SMILEY’S DICE ON THE JAMMERS

 

 

 

PIPER JO AT ROCERS

 

 Free your

 

 

mind and the rest will follow; the words from EnVogue’s latest release played all day on the radio. Every time I got in the car to hunt up listings, I heard that song.       

PIPER JO AT ROCKERS

  

  I worked in an industrial building along an industrial highway in San Diego. I shared a warehouse with twelve men, eleven of them tall, weight trained football on Sunday guys, who ate at expensive restaurants amongst a club of commercial real estate agents. They were pretty decent guys, except the partners who each had a severe case of ego malnutrition and competed for attention like two tottlers. Greg was the only short one in the bunch, and he wore a rug, manicured his nails, and surfed on the weekends. He was always talking about his Karate black belt, and how he knocked guys out. He rarely laughed and when he did he sounded like a chirping bird. Greg used to give me his wife’s unworn clothes and waited in my living room while I tried them on. It was sort of strange, but he never played the trump card and asked for anything in return.

One day in the summer of 1992 I called the office secretary.

“Gail, I’m not coming in for awhile. Will you forward my calls to my home?”

     “Are you all-right?”

     “Oh yea. I’m fine.”

“What should I tell them?”

“Tell them I’m on leave of absence.”

I lived in a little cottage house in North Park. It was all white with a picket fence and a squared grass yard where my dog played. The front room was small but the carpeting was new, so I could curl up on the rug and watch the clouds from the windows.

  

I threw my nylons and navy pumps in the garbage, and folded the business suits into boxes. I knew I wasn’t going back, but where I was headed was a throw of the dice. Mornings I ran through Balboa Park before the crowds arrived, and got to see the zoo keepers feeding the animals, and the actors going into The Old Globe Theater. I filled my senses with virgin light and morning silence; unfamiliar sensations to office workers living with florescent lighting and partition walls.  In the afternoon I lounged around in sweats watching music videos, reading magazines and dancing. A few days later, I watched some new music videos, maybe EnVogue or Bobby Brown, and tried to imitate the hip-hop moves on the carpet. It was like watching a cat in the snow. I called all the dance schools, and no one was teaching hip-hop. I didn’t know back then my mother was dancer; so this impulsive and implausible scheme to start a dance troupe startled me as much as everyone I told.

  

The last lease deal I closed was for a group of soccer players from Jamaica. They needed a space to open a reggae dance club. I found a disheveled warehouse and struck a deal for them. They fixed up the place themselves; with colored lights, and some tables, but Rockers was really about the dancing. I walked into the club one night, and they were all doing their part; greeting customers, spinning vinyl, and serving drinks. I danced with Leroy, the leader of the group, and watched him unfold from the waist down. He danced so low to the floor, he appeared boneless.        

 “Leroy, I’m going to start a dance troupe. You guys inspired me.”

     “What kind of dance?’

     “Hip-Hop and jazz funk.”

Leroy covered his mouth with one hand and laughed.

     “What’s so funny?”

     “You’re a business woman; I didn’t know you was a dancer.”

     “Well, I took lessons a long time ago.”

     “Hip Hop?”

     “No, Jazz. I’m going to find the dancers to teach. I know they’re out there.”

     “Yea, they out there all right; lots of them.”

     “We’ll see! I’d like to use your space, pay rent of course, when you’re not open.” 

     “Well that’s all right. You don’t need to pay me.”

     I hugged him, and he shook his head. “I don’t think there’s much money in teaching hip-hop.”   

  

 At the community college I posted a sign for dancers, and observed some classes.   When I got the call from Piper, he asked me to come see him teach at the Church. I drove over  and found Piper in a little room upstairs, teaching Jazz-funk to one woman. He was tall and lanky with a smile that creased his whole jaw. He came over, shook my hand, and said, ‘How you doing?  I’m Piper.’ He wore an immaculate shield of confidence that defied his nineteen years. He moved at the intersection of Michael Jackson and James Brown. The groove spiraled through his body.

Piper Jo at Rockers.

  

“I’ll help you get it started; if you’re not a trained dancer you need help.” So Piper and I met every week and finally landed on a group that incorporated Jazz-funk, Hip-hop and Afro-Cuban. I named it United Steps Dance Productions, and the Jammers.

  

I’ll never forget the look on the partner’s faces when I told them I was starting a multicultural dance troupe. They just stared at me blankly.  Then within weeks all five of my unclosed lease deals were signed at the same time.  I walked out with enough money to live three months. That was real security in my mind. 

  

Piper and I held our first audition at Rockers.  When I opened the doors that morning, dancers were already lined up outside. They came dressed in street clothes;  wearing scarves, baseball caps, loose pants, and tank tops.  I watched them leap, kick, split, and turn inside out for the job. I knew that I was in the right spot. One dancer walked out, stood still for a moment, and then leaped into a break-dance pop-lock routine that silenced the crowd.

     “Him Piper, definitely him.” 

     ”He’s bad, yea he’s real bad.”  At the end of the auditions, Piper mocked me.  

“Lue, we can’t sign every dancer just cause they hip-hop. Anyone can do that.”

I can’t hip hop and it’s my company.”

“Yea, and you’re crazy. I swear, Lue you’re crazy.”

We agreed on pop-locker Vince-MasterJam, and Monique, a young Afro-Cuban dancer. That was the beginning. 

 

When Vince and I met, he told me he lived in Escondido.

“But that’s an hour away.”

“It’s cool, I’ll be here. Just give me the chance.”

Vince showed up twice a week at night for his class. Many times, we sat in the cold damp club, listening to music and Vince tried to teach me to pop-lock. I apologized for not having students and he looked at me, and said, “ Don’t worry Lue, will get it going on.”

  

 Our first performance was at the Red Lion Hotel. I hired a video tech to record the performance. We got a free dinner and a hundred dollars. We had a good crowd, and everyone loved them.  Afterwards in the dining room, they were talking, laughing and elbowing each other. Piper was ranting about Monique taking too much time, and Vince was telling Piper to chill because she was so talented. I sat there just listening, with a big smile on my face.

  

 The Jammers belonged to the no smoking, no drinking, no drugs group.  For the first few months, they taught on tiled floors under a leaky roof, without any heat.  But they kept coming back to teach and their dedication moved me to find a better location.  We relocated to a well-heeled Health Club downtown San Diego and the classes filled up with students, dancers, and office workers searching for a new lunch.  They came from all different races and ages. I danced with the classes and promoted our troupe. The Jammers laughed at my attempt to be a soul sister, and I laughed with them.  We were reviewed by KPBS magazine, and a photographer took pictures of us and featured us in the magazine.

  

Searching for gigs proved to be an exasperating struggle. I called department stores, festival producers, shopping centers, nightclubs, hotels and everyone had the same line, “I don’t think hip-hop is right for our clientele.”

