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ForNicoandDylan.Swingforthefences.

Introduction

I’m in the bedroom of JudyGarland’s suite at NewYork’s Plaza Hotel. It’s just

past four thirty in theafternoon on a coldNovember day and Judy isstill in bed, late for the fouro’clockmeeting inmyofficewith her business manager,Charlie Renthal. That’s whymy boss has sent me over:“Get her here,” DavidBegelmanordered.

“What do you want to

wear?” I ask Judy sweetly.She doesn’t answer me. Istand there—like the dummyIwas at twenty-five—staringat her. She takes the Salemsoff thenightstand, removesacigarette, and puts it in hermouth. She takes a pack ofmatches,strikesone,andsetsher nightgown on fire.What?! A small flame

appears. Oh no! Lightningexplodes in my head. PleaseGod—notnow!ButIhavenotime for this thought. Forthinking at all. Timecollapses. An instantaneouschill overtakes me. What if—? She could die. Everypossible terrorcollides inmeatonceasIgrabtheblanketsand smother the flame about

to consume the pale-bluenylon gown. Judy offers noresistance—and no help.Done. It is over. Anothercatastrophe averted.Why amIstillsocoldandfrightened?Her leg is slightly burned.She puts her hand on it,examines it, and gets out ofbed. The bedding is onlyscorched. I shiver and stare.

Myhandsareicicles.Iamina state of complete shock. Idon’t know what I feelbesides icy cold.Not awordfrom her about it. She headsto the bathroom. “I betterweartights,”shetellsme.

This ugly incident wasn’tthe first, and it wasn’t theworst. That came when sheattempted to kill me instead

of herself. Drugs wereresponsible, and I’ll get tothat. I will show you awoman whose mind wasdestroyed by prescriptiondrugsandalcohol.Butletmestay with the Plaza for amomentso that Icanexplainthat while self-immolationwas hardly a daily event, itdid occur sometimes when

shereachedthedepthsofherdespair on the emotionalroller coaster shewas riding,a trip that was picking upmore speed all the timeduring the four years wespent together in the earlysixties.

When she was “up” shewas totally manic, her fast-paced conversation larded

with brittle laughter; whenshe was depressed, it wasnothing like a normaldepression, for she could nothear the sound of a humanvoice. She was in a foreigncountry. Deeply felt pain,however, was a constant inthe daily existence of thistroubled and immenselytalented woman whose life

was spiraling down and, atthe same time, gainingmomentum in helping toshapemyown.

I had recently turnedtwenty-fivewhen she set hernightgown on fire at thePlaza; Judy was thirty-nine,andwehadknowneachotherslightly less than a year.Although there was only a

14-year difference betweenus,itmightaswellhavebeen114. I was still an innocent;she had lost her innocencebeforeIwasborn.

Iftimingiscritical—andithas always been for me—Judy and I connected at amoment when she neededcompany and I needed anopportunity. That moment

wouldforeverchangemylife.Judyhadvirtuallyretired.Shehad fled the United States,where in Hollywood she’dbeen labeled unreliable, andshe was quietly living ahealthier lifestyle abroadwhen my first real employerpitched a comeback to her.Shewasbored enoughdoingnothinginLondontojumpat

thechance.Butwhileshewasmentally ready for anothershot at stardom on the silverscreen, she still was notemotionally stable enough.The outcome was at oncetriumphant and tragic. Thetriumph was her immediatesuccesswhen she reappearedon the American scene; thetragedywas the reemergence

of the rampaging insecuritiesthat fostered her reliance ondrugs and alcohol. As heranxieties took over again,prescription drugs oncemoredominated her daily life andfinallykilledher.

For a lonely, latchkey,star-struck kid from aConservative Jewishhousehold, being sent on the

roadwithJudywaslikebeingshotoutof a cannon into thefast-and-furious lane. Oncethere, I had no choice but togrow up quickly or go awayand forget about the life inshowbusinessIhaddreamedabout. It was with her that Idiscoveredmystayingpowerand the determinationnecessary to accept a

harrowing existence. Alongthe way she became mygreatestteacher.

As I turned from twenty-fiveintothirtyandfromthirtyinto forty, Judy was by thenlonggonefrommylife,butIdiscovered that in fact shehad never leftme. I came torealize that many of thedecisionsImadewerefiltered

through a brain stemoverloadedwith things I hadlearned from being with her,from my exploring andfinallyunderstandingwhoshewas personally as well asprofessionally.Shetaughtmeboth how to and how not tolive. She was the majoringredient in the special lensthrough which I have seen,

lived,anddealtwithmy life.Even today, what comes outon the other side of myfiltration system is heavilyinfluenced by that education.Given what I’ve gonethrough, I realize I’m stillstanding because of thegreatest lesson Judy Garlandtaughtme:hownottofold.

