A gangster daughter is ripped from comfort and innocence into confronting her fatherโs nefarious gangster life as Ben Siegelโs friend and partner. Ten years after her father took his own life; Lily discovers she must break the code of silence, to free herself from shame and distrust.ย When that trust is tested against her father, who controls her mentally, Lily is faced with standing up to him. ย ย ย
I moved in with my Dad when I was thirteen years old.ย My mother had just passed away, and I arrived with innocence and untrained cooking skills.ย Mom was an Irish Catholic meatloaf and corn-beef cook. ย Dad was a Russian Orthodox raisedย moderate vegetarian, and decided to hire a chef to teach me how to cook.
I came home from school one day, and found Caesar ย in the kitchen. He was a stand-in for Paulie in the Godfather, only he had curly black hair, and apple red cheeks.ย Caesar was dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and an apron that fell short of fitting him.ย Dad instructed Cesar to teach me how to make salads, baked fish, and spaghetti with oil and garlic. Everyday after school, Caesar was in the kitchen preparing dinner for us, and I ย stood beside him, observing his chubby knuckled fingers, slice and chop vegetables. We started with what Dad ordered; a meal in a salad, and later coined it Farmer’s Chop Suey. The salad was not just prepared, it was a decorated masterpiece when he finished. During the preparation, I noticed beads of sweat on Caesarโs face, and a jittery nervousness, surfaced just before my father arrived home, โWhat do you think?ย Will Dad approve?โย He asked. I assured him Dad would love the salad.ย ย ย Cesar and I became pals, and waited anxiously for Dadโs arrival.ย He wasnโt all that agreeable. Fastidiousness and perfection are common traits amongst gangsters.ย Usually, Dad remarked there wasnโt enough garlic, or there were too many croutons, and Caesar would swiftly correct the complaint.
After Cesar went home, ย Dad would talk to me about food, and how everything starts in the stomach, and how the vegetables have to be scrubbed, and the seeds removed.ย Three or four times a week Dad dined out, and he didn’t order salads.ย He frequented Italian restaurants, and his favorite was Bouillabaisse, with a side of pasta.ย I never saw him enjoy any food as much as Borsch with sour cream, and smoked white fish. That was his favorite childhood meal. Hisย father was a Orthodoxย Butcher, a very scared skill that requires a thoroughย understanding of Kosher preparation.
About six months had passed, and I came home one day and Cesar wasnโt there.ย Instead I found my father in a rage. I asked about Cesar and he told me it was none of my business, and to start preparing dinner.ย After my first salad preparation, Dad applauded my presentation, and assured me everything he was teaching me would serve me later on in life. He explained he had to beย harsh and demanding, ย because he wanted me to be able to take care of myself properly.
I developed into a moderate vegetarian and have used that salad as a blueprint for most of my meals. Now I create a variety of salads, and a lot more ingredients:ย like white beans,ย garbanzos, walnuts, tuna, or shrimp,ย artichokes, sun-dried tomatoes etc.ย ย My friends call me a free-style cookย because I only use recipes when Iโm making soups or stews.
I was very fortunate to grow up with a father who spent hours teaching me what I would need to know in life.ย This is something you won’t read or see in a film about growing up with gangsters.
My dad was Johnny’s pal, close, like brothers, all through their life. Uncle Johnny
was my hero, he calmed my dad down, and he loved my mother because he knew she was a saint, and he was immensely religious.ย This is how I imagined his murder.
A blue Ford sedan with tinted windows pulled up in front of a bar in Biscayne Bay.ย The driver Tony, stared out the windshield looking beyond the boundaries made by man.ย Two of his men, sat in silence in the back seat. ย They were staring ahead, in the same mental latitude as the driver, with unblinking surgeon eyes. ย Tony turned off the ignition, and leaned back. The only sound came from the flapping of the bar screen door.
โMove,โ Tony ordered closing his eyes. Abe and Chuck exited the sedan in one long continuous motion as if they were tied together. Tony waited, without changing the position of his right hand on the leather coated steering wheel. He heard the bar door squeak as it opened. He could see Abe and Chuck entering the bar. He did not need to see them physically. This was stored in his memory. The single file procession into the bar, the attachment to the target, and the guarded exit. Tony checked the time on his pocket watch. The minutes went slowly. He lost his concentration, and was tumbling in memories; he filed them in two categories, the ones that belonged to the outfit, and the ones that belonged to him. He slipped back to the sixties, in Las Vegas, when the boys sat poolside at the Desert Inn and bit into olives handed to them by freshly polished show girls in bikinis.ย ย Then he saw Johnny, lounging at the pool, his crown of white hair perfectly combed. He was surrounded by showgirls. The dames loved Johnny. He was better than any Hollywood movie star.