  

When I ran out of money I took a job managing a condominium project, where I lived rent free. After a time of observing the Jammers self expression, I asked myself, what is mine?  I still refused to get on stage.  Vince used to bawl me out because I made Piper introduce the group.

 

After two years Piper moved to Los Angeles to launch his dancing career, and I let Vince take the troupe where he wanted it to go. He turned it around, adding twelve dancers and broke more ground in San Diego. Monique developed into a serious stage actress and  we all lost touch. They were the sparklers in my life; like that star you think you’ll never hold.  I left the Jammers a different woman. They put the rhythm back in my spirit and soul.  

  

 When I recently located Vincent on an Actors website, I called him right away. He is a missing link in the chain of my life. Without that adventure, I might still be imitating the kind of business woman I wasn’t. We met in Los Angeles, and watched Vince perform in a club. He kept his vision and now acts on television and video. “ Lue, now you have to find Piper.”     

It was Piper, who said to me one day after reading some of my poetry, “ Lue, you’re not a dancer. You’re a writer.”  

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

JAMMERS PART TWO

ME AND MASTER JAM, AND RUDY IN LA

 San Diego was still into rage and rock and roll. The people I was calling for gigs didn’t know Hip-Hop yet.   That was too bad, because we were  having the greatest experience of our  life.  When I ran out of money I took a job managing a condominium project, where I lived rent free and had weekends and evenings for Jammers.  After a time of observing their self expression, I asked myself, where is mine?  I still refused to get on stage, Vince used to bawl me out because I made Piper introduce the group. We were good for each other, the three of us. After two years Piper moved to Los Angeles to launch his career, he had showmanship in the way he held his hands.  Vince took over the troupe and added twelve more dancers.  These two young men, they were the sparklers in my life, like that star you think you’ll never hold.  When I left the Jammers I was a different woman. They put the rhythm back in my spirit, and faith into my soul. I mean there are things a business career will never offer, you have to go into the arts for this kind of stuff.

THE JAMMERS LAUNCH

Free your mind and the rest will follow, the words from EnVogue’s latest release became a sort of mantra.

 It was a decision that came at a moment when everything else stopped making sense, except my happiness.  I tossed out the two-piece suits, and turned off the world outside. Insulated in my tiny North Park bungalow, I merged into  music and dance. During the hottest of summer days I was seated cross legged on the worn carpeting  watching MTV and flipping through magazines. 

       Imploded with music videos, magazines, and dancing;   Hip-Hop was the most exhilarating choreography around.  I watched the music videos over and over. When I searched the yellow pages for dance classes; no one was offering Hip-Hop.  With that, I thought why can’t I be the founder of a dance troupe?  

  I needed to find the  dancers to suit my concept of integrating  jazz funk, hip-hop, and Afro-Cuban  into a collage workshop.   

      Piper Jo was the first dancer to join. He came at me with everything he had; talent, faith, intelligence, and belief in this crazy white chick who wanted to hip-hop.  Piper played Miles Davis, emulated jazz-funk, and moved like Michael Jackson.  He was twenty years old and this was his first teaching job. When I asked him who taught him to dance he answered;

“Michael Jackson and James Brown. I danced in my living room every day. My mother couldn’t get me out of the house. God blessed me with this gift, and I want to share it. So if you put me in your dance troupe I guarantee, you won’t be sorry. NO, you won’t.”  

 At our first audition Piper said,  “How you expect to pick dancers, if you don’t know what to look for.  I swear Lue, you are crazy.  But don’t worry,  I’ll show you. And don’t be picking every guy out there cause he can Hip-Hop, there’s nothing to that. We want dancers with classical training.”  He was right.

“Vince Master Jam”  was a former break-dancer and studied classical dance. Vince was the coolest; he sat back and waited for his chance, unhurried, relaxed, but when the music came on, he flipped everyone out. He was thirty. Both of them belonged to the no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, group

At that first audition  I wanted to select half of the thirty some dancers that showed up.  They came dressed in street clothes, wearing scarves and bandannas.  I watched them leap, kick, split and turn inside out for the job.  I knew that I was in the right spot. Then we added Monique, a startling beauty with Afro-Cuban dance training, and a perpetual attitude of carefreeness. 

For the first few months, the Jammers taught classes under a leaky roof, on a tiled floor, without any heat.  Piper rode a bus from the other side of town to get to the building.  Vince drove an hour each way to teach one class at night. The first few months no one showed up for Vince’s Hip-Hop class.  But he kept coming back every week.  When I apologized, he said, “ That’s okay Lue. We get it going on,  they’ll show up soon– I’m sure.” 

They did show up and we moved into a well positioned Health Club downtown San Diego. The classes filled up with students, dancers, and working women looking for a new challenge. They came from all different races;  Asian, White, Hispanic and Black.  I danced with the classes and promoted our troupe. They laughed at my attempt to be a soul sister, and I laughed with them.  We were reviewed by KPBS magazine, and a photographer took photographs of us and featured the Jammers  in the magazine. People began to think I knew what I was doing. The Jammers thought I could take them places.  I pictured them on the front page of Variety, the problem was I was too early. 

UNCLE MYRON & THE JEWS OF JERSEY

The throw of the dice this week lands on Part Two; Uncle Myron of New Jersey.

“Will you look at this weather? Two weeks of it all ready,” Myron griped.  Then his phone rang again. He doesn’t have time to build on his gripes and complaints. They get momentary attention. 

I shook my head in agreement, but I loved the way rain coated the old brick buildings and sidewalks of Jersey. It was the sort of day that rain and driving alongside Myron while he talked on the phone seemed staged.

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

“Yes. I’m close to starving.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

He didn’t wait for me to answer; he just drove faster. We parked in a lot and walked up to an older building, without windows. A valet greeted us, took Myron’s keys, and they exchanged familiar conversation.

“Sweetheart, this is the real thing, traditional Italian. You like Italian right?”

“Oh yes, I grew up on Italian food.

“Sure you did. Our father’s loved Italian food.”        

The room was sealed like a bank, or casino. Once you stepped inside you forgot what was outside.  A traditional Italian restaurant with built-in booths on one side of the room, a few center tables, white tablecloths, chandeliers and worn paisley carpeting.  There were no windows, skylights, or doors.   It’s a place you where you cannot hide or escape.

 The owner was dressed in a dark blue suit and he had a big bald head and sad eyes. He barely acknowledged me before he bent down to whisper something to Myron.  Then he took the order, “Madam, what would you like.” Afterwards Myron whispered to me, “He wanted a tip on which machines to play. What a shame, he’s got this beautiful restaurant, and he gambles all his money.”

“Dad gambled away everything too.”

“That’s the tragedy of it; you never end up a winner.”   

“I heard Dad was a great handicapper, he lived off his winnings at the race tracks, until they kicked him out. He played poker, and bet on all the major sports games, but he wasn’t a roulette sort of gambler.”

“Of course not; that’s for the suckers.”   