***

JudyGarlandwas hardly theonly celebrity in my lifewhose insecurities led to thekindofabusethatdestroysallhappiness. My day-to-daywasfilledwiththeaddictionsof others, most notably LizaMinnelli,whomIrepresentedforfifteenyearsatthepeakofher career. Their desperate

lives were not what I hadgrownupexpecting,notwhatI stood in line for, but oncemy ticket was stamped, Ientered into the theater ofabuse for most of myprofessionalcareer.

Icouldhaveoptedout—atgreatcosttomyself.InsteadIchosetostayin—alsoatgreatcost to myself. Eventually I

discovered that there weremany different kinds ofaddicts in the world ofentertainment, no differentfrom the universe outside itscloister.Isawthedysfunctionthiskindofbehaviorcauses.Isawfirsthandhowalcoholismdamages the familiesof starsand their associates, how itends friendships and

relationships. However, inspite of my disapproval andmy disgust with addiction, Inonetheless managed to fallinto the same dumps theaddicts were in without evertaking any drugs or enjoyingmore than the occasionalglassofwine.

Most addicts I dealt withat arm’s length, but a few I

wrappedmyarmsaroundandmarried. Those misstepstested the limits of myendurance. I allowed myselfto be sucked into personalrelationships that I failed toexamine.

I might not have finallysuccumbed to a breakdownhadIonlylistenedtothemenwho courted when they

spoke,butit tookmeawhiletolearnhowtolisten.Addictscan be most charming andseductive.CertainlyJudywaswhen she was in her best ofall possible worlds. When itcame to my personal life, Ithrewcautiontothewinds.

Sotoanextentthisbookisalsoaboutwhatcanhappentoan enabler on the sidelines. I

am thatperson,andonlyoneof millions like me. I neversawmyselfasavictim.Iwasrighteous, self-confident,judgmental, and imperious—until the day I wasn’tanymore.

***

Judy may have been mygreatest teacher, but she was

not the only one. I wasextremely fortunate to find awonderful mentor, FreddieFields, one of the all-timebestagentsontheplanet,who—along with his partner,David Begelman, a sickpuppy—played an enormousrole in my career. Theirarrivalinmylifewasamatterof good timing, the result of

shifting professionalcircumstances that opened adoor for me at the rightmoment. Ultimately Freddie,a sport-coated, charmingsmart aleck, gave me theskills I required to becomeeffective in the motionpicture industry at a timewhen the onlywomen in theagency business were locked

inroomsreadingscreenplays,manuscripts, and books. Hetaught me what the agencybusiness was mostly about:representing stars. He mademe understand that it didn’tmatterwhereyousat inNewYork, Hollywood, oranywhere else if youhad therightclients.Ibecameaclientsigner, and the stars I

represented were the realdeal, big-money talent whocould make the Hollywoodcamerasroll.

The remarkable lesson Ilearnedfromtheseegocentricstars is that they are alwaysright.The reason Iknow thisis that nobody in showbizeverdisagreeswiththem.Nordid I. Handling superstars

gavemeclout,andIusedittofight for the things I wantedin my career: money andposition. But I was selfish. Ifought entirely for myselfuntil the time came—and forme it was late in coming—whenIfinallysawthelightofa new day dawning, and Irecognized that I might havethe capacity tomake a small

differenceinmycorneroftheworld.AndIdidthattoo.

Part1

Beginnings

CHAPTERONE

WhotheHellIsSteviePhillips?

Okay, here’s the obligatorywhere-I-was-bornsegment. Itmightgiveyouanideaabouthowapersoncouldevergrowup to become a talent agentwho deals withmegalomaniacsandaddicts.

