Variety (January 1953)

248 VAUDEVILLE Forly-sevcnth PSRIETT Anniversary Wednesday, January 7, 1953. i ■ * ? • £ •. 5 H?- a . t - ■ !:! V i: n r-i )’6:l ?•?>; i 'M f, )'J ll •is . \ -4 > H l ;i y > r X\ D 4 HONOR AMONG.. ‘Square Deal’ Bill Grady, Agent Turned Metro Talent Scout, Recalls A Nightmare in a Prohibition Manhattan Nitery By BILLY GRADY In the Golden Twenties, fabulous days to be sure, there were many groups of “businessmen” whose interests leaned toward the forbidden spirits of the era. Money flowed like water-forbidden spirits flowed like water. One of the groups of these business- men hung out on the sidewalk at 47th Street, opposite the Strand Theatre on Broadway. Just stood around waiting for the word, and the word was,. “The boat is in and the stuff is mellow.” This called for action. Money must be collected and dispatched to the spot where the spiriti frumentae was waiting. All deals were cash, and in big bills. Broadway at 47th was the daytime office, nights found the business men in a chosen night club, always on the alert for the contact man to give the word. This Broadway at 47th group turned thrifty. Why, thought they,* couldn’t we have our own night spot, and get an evening’s pleasure wholesale. No sooner said than done. A spot under the Chelsea Bank at 48th Street and Seventh Avenue was selected, an unused basement. On the second floor of the building was the Cinderella ball- room. Contractors and decorators hired, operations were pointed for a New Year’s Eve opening, four weeks away. An attraction must be had, and it had to be a real one. This is where I came in. Gus Van and Joe Schenck was the greatest two-man singing and piano act that ever trod a stage: stars in vaudeville, the “Ziegfeld Follies” and recordings. I was their agent. I made a deal for 50% interest; we were partners with the group in the night spot, It being beneath the Cinderella ballroom, with the bank between, Joe Schenck called it “The Silver Slipper.” Arrangements completed, and in passing may I say, everything was on handshake, no contracts, no papers, “no nuttin’.” There was honor among . On the side of the businessmen, there were seven active and five silent partners. On our side, Gus, Joe and myself. Work was rushed, and I mean rushed. The place had a capacity of 185; 500 tickets were sent out for the open- * dng, at $25 a copy. Scheduled opening time was 10 p. m., New Year’s Eve. The customers arrived, and until 11:30, they watched carpenters lay the dance floor, electri- cians trying to hook up lights, and decorators decorating. Everything was friendly like. ] Wliat a One-Nigliter! One of the silent partners was the biggest operator on the West Side, powerful politically and in the “rackets.” Rival business groups flocked in to pay him homage. When .we/closed the till at 5:40 a; m. the next morning we had done a very cozy business of $34,000 in one night—not $3,400—that’s right, $34,000.. We served hard liquor, an ounce and a half at $2 a copy. Champagne sold for $55 a quart. Because of it being the “Forbidden Era” the hard liquor was served in a demi- tasse cup and the champagne in glass water pitchers. The , champagne was disguised as a light punch by means of slices of orange, pineapple and lemon, decorated with whatever green leaves were available at the time. Inci- dentally the fruit slices were made of celluloid, and worked many times during the night. I think it would be interesting in this narrative to note the hard liquor came from a new distillery on 11th Ave- nue, and the champagne was New Hampshire hard cider, garnished with two tablespoons of Vermont maple syrup. For those who ordered their wine dry, we cut down on the syrup. in particular, deeply grateful for a successful caper our Diminishing Returns Writer Claude Binyon was going to earn his living as a cartoonist but gave it up because there wasn’t enough money in it. Writer Bill Morrow was going to earn his living as a cartoonist but gave it up because, etc. Writer Don Quinn was going to earn his living as a cartoonist but ditto. Writer Frank Tashlin ditto. Writer David Swift ditto. Writer Hal Ranter ditto. There ought' to be more money in cartooning. I I I ■ ■" ll ' l M .lll ol . ■ * " II. ■ ■ ■ ■'!