Then the door to the passenger side opened. Tony glanced at the blue gabardine slacks, and Gucci loafers. ย He could smell Johnny, even before he got in the car. His scent was recognizable, as if heโd been born wearing Boucheron.
โFor crying out loud boys–I was just getting
an erection. โ
Johnny turned to Tony, the man he met twenty years ago when he was a driver for Santos Trafficante, the Mafia Don in Florida.ย Johnny slapped his knee and wheezed through his laughter. Tony couldnโt return the glance, or the laughter
โTony! Whatโs the long face for, are we going to a funeral?โ Tony shook his head from left to right. He gripped the steering wheel, afraid he might put his fist right through the windshield. Johnny nudged his rib.
โLoosen up, youโll miss the target.โย Tony reached into his breast pocket.
โHave a cigar Johnny, fresh from Castro. The same brand you tried to poison him with remember?โ Tonyโs forcedย laughter sounded hollow.
โHell, that wasnโt my idear; you guys are still screwing up the story. ย Thatโs your problem, it youโre gonna squeal at least tell it the way it happened.โ
โShut your trap,โ Tony snapped.ย Johnny did not appear to hear the comments, or if he did chose not to recognize the remarks of the backseat thug.
Johnny took the cigar and fingered it. He twirled it around with two fingers, and then placed it under his nostrils and inhaled deeply.
โDoc says no more–not if Iโm gonna live without an oxygen tank tucked into my pocket. How โbout that? I even gave up the cigars when I moved down here. I canโt afford them anymore.โ His laughter came easy, the way it always did.
โJohnny……I,โ Tony stuttered.
โDid you hear the joke about the Italian and the Jew?โ Tony nodded yes, but Johnny began telling the joke anyway. Tony turned the ignition on and drove away from town, slowly like they do in a funeral procession. They left the parts of the city ruled by law and order. ย The white villas shaded by palms, and guarded security gates. They descended into the pit of the buried past, the old rail yards, the site of hollow industrial buildings and warehouses. From there Tony entered an abandoned parking lot inside a junkyard, piled high with tin and steel parts. At one time they were valuable, like Johnny. Those days were gone, the junk piled up, just like dead Mafia Dons.
The sky dimmed in these parts of town, the shadows from the freeway overpass blocked the late crimson sunlight. Johnny was quiet now, sitting calmly with his hands folded together in his lap. His facial muscles relaxed, the jokes were over now. His mind was elsewhere.
โThe son of a bitch gave me no choice John! Iโm sure dead too if I ….โ Tony stammered.
โStop your babbling, Iโm not your priest. I got a few orders for you. I want you to get word to Smiley, before anyone, you hear me. Donโt call his home; heโs got a private service. Iโll give you the number when Iโm finished.ย Heโll know what to tell my sister. Heโs a born messenger of bad news. Had to do it too many times.โ
โHow long you known we was coming?โย Tony asked solemnly.
โJust as long as Iโve been taking orders. Tony my boy, I didnโt think Iโd go out like Brando in the movie. How long has it been now? …forty-five years. Thatโs a long life in these shoes.ย The whole mess is running through my head Tony, as we sit here, itโs like a movie rewinding. You want to know the best of it; I mean the one moment worth remembering. The first night I walked into the Mayflower Hotel as a guest of Capone. My first big shindig was a coming out party for Joey Lewisโs big fight.ย I was so impressed with Ricca back then, I tried to mimic him. Must have looked like a soiled fool. I thought I had a smart suit on until I got to the party, and took a look around. Suddenly I felt like a paisano clown. I said to myself, Iโll never know this again; never will I feel less than the people around me. Capone treated me good in the beginning, all that money he threw around…..ย It impressed Rockefeller.โ
โJohnny itโs getting late,โ Tony interrupted.
โCapone was puffed up that night, shaking hands with Walker and the boys at Tammany Hall. We were all one then, the politicians and the boys. I donโt know how the thing got so screwed up.โย The car came to an abrupt stop, and the back door opened. Chuck got out and stretched his legs. Johnny glanced at him, โSee, no respect anymore.ย I would have diced his fingers off in the old days. Get out of the car Abe; go polish your piece or something,โ Johnny ordered, and then continued his story.