Was my showbiz careerpreordained? Here are somefreaky facts. I was born onAugust9,1936, inahospital

in the middle of theBroadway theater district.Eventhoughmyparentslivedin Hoboken, New Jersey,where there were plenty ofhospitals.Buttheypickedthisinconvenient place on WestFiftieth Street because itwascheap and they could affordhavingmeifImademydebutthere.Alas, the broken-down

Polyclinic outlived itsusefulness, and the eyesoremet the wrecking balldecades ago. But while itexisteditwasthego-toplacefor ailing show folk. Mybirthing doctor, whose namewas Phillips—same as mine—was simultaneously in theroom next door, giving lifesupporttoacomediannamed

Joe Howard who’d had aheart attack. It’s a comedysketch: Dr. Phillips runningbetween rooms yelling“Push!” in one room and“Don’t push!” in the other.Allheneededwasaredfrightwig. Joe Howard must havebeen one helluva guy. Idiscoveredhewasnotonlyacomedian but also a

Broadwayproducer—whichInowknow(havingbeenone)is ridiculously hard—and yetHoward additionallymanaged to be a director,writer,composer,andlyricist.He wrote a famous song,“Goodbye, My Lady Love.”ThetitleofHoward’sfamoussongalsostrikesmeasalittlescary. I think it all means

something—maybe.My very first childhood

memory comes from thesummer of 1939when Iwastaken to the World’s Fair inFlushing Meadows, NewYork. I am sitting on EdgarBergen’s knee talking toCharlie McCarthy. I can seemyself there; I rememberwhatIwaswearingandwhat

Charliewore.A year later we moved

into an apartment on the topfloor of a small building inWashington Heights a fewblocks from the GeorgeWashington Bridge. Ourapartment had bare woodfloors that announced myfather,whosefootfallsIcametodread.Hewasavain,vile-

temperedmanwhoonce,inarage,threwallmyclothesoutour sixth-floor window ontothe street below because Ihadn’t hung them up.Somehow that translated intonot respecting him or themoney he made sellingchildren’s wear. What myfather called “a goodspanking” would now be

called something elseentirely.Heisalsothereasontherearenopicturesfrommychildhood, no picture ofCharlieandme.

Selling children’s wearwas hardly comparable todesigningstrategiesforworldpeace, but it took all myparents’ time and energy.Theywereneverhome.Iwas

aloneandlonelyexceptwhenI was inmy friends’ happierhomes. I saw their parentsmuch more than I did myown.

At seven thirty everyweekday morning ahousekeeper named Evelynarrived. Do not think “warmfamily retainer.” Evelynnever came close. She was

black in mood as well as incolor, and always gave theimpression that she was nothappy being there. She putthe same cream-cheese-and-jelly sandwichwithabananaintomy lunchboxeverydayfor years. In all the time shewaswithus,Idon’trecallsomuch as a hug from her.Evelyn didn’t know or care

whatIdidorwhereIwentaslong as I showed up on timefor dinner. She wasdischarging her obligation.That’s all I ever was to her,an obligation. Salvation formelayinescapefromhome.

The most wonderfulescape was going to themovies. On Saturdaystwenty-five cents gave me a

wonderland to live in for anentire day. Loew’s 175thStreet with its starlit Casbahetched in bas-relief on thewallsandceilingswaswhereI lookedup, closedmy eyes,andenteredadifferentfuture.I yearned for a Technicolorworld replete with riches,song, dance, and excitementofallkinds.Iwouldbeatthe

box office, my quarter inhand, as soon as the doorsopened, and there I wouldremain until dinnertime. Iloved the serials and thenewsreels, but most of all Iloved the musicals. JudyGarland in Meet Me in St.LouiswasthegirlIlongedtobe,withlongstraighthairandsoft curls and a house next

door to the handsomest boyontheblock.

Nothing at home wasanythinglikeJudy’shouseinSt.Louis.Apartment6Hwasfilled with drama anddysfunction and lots of theugly behavior thatcharacterized my parents’marriage.NowadaysIassumemy parents’ screaming

matches were part of adynamic theydependeduponbecause they bothparticipated soenthusiastically. Thescreamingwas aboutmoney,about the retail business,about family—my mother’s,mostly—but it really wasn’taboutanyofthosethings.

Finally I understand that

arguing is never what theangerisabout.Myfatherwascarrying baggage that camefrom another place: theloveless home of his ownchildhood.My grandfather, Idiscovered,wasaworld-classphilanderer, a stage-doorJohnny who lusted afterZiegfeldchorinesandbeddedmorethanafew.WhenIwas

the tender age of ten, myfather took me to amemorabilia-packed walk-upinHell’sKitchen to visitmygrandfather for the very firsttime as he lay dying in thearms of a former Follies starwhose faded beauty was areminderoftheknockoutshemusthavebeenwhenshewasyoung. I thought it strange,

even at ten, that my fatherhad brought me along towitnesshisfather’sdeath,butit turned out to be the mostintimate moment I evershared with my dad. Mygrandfatherhadbeentherolemodel for my father, anexcellentstudent.

