“You may keep the cartons, ducks,” he told her.
No one got a bigger kick out of Dore’s antics and imitations than Frank Adonis. Recently things were beginning to get to him; not just Hollywood, not just his unhappy marriage, not just the effort he put forth daily, masterminding the intricacies of over a dozen high-priced careers, dealing with the delicate temperaments of the likes of Claire Regrett and Belinda Carroll, as well as Babe herself. He was having other troubles. These, however, he kept well hidden behind the suave, man-about-town façade he’d been showing the world for years—hidden even from me, with whom he’d shared a lot in a relatively short time.
Anyway, Frank kept coming around, taking Angie out to one nightspot or another. And frequently, when the door opened, he’d find not only Angie but Dore as well, all got up for his amusement as Babe, wearing something black and sheer, or Marilyn, in her white pleated Seven-Year Itch dress, or whoever he’d decided to be that night. In fact, more than once Frankie saw one or another of the many delivery boys who arrived with liquor, cigarettes, or groceries floored after being greeted by the ersatz “Babe” or “Marilyn” or “Bette,” convinced they were actually in the presence of the real thing.
Having met Babe in person, Dore wanted more than ever to have her see his club act, and I approached Frank on the subject. Surprisingly enough, he seemed perfectly willing and said that somehow he’d manage to haul Babe over to the Trey Deuces one night to take in the act. “Leave it to me, kid.” He figured she’d get a laugh out of it—not like Miss Clutch.
I wasn’t in town when this encounter took place, but I heard about it later. By now Dore was really packing the joint, especially on weekends, and Frank reserved a table for himself and Babe. Apparently Dore gave his all that night, and when he came on there was an extra buzz of excitement in the room, since Babe had been spotted in a corner, hiding behind her shades. She, however, sat like a bump on a log, never applauding, never cracking a smile, never a peep. After a while Dore attempted to acknowledge her presence.
“How’ma doin’, hon?” asked the stage Babe of the real one.
“Lousy,” came the reply from across the room. “Somebody get the hook.”
“Dear me,” said Dore without missing a beat, “I’m glad you came, Miss A, but I wish you’d left your hostilities in the toilet.”
“Get off my porch, sister,” Babe called back, then tried to get up, only to fall back in her seat. She was plotzed, and Frank, fearing worse was to come, got her up again and hustled her out through a side entrance.
Dore was crushed, and I heard all about it the day I came back from location, when he thanked me for trying and mentioned how touched he was by Frank’s note of apology. After that you didn’t hear him mention Babe anymore, and somehow the fun went out of the thing. Even then, he didn’t take Babe out of his repertoire; he was too cagey for that.
Shortly after this, Dore celebrated his birthday and we were all invited to a special performance at the Trey Deuces, which, as it turned out, was also to be his closing show. Recently he’d received some glowing notices in one of the trade newspapers and had been offered a booking at a Key West club called Coconuts, so he was packing up his trunks and hitting the road with all his “ladies” in tow.
From time to time Jenny and I would get a postcard from him. “Wish you were here and I were there,” “This is the land of milk and honey and I’m milking them, honey”; like that. We did miss him.
Then the old world took a couple of wacky spins, and when it stopped I found myself a man of several changes. Alas for the Trianons, Grand or Petit, the place seemed to empty itself, and in the space of a year most of the old faces were no more. Angie had a quarrel with the landlord and was first to leave; next was our aged
No one got a bigger kick out of Dore’s antics and imitations than Frank Adonis. Recently things were beginning to get to him; not just Hollywood, not just his unhappy marriage, not just the effort he put forth daily, masterminding the intricacies of over a dozen high-priced careers, dealing with the delicate temperaments of the likes of Claire Regrett and Belinda Carroll, as well as Babe herself. He was having other troubles. These, however, he kept well hidden behind the suave, man-about-town façade he’d been showing the world for years—hidden even from me, with whom he’d shared a lot in a relatively short time.
Anyway, Frank kept coming around, taking Angie out to one nightspot or another. And frequently, when the door opened, he’d find not only Angie but Dore as well, all got up for his amusement as Babe, wearing something black and sheer, or Marilyn, in her white pleated Seven-Year Itch dress, or whoever he’d decided to be that night. In fact, more than once Frankie saw one or another of the many delivery boys who arrived with liquor, cigarettes, or groceries floored after being greeted by the ersatz “Babe” or “Marilyn” or “Bette,” convinced they were actually in the presence of the real thing.
Having met Babe in person, Dore wanted more than ever to have her see his club act, and I approached Frank on the subject. Surprisingly enough, he seemed perfectly willing and said that somehow he’d manage to haul Babe over to the Trey Deuces one night to take in the act. “Leave it to me, kid.” He figured she’d get a laugh out of it—not like Miss Clutch.
I wasn’t in town when this encounter took place, but I heard about it later. By now Dore was really packing the joint, especially on weekends, and Frank reserved a table for himself and Babe. Apparently Dore gave his all that night, and when he came on there was an extra buzz of excitement in the room, since Babe had been spotted in a corner, hiding behind her shades. She, however, sat like a bump on a log, never applauding, never cracking a smile, never a peep. After a while Dore attempted to acknowledge her presence.
“How’ma doin’, hon?” asked the stage Babe of the real one.
“Lousy,” came the reply from across the room. “Somebody get the hook.”
“Dear me,” said Dore without missing a beat, “I’m glad you came, Miss A, but I wish you’d left your hostilities in the toilet.”
“Get off my porch, sister,” Babe called back, then tried to get up, only to fall back in her seat. She was plotzed, and Frank, fearing worse was to come, got her up again and hustled her out through a side entrance.
Dore was crushed, and I heard all about it the day I came back from location, when he thanked me for trying and mentioned how touched he was by Frank’s note of apology. After that you didn’t hear him mention Babe anymore, and somehow the fun went out of the thing. Even then, he didn’t take Babe out of his repertoire; he was too cagey for that.
Shortly after this, Dore celebrated his birthday and we were all invited to a special performance at the Trey Deuces, which, as it turned out, was also to be his closing show. Recently he’d received some glowing notices in one of the trade newspapers and had been offered a booking at a Key West club called Coconuts, so he was packing up his trunks and hitting the road with all his “ladies” in tow.
From time to time Jenny and I would get a postcard from him. “Wish you were here and I were there,” “This is the land of milk and honey and I’m milking them, honey”; like that. We did miss him.
Then the old world took a couple of wacky spins, and when it stopped I found myself a man of several changes. Alas for the Trianons, Grand or Petit, the place seemed to empty itself, and in the space of a year most of the old faces were no more. Angie had a quarrel with the landlord and was first to leave; next was our aged
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