SCREENPLAY:ย My Hoodlum Saint is the story of a woman whose survival is wedged between love and fear of her father. It exposes my struggle to survive adolescence while growing up in my father’s secret and terrifying world, where only family could be trusted.
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On Sunday afternoon, while I was sitting in the bridal room at Neiman Marcus, I was in a head on collision with the past and the present. I was not in the bridal room to buy a wedding dress; I was there to store my mink coat. While I waited for a sales clerk, I imagined myself in the chic trench coat with diamond buttons hanging from the rack. If I did have to choose a bridal gown, it would have to be something unconventional, like my mother chose. She wore navy blue taffeta to her wedding. If I did get married, I would have to save my coins for a long time to pay for the reception. Where would I get married? At one time, I dreamt of the Bel Air Hotel, but that was in the 1970s. With inflation, the wedding would cost no less than $100,000 today. By the time, I saved that much, I would be 100 years old! Besides the hotel is not the same. The last time I dropped by, I was chased out of the river walk for taking photographs of the swans. Just before my father took ill in 1982, he told me my wedding would be at the Flamingo in Las Vegas. I remember it, as if it was yesterday. We were walking together in Holmby Park, where he walked his five miles everyday. Very often, he stopped at the public phone booth and made a few calls. He whispered so I could not hear his conversation. I know now he was laying his bets for the day. I waited on the green lawn watching the older men and women playing Croquette. When my father returned from the phone booth, he looked perturbed. That meant he lost money on that dayโs sporting event. We walked a long time in heavy silence until he decided to break it.
โYou know, Iโm very proud of you.โ He said looking straight ahead.
โYou are?โ I was stunned.
โOf course I am! I hope you donโt think any different. I have not said it often, because Iโm coaching you all the time, so you will be independent, and know how to look after yourself, after Iโm gone. I donโt want you to fall into a rut with the wrong fellow, like so many women. It can ruin your whole life.โ
โBut I havenโt accomplished anything really great…. like you.โ
โWhat the hell are you talking about!โ he stopped in the middle of the path. โI made more mistakes than you ever could. Are you kidding sweetheart, I broke all the rules, and made some new ones, and Iโve paid. Like Iโve always said, you make your bed, and you lie in it. Iโm proud of the career you made in real estate, without any help from me. Now you have to concentrate on the right fellow. When you do get around to finding the right one, weโll have the wedding at the Flamingo.
โThe Flamingo? Do you still know people there?โ I asked timidly.
โOf course, I was a major stockholder … at one time.โ Then he cleared his throat, and I wondered if he was choking on the memories. โThatโs where Mommy and I had our wedding reception.โ I thought of the photographs of Mommy cutting the white cake. It was the first time he ever mentioned my wedding. It was the first time, he seemed to say, okay find a fellow, and Iโll let you go. I sensed his detachment from everything around us except for me.
โI would like that. How long has it been since you were there?โ
โI didnโt want to set foot in that place after Bennyโฆ (Benjamin Siegel) I didnโt care if the whole place burnt to the ground. Thereโs no reason why you canโt have your wedding there. I can still arrange a few things.โ
The vision of father, my future husband, and me was an aberration without incident or purpose at that age. However, he was dreaming that the day would come soon. When the sales clerk finally appeared, I was glazed over, in some marbled state of melancholy, clutching the mink coat on my lap. The mink is the oldest garment in my closet. My father gave it to me in 1978.
Itโs as if it happened yesterday. My father called one Saturday and asked me to meet him at Mannis Furs in Beverly Hills. When I arrived, my father was seated in a chair, facing a three-way mirror. Manny rushed over to greet me. โThis is my daughter, Luellen, โManny bowed and kissed my hand. In the other hand, he was holding a mink jacket. โTry it on for size,โ my father ordered. I hesitated, and looked at him for explanation. It never occurred to me I would be trying on mink coats. He was always asking me to meet him in shops, and restaurants. He held meetings wherever he knew people, so I assumed he had a meeting with Manny.
