Where the Truth Lies (17 page)

We were greeted by what turned out to be the lead publicist for the Santoro operation, a thin, sharp-edged, dark-haired woman in her early thirties. “Hello! Jackie Biderman, I’m running public relations for El Toro Enterprises, welcome to thenew Casino del Mar.”

Vince looked at me. In earlier days, when we met these P.R. women (this Jackie could have been the older sister of Denise, the skinny brunette we’d dumped from the Versailles, but then they all could have been), Vince would mutter softly to me, “Yours.” Unless I beat him to it. In this case, he didn’t say anything.

I turned to Billy Bishop, who’d been with us all the way from Miami and said, “We have to clean up a little. See where Reuben is.” Vince’s five o’clock shadow had him looking like a saddle bum, and I was beginning to resemble the caricature of me that occupied the right half of the bass drum in the Russ Cummings Orchestra.

Billy conveyed our needs to Jackie, who smiled no, explaining that Mr. Santoro wanted us to look like the heroes we were. He was being very smart from a publicity angle. Vince and I had just finished a nationally televised broadcast. We were the Good Guys. We had broken all box-office records for a disease. Now, before the telethon had a chance to fade out of the public’s mind, here we were talking about the next huge event in our lives: the opening of a hotel in Bergen County, New Jersey. And it would make it to the local seven o’clock news in the tristate area if we moved our butts (as Jackie was instructing us) into the main reception hall, where we were about to hold a press conference.

A pair of New Jersey state policemen walked on either side of us as we entered the lobby of the hotel. They stayed with us throughout. It was an indication of how legitimate Sally had gone that he could bring in the local police to guard the facade of his racket.

You could see that the hotel wasn’t completely finished because a wall between the public rest rooms and the lobby hadn’t been built yet. A gorgeous view of Manhattan’s Riverside Drive from the hotel’s cocktail lounge was completely unobstructed by glass, and the wind whipped through us in the lobby more than it did in the driveway outside.

Jackie showed us into a room markedGRAND BALLROOM (which is also how I describe a lady wearing an athletic supporter—joke, not mine). Already seated at a long dais were Sally Santoro and some people who looked like attorneys. Jackie indicated that the two vacant center chairs were for us. Sally hugged us both. That was a first.

It seemed as if Jackie Biderman was going to serve as emcee because that was what she was now telling the newspaper people she was going to do. “B-i-d-e-r-m-a-n,with onen, ” she explained to the press, who weren’t writing anything down. “Well now. I want to welcome all our friends to this very special press conference with three very special people.” I was hoping she was not counting herself. “Mr. Salvatore Santoro, that’sS —” and she spelled his name for them. When the members of the press saw that Sally’s boys were taking down the names of those who didn’t take down Sally’s name, the fourth estate instantly whipped out their pencils and scribbled away. “And of course two gentlemen on my right who need no introduction and who, as you can see, have come here directly from their record-breaking polio telethon in Miami, Florida.”

The first thing she did was announce that Mr. Santoro, on behalf of the El Toro corporation, was pledging $20,000 to the American Polio Foundation. She had a quick whispered word with one of Sally’s boys, asking if they had the oversized check to hand to us for the benefit of the newspaper cameras. They looked around at one another like altar boys. No, gee, uh-no, we don’t. She inquired in another whisper if they had a normal-sized check that Mr. Salvatore could hand to us for the benefit of the newspaper cameras. The Boys gazed idly around the room, like maybe the check had been taped to the chandelier.

Sally stared straight ahead throughout all this.

Jackie announced into the microphone that regretfully, through a mix-up, the check itself wasn’t here at the press conference, but she was pleased to be able to announce Mr. Santoro’s magnificent pledge. “And in addition, it is my very great pleasure to announce that Mr. Santoro is also donating to the American Polio Foundation over …” She consulted a file card in her hand. “… over two thousand Kenmore waffle irons, so that those afflicted with this terrible disease can enjoy waffles any time of the day … and I’m sure we all applaud him in this humane effort.”

Santoro had a word in the ear of his associate, who whispered a word in Jackie’s ear. She nodded and added, “And also over five hundred three-D photographic cameras, because the crippled are entitled to a beautiful world just like the rest of us.”

