We played fairs and carnivals, wooden booths and magnificent theatres usually built for populations which had failed to materialise and which were slowly falling into decay. We played seaside resorts on piers and boardwalks, local fairs, fruit and flower festivals. We had become gypsies and were content enough, even if we sometimes dreamed of the moment when Florence Ziegfeld or Cecil B. DeMille would see us and put us under contract. We knew in our hearts it would never happen. The nearest we came at that time to someone of means taking us up was in San Luis Obispo when we heard one of William Randolph Hearst’s lieutenants was in the audience. Apparently he had been told by his boss to find some local entertainment for a party at Hearst’s ranch in the hills above the little town. I gathered we were unsuitable. No contract was offered.
In November 1923, at Huntington Beach, we were doing our Russian playlet, a couple of sketches and a song medley, filling a bill with two ‘movie-dramas’ and four other acts at Maddison’s, a little beachfront vaudeville theatre on the fringes of the ‘entertainment strip’. Like several ocean-front villages in Southern California. Huntington Beach had become part resort, with the usual small hotels, fairgrounds, boardwalk sideshows, and part oil town. Very noticeable amongst the mixture of family groups, inebriated oil-riggers, bored-looking old people and other seaside regulars, an expensively-dressed but untidy man sat in the front row, transfixed by Mrs Cornelius. I admit I felt some jealousy. Ethel guessed he was a theatrical agent when he sat through both that day’s performances but when he appeared backstage with a bunch of flowers I found vulgar in both colour and size, I remembered him. He, however, did not know me, perhaps because of my makeup. I was able to block his way before he got into our dressing-room. He was apologetic, even humble. His huge greying bulk (he was not yet forty) trembled in its loose suit as he blubbered how he would dearly love to make the acquaintance of Mrs Cornelius and express his sincere admiration for her acting. I had met him in Atlanta, at the Klankrest party. John ‘Mucker’ Hever, the oil engineer, sweating a little in the heat, somewhat fatter than before, would probably not have recalled me in any event. His eyes were full of Mrs Cornelius. His mouth was full of her. He was completely smitten. I did my best to get rid of him as quickly as I could. The last thing I wanted was for my alias and whereabouts to be passed on to the Klan. I was equally frightened that the Klan’s enemies might find me. Furthermore I did not think he was an appropriate suitor for Mrs Cornelius. I took his bouquet and his card and sent him away. I gave the flowers to Mrs Cornelius, but I kept the card. I told her I had no idea who they were from. Next day, however, he was back again, with roses and gardenias, more demands for an introduction. To my dismay I had to cope with him each evening for an entire week. At least I protected Mrs Cornelius from him. I was relieved when we were on the road again, moving down the coast to San Diego. The huge white-topped breakers of the Pacific, the palms and the yellow beaches soon took my mind off ‘Mucker’, his ludicrous passion and my dismay at encountering this unexpected reviver of my previous persona.
While we played the little mock-Spanish theatres near the border, life became increasingly easy. We even had a few dollars in our cash box. I often wondered what it would have been like for me had I chosen to remain an actor. Probably I should have soon grown restless, like John Wayne or Frank Sinatra, and returned to politics. It is fashionable these days to mock Governor Reagan’s ambitions, but who can say if his natural talents would have been allowed to develop had he not taken his opportunities where he could, donning the stetson and six-gun as a champion of old virtue? He was a successful actor because he believed in his lines. Surely that is also the mark of a successful politician? The point, I would think, is not that you play a part, but that you choose which part you want.
Through the rest of 1923 and into 1924 we continually found enough work to keep body and soul together. We became polished enough to refuse the poorer bookings. Now we appeared only in permanent theatre buildings, and once or twice reached the top of the bill. Life was good. We did not overly mourn Warren Harding when he died (another victim of the Black Pope). Calvin Coolidge seemed a man of great commonsense. Our circumstances remained unchanged. For a short while the news of Lenin’s death in January 1924 brought a mild hope I might see my mother again. Nothing improved. In England the Bolsheviks increased their influence when the socialists under Ramsay MacDonald seized power. Carthage was making steady gains, but I could not see it. I scarcely cared. I agreed with Mrs Cornelius who said one morning after reading the item about Hitler’s Munich failure, ‘we’re well art of it orl, if yer arsk me, Ivan!’
Only in Italy was there any chance of political stability. In Russia, the Bolsheviks actually tightened their grip. It became clear that Lenin had been a restraining influence on the Oriental elements now apparently in power. In April 1924, at Mrs Cornelius’s insistence but against my better judgment (though I looked forward to city life again) we returned to Stranoff’s in San Francisco. They had offered us triple their old rate. We could not afford to refuse. The place was a little more decrepit but otherwise unchanged. Mrs Cornelius even found a piece of chewing-gum where she had stuck it on her last visit. We were doing White Knight and Red Queen as part of a bill including Douglas Fairbanks’s Mark of Zorro and Rudolf Valentino’s The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. On our second evening Harry Galiano arrived in my dressing-room. He was full of good cheer and with a broad grin pumped my hand. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you’re doin’ great!’ He had brought me a letter. It had arrived earlier, in care of Mr Vince Potter at the North Beach address. ‘From Italy,’ said Harry. I reached out for it. I trembled. This letter was to bring a significant change in my life and remind me of my duty, my Lebensplan, my original course. Before I could open it Harry removed his hat somewhat awkwardly and told me with controlled sadness that Vince had been treacherously murdered about a week before the letter arrived. Harry knew Vince would have wanted to be sure I got it. I asked if he knew who killed his boss. Harry assured me with quiet confidence that justice would soon be done. He apologised for his poor manners. If there had been time to find me he would have invited me to the funeral, since I was ‘almost a relative’. I was surprised to hear Vince had followed my career with close interest. ‘We come to see you one night when you was outside Eureka some place. But we only caught half the show on account we was heading for Weaverville. We thought you was swell. Very classy. Vince was thinking about hiring you for the club. He was one of the sweetest guys in the world. But too soft, you know, for his own good. This letter come inside one from his cousin Annibale. I kept an eye on the posters, you know, and the Examiner, saw the show was in town. And here we are.’ The envelope was creased and crumpled, as if it had been thrown away and then recovered. I scarcely dared open it. Harry grinned. ‘That reminds me. You been writing bum checks. Matt?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Maybe you heard of somebody called Callahan? He’s looking for you. Or, anyway, Pallenberg. It’s to do with a check. That’s all I know.’