โGo onโtry it on. I didnโt say I was buying it, I just want to see what it looks like.โ Manny tucked me into the mink coat, and pulled the waist sash through. He stroked the fur up and down, and then I did the same. The coat was solid, like a cloth wall that buried my body in warmth. I stood before the mirror and watched the transformation.
โTurn around, โmy father ordered. I took a few steps in a half circle and slipped my hands into the pockets, and turned around slowly as Iโd seen my mother do. Suddenly his eyes welled up with tears and he took out his handkerchief.
โIf you dressed in a proper outfit and not those silly jeans all the time, you might look like something!โ he barked.
โWell I didnโt know Iโd be trying on minks today.โ
โWhat the hell did you think youโd be trying on, pianos? For crying out loud! โI donโt know what youโre thinking sometimes. Take it off.โ Manny untied the sash and took the coat. My father was in a mood, it was my fault again. I shouldnโt have worn jeans. Why did he start crying? Manny disappeared, and my father stood in front of the mirror to affirm his reflection. After he took off in his Cadillac, I stood in front of Mannyโs and looked at the mink coats. He never mentioned it again, but I knew the coat was going to show up one day. Six or seven months after that first meeting at Mannis, the mink appeared at Chanukah.
โDaddy, this is so extravagant, I wonโt have any where to wear it.โ
โOh yes you will! Just wait and see. If you quit going out with those misfits and find yourself a decent fella youโll have numerous occasions. Thatโs the reason why I gave it to you, so donโt misuse it!โ
When I left Neimanโs I was drenched in his memory. The mink coat has outlived all of my possessions. Every time I put it on, Iโm reminded of his wisdom. Itโs not the expense or signature status. When I put it on, I feel transformed. I discovered the bill of sale from Mannyโs, and the balance due, after my father died. I called Manny and asked him for more time, to pay it off. He told me to forget about it, my father had brought in so much business to the store.
Last year I called Manny to see if I could have the coat remade into a vest; as the sleeves were too short.ย ย ” It’ll cost you the same as the mink,”ย he told me.ย ย I had the holes repaired, and the coat glazed and will pack it in the suitcase for the trip to New York, now thrity two years later with a decent fella.
Two months ago I bought a crate of flowers to plant. After setting the plant to rest, I had a vivid recollection of Nana; my Motherโs mother.
Nana was a petite woman, with long graying hair she pinned into a perfect French twist, a cute Irish nose, and a giggling smile. When I was growing up she lived with her second husband, we called Poppop, in a spacious California ranch house in Sherman Oaks, also known as San Fernando Valley. We visited her weekly, staying over one or two nights. Nana was always waiting for us to arrive. She greeted us at the door, she had something cooking, fresh candy in crystal dishes, and in the morning, she fried bacon and the aroma woke me and got me running downstairs. She scrambled eggs with lots of butter, and served it with Irish soda bread. It never occurred to me that these weekly trips were the cultural mix-up of my Russian Irish heritage. This was Nanaโs only opportunity to spoon-feed us our Irish roots. At home with father, bacon and butter were prohibited, and bread came in the form of a bagel. The food was only one part of the adventure. Nanaโs home was filled with antiques, family treasures, and her garden was a masterful collection of east and west coast varieties.
After Nana had all her errands and household chores finished, she changed into slacks, flat shoes, and a straw hat and went outside to the garden. I would follow Nana while my Mother remained indoors; most likely talking on the phone with some degree of privacy. In the garden, Nana would trim, cut, and arrange her flowers. I kneeled down beside her and watched, while she talked. Nana had the gift of gab, and her thoughts poured out without my interruption. Between sentences, she would insert a self-effacing joke, regarding her silly hat, or her short legs. Her hands were swollen from arthritis, and she rubbed them from time to time, but she did not complain. As I planted my garden, these visions of Nana remained and grew more studied and complete. I had a memory of being assigned a school project to plant something in the garden. By this time, my Mother had moved us to an apartment and we didnโt have our own garden. I went to Nanaโs and she helped me plant some variety of flowers I cannot recall. Each week Iโd return to see how my plant was doing. Some time after the assignment ended and we were walking in the yard, I looked to see how my plant was surviving. It had been replaced. I asked Nana what happened.