***

Thereyouhaveit.I’mpartofa family in which not onesingle member had anyinterest or practicalinvolvement in showbiz, andyet my early life wascoincidentally touched by ittime and again. As I grewolder, the coincidencesbecame a mainstream ofevents, until it was clear to

me that showbiz was indeedwhere I belonged.A cliché Iknow, but here goes: It wasallinthestars.

CHAPTERTWO

WhatDoYouDowithaJewish

Princess?

I knew that after college I’dtry making a career inentertainment, so I replacededucationstudies(mymotherthought I should be preparedtoteachincaseI“hadto”go

to work) with comparativeliterature: “From all yourgreat literature will comenothing but starvation!”Therewere plenty ofwomenwho worked—my motherwas one of them, and a rolemodel for me—but most ofthem held jobs out of theirneed for a paycheck, andmany of them were looking

for husbands so that theycould stop working. Theywere not, in the main,remotely interested in careerbuilding. They wanted out. Iwanted in. My enormousambitionhasbeenoneof thefew personality disorders Ihaven’t wanted to change.Mymotherwasawareofthis,and she decided she’d better

findmeahusbandandputallmynonsensetorest.

She and her best friend,her older sister, Julie,convened to figure out myfuture in a very organizedfashion,andhusbandhuntingmorphedfrommerelyanideainto an intense pursuit. Thestarting point of thisorganized search was the

synagogue. Who in thecongregation did they knowhad a son the right age,preferably a doctor or alawyer? My motherrememberedaGermanfamilylivingintheFourthReich,socalled because of the manyGerman-Jewishrefugeeswhosettled there.They had a sonwhowould be just about the

right age and she phonedthem.Chutzpah?(LeoRosteninTheJoysofYiddishdefinesthe word as “gall, brazennerve, effrontery, incredible‘guts’; presumption plusarrogance such as no otherword,andnoother language,candojusticeto.”)

Itoldmymotherwhatshewasdoingwasembarrassing,

but she was determined tofind out the son’s maritalstatus,andtherewasnootherway but head-on. In theconversationwith this familyof German refugees, she hitpay dirt. “He’s an attorneyfrom a good family. Now Iremember the parents,” shesaid.“Weusedtosayhellointhe shul.” (At that point she

had not attended services formore than a dozen years.)“You’ll be a mother with ababyinacarriage.Youwon’tneed to work hard all yourlifelikeme.”

Sooffwewenttoobservethe Sabbath (which I neverdid, nor did she really) in atemple where we were nolonger part of the

congregation.Isatonabenchfive rows ahead of mymother’s pick, turning everynowandtheninordertosteala glance without being seen.Caught in the act.He smiledatme.

I agreed to go out withhim.Hewas considerate andattentive, and best of all heowned an old Pontiac

convertible.WedrovetoCityIsland for lobsters, toBrooklyn for dinner with hisfriends, to the beach for theday. We shared our love ofmovies and theater. No bellsrang, but beingwith him feltgood. I never for a momentthoughtIwasinlove,andno—just in case you’rewondering—we never slept

together before we married.In 1957 “nice” Jewish girlsdidn’tdothat.Iexpectedhimto askme tomarry him, andhe did it charmingly onbended knee while putting aperfect two-carat diamondringonmyfinger.

Finally, one sunny Aprilafternoon, on thedayGreekscelebrate their independence,

we got married at the PlazaHotelinthe“GoldandWhiteSuite” on the second floor,overlooking the very cornerwhere the Greek marchingbands turned from FifthAvenue into Central ParkSouth. Given that I was alsocelebratingmyindependence,marching bands seemedentirely appropriate, even

though the martial music ofthe parade drowned out theentire ceremony. I couldn’thearawordtherabbisaid.

Theironyinallthisisthatmy mother pushed me intomarriagewithamanwhowasevenmorestarstruckthanI.Itwas an accident to be sure,but then again, maybe noaccident at all. Had it not

been written somewhere inthe stars that I should be inshow business, my newhusband might havediscouraged me from atheatrical pursuit; but thiskind and honest man adoredeveryaspectofentertainment.Allheeverwantedinlifewastobeanactor,but insteadhepassed the bar to satisfy his

parents—just as I was tryingtosatisfyminebymarrying.

Hequicklydecidedhewasgoing to live his dreamvicariouslythroughme.Ihadhis full support to delve intothe world of showbiz, andthat was all I needed. I feltcapable of finding my ownway,startingatthebottomofthe ladder. The rest was

determination, something Iownedinabundance.Iwouldmakeit.Ijusthadto.IwouldfinallyrealizethedreamIhaddreamed all those Saturdaysintheuptownmoviepalace.

