“My brother Walter is in the Navy, sir. He’s training to be an officer.”
“Signed up of his own accord?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “He dropped out of Princeton.”
“That’s what we need right now,” said Winchell. “More boys like that. More boys brave enough to volunteer to fight Hitler before somebody tells them they have to. Is he a good-looking kid?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course he is, with a name like that.”
The waiter came over to ask if we needed anything, and I came this close to ordering a gin fizz double, purely out of habit—but had the presence of mind to stop myself just in time. The waiter’s name was Louie. I’d kissed him before. He didn’t appear to recognize me, thank goodness.
“Look,” said Winchell. “I need you two to scram. You’re making this table look low rent. I don’t even know how you shoehorned yourselves in here in the first place, looking the way you do.”
“We will leave after I get an assurance from you that you won’t put Vivian’s name in the newspaper tomorrow,” said Olive, who always knew how to push people just a little bit further.
“Hey, you don’t come to Table 50 at the Stork Club and tell me what you need, lady,” snapped Winchell. “I don’t owe you anything. That’s the only assurance you’re getting.”
Then he turned to me. “I would tell you to keep your nose clean from now on, but I know you won’t. The indictment stands—you did a lousy thing, little girl, and you got caught. You’ve probably done a bunch of other lousy things, too, only you’ve been lucky so far not to get busted. Well, your luck ended tonight. Getting tangled up with somebody’s bum husband and a hot-to-trot lezzie—that’s no way for a girl from a good family to live. You’ll do more stupid things in the future, if I know people. So all I can tell you is this: if a so-called nice girl like you is gonna keep rummaging around with rough trade like Celia Ray, you’re gonna have to learn how to fight your own corner. This old hag here is a pain in my neck, but she’s got a lot of fortitude, going to bat for you like this. Not sure why she cares about you, or why you deserve it. But from now on, little girl, fight your own battles. Now get the hell out of here, you two, and stop ruining my night. You’re scaring away all the important people.”
TWENTY
The next day, I hid in my room for as long as I could. I kept waiting for Celia to come home so we could talk all this over, but she never showed up. I hadn’t slept and my nerves were a jangling nightmare. It was like I had thousands of doorbells attached to my brain, and they were all buzzing at the same time. I was too afraid of running into anyone—but most especially Edna—to risk going to the kitchen for breakfast, or for lunch.
In the afternoon, I slipped out of the theater to go buy the paper so I could read Winchell’s column. I opened it up right there at the newsstand, fighting the March wind that wanted to blow my bad news away.
There was the photo of Arthur and Celia and me, in our embrace. You could vaguely make out my profile, but there was no way to be sure it was me. (In low light, all pretty brunettes look the same.) Arthur’s and Celia’s faces, however, could be seen clear as day. They were the important ones, I suppose.
I swallowed hard, and made myself read it.
—
From Walter Winchell, in the New York Daily Mirror, afternoon edition, March 25, 1941:
Here’s some conduct ungentlemanly and improper from one “Mr. Edna Parker Watson.” How ’bout two American showgirls to keep you warm, you greedy limey, if one ain’t enough? . . . That’s right, we caught Arthur Watson pashing it outside the Spotlite with his
City of Girls
costar Celia Ray and another leggy denizen of Lesbos. . . . I call that a nice way to spend your time, mister, while your countrymen are fighting and dying against Hitler. . . . What a commotion out there on the sidewalk last night! . . . Let’s hope these three stupid cupids had fun playing for the cameras, because anyone with brains can see it: Here’s another showbiz marriage about to get Reno-vated! . . . Arthur Watson probably got a number nine spanking from his wife last night. . . . What a lousy day for the Watsons! They shoulda stood in bed! . . . That’s the word from the bird!
—
A leggy denizen of Lesbos.”
But no name.
Olive had saved me.
—
Around six that evening, there was a knock on my door. It was Peg, looking just as green and grisly as I felt.
She sat down on my clothes-strewn bed.
“Shit,” she said, and it sounded like she meant every word of it.
We sat in silence for a long while.
“Well, kiddo, you sure did foul things up,” she said at last.
“I’m so sorry, Peg.”
“Save it. I won’t queen it over you. But this sure has brought down trouble upon our heads—trouble of every variety. I’ve been up with Olive since dawn, trying to bring order to the wrack and ruin.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said again.
“You should really save it. You’ll need those sorries for other people. Don’t waste them on me. But we do have some items to discuss. First off, I want you to know that Celia has been fired.”
Fired! I’d never heard of anyone getting fired from the Lily.
“But where will she go?” I asked.
“She will go elsewhere. She’s done. She’s in the ash can. I told her to come get her things tonight while the show is on. I’m going to ask you not to be in this room when she arrives. I don’t want any further agitation.”
Celia was leaving and I wouldn’t even get a chance to say goodbye! But where was she going to? I knew for a fact that she didn’t have a dime to her name. Nowhere to stay. No family. She’d be laid to waste.
“I had to do it,” Peg said. “I wasn’t going to make Edna share the stage with that girl again. And if I didn’t get rid of Celia after this mess, we would’ve had a palace revolt from the rest of the cast. Everyone is too angry. We can’t risk that. So I’ve replaced Celia with Gladys. She’s not as good, but she’ll do fine. Wish I could fire Arthur, too, but Edna won’t have that. She may end up firing him herself down the line, but that’s her call. The man’s a bad hat—but what can you do? She loves him.”
“Is Edna going onstage tonight?” I asked, in wonder.
“Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she? She’s not the one who did anything wrong.”
I winced. But truly, I was shocked to hear she would be performing. I thought maybe Edna would be in hiding—checked into a sanatorium somewhere, or at least crying behind a locked door. I thought maybe the whole play would have been canceled.
“It won’t be a pleasant evening for her,” said Peg. “Everyone’s read Winchell, of course. There will be a lot of whispers. The audience will be staring at her with bloodlust, wanting to see her flounder and flail. But she’s a trouper, and she’ll face it. Better to get it over with, is her feeling. Show must go on, and all that. We’re lucky for her strength. If she wasn’t this resolute, or such a good friend, she probably would have quit the show—and then where would we be? Thankfully, she knows how to prevail—and she will.”
She lit a cigarette and went on: “I also had a talk today with your boyfriend, Anthony. He wanted to leave the show. Said he wasn’t having fun anymore. Said we were ‘bugging’ him, whatever that means. Specifically said that you are bugging him. I managed to convince him to stay, but we have to pay him more, and he stipulated he doesn’t want you ‘messing’ with him anymore. Because you ‘did him dirt.’ Says he’s done with you. Doesn’t even want to hear you ‘jawing’ at him. I’m just quoting here, Vivvie. I think I’ve conveyed the fullness of his message. I don’t know whether he’ll be able to put on a good show tonight, but we’ll find out soon enough. Olive had a long talk with him this morning, trying to keep the boy on track. It would be best if you steered clear of him. For now on, pretend he doesn’t exist.”