โOh honey I hope you wonโt be mad at me, but the little flower died, so I planted a new one. Itโs my fault; I didnโt look after it properly.โ
Nana taught me the things my mother didnโt have the time to teach; like cooking, cutting flowers and arranging them, making coffee, and setting the table. She made all these chores enjoyable, and I loved to follow her around the house and watch her change the beds, and prop up pillows, and fold the guest towels. It never occurred to me until now, that I adopted her domesticity; the sublime gratification of adorning a home for the comfort of family and friends.
The plants did not blossom, the jasmine, roses, and other varieties all wilted and turned brown, but the parties, soirees, dinners and moments of solitude are bloosoming.
Every morning I rise at dawn to sit in the parlor. Here I watch the sunlight illuminate the, โCat on a Hot Tin Roofโ movie board in the hearth, and drink a cup of coffee in silence. I feel at home. These are the most precious moments of the day, the moment of peace before throwing the dice.
I can see out the window to the street, and this morning a handful of eggplant leaves on the tree next door have been autumnized to a transparent sheen of bronzed gold. The silence following summer has descended down over the rooftops of the people that live on East High Avenue. The sky is seared with streaks of white, and bubblegum pink clouds drift just above the rising of the sun. The moment is a peaceful stroke to a summer that has been indeterminate, chancy and without design. We came here with the intention to sell the house, and we leave without any such idea.
In the moments SC awakes, I hear his footsteps on the creaking wood floor. I close the journal and go in the kitchen to make buttermilk pancakes. When we are in Solana Beach, we eat bran muffins, usually in short order, between telephone calls, and conversations about things that it is too early to discuss. These mornings he lingers on the porch and reads the paper, because he has the time. If my body is willing, I will run down to the stream by Kelly Park, and look for the blue heron. Along the way, I pass by the quiet man with the three beagles, and a mother walking with her children to the bus stop. I will pass the funeral parlor and look the other way, and when I see the Federal Express Truck, he will wave because he knows I am the woman that receives mail addressed to Soaring Crow.
The front porches I pass are the opening pages to the home stories of people inside. If there are children, the remains of their toys will be scattered about. If they are elderly, they will leave their gardening shoes by the back door, and if they are a young couple, they will be in the midst of home repairs, a roof that needs fixing or a new coat of paint. I have observed just one campaign poster board in the neighborhood. It seems to have gone out of style to post your politics on your car or in front of your house. In the front yard of one home, a banner is pitched in the ground that reads, โRemember our Troops.โ I have not asked, but it is probable they have a son serving in Iraq. The hanging flower planters have been replaced with mums and corn stalks. Some scatter straw on the lawn. I used to giggle at this September tradition, now I am almost giddy about arranging my seasonal display in the yard.
The run back through town takes me by the high school, a brawny brick building that looks like the setting for a chapter from โCatcher in the Rye.โ A teacher passes by, dressed in a conservative suit and pumps, and smiles. She looks wholesome as apple pie, and I wonder if I ever looked like that. On chilly mornings, the fireplaces may be smoking, a scent as perfect as my favorite perfume. Our own fireplace is inoperable until we reline the chimney, which explains why the movie poster is in the fireplace.
By 8:00 a.m. the yellow school buses are chugging up the street and the children, gathered at our corner; bob up and down in innocent bursts of energy celebrating the beginning of a new day. I arrive home about this time, and stop to watch the quaintness of the moment. The habitat of these surroundings strips me bare of my Hollywood entertainment, Southern California roots. I am nourished by quaint tradition and scenery, and that is one answer to this mystery I call home.