โThat was the night Tony, the best of everything all night and I didnโt sleep for a day afterward because I was so swollen with myself. It sounds silly now.โ Just as Tony tipped his head in memoryโs path, Johnny clapped his hands loudly. Tony shuddered as Johnny knew he would.
โLemme see the equipment,โ He ordered tossing the sentiment out of his voice. He turned his steely blue eyes on Tony and waited.
โThey loaded me up, like I was going to a massacre. Theyโre still afraid of you John. Even now I have to say.โ Tony rattled; heโd lost the last bit of dry eyed machismo.
โThatโs a relief.โย Johnny answered.
Tony got out of the car and hopped around the front to open the door for Johnny.ย He felt queasy in his stomach like the first time he had a hit. He watched Johnny now, knowing it would be some story to tell. ย First Johnny scanned his surroundings, like the eye of the camera.ย He could take in distant angles without moving a muscle. He could estimate the distance of things, the entrances, and exits of buildings without appearing to even look at that direction. He closed his eyes for a minute. They all watched, and waited.
โYou fellas been here earlier?โ Johnny shouted.ย The three men exchanged a mutual questioning glance. Johnny shook his head in disgust.
โHow can you show up at a location without knowing every rock and puddle?ย Christ! Am I gonna have to shoot myself? Show me the equipment before I scare you off.โ
Tony reluctantly unlocked the trunk of the car.ย Johnny stepped forward, pushing Abe and Chuck out of the way.
โLooks like a lot of machinery for a seventy year old veteran. Whatta they think, someoneโs gonna drop down here with back up and take you boys on. What the hell are the knives for?โ Abe and Chuck rocked nervously on their heels. Tony hunched over, as if drawing breath from the ground.
โTony!โ Johnny yelled.
โIโm sick Johnny …. lemme catch my breath.โ
โYea, you do that, while Abe and Chuck sharpen the knives. Go on fellas get your pieces.โ
โJohnny, we have orders,โ Tony whispered
โFrom who?ย I donโt care if you skin me!ย I want to know who gave the order!โ
โItโs not who you think Johnny, I could hardly believe it myself.โ Johnny moved closer to Tony, he stroked his back, and whispered, โI promise I wonโt tell pal,โ he said squeezing Tonyโs balls.
โThe order came from the White House; they called Santos, and told him to take care of it. Johnny I canโt go through it, I canโt do it.โย Then he fell to his knees and clutched Johnnyโs leg, sobbing.
โItโs all right Tony, get up and give it to me the way they asked.โ
โWeโll clean you out first shot,โ Abe interjected. Again Johnny did not acknowledge the comment.ย He reached out and put his hands on Tonyโs shoulders, and looked him in the eye.
โItโs bad, they got cement donโt they?โ
โOh Christ! let me take this all back.ย I canโt do what they ask. They want us to chop the legs, get you inside a steel drum, and in the water.โ Tony suddenly heaved up, and vomited, sobbing at the same time.
โJesus Christ Tony, youโre disgusting,โ Abe shouted. He took a cigarette from his pocket. Johnny turned slowly around and glared at the bridge of his nose. He locked in on the spot, and gradually walked toward him. He reached for Abeโs pistol, a 357 magnum and holding it in Abeโs hand guided the pistol until it was pointing directly into his eyes.
โIf youโre in a hurry, go ahead and shoot me now.โย Abe turned sideways. Then he dropped his aim, and walked away. Johnny leaned against the car, and wiped his brow.ย ย ย ย โLet me alone for awhile; take a walk, all of you.โ He ordered.
Tony pulled himself up and wiped his mouth.ย That was the least he could do, give the boss one last moment. He signaled for Abe and Chuck to follow and they headed towards one of the abandoned warehouses.ย Johnny waited until they were exactly thirty-five feet off.ย Then he slid into the car, and turned on the ignition.ย In a whirl of smoky dirt, he spun the car around three times, and flew past the boys, laughing his head off.ย He didnโt stop laughing until he reached the airport. He left the car, and ran all the way to the reservation desk of Air Italia.ย Perspiring and short of breath, he said to the pretty young clerk.ย โOne way ticket please, to Palermo…. Sicily.โ Johnny was going home.
John Rosselli (right) checks over a writ of habeas corpus with his lawyer, Frank Desimone after Rosselli surrendered to the U.S. Marshall here yesterday… (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Reference: All American Mafioso, The Johnny Roselli Story. ย By: Ed Becker.