■ ■■ ■ ■■■ ■ ■■! ■■■■ | I I M i l 11 1 in partciular, deeply grateful for a successful caper our important silent partner put over for him, spent $5,100. He bought wine for all assembled. He had a fleet of taxi- cabs delivering the stuff to his friends in spots all over town. There were lesser tabs for $2,500 down to $1,000, mostly paid for in cash. It was a record breaking night, never to be forgotten on the Street. Things were going swimmingly. Van & Schenck drew them, and the gold rolled in. We paid $500 a week for in- formation and good information it was. When the tip came about the Revenue boys going to pay us a visit, we would put the spiriti frumentae through a hole in the back wall, into the basement of the building next door, where the search warrant did not apply. Van & Schenck left after 10 weeks to play vaudeville dates. The partnership interest continued. We put in a small floor show, using girlfriends of influential men- about-town. A smart move, the gold continued to pour in. During the 19th week, new teams of Revenue agents were covering the district—information was sketchy, and strangers were served only holy water, and all stock came through the hole in the wall drink by drink. Palais Royal Knocked Off Sam Salvin, one of the smartest class night club opera- tors that ever lived, had the Palais Royal directly oppo- site the Silver Slipper. Paul Whiteman was his attraction. It really was the class spot of town. The Feds made a pinch and closed the place. That set me to thinking. It was only a question of time and the Slipper would get caught. It wouldn’t look well in print that Van & Schenck, or myself, an artists’ repre- sentative, were mixed up in an outside-the-law activity. I decided to get out, and called Van & Schenck in Wash- ing advising them to do the same. They advised me, in turn, to make the best and quickest deal I could. I called a meeting of the active partners. Our cabinet consisted of Hawkeye Horowitz, Pete the Goat, Frankie Marlowe (one year later found murdered out on Long Island), Johnny (ex-Middleweight Champ) Wilson, Big Bill Duffy, Johnny the Shamrock, and Tommy the O’. I put my proposition to them. My side of the house was afraid of the racket and wanted “out.” I was asked my price and gave it. Marlowe had a new Lincoln coupe delivered that day. It was standing at the door. I wanted Marlowe’s car and $10,000. The minute I mentioned $10,000, boom/ seven guys put their hands in their pockets and before Vou could say “Nate Stein” seven hands held $10,000. Dbffy was near- est, and I took his bundle. The deal was made, no papers other than the transfer of Marlowe’s car. I went up to the Chelsea Bank and deposited my money, came back to celebrate with the boys over a bottle of wine. As we were -proposing a toast a group of four men look- ing like hillbillies in store clothing made their appearance. I’ll never forget their shoes. Yellow button shoes with high box toes. They announced they were Revenuers, and it was a pinch. The minute it was announced as a pinch, Pete jabbed a long blade knife into my. clothing, the tip of the blade nipping my skin. Pete was infuriated; figured I was in on the thing. Knowing Pete, and fear- ing his crazy temper, I put my hand in my coatpocket to get my rosary beads. I wanted to pray. Duffy grabbed my hand, the beads banging on my fingers. Duffy saw the beads and ordered Pete to take away the knife. I explained it was just a bit of Shanty Irish luck. I knew nothing of the raid. It had to come sooner or later —I wished then it was later. All the others believed me, but not Pete the Goat. Until his dying day he thought I knew the raid was coming at that time. I offered to give the $10,000 back, together with the car. The boys made a deal, that was it—proving there is “Honor Among ——.” MONTANA, FRANCE 5 = By THOMAS QUINN CURTISS ' p ar i s “The cocktail has gone west,” announced the white- coated Andre sadly the other afternoon, interrupting for a moment his duties as bar-man at the Montana, a two-by- four ginmill that caters to the film bohemia in Saint-Ger- main-des-Pres, Paris’ Greenwich Village. To Andre, who was chief drink-dispenser at Harry’s N. Y. Bar (Paris) during the Cocktail Age (1921-1935), this is a melancholy fact comparable only to the high prices that have caused a marked decline in high tipping. “There are no more calls for Grandma’s Drawers, Louis- iana Flips, Hair Shirts and 12 Mile Limits,” he went on. “Even the Manhattan has fallen from favor and most of the customers around here drink beer,” he added with ^ill-disguised disgust. “Champagne used to sell for a dollar a bottle in 1921. Now it’s $7 a bottle in all bars and over $12 in the niteries. Scotch