lenny Pearl. The food? Well, let's just say I always made sure to eat at home before coming to work.
The Blissmans had played the Duplex maybe a year before and had died, just died. But you felt sorry for them—they'd tried hard.
Now, the second time we booked the Blissmans it was to open for the Jorge Estrada Orchestra. There was the whole hot Latin scene going on then; you know, Ray Lopez, Cesar Romero, Carmen Morais, Jose Iturbi—they were coming out of the woodwork. But Jorge Estrada was as Spanish as a bialy—his real name was Joey Eisenberg. He dyed his hair black and he used some lotion on his skin to give it a darker tone.
We got this publicity picture in a few days before the Blissmans came. That was the first time I'd ever seen Ziggy Bliss, I guess. I thought, This kid is human? His head was like a scouring pad, like Brillo after cleaning up a big mess of catsup. I showed the photo to Herb and he took a look at it and he just grunted.
I remember, it was Jimmy Canty, he was the road manager for the Jorge Estrada Orchestra. We're going over some business stuff maybe four hours before the first show. And Ziggy Bliss walked in.
Jimmy Canty said to me, “What the hell, Herb's letting baby rhinos into the joint now?”
Ziggy comes over, introduces himself. He told me he wanted the first pick of dressing rooms and Jimmy laughed out loud. I told Ziggy there were only two dressing rooms: “The band gets the bigger one and you and your family get the smaller one, behind the kitchen.” Jimmy made a crack, like that'll be enough room 'cause the opening act was a midget act. Ziggy said, “They ain't midgets. They just act like they are.”
I say to him, “You're getting the smaller room. Case closed, kid.”
Ziggy—this is something I'll take to my grave—looked at Jimmy Canty and said, “You better tell Señor Joey Eisenberg that he better play real, real good esta noche. 'Cause we're gonna wipe him off the stage otherwise. Ta, gentlemen.”
“Well, that just beats anything I ever stuck my finger in, Eddie,” Jimmy said.
Five nights later, we'd reversed the billing. The Estrada band was opening up for Ziggy Bliss and his parents. And you know what? It was Jimmy Canty whose idea it was. 'Cause there wasn't one of the guys in that band who wanted to come on after the Blissmans had torn up the crowd.
And they got the bigger dressing room too.
• • •
HUGH BERRIDGE: By the fourth show at the Lynn Palaestra I really felt that we'd become a trio again. Vic calmed down, he was rolling with us . . . there was a sense of unity in the vocalizations. He'd still perspire—but not as much—and it wasn't until the fifth song of the set that the lyrics became indecipherable.
MAEVE CLARITY: Victor was staying at a small hotel in a town just north of Lynn. Beverly, it was. And I stayed with my father and brothers in South Boston, but each night I came up by train to watch Vic perform. My father was not too pleased with that but Mr. Enright had promised him that it was work-related and that no harm would befall me.
“I'm nervous, baby,” Vic would say to me about an hour
before he went on. Nobody had ever called me baby before. Or since. It was thrilling.
“There's no reason to be nervous, Victor,” I would assure him.
“Make me not nervous, puddin',” he would say. “Come on. Calm me down.”
I always felt myself blush when he said that . . . I would get all red and prickly.
Mr. Enright and his partner, Mr. Flynn, had sent me up to Lynn every night to ensure the success of the Four Threes trio. As I wanted to do my job and perform all duties required of me—this was the Depression, you must remember, and times were tough for everyone—and as I wanted to satisfy everyone, I did as I was told, and Victor was no longer nervous.
TONY FERRO: The last night he was performing, I drove a bunch of us up there—me, Cathy, Lulu, and Ray—in my old Ford. We were all excited. By then Lulu had a very serious thing for Vic. She had made enough manicotti for an army and was bringing it up for him.
So we pull into Vic's hotel and we're a little early. We climb up the stairs and we open the door to the hallway, right? And from the end of the hallway I heard something. I think I thought someone was moving furniture around. Lulu said, “Some place they got Vic at, huh?”
By now it's clear that it wasn't furniture being moved around. And it was coming from Vic's room.