She sat and Sally waited while lots of flash cameras went off. He had a whispered word with the attorney at his side and leaned in to the microphone to speak. How he managed not to reflexively say, “I refuse to answer upon the grounds that it might tend to incriminate me,” I have no idea. Instead, he read a little speech about how proud he was that the United States had launched the Vanguard rocket into space and he was proud that New Jersey was launching its own rocket, the new Casino del Mar. Then he jumped off the prepared text and talked about how he would never forget all the people who helped and all the people who didn’t, because that was who he was.

Jackie looked at her watch and said that since we were a little ahead of schedule, she would let the press ask us a few questions before our live TV interview with the local ABC affiliate. That’s when these sophisticated New York journalists started trading wits with us, and man, was it hard to keep up with them.

“Ralph Latiff,Bergen Record, question for Mr. Morris: are you tired?”

“You bet I am. Yes?”

“Rose Wanamaker,Daily Mirror, how did it feel—this question for Mr. Collins—how did it feel raising all that money for polio?”

Vince answered, “It felt great. Really, really great.”

A guy from a Trenton newspaper asked from the back of the room about the movie we had announced,A Night at the Opera. “Will the movie be in color?” And they wonder where thenew Edward R. Murrows will come from.

Vince answered: “We don’t know. I hope it will be. Everyone ought to see how pink my eyes get some mornings.” The press laughed and I saw a lot of pencils moving. So Vince had drawn first comedy blood, huh?

The Trenton newspaper had a followup question. “Will it be a wide-screen movie?”

I leaned in to my mike. “If Jayne Mansfield is in it, it’ll have to be.”

Now here was Cindy Goldner, a local gossip columnist. She wasn’t a guaranteed pushover. “Vince, with Lanny playing three roles, aren’t you actually taking fourth billing?”

Vince started to speak into his mike but I overrode that. “This is a Collins and Morris movie. Vince has always had top billing.”

Vince looked at me with a slightly crooked smile. “I think Lanny means sixth billing, don’t you, pally?”

Cindy pressed him. “How do you figure sixth, Vince?”

Vince drawled, “Well, as I understand it, Lanny is going to play a trio of wonderful roles, and Jayne Mansfield has quite a pair.” Laughter from the press. “I figure that puts me sixth.”

The guy from theDaily Mirror tried his professional best to goad Vince. “You sound like you’d be okay about Miss Mansfield getting billing above you, Vince.”

“I always prefer my women on top,” smiled Vince.

Rich laughter from the press. We all knew they could never print a comment like that in a newspaper, and they knew that too, so you could say it strictly for the amusement of the press without having to go off the record. The only ones who didn’t always live by this gentlemen’s agreement weren’t there today: Kilgallen, O’Brien, and Winchell hadn’t felt like hiking all the way to New Jersey for a puff piece like this, Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons were in L.A., and Moe Cohn only wrote his column for Miami, so thank God we’d escaped his raking.

Jackie Biderman had gone a little pale at this last exchange and advised us that when we went on the air with George Gromire from the local ABC affiliate, Mr. Santoro hoped we’d mention the Casino del Mar and the Blue Grotto and the dates of our engagement there.

At six minutes after seven, local ABC correspondent George Gromire got his cue and thrust a mike in our faces. “Vince Collins, Lanny Morris, welcome to New Jersey. We all saw you on the telethon that ended this morning. Are you tired?”

I said in that voice, “Oh no, Mr. Gromire, we’re both fresh as dai—” and pretended to pass out, my head hitting the table hard enough to cause a loud comic impact and even to hurt me a little. I instantly started snoring real loud. Let Vince do the interview.

Gromire pushed the mike toward Vince with a weak laugh. “Well, as long as your partner seems to have departed for dreamland, Vince, tell us why you’re here, won’t you?”

Vince said the right things about how we were honored that our good friend Mr. Santoro had asked us to be the first act in this magnificent entertainment center so close to Manhattan yet so high above the Hudson River, that this area had always been very special to us, et cetera. I snored a loud snore.

“We also hear you’re about to film a remake of that wonderful Marx Brothers movieA Night at the Opera, ” lobbed Gromire.