I eat cider donuts when I want and instead of working out three or four times a week, I take long walks, past the Sunny Side farms to see the young foals and mothers in the corral. I dress in style-less shoes and pants, whenever I feel like it, without fashion consciousness. I do not watch the television and prefer to go to bed early and read Carson McCullers novels. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I can sit on the porch and look at the hands of a storm forming in the sky.
People come to my house without notice, and sometimes just walk in and yell my name. My favorite Broadway hangout knows who I am, what kind of wine I like and that we like to sit on the patio. Sometimes I meet strangers who have heard of the Follies House, and I feel a twinge of acknowledgment.
It does not matter what everyone else calls home, it is simply the feeling of peace, security, and acceptance. That is how you know you are home.
JIM MARSHALL AT THE OPENING OF GALLERY LOULOU TAOS. 2006
โAmericas โtrue romantics will be the jazz musicians and jazz writers, living by their lyrical emotions, senses.โ
From The Diary of Anais Nin volume Six.โ
The throw of the dice this week lands on mysteries of character. We all have our closet of masks that we reach for when we need to camouflage our fear, insecurity, disdain, or judgment.
I wore a mask the day I went to pick up Jim Marshall at the Albuquerque airport. I didnโt want to appear unprepared, inexperienced, or effusive. As soon as I recognized Jim taking his last step off the escalator, my mask cracked. I ran to him, hugged him, and clichรฉs poured out of my mouth: Iโm so happy to see you, how was the flight, welcome to New Mexico. He nodded, smiled with closed lips, and asked,
โHow long does it take to get to Taos?โ
โAn hour and a half.โ Jimโs lips tightened.
In the car, Rudy and I whisked up conversation, but the results were drippy. Jim stared out at the window. We were in the valley of lunar like scrub rush, broken down sheds, and absentee human life.
โWHERE THE FUCK ARE WE?โ Jim growled
โWeโre almost there, another half-hour.โ
โWHERE THE FUCK ARE THE PEOPLE?โ
I tried, unsuccessfully to assure Jim, there were lots of people in Taos.ย I read his mind; why did he make the decision to exhibit his iconic rock and roll photography in a gallery inย boon-dust Taos. How much longer before he can unwind with a scotch, and call home for a taste of civility. ย Who are these morons driving this car anyway?
Inside the B & B suite weโd rented for Jim, I breezed across to the adobe terrace, and opened the curtains, โYou like it?โ
โTHEREโS NO FUCKING HAIR DRYER?โ
โYou can borrow mine.โ
โAre you hungry Jim?โ
โNo.โ
โI have a bottle of your favorite scotch.โ He picked it up, and looked for a glass. I ran to the bathroom and brought him a glass.
โSee you tomorrow. โ He growled.
โWhat time?โ
โIโll call.โ
The next day, I waited for Jimโs call. Instead I heard from Dave Brolan, Jimโs operator to the world; friend, translator, mediator and stabilizer.
โDave, is Jim all right?โ
โHeโll be all right. Heโs tired and cranky. Heโll be fine tomorrow night.
โWhat can I do anything?โ
โNo, just take care of your opening business. I take care of Jim.โ
I sighed deeply, and returned to the chaotic events preceding the grand opening of our gallery. Jim agreed to exhibit along with Baron Wolman and Michael Zagaris, because they hadnโt been together in a long time. I was about to ease-drop on history, with three distinguished rock and roll photographers.
My heart raced ahead of me, until 6 oโclock when Jim and Dave walked into the gallery.
โHow are you Jim?โ I followed behind him as he viewed the exhibition.
