In an earlier story on James Michael Curley we met Kate and Matt Jameson, a couple in their early 20’s. We also met Kate’s aunt and uncle, Kelly and Brendan McGrath, a sophisticated, successful and well-connected couple in their late 40’s. As we saw, Kelly and Brendan were mentors and role models.
The McGrath’s lived in and worked out of Boston, but spent considerable time out of town, especially in New York, Chicago and L.A. They had urgent business in Manhattan; and since it was the Jameson’s first anniversary, they asked them along to check out the nightlife.
The story that follows is part three of four episodes experienced on one not-soon-forgotten night in mid-1950’s Manhattan. A few years back, one of my relatives, a skilled diarist, showed me the stories to use as I wished. They are a poignant look at New York nightlife from a bygone era. Adaptation of style is limited; the story lines as originally written remain the same.
The four continued their stroll up Sixth Avenue with Kelly and Brendan observing the architecture of the buildings, with Kate offering pithy observations. They turned onto 53rd Street, walked down the block and crossed 5th Avenue. Brendan stopped in front of the Stork Club, looked at his watch and said, “I told Walter I’d try to stop in tonight, mind?”
The doorman swung them through into a blur of oak, drinks, dark suits, fur and glitter all backlit in a lavender glow. They found space at the long bar amidst the darting eyes and air-kissing artifice. Brendan said. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Kate asked Kelly, “If I may be so bold, who’s Walter?"
“Winchell. I loathe the piranha; but when you manage other people’s money you gotta’ do what you gotta’ do, and Brendan’s back in the Cub Room doing it. I hope he screws him good.” There was an edge in Kelly’s voice they had never heard before. Beneath her naturalness and warmth lay a reserve of street toughness accumulated from early childhood and the years on Broadway and in Hollywood.
The main room of the Stork Club was partially hidden. They heard champagne corks popping like drumfire and parties at table whooping it up; and caught glimpses of balloons clinging to the walls and thin, table-hopping women in expensive black. Matt decided to follow the advice of a college friend from the South and ‘just sit there and grin.’
A sleek character in tux and and smile slid out of the doorway. Kelly said, “Here comes Sherman Billingsley, the owner of the joint. He’s spotted us. Be prepared for a fluid schmooze. He could charm a basket of snakes.”
Billinsgley was ambushed at the other end of the bar by a couple gushing oil. He, well-girthed and ten-galloned; she chiffoned and a bit Steinway in the leg. It looked like a hopeless trap in an insipid conversation. Billingsley’s getaway was a masterstroke: He tossed a small box of matches in one hand and pointed to a large goblet halfway down the bar with the other. He flicked the matches into the goblet, and his guests laughed and clapped. They pivoted in their seats, and with impeccable timing the retreating Billingsley rewarded them with a disarming wink and wave.
“Kelly, you look bewitching as always. Is Brendan relieving someone, Winchell, I hope, of his ill-gotten gains? I could use some help myself. Believe it or not, the hateful tube is costing me customers. Even the thoroughbreds are rotting their minds.” Then, in an effortless segue, and looking at Kate, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your fresh-faced friends.”
Kate, in a bulls-eye send-up of a young, smiling and breathless Katherine Hepburn, asked, “What time do you open for breakfast Mister Billingsley?” She dragged the last syllable of his last name about three yards.
Billingsley nearly rolled on the floor and when he recovered, asked Kelly, “Where did you find Kate Junior, cheekbones and all?” Brendan appeared and Billingsley picked his pocket until distracted by incoming money. He departed cooing having waved off the check.
After Kelly told Brendan the Hepburn-breakfast story, he said, “That was a classic put-on you gave Sherman, Kate. People rarely get him where he lives. He does have a sense of humor behind all that charade, although Sherman usually laughs only at his own jokes. And he liked the line so much he picked up the check. That’s a first, too. If you’ll walk us to the Waldorf, I’ll buy a nightcap at Peacock Alley. There’s a standout piano player."
Matt quietly asked Kate, “Are you ready for this?"
“I’m ready for anything.”
(To be continued in Part Four: The Waldorf Astoria; drinks with NJ; the fantasy cab.)
Richard J. Noyes, former Associate Director, Center for Advanced Engineering Study, Massachusetts Institute of Technology is a consultant to public and private sector organizations.
Noyes is the co-author with Pamela J. Robertson of Larceny of Love, a provocative print and eBook novel that traces the interwoven careers of three men in jeopardy (one of whom is a professional pitcher who experiences sudden, extreme, unexplained, career-threatening wildness) and the unforgettable women in their lives. http://amzn.to/u0LtvX http://bit.ly/upp8hX (Nook) http://bit.ly/v1qaGe (Google e-Books)
“Whenever dramatic storytelling about people you like is created around business, sports and film, I'm a happy reader. I'm sure you will be as well.” –Kevin Marcus, Sotheby Vice President
Another recent print and eBook by Richard Noyes and Pamela Robertson: Guts in the Clutch: 77 Legendary Triumphs, Heartbreaks, and Wild Finishes in 12 Sports, with a Foreword by Drew Olson of ESPN. http://gutsintheclutch.com/
“The best compilation of fascinating sports stories I have read.” -David Houle, Emmy and Peabody Award-winning producer of documentaries on Hank Aaron and the Harlem Globetrotters.
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