Behind the Candelabra: My Life With Liberace (8 page)

The Hilton showroom holds twelve hundred people and it was packed that night. Lee’s obvious popularity took me by surprise. The guy couldn’t sing, I thought; he couldn’t dance, and he was over the hill! So how the hell did he draw such a crowd? Black had enough pull to get us an excellent table just as the house lights dimmed. From the moment Liberace appeared onstage in his mirrored Rolls-Royce, I was spellbound. The man seemed to be having such a good time that I couldn’t help being caught up by the fun. His humor sounded so fresh and spontaneous and he did such a terrific job of poking fun at himself that I got the impression he was ad-libbing all the way. The Chinese Acrobats of Taiwan performed while he changed clothes, and each time he returned to the stage his costumes were increasingly outrageous. It was pure camp and great fun.

Midway through the act Lee introduced his protégé, a man I will call Jerry O’Rourke. The two men came out dressed in identical silver outfits, wearing the same jewelry. Their hair had been teased into identical, high pompadours and sprinkled with sequins. To me they looked like a matched pair of queens. Whether it was true or not, they appeared to me to be lovers. I looked around at the audience, wondering what all those middle-class, middle-aged women were thinking. Did they assume what I did about the relationship between O’Rourke and Liberace? Seeing nothing on their faces other than adulation and admiration, I couldn’t help nudging Black. “Doesn’t Liberace realize he and O’Rourke look like a matched set of queens?” I whispered.

Black just grinned.

Jerry and Lee were seated at white, back-to-back concert grands adorned with enormous matching candelabras. They played beautifully, but I thought Jerry was the better pianist—he certainly had the most difficult parts of their duets. They exited to thundering applause.

After the show Bob took me backstage where we were met by Ray Arnett, Lee’s producer. Arnett greeted Black like an old friend, gave me a very warm hello, and escorted us to the dressing room where Liberace and Jerry O’Rourke were seated at a table, eating. I sensed a chill in the air as soon as we walked in, as if we’d caught the two pianists in the middle of an argument. But Lee turned on the charm when Ray introduced us.

Liberace looked larger than life onstage: youthful and bubbling with energy. I was surprised to find myself towering over him as we shook hands. He was only five feet seven but he had large bones, a barrel chest, and he carried himself with the assurance of a big man. Jerry, who didn’t seem happy at having his meal interrupted, ignored us and continued eating. Liberace ignored O’Rourke’s behavior and took us to the bar at one end of his dressing room where Ray Arnett poured drinks all around. He and Black talked about the “good old days” on Broadway. While they were chatting I could feel Liberace’s eyes on me; appraising, friendly, questioning. I was six feet three inches, slender and blond—not a bad-looking kid but certainly not worth the once-over he was giving me.

Lee finally turned to the other men when Arnett asked if it would be all right if he invited us to Lee’s home for brunch the next day. “I’d love to see all of you,” Lee said, looking at me again. “Make it about three in the afternoon because I need my beauty sleep.” He winked at me as he walked us to the door, explaining that he had to get ready for the second show.

The whole experience had an unsettling effect on me. I’d been feeling peculiar vibes the entire time we were in Liberace’s dressing room. Later that night I told Bob Black I didn’t want to go to Lee’s the next day. “He makes me uncomfortable,” I said, remembering Lee’s scrutiny. “I don’t have any idea what that old queen is all about, and I don’t think I want to find out.”

Bob Black and I arrived at Lee’s home on Shirley Street at three in the afternoon. I expected something impressive but nothing could have prepared me for the property’s opulence and glitz. Inside and out, it was a palace. Ornate wrought-iron gates set in an eight-foot wall swung silently open to admit the 450 SL as we drove up. From then on it was fantasy time. The grounds were decorated with statues of cupids and nymphs, large urns, gurgling fountains, and enough flowering plants to stock a nursery. The house itself was a block long, topped by a steep mansard roof.

Ray Arnett, our genial host of the previous evening, waited for us at the entrance. He was dwarfed by twelve-foot mahogany doors decorated with carved cupids and angels.