โLooks good.โ He said. Then he was swallowed up into a crowd of guests. He stood patiently for photographs, greeted strangers with a boyish smile and brotherly handshake. He sat down at my desk and began to sign books for a tickly line of buyers. ย I filled his glass with scotch and he said, โThanks sweetheart.โ My heart returned to my chest. The evening transcended into a kinetic overture of rock n roll music, reminiscing of the sixties, and feverish excitement. Around midnight, after being the center of 250 to 300 Taosaneos, Jim said, โLetโs eat.โ It was snowing and pitch black outside.
Our party of seven charged in and rearranged the vibe of the banal atmosphere. Once inside the dining room Michael Z, was exhibiting impersonations of Jim, while we all laughed. Marshall didnโt twitch, or sneer; he accepted being the force of raucous laughter.
A young professional looking man approached our table.
โI apologize for interrupting. When I got to the opening, you all were leaving.ย Iโm really sorry I missed it; Iโm a huge fan of your work Jim.
โHow did you know we were here? I interrupted.
โI followed you.โ He said.
โJoin us.โ
That night and the next three nights, Jim was host to a crowd of fans that followed him around.ย I watched the mystery of his character, revealed, untouched, in focus, on what the photographs brought back to him. He was anointed by their admiration, without becoming inflated.
At the airport, Jim took me into his arms, โYou did good LouLou.โ
Two Years later.
I am in Santa Fe, and my social life is Camus strange. While I try to sell my photographs and write, my life is stifled by the absence of friends and parties. Jim called one afternoon.
โLoulou, my friends just moved to Santa Fe. Take down their number and call them.โ
I called these new friends of Jimโs, and a week later, a man drove up, and leaped out of his car.
โHi LouLou, Iโm Jock.โย He sat down, but his spirit was an unbolted kinetic burst of energy.
โI brought this for you.โ He handed me a beautifully hand crafted book of his Cuban Series photographs.
A month or so later, I received a party invitation from Jock and his wife, Annaliese. The evening was lyrical, as friends circulated between the portals, while Jock mixedย molitaโs and Annaliese served Cuban food. That night, I was introduced to their friends. Now, a year later, I consider them my friends.
I called Jim after the party.
โI called to thank you.โ
โWhat for baby?โ
โFor introducing me to Jock and Annaliese. Now I have friends.โ Jim chuckled.
Jim passed away March 23, 2010. He was a romantic and lived by lyrical emotions and senses.
For all of us that claim we honor support and appreciate the troops, take a look at what your supporting. For someone like me, who has never experienced combat, and known very few who did, I bow my head. This film is a book, a documentary, aย closeup photograph and everything that it takes to get the point across.
San Diego was still into rage and rock and roll. The people I was calling for gigs didnโt know Hip-Hop yet.ย ย That was too bad, because weย were ย having the greatestexperience of ourย life.ย When I ran out of money I took a job managing a condominium project, where I lived rent free and had weekends and evenings for Jammers.ย After a time of observing their self expression, I asked myself, where is mine?ย I still refused to get on stage, Vince used to bawl me out because I made Piper introduce the group. We were good for each other, the three of us. After two years Piper moved to Los Angeles to launch his career, he had showmanship in the way he held his hands.ย Vince took over the troupe and added twelve more dancers. ย These two young men, they were the sparklers in my life, like that star you think youโll never hold.ย When I left the Jammers I was a different woman. They put the rhythm back in my spirit, and faith into my soul. I mean there are things a business career will never offer, you have to go into the arts for this kind of stuff.
Free yourmind and the rest will follow, the words from EnVogueโs latest release became a sort of mantra.