The door's already open just, like, a slit. I didn't know what to do. I had no idea what it was, right? Then I think it was either Ray or Lu nudged the door open.
The first thing I seen was a naked broad on a bed. This broad was whiter than white by two shades. Like a piece of chalk. And then in the other corner of the room was Vic and Guy, both with just their boxer shorts and socks on. And the two of 'em was kicking some guy in the ribs . . . this blond guy was on the floor and they was kicking him.
The next thing I heard, Lulu had dropped the big vat of manicotti.
Guy came over to the door and says to me, he whispers, “What the fuck you doin' here, Tony?”
I says, “What the fuck are you doing?”
Guy says, “It's business . . . something in the group, the trio.” He told me I wouldn't understand and then he closed the door.
LULU FOUNTAIN [Vic Fountain's first wife]: Wanna know what I think? I think that Guy and Vic were banging the girl. Is that what the world wants to know? One of the other guys in that trio was seeing her, dating her. He heard them banging her and then tried to play hero. He didn't know she was begging for it from Vic and that Guy was part of the deal. So he tries playing Jack Armstrong and Guy beats the daylights out of him while Vic watches. Happy now?
HUGH BERRIDGE: On the final night at the Lynn Palaestra, there was a most unfortunate mishap. Rowlie—or so he told us—had been playing shuffleboard in Marblehead with some fellow Cantab alums when a boom from a yacht caught a frightful gust of wind and swung toward him. It sounded dreadful, the way he described it to me. Five broken ribs. He was quite shaken.
Suddenly the Four Threes had become the Three Threes again. Now it was just Teddy Duncan, Victor Fontana, and myself.
• • •
SALLY KLEIN: Before the Blissman act left the Lodge, Rosie had a talk with Harry. She and Harry agreed that, with Ziggy now in the act, they might want to consider changing management. Jerome Milton was handling them. He was a real old-timer and was big on long-term deals, contracts for ten years or longer, so Harry told Rosie that getting out of the deal wasn't going to be that easy. But Rosie Baer was a smart cookie.
She called Jerry Milton up and they shot the breeze for ten minutes. And she says, “Miltie, I got some news for you. And I don't know how you're gonna take this. Harry and Flo aren't too happy with the deal.” So there's no noise on the phone for a half a minute and Rosie says, “Are you still there?” And Jerry says, “Yeah, still here. They're not happy? Gee, that's too bad.” And Rosie tells him—never mentioning Ziggy—that no, they weren't at all happy and they wanted out. And I think she's envisioning lawyers and fees and contracts and all that tsuris when she hears paper being ripped up on the other end.
“Okay, Rosie,” Jerome Milton says, “they're out of the deal.”
So now Rosie was handling the act. She called up the Bursley-Bates publicity outfit in New York and got some tips from someone there. She gave me $400—the most money I'd ever seen up to then—and told me to travel around with Ziggy, Harry, and Flo, make sure everything was always on the level. “Some of these places,” she said, “some of these people . . .” She knew the whole nightclub scene.
She told me to watch out for Ziggy, to keep him out of trouble. Apparently something had happened with Mary Beaumont at the Lodge, but nobody ever told me anything.
I was worried. I think Harry was too. Let's face it: it was wall-to-wall Jew at the Lodge. But now they had to play to goyim. I was thinking, If they get so much as a titter out there in shaygetzland, it's an act of God.
It didn't take me long to see that there was nothing to worry about. They played Herbie's Duplex in Jersey and the only word that comes to mind is “electric.”
ED SMITH: I was closing up [Herbie's Duplex] and it was dark—all the chairs were up on the tables—and I was counting the take. Out of the bathroom comes Jimmy Canty. It was customary for a band's road manager to be the last guy out of the joint. He pours himself a shot of something and I probably had a drink too. It's maybe two or three in the morning now.
I offered to drop him at the Statler, where the band was staying. I locked up the place and we're about to pile into my car when Jimmy gets sprayed all over with something. Seltzer it was, coming from one of those old bottles with the nozzle. We looked up 'cause we could tell it was coming from the roof. But we didn't see anybody.