“Welcome, gypsies,” Arnett said, smiling broadly as he ushered us inside. Nothing in any of my experience prepared me for what I saw next. Now I knew why Black had insisted on coming. The huge entry hall, much bigger than the living room in my current foster home, was guaranteed to make a first-time visitor gasp. Marble floors, mirrored walls, a curved stairway with clear Lucite banisters that looked as if it had been suspended in midair, and gushing fountains vied for the viewer’s attention. Millions of dollars’ worth of antique furniture, crystal, priceless china, objets d’art, fresh flowers, paintings, crowded every available surface. Obviously, Lee was into conspicuous consumption. I was impressed—very, very impressed.

While I tried to get my bearings and take it all in, a pair of carved doors at the end of the hall opened and Lee strolled out with three dogs at his heels and one in his arms. He’d been wearing heavy stage makeup the night before. Now, he was casually dressed in a short terry-cloth robe but still wearing cosmetics. A light foundation failed to conceal the shadows under his eyes. Their glacial blue was accented by mascara and eyeliner. But even the carefully applied makeup couldn’t conceal how tired and debauched he looked.

Lee welcomed us warmly, apologizing for his informal attire, and we followed him into the living room. It was huge and even more ornately decorated than the entry. A mirrored concert grand with a Lucite top, Lucite music stand, and Lucite piano bench took up one end of the room. It would be a couple of years before I knew enough about interior decorating to recognize the incongruities of Lee’s decor. But a cheap pillow, looking out of place on the piano bench, captured my attention. Overstuffed sofas covered in tufted raw silk flanked a marble-mantled fireplace. Crystal chandeliers, ornate gilded furniture, urns on pedestals, priceless porcelains, cluttered the room. Crocheted pillows were a strange contrast to the decorator sofas, inexpensive paintings clashed with walls covered by French silk moiré, blown-glass souvenirs cheapened priceless commodes. Years later I would know that the theme was palatial kitsch.

I’ll be damned, I thought. Liberace not only
looks
like a queen, he
lives
like one.

Lee led the way to the sofas and sat down, still holding the one dog while the others sniffed at our heels.

“To the ovens,” Arnett said, flinging his arms wide and gesturing down at the animals. Lee grinned in response. Obviously the dogs were an old sore point between the two of them, one that had eroded enough to become a standing joke.

“They’re my family,” Lee said, noticing my interest in his pets. “And this,” he added, indicating the one in his lap, “is Babyboy.” His nasal tone softened as he stroked the ancient poodle. “Babyboy is very old. He’s blind and deaf. I’m his seeing-eye person.” By the time Lee finished, his voice had risen an octave and he was using baby talk. But at least I knew we had something in common—we both loved animals.

I studied the old poodle, noticing that its eyes were opaque and running badly. “I think I can get you something that might help him,” I said, explaining I was a veterinarian’s assistant. “Dr. Tully sees a lot of poodles with problem eyes. He can usually make them more comfortable.”

Lee beamed. “That would be wonderful!” he said. “Nobody’s been able to help my poor Baby and I hate to see him suffer.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a man Lee introduced as “Carlucci, my houseboy.” Carlucci, a small man, looked nothing like my idea of a houseboy. He wore conspicuously tight jeans, a shirt open to the navel, and a thick gold chain around his neck. He had a narrow face, a beaked nose, dark olive skin, and eyes that darted about with lively curiosity. I later learned that he’d been a maître d’ before being discovered by Lee and becoming a member of Lee’s household.

Carlucci placed a tray of hors d’oeuvres and a large pitcher of Bloody Marys on the mirrored cocktail table. I expected him to leave at once, like any well-trained household help, but he lingered long enough to look me over very carefully. Between his perusal and the way Lee had studied me the night before, I was beginning to feel like a yearling at a thoroughbred auction. Black and Arnett had been talking about show business and I escaped the uncomfortable once-over I was getting by turning my attention to what they were saying.

Arnett was one of the friendliest men I’d ever met. Short, slightly overweight, with sparkling eyes and a quick smile, he oozed good humor. I liked him immediately. Like Bob Black, Arnett had been a Broadway hoofer, a show-business gypsy in his youth. He was one of Lee’s old guard, an associate from the early days before Lee developed his glitzy stage show. Arnett explained that he’d started as a dancer and choreographer for Lee’s shows and worked his way up to production manager.

While the other men talked I could feel Lee studying me again. Each time I caught him looking at me during the cocktail hour and the brunch that followed, he’d glance away quickly, as if he didn’t want to meet my eyes. The intense covert scrutiny made me very nervous. I couldn’t figure out exactly what was going on. If a guy stared at me like that in a bar, I’d figure he was coming on to me. But Lee obviously had a live-in companion and he had to know I was involved with Black. As far as I was concerned, all the bases were covered.