My cell phone rang, and recognizing the number as my agent I answered. A few moments later, I clicked off.

“What is it?” Myron asked.

“Frank had to cancel the meeting; his son has trouble at school.” Myron didn’t flinch, he just stared at me.

“What! You flew 1000 miles to meet this guy and he cancels. Call him back and tell him you must see him.”

I did as instructed, and told Frank’s assistant I had Uncle Myron with me. She said she’d give Frank the message.

“He left for the day?” I said to Myron.    

“Listen sweetheart, I heard the way you talked on the phone. You’re not handling this with what you got to show. Now you tell him, ‘break my heart Frank, tell me the truth. Are we going to make money on this book or not?”

“Yes; you’re right of course. But he has a lot of clients, and he works alone.”

“What are you talking about? You got a story!  Whatta’ya say we take a drive over to his office?”   

“But he’s not there.”

Myron shrugged his shoulders, “Well, maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t. We’ll say we were in the neighborhood.” 

“Really?”

“Why not? Are you ready? Let’s go.” Men like Myron, they do not let time just pass. They don’t let an opportunity, a conflict, a fight, or an injustice just pass by. Whether it be for their own gain, or someone they care about. They don’t leave unfinished business at the lunch table, and let it get swept off with paying the bill. These guys, the real ones, never leave anything to second guessing; unless they’re blind folded or handcuffed.

By the time Myron finished schooling me on what to say, my cell phone rang. ” Frank will be able to make the appointment.”

Myron nodded. ” There you go.”  

When we shot out of the Holland Tunnel I lost all sense of direction. The next thing I knew we were parked in front of a building and two men approached the car.

“What a mug. I thought she’d be pretty like her mother; she looked good on the internet. What a dog face. Take a look.” Myron jibed.

The man leaned over and stuck his head in the window. He laughed and his whole face melted into a half-moon smile.

“Get in Callahan.  Paul, you sit in front. Sweetheart get in the back seat with me. These are two misfits; can’t find their way around a grocery store. Runyon characters. Paul, turn around and say hello you imbecile.”

Paul’s eyes were watery blue and his face flushed, but he was on the side of compassion. You could see all of it in his expression and how he began each sentence with defeat. Callahan was a gambler; ruddy faced, tired, and a pocket full of stories that he rattled off like he had prompt cards on the dash board. We laughed all the way to Frank’s.

“Okay boys, wait here.” 

We went up the elevator and Myron was silent. He was thinking about what he was going to say.

We spent over an hour sitting with Frank and talking about old time gangsters, and who’s still alive and who is doing time. Frank knew them all; or had published their books. It was a relaxed meeting and when it was my turn, I repeated almost exactly what Myron had said. Instead of saying, ‘are we going to make money, I said, are you going to make money. Frank answered, “You’ll make money too.”

Back in the elevator Myron remarked, “He’s a nice guy, I really liked him.” 

“Yes, he’s very likable isn’t he? By the way, Arthur Nash lives close by. He’s the man who has the mob museum collection. He’d love to meet you. He’s waiting for me to call.”

“So, let’s go meet him. Where’s he located?”

“At the Chelsea Hotel.” 

Paul and Callahan were anxiously pacing the sidewalk when we arrived.

“Okay boys, we’re going to the Chelsea.”

“What’s there?” Paul asked. 

“A mob museum. What the hell–I love photographs of the old guys.” To be continued…

Any dice to throw email: folliesls@aol.com

THE DICE on UNCLE MYRON

The throw of the dice the week lands on adventures in Newark and Manhattan with Uncle Myron. Myron is my Uncle by way of tradition in the world of my father. Most of his associates and friends were Uncles. It was after the New York Post published my story on ”Confessions of a Mob Kid”, that Myron wrote to me.    

Our first meeting.

“Hello sweetheart. I’ll meet you downstairs in your hotel at 10:00.”

“Can we make it 10:30, I’m running late.”

“Sure.”

A thick steamy humid rain splattered against the hotel window in Newark, New Jersey. Coming to Jersey has everything to do with Myron and my mother. She was born and raised here, and so was Uncle Myron; the man I am meeting downstairs as soon as I dry my hair. His father, Sugie, was a friend of the family. Not the Smiley family, the other family that I only acknowledged after writing a memoir.  

The phone rang at 10:00 am.

“Hi sweetheart I’m downstairs.”

“I’m getting ready as fast as I can.”

“Well make it faster.” Click.

I had a feeling that he’d be early. Dad pulled the same stunt on me.

Downstairs in the lobby, an imposing man wearing a black fedora and a black over coat, was standing in front of two younger men. They looked like blue collar guys; dressed to make contact with machinery or heavy equipment. They all turned my way as I approached them.

“Hey, little lady! Come on-we’ll have a cup of coffee. I have to talk to the boys for a few minutes.”

“Boys, this is Luellen. Okay, everyone sit down.”

“You know who this lady is?” Myron asked. They both stared at me.

“Her father was Benny Siegel’s partner, and a friend of my father.”

They nodded.

“Luellen, these boys are from Russia. They’re good people–the best, and highly educated.  Where was your Dad born sweetheart?”

“Kiev.” I answered.

Simultaneously the two young men, started to speak about our Russian family name, Smehoff, and the meaning in Russian.

“It translates something like joy, and to be happy.”

“That’s why the immigration officers changed it to Smiley.” I said.

The boys, as Myron called them, talked history, politics and world affairs before I’d finished my double espresso.

“Is the Russian Mafia very powerful?” I asked.

“There is no Russian Mafia. The power is with the government, and it’s hidden agencies.” One of them answered. I regretted making such a stupid comment.  

“All right, now we’re going to go over here and talk a little business.”  Myron stood up. He looked down at me, ” Okay.”

They shook my hand and nodded, without any affectation, and followed Myron to the next table. I’d been here before, many times, I knew the routine, sit and wait. 

After the meeting, Myron and I went to the car. 

“I was in prison with the kid, the fair haired one. He just got another sentence. I’m trying to help him; I have to do what I can. He’s got a wife and child.”

I listened to Myron; every word. His language was not formed in college or through books. It is one of people who’ve survived the dangers of living outside the law;of living in Africa, when Chicago sent him to be the manager of a joint venture slot machine operation with the Arabs, Israel, and every Latin American country from South of the Rio Grande to Patagonia. He moved machines through un-chartered borders, and learned the language of the people. It gives a person the sophistication that enables them to stand up in the hall of justice, where judges and informants cat-walk their power, to the chagrin of men who live by their word, honor, and secrecy. Myron is raw as beef; there is no fat between the lines. He says something; you know it came from experience.     

“What did the kid do?” I asked.

“It’s all bullshit.” 

I’d heard that before too; and I knew it wasn’t any of my business.

“Would you like to see where your mother grew up?”

“Yes!” 

“What street was it—Schley?”