WHERE TO BEGIN THIS STORY OF A FATHER THAT I ONLY CAME TO UNDERSTAND BY READING HIS FBI FILES, BOOKS ABOUT MOB HISTORY WRITTEN BY LAW ENFORCEMENT AND COLLEGE PROFESSORS, AND DOCUMENTARIES PRODUCED BY FOES OF MY FATHER.
My last year with Dad was 1981. Naive, and unconcerned with where I was headed, or how Iโd get there if I figured it out,ย I was spinning around in an executive chair; waiting for the big hand on the black and white office clock to set me free.ย Time didnโt pass; I hauled it over my head, in my bland windowless office, under florescent glare. I was trouble shooting for an ambitious group of USC guys as they gobbled up all of Los Angeles real estate. Without any real sense of survival or independence, my life was in the hands of my father.
โMeyerโs coming to see me; havenโt seen the little guy in twenty-five years.โ ย ย Dad said during a commercial break.
โMeyer Lansky?โ I asked as casually as heโd spoken.
โWho else?โ
โWhy did you two wait so long?โ
โItโs no concern of yours; heโs my friend, not yours.โ I was twenty-nine years old and still verbally handcuffed.
The three of us went out to dinner, and while the two of them spoke in clipped short wave syndicate code, I
noticed that neither one of them looked at all happy.ย It was rare to catch my father in public with a friend, without raucous laughter, and storytelling.ย My attempt to revive the dinner conversation with my own humor,returned two sets of silent eyeball commands to resist speaking.
Several months later I received a call from Dad asking me to come over to his apartment, he had collapsed on the bathroom floor. ย When I arrived, he pleaded for me to stay close by.ย ย โIโll be all right in a few minutes; I just need to catch my breath. โย I sat outside the bathroom door biting my nails, and waited, like our dog Spice, for my orders. For the first time in my life, he was weaker than I, and my turmoil centered on that unfamiliar reversal of roles.
Growing up the daughter of a gangster meant that I would remain a ย little girl forever. My father died when I was 29, but emotionally I was still a teenager.
Had I had known that I was seated next to one of the most powerful and influential men in theย Mafia, Johnny Roselli, ย then I would have listened with sharpened ears, and repeated bits of explosive headline blood curdling stories to my girlfriends. That would have placed myself, my father, Johnny and my friends in jeopardy. An informant from the government may tag me on the way home from school, or tag one of my friends, ย or an enemy of the Boss, may pick me up from school and not bring me back.ย Everyone is suspect: an informant, or weak enough to become an informant, a loose lipped wise guy, a bragging connected businessman, a friend of a friend, a cousin of a brother, and a daughter of a gangster. We are all potential targets of this organization known as the Mafia, Mob, syndicate, Costa Nostra, or our thing.ย Growing up in this circle of gamblers, killers, fixers, enforcers, ย bookies was like growing up in a novel, it was a fictional tale all the way, until the end of my fatherโs life.ย ย ย There is a drop down board that appears every time I write about our family business that reads,
โ How dare you open my life to the world, what do you know? You know nothing little sweetheart, and thatโs the way I planned it. โ
โThereโs no such thing as the Mafia! If you ever mention that word again, youโre leaving this house!โย ย I melted down to the floor, and he was ominous as God standing over me. I would never mention the word again, I promised, and I would never believe in the Mafia.ย ย ย
I was a child of the fifties; when raising kids was easily defined. Mommy stayed home and made sure the kids didnโt burn the house down. Daddy went to an office to make money to pay for the house, and children waited until they were grown up to find out anything really useful. It was before the generation-gap was coined, or children knew how to be witty and sharp. In our air-tight neighborhood of Bel Air, Los Angeles, we were naรฏve, privileged, kids; bogged down with falling off bicycles, not being chosen for the school play, and bringing home the most candy at Halloween.
I believed in Santa Clause, the Easter bunny, and if I was good, Mommy would let me stay up and watch the Sunday night Variety Show.
America was threatened by the Russian Communists and Organized crime. Public enemy Number One was New York Mafia Boss, Frank Costello. Frank became super famous when he refused to testify on national television for Senator Estes Kefauver. The Kefauver Committee delivered explosive headlines between 1950 and 1951, as the government unveiled the hidden hand of the Mafia in the United States.
This is an excerpt from the memoir Iโve been working on many years. The first manuscript was 800 pages; about three of them were worth reading. The book mutated about 2000 times.