After we finished eating, Lee took us for a tour through the house. The upstairs held a large studio-rehearsal room and a generous bedroom with its own bath. I wasn’t surprised to see Jerry O’Rourke in this spare room. He acted preoccupied, as if meeting us again was either the world’s biggest bore or the biggest imposition. He and Lee barely looked at one another and I could almost feel the temperature in the room dropping. Apparently our visit had interrupted another quarrel.

Although Lee and Arnett exchanged meaningful glances as we left Jerry’s room, Lee seemed unaffected by the awkward moment. He led us from room to room, proudly describing how he’d created this showplace from three ordinary houses. “I like to rescue things that no one else wants—houses, dogs, people!” he declared. “Anyone can buy a palace. It’s more fun to create one yourself.”

Again, I couldn’t help being impressed. Obviously, Lee and I had been moving in different circles. Certainly none of my friends could afford to either buy or build a palace. In addition to the living room and dining room, the downstairs held a room that Lee proudly called his Moroccan room. It featured a peacock-blue tiled floor covered with Persian rugs, mirrored and tiled walls, a soaring glass roof, and more Lucite furniture. The decor combined potted plants in wicker baskets, assorted candelabras, and antiques. Matched sculptures of pantalooned harem boys, each carrying an electrified candelabra on his head, flanked a mirrored bar. A breakfast table had been set with priceless oriental porcelain, as though Lee were expecting a second group of brunch guests. The room’s pièce de résistance was a stuffed peacock on a mirrored stand above the bar.

“I do all my own decorating,” Lee said, grinning with self-congratulatory pleasure and waiting for compliments. Being dutiful guests, Black and I obliged, remarking on his extraordinary taste.

The rest of the house held a fully equipped casino, two kitchens, a breakfast veranda, and servants’ quarters. As we walked from room to room I counted an astonishing number of pianos. At the time, Lee owned a grand total of seventeen, divided among his various homes. I kept on expecting him to sit down at one of them for an impromptu performance, but he seemed intent on giving us the history of each room and of the objects in it. The pianos seemed no more important to him than the rest of the decor.

Lee had saved the most outrageous for last. He paused before his bedroom doors and then flung them wide. I couldn’t restrain an awed whistle. The room, carpeted in the deepest pale blue plush, was larger than most homes. You could have held a football scrimmage inside it. An enormous canopied bed covered by an ermine spread, with a large stuffed bear propped against the headboard, dominated one wall.

“How’d you like to live like this, Scott?” Lee asked. “Not bad, huh?”

Three gilt-framed portraits of Lee, one of them an almost life-sized photograph taken when he had an audience with the Pope, hung on one wall. Two cream-colored brocade sofas, an antique desk and chair, and several dressers barely dented the available floor space. A cocktail table held a malachite phone, an art deco bronze, two three-foot-tall gold candelabras, several cigarette boxes (one in malachite), assorted antique porcelains, and a cheap glass ashtray from a Vegas hotel. I later learned that Lee took special pleasure in taking mementos from the hotels where he appeared. Pilfered ashtrays, towels, and stationery became treasured objects to be displayed in Lee’s many homes. In the future, when I would remind him that he could have any number of those things if he just asked, he grinned like a bad little boy and said, “Yeah, but it’s more fun my way.”

The room’s most notable feature was a facsimile of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel frescoes painted on the ceiling. Looking up, I saw that Lee’s own face beamed down at us from amid the other cherubim and seraphim.

Lee next ushered us into his bathroom, a pleasure seeker’s paradise. I couldn’t imagine ever using a place like that to go to the toilet. A gigantic oval tub circled by marble pillars stood in the center of the room. Hot and cold water came from gold fixtures in the shape of swans. There was enough marble on the ceiling and floor to restore a Roman bath. Lee swelled with pride as he explained how he’d designed the room. Clearly, his philosophy of decorating was
spend, spend, spend.

Last, Lee showed us his closet. Suits, sports jackets, and dozens of robes took up one long wall. The voluminous closet also held many of his costumes. I’d never seen so much lamé, so many furs, sequins, and rhinestones. Up close, the overall effect of those clothes dazzled me even more than they had when Lee wore them onstage.