male partners. Their eyes darted about the room.
“You got the scene,” says Nate.
M.A. had a lot of friends at the convention. One of them was Tully Klyce, from Omaha. M.A. would have sat down next to Tully, whose wife had just left him. Tully, a little man with a sympathetic face, leaned close to M.A. “Did anything seem funny about Jane when you saw her last fall?” he said in a low voice.
“I didn’t notice anything,” M.A. whispered back.
“Something was going on,” whispered Tully.
“You look terrible,” said M.A.
“I know,” said Tully.
“Call me next week,” said M.A. and he patted his friend on the back. “How’s business in Omaha?”
“Not bad,” said Tully. “We’re setting records with
Shanghai Express
.”
“Memphis too,” said M.A. In fact, the movie business was doing well through the Depression—some sixty to eighty million customers per week, according to
Variety
magazine—and you could see the success in the lamé gowns and diamond necklaces of the women at the tables. The theater owners were not hurting. As people sipped on their Cokes, the conversation shifted back and forth between the blockbuster
Shanghai Express
, released in early February and still playing in theaters nationwide, and the sensational kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby only two weeks earlier. From time to time, women would leave their tables in pairs, to powder their noses in the ladies’ room.
About this time, M.A. would have walked to the southwindow and gazed out, triumphant. Of course he would have been triumphant. The lights of the city gleamed in the night. He could see the great buildings on the Mall and the reflecting pool between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. The future was coming so suddenly, rushing and loud like thunder. And he was riding that thunder, here in the capital of the nation, sometimes called a southern city, but actually so different from Atlanta and Louisville, Nashville and Memphis, to which he had moved with his family just three years ago, bought the copper-colored house on Cherry, bought himself a new Ford Cabriolet with a yellow canvas top and tires with yellow sidewalls, and had several lunches with young Mayor Watkins Overton, who kept asking M.A. to introduce him to movie stars. Memphis was more flamboyant than Nashville. Memphis had the Mississippi River and the riverboats and the barge parties with music; Memphis had Beale Street; Memphis had the Monarch Saloon with its cast-iron storefront and the mirrors encircling the lobby and the barricaded gambling room in the back; Memphis had cotton and the new Cotton Carnival, started by his friend Arthur Halle, a week of costumes and dancing and marching bands. And he could do business in Memphis. He had already twice met the warlord of Memphis, Edward Hull Crump, and had received Mr. Crump’s blessing.
At 8:30 p.m., M.A. took the elevator to a room on the tenth floor to check on the arrival of his special guest and to make sure that she and her people were comfortable. The room would have been full of cigarette smoke and half-open suitcases. It was a long flight, said one of the agents from Paramount, and no booze. M.A. whispered something in the ear of his special guest, and she smiled at him. He held her hand for a moment, then returned to the ballroom, where dessert was being served.
At 9:00 p.m., M.A. climbed the stairs to the stage and announced that he had brought a surprise for the evening. Andout walked Marlene Dietrich, star of
Shanghai Express
, Paramount’s answer to MGM’s Greta Garbo, dressed in a strapless black gown with silver sequins and black gloves that went halfway up her arms but stopped short of her creamy white shoulders. There was a gasp and a moment of silence. Then the house exploded in applause.
“Recorded history,” says Nate, “most of it. And I know the rest from Tully Klyce’s son Martin. But you won’t hear one word of this from Lennie or Lila or your father. No
“You got the scene,” says Nate.
M.A. had a lot of friends at the convention. One of them was Tully Klyce, from Omaha. M.A. would have sat down next to Tully, whose wife had just left him. Tully, a little man with a sympathetic face, leaned close to M.A. “Did anything seem funny about Jane when you saw her last fall?” he said in a low voice.
“I didn’t notice anything,” M.A. whispered back.
“Something was going on,” whispered Tully.
“You look terrible,” said M.A.
“I know,” said Tully.
“Call me next week,” said M.A. and he patted his friend on the back. “How’s business in Omaha?”
“Not bad,” said Tully. “We’re setting records with
Shanghai Express
.”
“Memphis too,” said M.A. In fact, the movie business was doing well through the Depression—some sixty to eighty million customers per week, according to
Variety
magazine—and you could see the success in the lamé gowns and diamond necklaces of the women at the tables. The theater owners were not hurting. As people sipped on their Cokes, the conversation shifted back and forth between the blockbuster
Shanghai Express
, released in early February and still playing in theaters nationwide, and the sensational kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby only two weeks earlier. From time to time, women would leave their tables in pairs, to powder their noses in the ladies’ room.
About this time, M.A. would have walked to the southwindow and gazed out, triumphant. Of course he would have been triumphant. The lights of the city gleamed in the night. He could see the great buildings on the Mall and the reflecting pool between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. The future was coming so suddenly, rushing and loud like thunder. And he was riding that thunder, here in the capital of the nation, sometimes called a southern city, but actually so different from Atlanta and Louisville, Nashville and Memphis, to which he had moved with his family just three years ago, bought the copper-colored house on Cherry, bought himself a new Ford Cabriolet with a yellow canvas top and tires with yellow sidewalls, and had several lunches with young Mayor Watkins Overton, who kept asking M.A. to introduce him to movie stars. Memphis was more flamboyant than Nashville. Memphis had the Mississippi River and the riverboats and the barge parties with music; Memphis had Beale Street; Memphis had the Monarch Saloon with its cast-iron storefront and the mirrors encircling the lobby and the barricaded gambling room in the back; Memphis had cotton and the new Cotton Carnival, started by his friend Arthur Halle, a week of costumes and dancing and marching bands. And he could do business in Memphis. He had already twice met the warlord of Memphis, Edward Hull Crump, and had received Mr. Crump’s blessing.
At 8:30 p.m., M.A. took the elevator to a room on the tenth floor to check on the arrival of his special guest and to make sure that she and her people were comfortable. The room would have been full of cigarette smoke and half-open suitcases. It was a long flight, said one of the agents from Paramount, and no booze. M.A. whispered something in the ear of his special guest, and she smiled at him. He held her hand for a moment, then returned to the ballroom, where dessert was being served.
At 9:00 p.m., M.A. climbed the stairs to the stage and announced that he had brought a surprise for the evening. Andout walked Marlene Dietrich, star of
Shanghai Express
, Paramount’s answer to MGM’s Greta Garbo, dressed in a strapless black gown with silver sequins and black gloves that went halfway up her arms but stopped short of her creamy white shoulders. There was a gasp and a moment of silence. Then the house exploded in applause.
“Recorded history,” says Nate, “most of it. And I know the rest from Tully Klyce’s son Martin. But you won’t hear one word of this from Lennie or Lila or your father. No
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