“Yes, 35 Schley.” How did he know the street? I don’t remember telling Myron or writing about  Myron drove slowly, it had been years since he’d been in this part of town. 

“I’m not sure if this street will go through. They didn’t have a freeway going through this part of town in the thirties. Wait a minute-if I go up here, and turn around,” Myron drove with one hand, without a seatbelt, wired into the blackberry ringing at ten minute intervals.  He grew up in Newark, so he was determined to find his way back to Schley Street. We circled for a few minutes. He made U-turns in the middle of intersections, and paid no heed to other drivers. I recognized that routine, Dad used to drive with two fingers and read his mail simultaneously.    

“This was all Jewish at one time. Look! There’s the park where your mother played as a little girl. I can guarantee it.” 

The park was set in the midst of a deteriorating neighborhood; the Victorian homes were boarded up or used for storage. The park was the last remaining landmark of the turn of the century Newark culture; a society that pushed buggies on a Sunday afternoon, dressed in top hats and lace dresses.

“There’s the famous Tavern. It was one of the most famous restaurants back then. Your mother went there, and across the street is the high school. This is Wweequahic neighborhood. Newark was a flashy town back then, better than New York because you knew everyone. I knew every family and if I didn’t, someone I knew did. We looked out for each other.”

“Like Longy did.”  I knew Myron’s father was partners with the legendary Jewish boss of New Jersey, Abner Zwillman, who was known as Longy.  

“Longy is another story all together little lady. You cannot grasp what the man was about on a short drive through Newark.” 

“Look there’s the house.” Myron pointed. “It’s a two-family, your mother lived in a very nice place, see. Now you know. Are you happy?”

Myron picked up the phone. “Yea, meet us in the city-I’ll tell you later what time.”  I looked at the house; imagining Nana, and the grandfather I never met inside, and my little mom standing in the front yard with her German Sheppard.  I have a photo of her standing in front of this house. She is holding a parasol over her head, and even at five she looked ready to model.  To be continued… Any dice to throw email: folliesls@aol.com

MOON OVER A BRICK HOUSE

The throw of the dice falls this week falls on a full paper white  moon shimmering  behind a few sketchy clouds. A few million miles away, a wedding party is thumping to the music of the eighties, I think it is Lionel Richie they are playing.  A man from the party has wandered off and is stumbling down the street, waving his hands to the music. I look down from my window, and five young adults, are leaning up against the wall to the front garden, and staring up at the house. Mark, the restaurant manager is pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette, his head bent to the ground, thinking of things that matter at that moment.  The television is on, only to obstruct the music, You’re a brick house.

 The Letter, with Bette Davis plays on the old 21” fat screen, that we put in the closet, and I can refer to it, a satisfying intermission to modern living. The convergence of events, under this full moon, of discordant sounds, activity, and physical sensations, has not  shattered my composure. Just minutes before the music started, I was musing notes about my column. It is about this full moon, and how it resembles at this moment, a kinship to a full life.

It began a month ago when I decided to rearrange my life style, the abject attitude and waking to the hymn of self-defeat.  Now, sunlight spreads shadows of light across the lime green leaves and adobe walls of the neighbor. Sage Bakery has dropped off trays of flaky warm croissants to the hotel, and former body building champion, Deneilo is pushing his garden cart and planters around the corner.  He waves, “Go morning,” and I wave back. His gestures are Americanized but he does not speak English. He gestures with fingers spread wide apart, and grins as if he is about to be photographed. I am across the street, drinking my coffee, wondering how the day will unfold, as I direct it’s flow, or think I do.

That evening I was seated at a bistro bar, about to order and the woman next to me turned to me, “ Haven’t we met?”

“Yes, at La Posada. I remember.” I answered.

“I’m Kathy.”

“I’m LouLou, well, really Luellen. Taos named me LouLou.”

“I love that name, it’s so cheerful, makes you want to laugh,”

“I know. No one takes you seriously when you say, I’m LouLou.”

She laughs. “That’s good, it’s give you an edge.”

“Maybe.”

She then recalled a past evening at La Posada. One of Santa Fe’s most haughty and entertaining locals, who some know as St. Francis, started to shout at Kathy, and told her to shut up. He pounded the bar with both fists, and Kathy recoiled under the pressure of good breeding. Raul, the bartender, who had already warned St. Francis to drink his scotch not use it as artillery, raised his arms, and shouted, “OUT, AND DON’T COME BACK.YOU ARE NOT WELCOME IN MY BAR.”

I was not surprised. In a small city as Santa Fe, the watering holes are numbered, and all the horse-asses’ are talked about, even though we try not to be village idiots.

“I’m so relieved he’s not coming back. He was always groping me at the bar, using his thick tongued European poetry.” I said.

“ I know! He was such an arrogant guy.”

“ I think he was worse than what we imagined.”

“ What do you mean?”

“ Well, he said he was Swiss, and his father fought the Nazi’s, and they lost everything. I think his father was a Nazi, and they never had anything to start with.”

“ OH so do I!”

Kathy had traveled the world, and was married to a diplomat. She met the jugglers, jack-asses, and honored government officials.

We found common ground right under our fingernails. Kathy is a composer, and she likes night life as much as I do.

“ Have you been to Curazon?” I asked.

“ No.  I haven’t even heard of it. Do you want to go?”

“ Now?”

“Yes, why not? It’s still early.” 

“ Right toe.” I agreed.

We met at the entrance of the club, crammed in a body sandwich,  of what I later found out was the film group. Two men intercepted us, “Hi where are you from”? She said to the long haired European.

“Switzverland.”

“Oh, I’ve been there, I loved it,” she said.

“ I’ve been there too.” I added. Never mind that it was twenty-five years ago. 

Tied together by limited space and a slow crawl to the bar, we both hopped up on bar stools.  It was old school, old bar, old everything, except that I banished my inhibitions, and made a lot of fuss on the dance floor. 

Turned out Mr. Dave-the director-is working on a documentary  about Murder, Inc, and has a distant relative that was in the mob-or is in the mob, or something. I have a story about that, and when I opened my mouth, he turned to greet a low-cut blonde in high heels. 

I stumbled out of the party around one in the morning. The next day Kathy and I emailed. She mentioned her deceased husband, something about New Jersey, his family’s bakery, and I thought of Uncle Myron.

I  emailed Myron, and asked him if he had heard of Schachtel’s Bakery. He replied.

“ONE OF MY OLDEST AND STILL
VERY CLOSE FRIENDS IS BOB SCHACHTEL, HE IS ABE SCHACHTEL´S SON AND HIS FATHER WAS VERY CLOSE TO ABE ZWILLMAN.”  Bob is her deceased husband’s brother. Abe Zwillman was the honored leader of the New Jersey Jewish population.

You can read about him in  “Nazis of Newark,” among other history books. Kathy came by the next day with a bottle of Champagne and we talked for several hours. The next few weeks, turned around more unprecedented encounters and emancipated me from destructive mumbo-jumbo.