“Yes.” Vince nodded. “And on top of that, I’m very excited to announce my motion-picture debut as a straight dramatic actor inThe Maginot Line, about an American soldier during World War Two trying to escape from a prisoner-of-war camp in Nazi-occupied France.”

Gromire and I were both very interested to hear this, but only he showed it. “This would be a solo effort, without your partner?” he asked. Now I felt like a real dickhead stuck in the middle of this fucking stupid snoring bit I’d gotten into.

Vince said, “Well, I know I’ll welcome all the advice and guidance my pally here can give me, if he ever wakes up.”

I pretended to wake up and shot upright. “Starting this Friday at the Blue Grotto here at the Casino del Mar in Boigen County for the next two weeks!” I said, plugging like I was supposed to. The jack-in-the-box bit would have been funny in another context. Suddenly it felt lame.

Gromire turned to the camera. “Well, a very full calendar for two guys full of talent and goodwill, Vince Collins and the dizzy, dozy Lanny Morris.” He froze his smile for about fifteen seconds, until someone relayed that he was clear. “Thank you very much,” he said to both of us.

I looked to my left and saw Billy Bishop smiling at Vince. He gave Vince a little wink. This solo project had clearly been in the making for some time.

Jackie Biderman was not happy at all. Through a smile of icicle teeth, she hissed, “It would be better if in any future interviews we set up, you mention show times and how to get to the Casino from both New York and Connecticut.”

Vince leaned toward her, and said in a voice that only she and I could hear, “It would be better if you never told us what to do again, because if you do, I’ll set fire to your lacquered hair and put out the flames by pissing on you. Thanks a million.”

She looked like she had been hit direct center in her starved stomach. “Oh my Guh—God,” she moaned.

I got up, stepped over to Sally, and, for the benefit of his hired photographer, did the pose I’d done a million times without ever really understanding it. I, famous person, have my left arm around a not-famous person and with my free right hand, I point at the not-famous person. What am I indicating when I point at him? What does that mean? Throughout this world are millions of photos of me pointing at strangers. What is the message of my pointing?“Look, he momentarily exists alongside me!”

It was hard not to imagine a congressional committee someday questioning me about every photo I’ve had taken with my arm around gangsters, mass murderers, extortionists, arsonists, and child molesters. And in every case, I have a stupid grin on my face and am pointing at them.

At last we were led by Sally and company away from the Grand Ballroom and toward the elevators to our suite, which had been completed weeks ago, they assured us. Sleep, priceless sleep, awaited.

An assistant to the ABC TV reporter hurried over to Vince in the lobby and handed him a folded slip of paper. She was very pretty, maybe twenty-three, with the sweetest pair of partridges for breasts. She looked like a breathless, blond Natalie Wood. I could hear her say in a low voice to Vince, “Hi, I work with George Gromire, just an assistant, my name is Joan, I’m married and I absolutely love my husband, but when we got married, I told him, ‘Listen, no joke, I’ll always be faithful to you but if I ever meet Vince Collins, I get to cheat, at least for one night.’ He agreed, so if you would like to spend the night with me while you’re here, that’s my phone number. Or even right now.” She sort of presented herself with good posture and a hopefulness that was so lovely. “It’s all right with my husband. It really is.”

Vince pocketed the slip of paper and said, “That’s just the nicest compliment, Joan. Sounds to me like you have a wonderful relationship with your husband. That’s not easy to come by in this world, and I’d hate to intrude on that, tempting as the offer might be.”

We stepped toward the elevator bank, where the door was being held open for us.

“It would be all right,” she said. She cupped her small hand around his ear and said in a voice that I could still hear: “I’m really good in bed. You’d really like it.”

Vince smiled at her. “You don’t have to tell me that. I know you would be.” He stared at her, pretending to take a mental picture of her as he got on the elevator. “I promise I’ll never forget you. Joan.”

We joined him on the elevator, myself, Jackie, Sally, the two state policemen who had been with us since the outset, and a bellman who had the carry-on luggage from our flight.

The good suites were as far away from the elevators as they could be, toward the southern end of the corridor, so that their view favored Manhattan.

At the end of the hall was a door into a vestibule, from which branched three doors numbered 501, 500, and 502. There was a maid’s service wagon outside 501 and the door was ajar. The bellman nodded at the cart. “The maid is turning down your beds.”