We get into my car and we drive a block and I smell something. And Jimmy smells it too.
There was urine in that bottle. It was piss mixed up with the seltzer.
Jimmy didn't ever figure out who it was. He didn't put two and two together.
I did but I kept my mouth shut. Until now.
• • •
HUGH BERRIDGE: “I guess the trio's down to three, huh, guys?” Vic said in the rehearsal studio. He was drinking coffee and smoking a Chesterfield.
The weekend after the Lynn shows we had our first radio appearance. It was The Cecil Newcombe Newcomer E-Z Oil Hour. Nobody remembers Newcombe nowadays; he was one of those amateur-hour hosts such as Major Bowes or, later on television, Ted Mack. Several noteworthy performers got their start with Cecil Newcombe, whose show was sponsored by a lubricating company, E-Z Oil. Jerry Talbot, the comic, and Peggy Clements, “the Twangy Torch from Tyler, Texas,” were Newcombe Newcomers, and so was Sasha Deckel, the violinist.
Vern worked us particularly hard that week. He told us that a live show, such as the one we'd performed in Lynn, though it was important, was ultimately ephemeral, but that a radio show was something for posterity. I remember Vic asking me what “ephemeral” and “posterity” meant.
GUY PUGLIA: Happynuts—that's what we called the arranger—was really giving Vic the business. Yellin', screamin', stompin' his foot down. See, on account of that, uh, “shuffleboard” accident I did, they was down to three singers and had to kind of readapt their sound.
I remember Vic saying to Vern Happynuts, “So, uh, why aren't I featured more?” He just out-and-out asked. Well, you could tell this went over like a belch at a funeral. They just looked at each other and didn't say nothing.
So I piped in. I says, “Yeah. Why not?”
Happynuts said that this was something that'd have to be okayed with Mr. Enright—and then he tried to pull a fast one on Vic. Quickly he says something like, “Okay, from the top, one-two-three.” But I was wise to it . . . I says, “Whoa! Hold your horsies, pal. If this is something that's gotta be okayed with Enright, then why don't we okay it with Enright? Like, right now.”
I picked up the phone and Happynuts—he's maybe five foot four, about two inches taller than me—he walks over to me and I dialed the phone number for him, just in case he tried to
pull another fast one on me.
I was looking out for Vic . . . that's what I always did.
MAEVE CLARITY: I picked up the phone in the office. Mr. Enright and Mr. Flynn were out at that moment celebrating the fact that the windowpane in the door had been repaired.
It was Mr. Hapgood on the other end.
He said that it had dawned on him and on the trio too that, what with Rowland Toomey having quit the group so abruptly, why not feature Victor more prominently? And it made perfect sense. Furthermore, as Victor had been perspiring less, his command of the material was becoming more mature. At one point in the conversation it seemed that somebody was telling him something and that perhaps Mr. Hapgood had stubbed his toe violently.
Well, I did something that to this day I'm not particularly fond of, seeing-as I was brought up by my father and by the nuns at school to never lie.
I told Vern Hapgood to wait. And I kept him waiting for about two minutes. I filed my nails and counted to sixty. And then—oh, I still get embarrassed thinking about it—I got back on and told him that Jack Enright had thought it “a brilliant idea.”
When I did that I felt so—I don't know. I got a squishy feeling all over.
GUY PUGLIA: We rigged it up with the Irish broad in the office. The whole thing. And if she didn't go for it—and believe me, she went for it—then Enright would've gone for it. I would have seen to that.
ARNIE LATCHKEY: If you couldn't make it as an amateur on the Major Bowes show, then there was the next level down; that was The Owen Atkins Spotlight, brought to you by some Martinizing outfit. Now if you were so lousy that you couldn't do Owen Atkins, the next rung down the ladder was doing a show in your living room with two Dixie cups and a string. And below that —twenty rungs down this ladder—was Cecil Newcombe's Newcomers. The man once had three Portuguese jugglers go on and do a four-minute bit and this was on the radio! All you heard were bowling pins dropping.