Last night around midnight, I picked up a black clog and tossed it down the stairs. Then I opened the window and yelled, “Shut-Up,” to the hollow vacant space between me and the rappin DJ.

The full moon is kin to my life; it is bright, and shaded by sketchy clouds of uncertainty. One day, I too shall be a million lights years from the rhapsody of rap, gangsters, fresh baked croissants, and maybe Bette Davis will be my friend. 

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com     

 

    It began a month ago when I decided to rearrange my life style, the abject attitude and waking to the hymn of self-defeat.

Now, sunlight spreads shadows of light across the lime green leaves and adobe walls of the neighbor. Sage Bakery has dropped off trays of flaky warm croissants to the hotel, and former body building champion, Deneilo is pushing his garden cart and planters around the corner.  He waves, “Go morning,” and I wave back. His gestures are Americanized but he does not speak English. He gestures with fingers spread wide apart, and grins as if he is about to be photographed. I am across the street, drinking my coffee, wondering how the day will unfold, as I direct it’s flow, or think I do.

 

That evening I was seated at a bistro bar, about to order and the woman next to me turned to me, “ Haven’t we met?”

 

“Yes, at La Posada. I remember.” I answered.

“I’m Kathy.”

“I’m LouLou, well, really Luellen. Taos named me LouLou.”

“I love that name, it’s so cheerful, makes you want to laugh,”

“I know. No one takes you seriously when you say, I’m LouLou.”

She laughs. “That’s good, it’s give you an edge.”

“Maybe.”

She then recalled a past evening at La Posada. One of Santa Fe’s most haughty and entertaining locals, who some know as St. Francis, started to shout at Kathy, and told her to shut up. He pounded the bar with both fists, and Kathy recoiled under the pressure of good breeding. Raul, the bartender, who had already warned St. Francis to drink his scotch not use it as artillery, raised his arms, and shouted, “OUT, AND DON’T COME BACK.YOU ARE NOT WELCOME IN MY BAR.”

I was not surprised. In a small city as Santa Fe, the watering holes are numbered, and all the horse-asses’ are talked about, even though we try not to be village idiots.

“I’m so relieved he’s not coming back. He was always groping me at the bar, using his thick tongued European poetry.” I said.

“ I know! He was such an arrogant guy.”

“ I think he was worse than what we imagined.”

“ What do you mean?”

“ Well, he said he was Swiss, and his father fought the Nazi’s, and they lost everything. I think his father was a Nazi, and they never had anything to start with.”

“ OH so do I!”

Kathy had traveled the world, and was married to a diplomat. She met the jugglers, jack-asses, and honored government officials.

We found common ground right under our fingernails. Kathy is a composer, and she likes night life as much as I do.

“ Have you been to Curazon?” I asked.

“ No.  I haven’t even heard of it. Do you want to go?”

“ Now?”

“Yes, why not? It’s still early.” 

“ Right toe.” I agreed.

We met at the entrance of the club, crammed in a body sandwich,  of what I later found out was the film group. Two men intercepted us, “Hi where are you from”? She said to the long haired European.

“Switzverland.”

“Oh, I’ve been there, I loved it,” she said.

“ I’ve been there too.” I added. Never mind that it was twenty-five years ago. 

Tied together by limited space and a slow crawl to the bar, we both hopped up on bar stools.  It was old school, old bar, old everything, except that I banished my inhibitions, and made a lot of fuss on the dance floor. 

Turned out Mr. Dave-the director-is working on a documentary  about Murder, Inc, and has a distant relative that was in the mob-or is in the mob, or something. I have a story about that, and when I opened my mouth, he turned to greet a low-cut blonde in high heels. 

I stumbled out of the party around one in the morning. The next day Kathy and I emailed. She mentioned her deceased husband, something about New Jersey, his family’s bakery, and I thought of Uncle Myron.

I  emailed Myron, and asked him if he had heard of Schachtel’s Bakery. He replied.

“ONE OF MY OLDEST AND STILL
VERY CLOSE FRIENDS IS BOB SCHACHTEL, HE IS ABE SCHACHTEL´S SON AND HIS FATHER WAS VERY CLOSE TO ABE ZWILLMAN.”  Bob is her deceased husband’s brother. Abe Zwillman was the honored leader of the New Jersey Jewish population.

You can read about him in  “Nazis of Newark,” among other history books. Kathy came by the next day with a bottle of Champagne and we talked for several hours. The next few weeks, turned around more unprecedented encounters and emancipated me from destructive mumbo-jumbo.

Last night around midnight, I picked up a black clog and tossed it down the stairs. Then I opened the window and yelled, “Shut-Up,” to the hollow vacant space between me and the rappin DJ.

The full moon is kin to my life; it is bright, and shaded by sketchy clouds of uncertainty. One day, I too shall be a million lights years from the rhapsody of rap, gangsters, fresh baked croissants, and maybe Bette Davis will be my friend. 

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com     

 

 

 

SUMMER OF LOVE

Hang on to YOUR HANDLEBARS and ride out to Taos for the summer of love. What timing,  just when you thought the world was a digital chip, Taos will rejuvenate your hard drive.   

After living there, and meeting some of the renegades who came for the 60s revolution, I highly recommend going to Taos this summer. Peter Rabbit, Lisa Law, Dennis Hopper ( exhibiton at the Harwood) and Bill Davis, will be giving talks. There are concerts, fashion shows, movies, exhibits, festivals, but the best action will be in the , ” Hey come on over, we’re having a party,” sort of happenings that made the hippie movement keep moving. It was a happening, IT WAS NOT PLANNED. 

WWW.TAOSSUMMEROFLOVE.COM

Jessica Lang in Grey Gardens

She knocked the stage into smittereans. What a performance!!. Give her more roles Hollywood!

LOST ANGELES PART 3

THE THROW of the dice this week falls on part three of adventures in moving.  Marietta Hayes and I were just seated in a booth at the far end of the Grill, “ We won’t disturb anyone here. Let’s order and then we’ll talk.”

I’m not at all hungry.” I said.

“ Neither am I,” she declared. ”I’ll order an English Muffin; that way they won’t make us leave.” 

We had only to look at one another; and the friendship blossomed. She’d discovered a likeness to my mother, and I recognized in her, a woman associated with the era of gangsters, glamour, and subtlety. Her poise was what struck me; today we’re not refined and self contained. Today we are=2 0still admonishing the residue of restrictive behavior and thought.  

We started talking about the kinds of things that have changed in Los Angeles, like Laurel Canyon.”

“Oh those homes used to be so beautiful. It’s such a shame they are not maintained any longer.”  She said.

“It must have been really different in the thirties.”

“Oh it was! I don’t want to sound conceited. No–it’s not even that.  I was fortunate to have lived during the most glamorous of times in Los Angeles.”

“You definitely were. The whole city seemed to be night-clubbing.”