ย It was a decision that came at a moment when everything else stopped making sense, except my happiness.ย I tossed out the two-piece suits, and turned off the world outside. Insulated in my tiny North Park bungalow, I merged into ย music and dance. During the hottest of summer days I was seated cross legged on the worn carpetingย watching MTV and flipping through magazines.ย
ย ย ย ย ย ย Implodedย with music videos, magazines, and dancing;ย ย Hip-Hop was the most exhilarating choreography around. ย I watched the music videos over and over. When I searched the yellow pages for dance classes; no one was offering Hip-Hop.ย ย With that, I thought why canโt I be the founder of a dance troupe?ย ย
ย ย I needed to find the ย dancers to suit my concept ofย integratingย jazz funk, hip-hop, and Afro-Cubanย into a collage workshop.ย ย
ย ย ย ย ย Piper Jo was the first dancer to join. He came at me with everything he had; talent, faith, intelligence, and belief in this crazy white chick who wanted to hip-hop. ย Piper played Miles Davis, emulated jazz-funk, and moved like Michael Jackson.ย He was twenty years old and this was his first teaching job. When I asked him who taught him to dance he answered;
โMichael Jackson and James Brown. I danced in my living room every day. My mother couldnโt get me out of the house. God blessed me with this gift, and I want to share it. So if you put me in your dance troupe I guarantee, you wonโt be sorry. NO, you wonโt.โย ย
ย At our first audition Piper said,ย โHow you expect to pick dancers, if you donโt know what to look for.ย I swear Lue, you are crazy.ย But donโt worry,ย Iโll show you. And donโt be picking every guy out there cause he can Hip-Hop, thereโs nothing to that. We want dancers with classical training.โย He was right.
“Vince Master Jamโ ย was a former break-dancer and studied classical dance. Vince was the coolest; he sat back and waited for his chance, unhurried, relaxed, but when the music came on, he flipped everyone out. He was thirty. Both of them belonged to the no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, group
At that first audition ย I wanted to select half of the thirty some dancers that showed up.ย They came dressed in street clothes, wearing scarves and bandannas.ย I watched them leap, kick, split and turn inside out for the job.ย ย I knew that I was in the right spot. Then we addedย Monique, a startling beauty with Afro-Cuban dance training, and a perpetual attitude of carefreeness.ย
For the first few months, the Jammers taught classes under a leaky roof, on a tiled floor, without any heat.ย Piper rode a bus from the other side of town to get to the building.ย Vince drove an hour each way to teach one class at night. The first few months no one showed up for Vinceโs Hip-Hop class.ย But he kept coming back every week.ย When I apologized, he said, โ Thatโs okay Lue. We get it going on,ย they’ll show up soon– Iโm sure.โย
They did show upย and we moved into a well positioned Health Club downtown San Diego. The classes filled up with students, dancers, and working women looking for a new challenge. They came from all different races;ย Asian, White, Hispanic and Black.ย I danced with the classes and promoted our troupe. They laughed at my attempt to be a soul sister, and I laughed with them.ย We were reviewed by KPBS magazine, and a photographer took photographsย of us and featured the Jammersย in the magazine. People began to think I knew what I was doing. The Jammers thought I could take them places.ย I pictured them on the front page of Variety, the problem was I was too early.ย
In the fall of 1993, I was working for a king-sized jerk in his commercial real estate office. ย Dirksen used every opportunity to remind me that I was not as successful as he was.
I was the only female in an office of twelve better suited men. My Chanel 5 was used sparingly and I dressed in navy-blue two piece suits and low-heeled pumps.ย With a leather briefcase slung over my shoulder, and a HP calculator that I refused to master, I was a shrimp swimming with the sharks. On hot blue sky days I drove around San Diego searching for new listings, meeting prospects, and showing space. One eye was always drifting; scanning the horizon, museums, artists hang-outs.
I tossed out the two-piece suits, and turned off the world outside. In the next weeks my attention was drawn to music and dance. During the hottest of summer days I was seated cross legged on the worn carpeting of my little bungalow, watching MTV and flipping through magazines.
SOME children are silenced. The pretense is protection against people and events more powerful than them. As the daughter of Allen Smiley, associate and friend to Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, I was raised in a family of secrets.
My father is not a household name like Siegel, partly because he wore a disguise, a veneer of respectability that fooled most.
It did not fool the government. My father came into the public eye the night of June 20, 1947, when Benjamin Siegel was murdered in his home in Beverly Hills. My dad was seated inches away from Siegel, on the sofa, and took three bullets through the sleeve of his jacket.