was 25c a shot in the old days. Now it’s $1.50 and after paying $3 for two Scotches no one is in a mood to add a generous tip. Bars can’t afford to serve the free lunch or even many snacks anymore without extra charge. You’re lucky to get a potato chip or an olive this side of the Ritz. Salted almonds are extinct as the dinosaur. “Prohibition, of course, created the cocktail craze over here. All those out-of-work American bartenders came over and taught us how to shake the shakers. The French picked up the cocktail habit quickly. It was chic 20 years ago and everyone had their own ideas on mixing. But the French have lost the habit and so have the Americans, at least the ones that come to Paris. The dry Martini, the Sidecar and the Rose are the only cocktails a French bar- man has to know how to make today. Scotch is so high- priced that even Americans are taking cognac and Perrier as a substitute. Some of them have been reduced to just drinking Perrier water.” Andre’s present stand draws the pic and nitery people, Simone Signoret, Danielle Delorme, Yves Montand, Jacques Prevert, Gerard Philipe, Michel Auclair, Yves Allegret, Jean Marais, Nicole Vedres, Greco, the be- sweatered singer of Rose Rouge, Anounk Aimee, and Dan- iel Gelin are frequent visitors, and there is always a sprinkling of Americans. Farley Granger, Tennessee Wil- liams, Irwin Shaw and Marlon Brando always come in when they are in town. Andre is pleased with the joint’s success, but he has a tendency to hark back to the happy days at Harry’s Bar when Gloria Swanson (then filming “Madame Safis-Gene” at Versailles), Marquis de la Falaise, Alice Terry, Pearl White, Jack Pickford, Valentino, Rex Ingram, Syd Chaplin, Ernest Hemingway, the Prince of Wales, Adele Astaire, Tod Sloan and Berry Wall were guests. His favorite customer belongs to that lost era, an American whose Paris stay Andre vividly remembers. “He showed up one hot, summer afternoon,” relates Andre, “fresh from the boat train. He had read our ad, ‘Just say “Sank Roo Doonoo” ’ and said it to the taxidriver. He kept the cab, piled high with his luggage, waiting while he had 10 drinks. Then he asked me if I knew a hotel in the neighborhood where he could unload his baggage.' There was one across the street, next to Ciro’s, and he gave orders to deposit his belongings tljere and to check him in while he had another five cocktails. By evening he was pretty drunk, and I had to see him across the street and help him to his room. Next day he was back for a luncheon of cocktails, followed by his after- noon quota. When evening came I had to put him to bed again. i “That went on for three weeks. Although he was al- ways handing out $50 tips, I thought he should see some* thing of Paris. But he wouldn’t even go down to the corner to look at the Opera. One day he told me he was going back to the States and celebrated by downing 30 cocktails. I had to see him to the station. He was so drunk they had to take him down the platform on a trunk- carrier. Finally we settled him in his compartment and stood on the platform waiting for the train to start. He opened the window and stuck his head out and brandished a cognac bottle. “Why did you come over?” I asked him. “I needed a change of air,” he said as the train pulled out. “I wish he’d come back,” Andre added wistfully. Billy Grady THE HONEY BROS. Al, Phil, Tom Just Concluded PARAMOUNT, Now York Now appearing—PALMER HOUSE, Chicago Direction—M.C.A. ♦ -f Joe E. Lewis Pitt Debut Set for Jan. at Carousel Pittsburgh, Dec. 30. Pittsburgh, one of the few key cities in the country Joe E. Lewis has never played, will get the comic next month when he comes to the Carousel Jan. 22 for 10 days. Lewis was to have made his nitery debut here last August, but date was postponed when Jackie Heller’s room ran into a bad stretch at the beginning of the summer and closed down for more than 60 days. Buddy Lester had been skedded to precede Lewis, but he wanted a two-week booking and when Car- ousel would hold still for only a single stanza, comedian told them to forget about it. 4 Steps’ Philippine Tour With Xavier Cugat Orch Chicago. Four Step Bros, plane out of San Francisco Feb. 9 for a six-week Honolulu and Philippine concert and theatre date tour with Xavier Cugat’s orch. Terp combo, current at the Chi- cago Theatre here, fills in with two prior weeks at the Chase Hotel, St. Louis, starting Jan. 16. LEO DE LYON Direction: GENERAL ARTISTS CORPORATION