0We had our tragedies too. My husband was a musical lyricist, and worked for the studios. He was black listed because he associated with some of the questionable characters. After that he couldn’t get any work, and we left the country.”

“For how long?”

“Several years. I think I was with Fox Studios then.”

Much later, I thought, what would a woman thirty years younger want to know about me. She might ask if I was a hippie, a feminist, or a protester. What could I impart about my twenties that would stand the test of time?

Marietta didn’t ask what I used to be, she wanted to know who I was now, and how I ended up in Santa Fe. All I could think about, was what she knew about my mother.

“ I knew your father too.” She interjected.

“ You did? Tell me about it.”   

“ Well, I was dancing at Earl Carroll’s Night Club. Your dad used to come in quite a bit; he was in the movie business at the time. One night he asked me to introduce him to a girlfriend that he liked. So I introduced them, and they went out. A little while later, he came up to me and said,” I want to return the favor, and introduce you to a friend of mine.”

She paused. I asked who it was.

“It was Bugsy.” She giggled.   

“ Did you go out with him?”

“ Yes. He had impeccable manners, you couldn’t help liking him. I didn’t know what he did, that hadn’t come out yet. We all thought he was a businessman. I went to his house, I think it was the one on Linden Drive, and I noticed there were guns all over the place. She leaned ov er and whispered. “It was exciting, I was so young, only nineteen or twenty. Well, we went together for awhile. Until I told my father.” 

“What did your father say?”

“Oh he was furious. He had information about Ben I didn’t. Oh, he went into a rage. He was a policeman.”

“Then what happened?”   

“I think Ben left town, and we just drifted apart. It wasn’t serious or anything.” 

 “ Dad used to mention Earl Carroll’s. He loved to watch but I never saw him dance. Was Johnny Roselli there too?”

“Oh yes. I remember him. He went with a gal at Fox, and she got paid three times the rest of us!“

“ You had a great time of it didn’t you?”  Earl’s later became the Moulin Rouge, where I used to go with Uncle Doc’s daughter and see musicals.  Then it was renamed the Hullabaloo, and the Doors played there.   

“ Earl had a great sense of style and perfection. He made us practice all day. It was a beautiful dinner club, and we performed all night. I was too tired to tell you what happened in the club. All the stars went there.”

“ Did you know Clark Gable?”

“ Yes, like all of us knew him. Not very close, but we crossed paths a lot. He was so easy to like.”

“ I could watch him act all day.” I added.

“ Oh he wasn’t acting. He was just himself. He used to say, if he acted or tried to act, he wouldn’t be any good. He was just na tural.”

“ Dad went out with Carole Lombard before she met Clark.”

“ I’m sure he did. He was tremendously good looking. I can see why your mother fell for him.”

“ How did you meet her?”  

“ Norma. She was a very good friend of your mothers. She introduced us.”

I remembered Norma. Mom talked about her so often.

“ Where did Norma live.”

“ Chicago. But she moved to Los Angeles later. ”

“ My mother was in Chicago when she toured with a Broadway show, I think it called High-Kickers. May be that’s where they met. ”

“ It could have been. Norma danced in the Latin Quarter.  Well, Norma was very close to your mother. I wish you had a chance to meet her. She could have told you so much more. She was a lovely generous woman.  She ended up with millions from one of her husbands.”

“ When did you meet my mother?” 

“ She was already sick. I didn’t know it. Norma told me. We all went out to lunch and your mother never said a word about it. I remember thinking how beautiful she was; I couldn’t believe she had cancer. You were living in Westwood at the time.”

“ Yes.”

“ She died shortly after.”

“ I’m happy you came to see her.”

We sat for a minute like you do when you remember someone whose gone, and you can’t quite harmonize with reality. We were still sipping coffee three hours later. I’d found out Marietta lives a few blocks from where my grandmother lived, she has some family in Los Angeles, she prefers night to day, rents movies, and watches the Academy Awards.

She was sixteen years old the first time she went to the Awards ceremony. She went with Alfred Newman; a legendary composer and music director in Hollywood.

“He kept winning awards, and he handed them to me. They were plastic records. I had to carry that load around all night.” She laughed, and her eyes glistened into the memory.  

I left Marietta with promises of another trip to Los Angeles, and an invitation to our place in Santa Fe. I believe she will take me up on it. Afterward we drove through

Rueben, who’s been the Matri D’ since they opened in 1966 was fast–footing his way across the room, shooting praise and adulation in every direction.  I waited until he stopped to take a breath, and told him I was Al Smiley’s daughter. He nodded hurriedly and bowed. “I have a plaque upstairs with your Dad’s name on it. All the big shots; Johnny Roselli, Frank Sinatra.” He went on name dropping. I didn’t remember the plaques.

I looked over the menu.

Rudy! I had no idea it was this expensive.”

He put his glasses on, “The appetizers are twenty-two dollars. How much are the entrees?”

“Forty–five. Don’t worry; we’ll share something.”

 When the waiter returned, we ordered.

“The split fee is twenty-five dollars. You might as well order an entrée.”  We discussed the matter, and then Rueben returned.

“May I suggest something?” He said in indignation.     

“Well, I’m not sure I want an entire entrée.” I uttered.

“You must have one. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

=0 D

“Okay.” I acquiesced. The food was sensational; if you don’t mind spending that much on one meal. I really went to feast on the memories, and those were free.

On the last day; I stopped at Nate n’ Al’s for a dozen bagels. I stood at the deli counter and noshed on all the times I’d been there, and all the hours spent waiting for Dad to stop telling jokes, so we could get on with the day. Nate’s is a sort of Jewish sanctuary, where every Jew is as good as the next, unless you happen to have more money. 

I took one look at Los Angeles before getting on the 405 freeway.  The city is like an old dresser drawer filled with garments I’ve outgrown, but I just can’t throw them away. When I returned to Santa Fe, I brought home a caption from these encounters; approach the next move with a big welcome sign. Whether it be Los Angeles or New York, make it a story I’ll want to tell one day.    

GALLERY LOULOU
WILD WILD WEST VACATION RENTAL
343 E. Palace Avenue
Santa Fe, NM 87501
Ph : 505-989-3426
Cell: 518-859-7828
www.galleryloulou.com

Laurel Canyon to watch the sun squatting down on a metallic horizon. It seemed strange to go to a hotel and not my own apartment. By now the Parrot and I were bobbing hello, and the little room by the pool felt familiar. We dressed and drove to Beverly Hills where I’d made a reservation at La Dolca Vita. It was another childhood landmark. Like a child from the country has a favorite place by the river, or tree, my places were ocean bluff parks, canyon roads and restaurants. I hadn’t been to La Dolca Vita since the seventies. Like so many early memories, it was not as sensational; until I looked at the menu.

LOST ANGELES

 

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in moving….again. What precipitated my even considering this next move an adventure is the weekend I spent in Los Angeles. I was going to meet two women; one who had known my mother, and one whose career paralleled hers. It was a meeting any daughter  who buried their mother before turning sixteen would wish for. A secondary and subconscious motive was to explore the idea of moving back to Los Angeles.