โWhatโs it like knowing your father is a gangster? Did you know when you were a teenager? Did your father kill anyone? Did you ever meet Bugsy? Arenโt you afraid of his friends? You know they kill people.โย ย ย ย
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย I was thirteen years old when my best friend told me my father was a gangster. She didnโt mean any harm. We told each other everything.ย We were standing in the Brentwood Pharmacy one day in 1966, and we turned the book rack around until we found โThe Green Felt Jungle.โ
โThatโs the book, let me look first and see what it says.โ She whispered. I waited while she flipped trough the pages.
โOh my God, there he is,โ she said grasping my shoulders.ย We hunched over the book and read the description of my father beneath his photograph.
โAllen Smiley was the only witness to the murder of Bugsy Siegel.โ
โWhat does that mean, who is Bugsy Siegel?โ I asked.
โShush, not so loud, Iโm afraid to tell you this Luellen, itโs awful. I donโt believe it. โ
โWhat is it? Tell me.โ
โBugsy Siegel was a gangster, he killed people. Your father was his friend.โ
I donโt think I should read this, โI said replacing the book on the rack.
โDonโt tell your father I told you,โ she warned.
โWhy not?โ
โMy mother told me not to tell you, swear to me you wonโt tell your father.โ
โI swear, come on letโs go.โ
My father called himself Allen Smiley. The FBI tagged him โarmed and dangerous.โ The Department of Justice referred to him as the โRussian Jew.โ I called him Daddy.ย ย e had salty sea blue eyes blurred by all the storms heโd seen.ย When I said something funny, his eyes crystallized and flattened like glass, smoothing out the bad memories.ย He was always a different color, dressed in perfectly matched shades of pink, silver and blue. My small child eyes rested cheerfully on his silk ties, a collage of jewel tones. The feel of his fabric was soft like blankets.ย He was very interesting to look at when I was a child and open to all this detail.
A LITERARY AGENT I know emphasized the importance of rounding up readers. Thatโs not so easy when youโre exposing your own guarded family secret.
My mother married my father two years after Benjamin โBugsyโ Siegel was murdered. Sitting beside Ben the night of the murder provoked an immediate response from my father; it was time to get the hell out. He promised to reform, and she agreed to marry him. ย One of her compromises was her religious faith. She was Irish Catholic. She stopped going to church, and she didnโt convert. It was a bitter irritation between them. My father raised us Jewish, we attended Hebrew School and went to Synagogue every Saturday morning. The complexity of being half Jewish and half Catholic surfaced, when some classmate told me I wasnโt really Jewish. I told this to my father. I still remember his answer coming at me like a round of bullets.
โ Thatโs an idiot! It doesnโt matter if youโre half Jewish or a quarter, youโre a Jew! Donโt you ever forget it, and donโt let anyone tell you different. DO YOU HEAR ME?โย To this day when people remind me that Iโm not really Jewish I say,โ For my father, God made an exception.โ
Friends are different for men in the Mafia, and for their wives. Real friends have to be connected. You cannot trust anyone else.ย My mother had three friends.ย Marianne was married to Gus Alex a powerful political fixer in the Chicago syndicate. She had been a model like my mother.ย She was the stunning Grace Kelly sort of beauty with coolness much like my mother. She and my mother whispered when I was in the room.
More than any other person, Aunt Bess was beholden to my mother. She wasnโt really an aunt. Bess was Benjamin Siegelโs little sister. The one he favored over the others.ย I suppose Bess met my mother way before I was born, when Benjamin was alive. She had the same bedroom eyes of her brother, big hound dog eyes that swept sentiment in every glance.ย She had a heart too big for the turmoil in her life, and she cried about everything. She squeezed my face, and forever referred to me as her gorgeous baby. Bess was as content crying as she was laughing. There wasnโt any in between.ย She dressed in high heels, tailored suits andย carried a hand bag with lots of tissue.ย She and my Nana, my motherโs mother were very close friends. Bess, her husband, and daughter lived in a house on Doheny Drive that Ben Siegel bought for her. Bessโs husband Solly never uttered a word, and worked for Ben doing odd jobs.
In later years I would live across the street from them, but by then my father had distanced Bessโs family for reasons never revealed.
How I loved to watch Miriam; a saucy brassy Italian from Brooklyn. She propped up her bosom like two statues, waved a long red lacquered nail, and smoked one cigarette after another without ever taking a breath. She shopped everyday, charged everything, and when we were in the room she did not change her act, she let us see what it was really like to be a gangsters wife.ย Beneath all the enamel and cosmetics she loved my mother unconditionally.ย Although their characters were strikingly different, they shared that bond. Miriam was married to Doc Stacher, who rose in the ranks to become enforcer for Abner โLongyโ Zwillman, the boss of New Jersey. Doc walked with his hands clasped behind, a cigar stub lived on his lip, and he was bald and heavy lidded. He lived in short pants and little white sneakers. Beneath his somewhat harsh and metallic skin was a wreath of worship for Joanne.ย He didnโt restrict her humor, appetite, or spirit.ย The more outrageous her behavior the more he approved.