He was brought in as a suspect. His photograph was in all the newspapers. He was the only nonfamily member who had the guts to go to the funeral.
When I was exposed to the truth by way of a book, I kept the secret, too. I was 13. My parents divorced, and five years later, my mother died. In 1966, I went to live with my father in Hollywood.
I was forbidden to talk about our life: “Don’t discuss our family business with anyone, and listen very carefully to what I say from now on!”
But one night, he asked me to come into his room and he told me the story of the night Ben was murdered.
“When I was spared death, I made a vow to do everything in my power to reform, so that I could one day marry your mother.
“Ben was the best friend I ever had. You’re going to hear a lot of things about him in your life. Just remember what I am telling you; he’d take a bullet for a friend.”
After my father died, I remained silent, to avoid shame, embarrassment and questions. But 10 years later, in 1994, when I turned 40, I cracked the silence.
I read every book in print – and out of print – about the Mafia. Allen Smiley was in dozens. He was a Russian Jew, a criminal, Bugsy’s right-hand man, a dope peddler, pimp, a racetrack tout. I held close the memory of a benevolent father, wise counselor, and a man who worshipped me.
I made a Freedom of Information Act request and obtained his government files. The Immigration and Naturalization Service claimed he was one of the most dangerous criminals in the country. They said he was Benjamin Siegel’s assistant. They said he was poised to take over the rackets in Los Angeles. He didn’t; he sold out his interest in the Flamingo, and he went to Houston to strike oil.
I put the file away, and looked into the window of truth. How much more could I bear to hear?
Born in Kiev, Ukraine, my dad’s family immigrated to Canada. He stowed away to America at 16, and was eventually doggedly pursued for never having registered as an alien. He had multiple arrests – including one for bookmaking in 1944, and another for slicing off part of the actor John Hall’s nose in a fracas at Tommy Dorsey’s apartment.
He met my mother, Lucille Casey, at the Copacabana nightclub in 1943. She was onstage dancing (for $75 a week), and my father was in the audience, seated with Copa owner and mob boss Frank Costello.
“I took one look, and I knew it was her,” was all he had told me on many occasions.
On a trip to the Museum of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences in Los Angeles, I was handed a large perfectly pristine manila envelope, and a pair of latex gloves with which to handle the file.
Inside were black and white glossy MGM studio photographs, press releases, and biographies of my mother’s career in film, including roles in “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” “Ziegfeld Follies of 1946,” “Meet Me in St. Louis” and “Harvey Girls.” She was written up in the columns, where later my father was identified as a “sportsman.”
The woman who pressed my clothes, washed my hair, and made my tuna sandwiches was an actress dancing in Judy Garland musicals, while her own life was draped with film noir drama.
My father wooed her, and after an MGM producer gave her an audition, he helped arrange for her and her family to move to Beverly Hills, where she had steady film work for five years. He was busy helping Siegel expand the Western Front of the Costello crime family and opening the Flamingo casino in Las Vegas.
They were engaged in 1946.
Still, the blank pages of my mother’s life did not begin to fill in until I met R.J. Gray. He found me through my newspaper column, “Smiley’s Dice.”
One day last year, R.J. sent me a book, “Images of America: The Copacabana,” by Kristin Baggelaar. There was my mother, captioned a “Copa-beauty.”
Kristin organized a Copa reunion in New York last September. I went in place of my mother, but all day I felt as if she was seated next to me. I fell asleep that night staring out the hotel window, feeling a part of Manhattan history.
Now, the silence is over.
I don’t hesitate to answer questions about my family. I have photographs of Ben Siegel in my home in Santa Fe, NM, just as my father did. Every few months I get e-mails from distant friends, or people who knew my dad.
It seems there is no end to the stories surrounding Ben and Al. I am not looking for closure. I’ve become too attached to the story.