 

The day I arrived it was raining; a Saturday painted with big strokes of gray and patches of blue between a steady but non-threatening shower. The rain breaks Los Angeles down, and spreads an even glossy finish across the faded facades of buildings along Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood. This is where I lived with Dad, just north on Doheny Drive, and where almost anything could happen to a teenager walking her father’s poodle. I was invited to parties, met strangers, hitch-hiked and observed adults that didn’t want to be noticed. West Hollywood was a reclusive neighborhood in the late 1960s.

 

As I strolled south on Doheny forty years later, I discovered a jigsaw scenery.  It was a bizarre surrealistic shadow, between deteriorating shops, abandoned buildings, and modernized residential neighborhoods. I stopped into Bristol Market for a snack. The lofty concrete warehouse was filled with gourmet packages and imported delicacies. It’s a grotesque replacement of the former Chasen’s restaurant;where Lionel Barrymore and Errol Flynn sipped the off-camera hours, before heading upstairs to a private steam bath. It was where I first laid eyes on Paul Newman and my father scolded me for staring.” Dad everyone stares at Paul Newman!” 

  “Well, stop being everyone!”  Paul’s eyes were blue headlights that radiated in every direction. You had to be blind not to see him. Dad was right, Paul squirmed at the attention.

  

When I got back to the hotel, the lobby-house parrot was my first detour. I needed to settle my nerves, going home is unsettling.  You may find the whole city unrecognizable.  The longer I remain detached from Los Angeles, the more intensely attached I need to feel when I return. Doheny Drive is the street that distinguishes Beverly Hills from Hollywood. Dad lived on the Hollywood side. If you served time, you have to register with the local Beverly Hills police department as an ex-con. After dad was released from prison, they arrested him for not registering as an ex-convict. He swore he’d never live in Beverly Hills again. However, he made his presence very well known by spending the better part of each day and night meeting with associates, girlfriends, and shopping. Almost every day he walked from Doheny to Linden Drive; the street where his best friend lived and was murdered.

 

The next day I wandered around Melrose and watched the 90212 cliff-dwellers at work in the cafes.  Café Figueroa was the first real coffee house on Melrose; it was where I discovered lattes during high school, and how well they went with obscure magazines and classical music.

 

The first day in LA was an amusement ride. It was jostling, humorous and frightening, like riding my former self through a time capsule. The parrot made me laugh, and the staff at the Beverly Terrace was old school Los Angeles, even though they immigrated here very recently. They all seem to be Russian; in fact all the guests appear to be Russians, and my room overlooking the unused pool, was where I observed these Russians don’t sit by a pool.

 

The second and last day of the trip began with a sublime  umbrellas of Los Angeles walk up to Urth Caffe on Melrose. I stood in a chaotic line of young readymade bohemians; friendly and insincere, a remarkable warm up exercise for any dweller in LA. Everyone in the café was on the phone so I opened mine.  

   “Hi Marietta, it’s Luellen.”

   “Oh hi Luellen. Edna cannot make it today; she’s not feeling well enough.”

   “That’s too bad, I wish I could stay longer, I’m always rushing in and out of Los Angeles.”

    She laughed, “Well, I’m okay. Do you want to meet at one o’clock at the Daily Grill on Ventura; it’s very easy to find?”

    “Sure, that’s perfect. I’ll see you then.”

    “I’m an old lady with gray hair.” She laughed again. I decided to drive through downtown Beverly Hills. As I was about to turn onto Canon Drive, I noticed a big store-front sign ahead. I parked the car in front of Jack Taylors. Jack was Dad’s pal since the 1960’s when he opened his opulent men’s custom-suit salon. He had a pool table, green marble floors, and a bar in the lounge. In the back room a circle of tailors hand-cut suits for men who dressed for work. Dad was one of them.  I worked for Jack, one disjointed summer back in 1993, and I hadn’t seen him since. He was the man who made the Rat Pack look like rat royalty.

Jack was in the shop, seated at a big circular desk in a dark blue suit with a day old carnation in his breast pocket. I recognized the same smile of tolerance, the Jewish brand of tolerance that evokes historical overtones he’ll never speak about. Jack is 92 years old. To be continued next week.

NO DICE NO LUCK

The throw of the dice this week falls on adventures in livingness when the luck runs out. I was inside Borders drinking a raspberry latte, and browsing the new non-fiction titles.  Borders in Santa Fe is a cross between a library, a day-care center, and a time filler for truly retired people who love books.  On this particular Saturday, the aisles were jammed; kids sprawled on the floor kicking their legs, and mother’s rummaging through big plastic bags filled with snacks and toys.  Contented unshaven men were seated in leather chairs reading books off the shelves, and the multitasketeers’ read, paced, and talked on the cell-phone while circulating the magazine racks.  The café was cluttered with dutiful students posed at their laptops, and young teenagers ordered paragraph drinks they paid for with credit cards. 

 I’d just left the Cocteau Theater where loyal readers of Michael McGarrity’s mystery novels were seated listening to him talk about his next book, “Dead or Alive.” I’ve never read his books; I wanted to hear him speak, just to see if I could imagine one day I might stand in front of an audience and talk about my book.  Michael was effortlessly engaging. No, I have a long long journey before I speak like that.  

“ This is the last stop of my three-month tour. I’m happy to be back home. And even more happy because on Friday I signed a new two-year contract for my next book. Believe me, today it takes more than luck, you have to have a track record.”  

That got me thinking; how people use to say; ‘it was good luck, or good fortune that I got published.’ If Michael McGarrity is right, then what we need is a lot more people buying books.  Our economy isn’t going to recover because of good luck, and all those people who lost their jobs, aren’t going to depend on luck to get a new job.

In fact luck is sort of passé. 

What was most interesting about that Saturday is that of all the little boutiques in Sanbusco Center, Borders had the crowd.  Books, even if they are hard as heck to get written, published and printed are the cheapest form of entertainment that I’ve found. Lately, I’ve drifted into an adventure in  Santa Fe history, so I picked up two books.  It has to do with my own stimulus package; how to balance the scathing news with something more rousing.  The first book, “Walks in Literary Santa Fe,” by Barbara Harrelson is a companion to a spontaneous walk through town. Just about every building used to be something more appealing: La Fonda Hotel was a Harvey House until 1969. The resplendent Fred Harvey made waitressing a fashion statement, with his Harvey Girls, and then Arthur Freed turned it into a MGM musical. My mother was in the film, a singing and dancing Harvey Girl.