Mafia men make the most outrageously entertaining hosts; nothing is ever out of the question. All they have to do is pick up the phone, and someone in the network will make it happen.
Mafia men donโt get up and go to work. Not one day in his life did my father ever report to an office. When I wasnโt in school, he took me with him in the powder blue Cadillac and we drove the streets of Hollywood visiting friends in delicatessens. We sat in big leather booths while my father and the owners talked. I didnโt know what work was all about. ย No doubt the conversation was the rackets, the races, or Vegas. I was a very good decoy. What kind of a man takes his daughter to mob meetings? The kind that doesnโt want to look like a mob guy.ย My father didnโt think I was listening, but I heard a lot.
Rory Calhoun was one of the characters that stood out. He was a western movie star; the Clint Eastwood of his day. Rory was also in the same reformatory as my father as a teen.ย The Calhoun family and ours spent a lot of time together. They had two daughters and lived in an exotic Spanish villa on a corner of Sunset Boulevard.ย Inside it was like a movie set, with animal rugs, oil paintings of Spanish Troubadours and Moorish decorations.ย Rita, Roryโs wife, wore tiny stacked high heels and she clicked across the Spanish tiles like a flamenco dancer.ย The whole family was blessed with dreamy looks. I remember looking at my reflection in the mirror as Rita combed my hair, and discovering I was not at all pretty.ย I didnโt realize that I was surrounded with extraordinary beauty; everyone had these exceptional vogue looks. The importance placed on that kind of beauty was just as distorted.
Rita exhumed a stern feminine demeanor, extremely seductive but not without a battle. I learned my first lessons about temptation just by watching her. She fanned the room with perfume and laughter, and men just succumbed like drugged animals. I felt my first tingle of sexuality in the arms of Rory. He was a treasure of natural emotion, conversation, and jokes.ย They both gambled, borrowed money from the other, and bet on everything.
FLAMINGO HOTEL WEDDING 1949.
My mother was raised in East Orange, New Jersey, before the neighborhood changed. My grandmother always said that East Orange used to be a very nice place to live. There is a photograph of my mother at age seven or eight posing in the garden with her German Shepard. She is holding a ruffled parasol, and dressed like a doll. Her face is a bud of innocence, but with a hint of pained modesty. She didnโt flaunt her beauty; it was more of an embarrassment. When her father died suddenly, she elected to help her family financially, and entered her photograph in a Redbook magazine contest. At seventeen years old she won a modeling contract with John Robert Powers in New York City. My mother ascended to an identity that suited her in some ways and restricted her in others. The Powers girls were invited to grand openings of hotels, restaurants and nightclubs. She appeared on stage at New Yorkโs Copacabana Night Club in 1943. On one of those nights my father was in the audience, and that was where the Smiley Casey bridge from East Orange to Hollywood began.
Mace and I returned to San Rafael and rented a little cottage of our own. Mace painted the rooms lemon yellow, and I glided around in dreamy domestic ecstasy. ย In the sensuous seventies, the preamble to the essentials of living was not a prospering career, and getting ahead. It was with a minimal amount of work, improvise, meditate, and stay high. Some Indian guru coined it, โgoing with the flow.โ
I learned to cook fettuccine, entertain Mace โs guests, and polish tennis shoes. Above all, I learned how to read adults, in a way I had never considered before. Mace explained the concealed messages in spoken language, and how to recognize the signals of deception, arrogance, racism, and affectation.ย He was continually pointing out, peopleโs affectations, while he drove me around in our vintage MBZ 250 SEL.
For money, resources fluctuated between teaching tennis, calling his agent in San Francisco, (he did commercials for Gallo Wine) and working on various deals.ย There was never one steady job, he was the Rocket Man, and people gravitated towards us. After meeting someone one day, they would be at our dinner table that night.
Amidst all the activity, I was suffering the guilt of watching my college funds vanish. That was the tragedy, but there is always sacrifice in this kind of passion. Just as my father had warned me, Mace did not refrain from spending my money.ย I withdrew from the College of Marin, and for a while worked part time in a small bohemian cafe in Mill Valley.
