more about sex than I do!” I demurred to the literary madam, but she went on, “Irving, every woman should read this book. I’m sending copies to all my old girls, and some of my old competitors.” I thanked her. Then after a contemplative pause, she said, “I’d like to have sent a copy to poor old Aida Everleigh. Too bad, but maybe what happened was for the best, what with Minna so long gone.” I agreed that it was too bad about Aida, and I knew in my heart that what had happened had been for the best.
For earlier in that year, after over eleven years without her sister, Aida Everleigh had died. She was eighty-four years old when she died on January 3, 1960, although one Chicago newspaper ungallantly made her ninety-four, and The New York Times made her ninety-three.
The news of Aida’s passing was not as widely reported as Minna’s had been. The Everleighs’ old reporter friend and Boswell, Charles Washburn, learned of her death and wrote the primary story for the Chicago Tribune , and almost all other obituaries were based on his story.
Washburn’s account, which appeared in the Tribune of January 6, 1960, began, “Ada Everleigh, the senior half of the famed Everleigh sisters and one of the most notorious madams of all time, was buried secretly Tuesday in a grave next to her sister, Minna, in a small Virginia cemetery not far from Washington, D.C.” Then, Washburn’s news story went on, “Unknown for nearly 50 years in life, she had requested to remain unknown in death. Only a few relatives attended the services. Minna died in New York City, Sept. 16, 1948.” Next, the story revived some of the gaudy Everleigh Club’s history, then reported, “After Minna’s death, Ada returned to her native Virginia. Ada died last Sunday of old age, but no word reached this reporter until Tuesday. What few pictures she had were sent recently to the Chicago Sunday Tribune for safe keeping. Other evidence of her identity was long since destroyed.” There was generous mention of the girls of long ago. “Everleigh Club sirens wore evening gowns and were properly introduced to the guests. The prices were $25 and up for going up the mahogany staircases. This, remember, in an age of nickel beers and 10 cent whiskey.” And finally, one of the senior Everleigh’s witticisms was memorialized. As the Everleigh Club closed its doors for the last time, Aida had made a farewell speech to the personnel, and her last words were “We are going from bawd to worse—retirement.”
There would be no bottle of champagne in the days before next New Year’s Eve at 20 West 71st Street—or at a certain house in Virginia.
I wondered what had happened to Aida’s gold piano. And I wondered what had become of Minna’s manuscript, “Poets, Prophets and Gods.” And then, I wondered who in New York City now had the telephone number, Endicott 2-9970.
3
The Amps
The army captain had assured me, just before I left on the trip early that winter, that I would not have to look at surgery. “No operations, nothing of the sort,” he had said. “I can’t stand them, either. They make me vomit. No. This has only to do with artificial limbs. The limbs themselves, see?”
But when, after twenty hours on the train, I reached the dismal Terminal Station in Atlanta, I knew everything about this assignment was going to be bad. I had expected, somehow, that it would be a sunshiny day, but now outside it was dirty gray and the rain was slashing down and people were fringed unhappily around the depot.
I went into the cafeteria, had some milk and toast, then figured it was late enough in the morning to call. I telephoned the hospital but the colonel wasn’t in yet. He had given me his residence number, so I phoned there and his wife answered. He had just left. Was I the sergeant from New York? Well, he had tried hard to find me a room, and thought that he had one at the Briarcliff. I said thanks.
I called the Briarcliff and they had something
For earlier in that year, after over eleven years without her sister, Aida Everleigh had died. She was eighty-four years old when she died on January 3, 1960, although one Chicago newspaper ungallantly made her ninety-four, and The New York Times made her ninety-three.
The news of Aida’s passing was not as widely reported as Minna’s had been. The Everleighs’ old reporter friend and Boswell, Charles Washburn, learned of her death and wrote the primary story for the Chicago Tribune , and almost all other obituaries were based on his story.
Washburn’s account, which appeared in the Tribune of January 6, 1960, began, “Ada Everleigh, the senior half of the famed Everleigh sisters and one of the most notorious madams of all time, was buried secretly Tuesday in a grave next to her sister, Minna, in a small Virginia cemetery not far from Washington, D.C.” Then, Washburn’s news story went on, “Unknown for nearly 50 years in life, she had requested to remain unknown in death. Only a few relatives attended the services. Minna died in New York City, Sept. 16, 1948.” Next, the story revived some of the gaudy Everleigh Club’s history, then reported, “After Minna’s death, Ada returned to her native Virginia. Ada died last Sunday of old age, but no word reached this reporter until Tuesday. What few pictures she had were sent recently to the Chicago Sunday Tribune for safe keeping. Other evidence of her identity was long since destroyed.” There was generous mention of the girls of long ago. “Everleigh Club sirens wore evening gowns and were properly introduced to the guests. The prices were $25 and up for going up the mahogany staircases. This, remember, in an age of nickel beers and 10 cent whiskey.” And finally, one of the senior Everleigh’s witticisms was memorialized. As the Everleigh Club closed its doors for the last time, Aida had made a farewell speech to the personnel, and her last words were “We are going from bawd to worse—retirement.”
There would be no bottle of champagne in the days before next New Year’s Eve at 20 West 71st Street—or at a certain house in Virginia.
I wondered what had happened to Aida’s gold piano. And I wondered what had become of Minna’s manuscript, “Poets, Prophets and Gods.” And then, I wondered who in New York City now had the telephone number, Endicott 2-9970.
3
The Amps
The army captain had assured me, just before I left on the trip early that winter, that I would not have to look at surgery. “No operations, nothing of the sort,” he had said. “I can’t stand them, either. They make me vomit. No. This has only to do with artificial limbs. The limbs themselves, see?”
But when, after twenty hours on the train, I reached the dismal Terminal Station in Atlanta, I knew everything about this assignment was going to be bad. I had expected, somehow, that it would be a sunshiny day, but now outside it was dirty gray and the rain was slashing down and people were fringed unhappily around the depot.
I went into the cafeteria, had some milk and toast, then figured it was late enough in the morning to call. I telephoned the hospital but the colonel wasn’t in yet. He had given me his residence number, so I phoned there and his wife answered. He had just left. Was I the sergeant from New York? Well, he had tried hard to find me a room, and thought that he had one at the Briarcliff. I said thanks.
I called the Briarcliff and they had something
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