 The Palace of the Governors, “the oldest public building still in use in the United States,” and built around 1610 is a museum today. Once it was home to Santa Fe governors, two of whom were writers. In 1943 the Palace became the meeting place for the Atom Bomb Quartet, aka as the Manhattan Project. Santa Fe’s first bookstore,Villagra, opened in 1927 inside the classical Spanish Sena Plaza.  “The owner served tea and gossip every day, and martinis at 4:00 every afternoon.” In that bookstore, Willa Cather was seen making notes, for her book, “Death Comes to The Archbishop,” about Santa Fe.

 Even my house, The Elliott Barker House, is historic because it was occupied by the man who gave Smokey Bear a career, when he took the cub to the White House and coined the phrase, ‘Only you can prevent forest fires.’ Mr. Barker was the state’s first Game Warden, and a zealous conservationist, when there was more land than building in Santa Fe. The Elliott Barker Trail north of Taos is one I hiked, before I knew I’d be living in his house, and feeding the sparrows.  He wrote half a dozen books about wilderness living in New Mexico.   

I mean it’s not New York, which could eat up an entire lifetime tracing the former famous residents of brownstones.  Santa Fe will be 400 years old this summer and I want to know who I should be celebrating.  For the price of $12.95, I have this great book, the references to other great Santa Fe literature, and a sort of walking tool to take with me when I’m on the streets.  

If you live in San Diego and remember my arts column every month, then you know how much I love to dwell in the house of the artist. As Black Monday’s get darker, I find solace in treading history in books, museums and film.

Any dice to throw: Email folliesls@aol.com

SMILEY’S DICE

SMILEY’S DICE

SMILEY’S DICE

CONFESSIONS OF OTHER KIDS  

The day after Confessions of a Mob Kid posted Iin the NEW YORK POST new names appeared in my email box.  The messages were the same, “We have a connection.”

Over the years I’ve contemplated the whereabouts of all those aunts and uncles belonging to my father’s world. The aunts and uncles were not genetic; they were part of that other family. 

Some of them had children that became part of my childhood gang.

When our fathers were talking business in delicatessens, poolside or a hotel, we were busy being children.  Over the years I asked dad what happened to some of these kids, and he‘d answer, “Meyer puts it this way; ‘You don’t inherit friends.  He said if often, as if it was a warning; “When I’m gone so are my friends.” He was right; all of his friends vanished into thin air. It was if they had not been part of my life. Yet they formed my first impressions of conversations and behavior between adults.  They set the standards for whom I felt comfortable and with whom I didn’t.  

 The first email was signed Uncle Myron. He said his father, known as “Sugie,” was in the juke box business in New Jersey with Abner “Longy” Zwillman.  We had a juke box in our first home.  I was too young to remember Abner, but I remember the name Longy; my dad talked of him with other friends.  Uncle Myron took over his fathers business and during the seventies and eighties was known as the Emperor of slot machines in New York.  

After three emails, I was ready to talk to my Uncle Myron.   

“Hi Myron, this is Luellen.”

“How are you sweetheart?”  That one line ran circles around my memory. His voice assimilated all the voices of those uncles, and best friends that left without saying goodbye.

“I’m all right.”

“Our fathers were from another world.”

“I know. Do you think they’d be angry with what I wrote?”

“Absolutely NOT! Are you kidding, you’re humanizing them. My father may his soul rest in peace, worked with Longy and Meyer.

“Yes, mine did too. But more closely with Ben Siegel.”

“Sure, they all came from the same fabric. And when you met them, you were part of the family instantly. They knew how to treat you so you would never forget.

“ I haven’t forgotten.”     

“When did dad pass on?”

“It was 1982.  I was devastated. It was awkward to have that background and no one to share it with.

“It’s difficult for all the kids to adjust after that upbringing.”

“Are there a lot of us?”

“Sure, some don’t acknowledge the background; they hide for one reason or another. Most of them are in legitimate business today, it’s a different world sweetheart.”

Sugerman broke the ice within seconds.  I was ready at that moment to get on a flight to Newark and meet him.  Over the next few days he sent me fascinating articles and stories.  The breakage of that controversial and complex lineage is rebuilding itself.  I feel as if I can call on him any time of the day.  

The next email came from a relative of another member of the Jersey boys.  He knew both my parents, and especially liked my mother. He had stories to tell and was eager to exchange impressions.  We got cut short on the telephone by present day business interruptions. 

The next one came a few days later. First an email and then a request to call him.  When Michael answered the phone, he introduced himself as

an associate by birth of the Cleveland Syndicate. It struck me that each one felt loyalty towards their parent’s people.   

My dad was as close to the Cleveland bosses as he was to Ben Siegel.  Lou Rothkopf, one of the four bosses was referred to as Uncle Rhody. Lou flew out to be with Dad the night of Ben’s murder. He would do more for a friend than the friend’s own family. If someone owed him money, he crossed the street to avoid the meeting. He was respected in his community.  After Senator Estes Kefauver whipped up the country’s vengeance against gangsters, bookmakers, bootleggers, and on down the line, Lou was called in to testify.  The humiliation killed him, he committed suicide. Michael’s Uncle was part of Lou’s syndicate.  It is better known as the “Silent Syndicate” because the bosses were so understated. They’d never have been discovered by the feds if it wasn’t for the fabulously flamboyant Benny Siegel. 

Michael didn’t follow in his dad’s footsteps but he has no reservation about pointing to his history. He is, like Myron, an educated and proud Jew.   “I’m sick to death of the caricatures of hoodlums in books and on television.    My life is boring–the history of my people is what fascinates me.  If I had more time I’d study it all day long.” 

“Me too.  They seemed to run the whole country.”

“They did! Your absolutely right.”

“We have a very close connection.”

“We do?”

“Yea. Are you sitting down?”

“Yes.”  

“You know who backed the Flamingo.”

 “New York and Chicago wasn’t it?”

“Cleveland.”

“Oh really.”

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“ Cleveland took Ben out.”

“Cleveland? You don’t mean Rhody’s clan?”

“I don’t know– its conjecture. From all the stories I heard, the books I’ve read–that’s what I’ve hypothesized.”

We talked for over an hour, and then he said, “Call me anytime; I’d love to talk more. I have a lot of stories about Cleveland.” 

The third connection came as I was driving along the highway in Santa Fe. When she identified herself, I told her to hang on, “I had to faint first.”

It had been thirty years since I’d spoken to her.   She was the one I wanted to find.  I’d imagined our meeting again.  Our mother’s were best friends.   Instead, I was given a friendly warning not to mention anyone in her family.  I agreed.  I didn’t inherit his friends, but I did adopt his sense of loyalty. When a friend says don’t identify me; there is no argument.  I doubt we will have that reunion. She is suspicious of writers and honestly I can’t do anything without writing about it.  

No regrets on my end.  Had it not been for the New York Post, I wouldn’t

be planning a trip to New Jersey to meet Uncle Myron.   He’s saving the

best stories until we meet, and I will pass them on to you.    

ADVENTURES IN FILM « Galleryloulou’s Weblog

ADVENTURES IN FILM « Galleryloulou’s Weblog