One very early morning, while we were still sleeping, the doorbell rang. Mace rushed to the door prepared to admonish whomever was knocking.ย When I came striding over in my silk Rita Hayworth negligee, I was astounded.
โLuellen, who is this guy, he says you know him?โ
โDale, itโs all right Mace, I know him, heโs a friend of my fatherโs.
โWhat kind of friend?โ Mace demanded. Dale stood there in the archway, dressed in a wrinkled suit, his sandy hair heavily slicked to appear arranged, and eyes shaded behind rose tinted sunglasses.
โMace , Iโm just here to make sure Luellen is all right.โ ย Dale shifted his weight between both legs. He looked taller than I remembered.
โSheโs fine, you can see that.โ Mace replied.
โMace , let Dale in the door.โ ย I embraced Dale momentarily, as I always had in the past. His edginess did not alarm me; he was always burdened by some desperate measures. My father was continually counseling him about his tribulations.
Mace hustled Dale into the living. I went into the bedroom to get dressed. My mind raced between images of my father and Dale, the run-around guy that obeyed orders. He did not resemble a tough guy; he was the Sterling Hayden type, the guy always on the run. Mace appeared in the doorway, and rushed over to me.
โWho is that guy?โ
โHeโs just a friend of my Dad, donโt worry heโs not dangerous…. I donโt think. โ
โHe came to get you, your father sent him Lue,โ he looked at me apprehensively.
โIs that what he said?โ
โHe doesnโt have to. Weโll take him out to breakfast; I want to be in public, just in case.โ
โIn case of what?โ
โJust get dressed quickly.โ
โYou wonโt let him take me will you?โ I said panicking.
โNO! I can handle it.โ Mace assured.
We drove into Larkspur to our favorite cafรฉ. Mace led us to a table outside in the garden, in the warmth of sunlight. Mace orchestrated the meeting, so it was relaxed and enjoyable for Dale, and slowly Dale began to unwind. He removed his suit jacket and ate heartily after the long drive. They talked, and I confirmed what Mace offered.
โWe live modestly now, but not for long, Iโm going to manage the Tennis club, and Lueโs going to get her real estate license.ย Isnโt that right honey?โ
โYes, thatโs right.โ I acknowledged. Mace had been advising me to get a license.
โDale, you should hang out with us a while, Iโll take you around. You can see for yourself what our life is about. Iโm not hiding anything Dale, I love Luellen, and her father knows it.โ
โHow is my father Dale?โ I interrupted.
โLuellen, your father isnโt angry with you. He just wants to make sure youโre all right.โ
โWhy didnโt he come with you?โ Dale hunched over the table and looking directly at Mace . ย โHe was afraid of what he might do.โย Mace stood up suddenly.
โ Dale, Iโm not a stupid man. I know about him too.โ
Things deteriorated from there.ย Mace and Dale argued, I pleaded to leave the restaurant. In the car, I managed to dissuade the arguing with a hysterical outburst, and tears. Then I mediated Mace and Dale, whose conflicting assignments were bordering on a hit in an alley.
โI need you both to calm down. Dale has to return without me, and my father is going to be angry. Mace , Dale needs our help.โ ย Mace responded by retiring his grudge and substituting some personal stories along with several rounds of backgammon. When Dale was ready to leave, I took him aside.
โ See Dale, Iโm happy here,ย I canโt go back with you.โ
โAre you sure? I can still take care of Mace ! ย I will not hurt him, just stall him so you can get in the car. Iโm not coming back again Luellen.โ He said.
โDale, he wonโt let me go. He really loves me.โ
โIf thatโs so, let him prove it. Come with me now, heโll follow after you when he can handle things.โ
โDale, I just canโt go with you.โ
โLuellen, your fatherโs gonna blame me.โ
โIโm sorry Dale, please understand.โ
โ Heโs going to be furious.โ
โWell, youโve seen him that way before right? Heโll calm down.โ I spoke with feigned confidence. I had no idea how he would respond, but I knew he would blame Dale. He passed me his telephone number on a piece of paper, shook hands with Mace and told him to take care of me. Then he took of in his Cadillac.
Mace returned to the living room boasting of his conquest.
โDale was supposed to threaten me with a gun, but he liked me too much to go through with it.โ
โDid he show you the gun?โ
โYea. Lue, I told you-I am not easily intimidated.โ
In the next six months, I passed my real estate exam and Mace was setting up a business.ย Mace had a friend who owned a Mortgage Banking Company in San Francisco. I was going to sell new residential developments and Mace was going to secure clients.ย We moved into a charming little house in Ross and commuted to the city to have meetings. We dined with successful men and their wives and I tried to read all the signals. Soon my father would see me on the sophisticated side of the street, leaving the hippie hibernating spell for good.
Then one day the meetings stopped. Mace retreated to the tennis court and played the rocket man. He ignored my questions and concern for our future.ย The car was sold, the guests stopped coming over, and Mace lived in stubborn silence.ย ย The day came I had to make the phone call.
โHi Daddy, itโs me.โ
โYea, what is it you want?โ
โI want to come home and start over.โ I replied.
โOn one condition.โ
โWhat?โ
โYou never go back to him; you have to be absolutely sure.โ
โIโm sure; I want to leave right away.โ I said.
Within a week, I was back in my fatherโs apartment sitting on the blue and green crushed velvet sofa.
โLook now sweetheart, stop your crying, at least you didnโt come back pregnant. There is nothing to cry about now, you made a mistake and itโs over, you got your whole life ahead of you. Donโt bury yourself in the sand, nothing to be ashamed of; you ought to know the mistakes Iโve made. You couldnโt come close.โ
Mace continued to pursue me. He was met by my fatherโs warning, โIf you come within ten feet of her, Iโll scratch your eyes out and stuff them down your throat.โย Any dice to throw Email:folliesls@aol.com
How could I have known 15 years ago? ย Back then I had but a fingerbowl of resources, a blue chair, a desk, and a typewriter.ย Everyday I wrote into the flame of discovery looking for my mother.ย My notebooks were sketches of a ย woman I never knew.ย ย The absence of the most ordinary information, like where she grew up in Newark, what sort of neighborhood, what her father did for a living, what schools, she attended, and later on, what experiences she had modeling in New York.
The closest I got was by reading John Robert Powers, The Powers Girls, ย about the modeling agency he started in 1923. ย ย He assigned unemployed Broadway talent to his advertising agency to promote American products. ย According to John he was the innovator of the modeling agency concept- beautiful women and men will sell products, the public never would have thought of buying.
I found her name in the index, Lucille Casey, and she joined the agency when she was 16 years old.ย ย John groomed the models; they were assigned disciplinary perfection in dialect, manners, appearance, character, and intellect.ย Powers Girls married anyone they wanted.ย They were invited to all the important society events, they were given card blanche at the Stork Club, and the Morocco and they were transported to celebratory city functions. They met men of all means, character, and class.
After I read the book, I thought about what my father used to say,ย โYour mother could have had any man in the world, but she picked me. Donโt you make the same mistake. โ ย That is a complex summons for a teenager to understand.
I sat in the blue chair and waited for flares of information to come down to earth.ย ย After two years, I had very little to fill one page. ย My motherโs history was lost, her friends had vanished, or would not talk to me.ย She did not leave a diary. ย Her photo album as a model was all I had.ย What could I see in those eyes, and smile?ย ย I gave up the search, and switched over to my father. The government documented his daily activities, and what they didnโt hear or see, was exploited in newspapers, documentaries, and books.
There was one woman who was alive, that knew intimate details of my mother, because I had met her, and she made it known to me she knew. That was Meyer Lanskyโs wife, who went by the name Teddy.ย Women have a distinctive look when they are withholding secrets.ย Teddy always had that look when she brought up my mother.ย I told her I was writing about my father and mother and she said, โLet them rest in peace.โย ย ย I didnโt take her advice.
GUEST ALERT: Daughter Of Reputed Mobster, Making The Radio Rounds
THE MOUTH, NOVEMBER 8TH, 2011 — Luellen Smiley is the daughter of reputed mobster, Allen Smiley. Smiley’s dad was a close friend and confidant of famous Las Vegas mobster Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel and he was sitting on the couch just feet away from Siegel the night he was murdered. While Luellen Smiley hadn’t been born at the time of the shooting, she’s conducted research on her father’s life and the events leading up to the shooting and wants to dispel the common belief that her father might have been involved in the shooting. Luellen Smiley has contributed artifacts to the Las Vegas Mob Experience and she joins us to discuss her family history. She’s out promoting the fact that the gangsters of old were not trigger-happy murderers and that J. Edgar Hoover was someone who was out to get them in a big way. Not letting them go straight, etc. She also believes that J. Edgar Hoover was behind the killing of Bugsy Siegel. (Bugsy’s killing was never solved). This week, she joined KNPR for chat. LISTEN TO AUDIO HERE To set up, contact Scott Segelbaum HERE
ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 