CHAPTERTHREE

GirlontheBottom

In1958theonlystart-upjobsavailable,besides retail,werefor women with decentsecretarialskills.Itwasatimewhen, after you got yourcollegedegree,graduateworkgenerallymeantthatyoutooka course in either thePitmanor Gregg method ofstenography, and only thendid you have a skill worth

selling,onethatputyouonacollision course with a lowglassceiling.Ofcourseifyougraduated from Vassar,Smith,Holyoke,oranyoftheother Seven Sister schools,and you had good socialconnections, you mightacquire an entry-levelposition as an editorialassistant at a top publishing

houseorclassymagazinelikeHarper’s Bazaar—that is,untilyoumarriedandmovedto a start-up mansion inGreenwich. Inasmuch as Iwasn’t one of those Muffy,Buffy, Duffy, or Libbysocialites about to enjoy mycoming-out,Iwentstraighttothe Kelly Girl secretarialschool for my continuing

education, recognizing thatmybachelorofartsdegreeinliterature might occasionallyhelp me in cocktailconversation.

FromthemomentIstartedworking, I knew it was theright choice for me. Not allthe shit jobswere,but then Iwas 100 percent prepared topay my dues. My mom was

wrongaboutworking.Ididn’tfind it hard at all; of course,unlikeher,Iwasnotstandingon a retail sales floor twelvehours a day. I was sitting inbright airy spaces, readingmostof the time,andbestofall, at the end of the week Ihad a paycheck in my handthat gave me the first realpowerIthoughtI’deverhad:

buying power. But it wasn’tonly about the money.Working reinforced mythinking that I could have itall: fame,money,andpower.And therewas at least a tinybitofgenuinealtruism.Ialsowanted to make acontribution to society. Ithought from the beginningthatentertainingpeoplewasa

greatwaytodothat.Withmyskillsetinplace,

such as it was (no hundred-words-a-minute me), Ilaunched my attack on “theindustry”bygoing to a tempemployment agency,where Iasked to be sent out forentertainment work. Therewere lots of jobs available,andIwasregularlyemployed

at a network (both CBS andNBC)orat advertisingdesks(McCannEricksonstandsoutbecause some jerk hit onmeuntil I finally quit), where Iread through whatever fileswere available to me, aneager participant in my ownlittlemasterplantofigureouthowpeople functioned in theindustry. I thought I could

learnbyreadingcontractsandmemos.

Iwasplaced in some jobsfor a few days, some formore.SometimesIwouldjustup and quit after I’d suckedout of a particular office asmuchworthwhilebackgroundas I could. And I had plentyof time to do it.My boss ofthe moment, always a man,

madeuphismindbeforeIgotthere that therewas no pointin my doing anything otherthan answering the phoneuntilhisregulargirlgotback.When asked why I wasreadingafile(andthatwasn’toften) I simply said I neededsomething to read. The bosssmiled. Iwasagirl,afterall.HowcouldIknowwhatIwas

reading?ButIthoughtIhadagood plan because I wasactually interested ineverything I read. I mighthave forgotten myShakespeare, but I couldindeed remember contractualtermsandconditions. I couldrememberwhogotpaidwhatfor every show on the air. Icounted on the fact that this

was not useless information,that one day I could get to aplace where I could actuallyusetheinfoIwasstockpiling.

Notalltheearlyjobswereterrible. I stayed at ABCTelevision for a few monthsand had a wonderful time,though certainly not at thestartinthetypingpool,whichwas a drag and hard, boring

work, typing columns ofnumbers that, withoutcontext,madenosense.

Luckily I was rescuedfrom the pool after only aweekandahalf,toldIwouldnow be a “productionassistant,” and sent to thestage floor of a little gameshow called Who Do YouTrust?, starring Johnny

Carson. Though happy to beplucked out of the pool, I’msorrytosayIbelievetheonlyreason Iwaschosenover theother more efficient womenwho had longer tenure wasmyappearance.Iwastallandslim;Ihadagoodfigure,and,although no great beauty, Iwas nice looking. I knew Iattractedmen’sattention,and

Ilikedit.Iwasaflirt.Sosueme.

Mynewjobdefinitionwas“Help anyone who needshelp.”Typingwastheleastofit.What I remember most isrunning off copies on themimeograph machine andchatting a lot. You couldn’tjust deliver a copy withouthaving a little chat. For five

minutesIthoughtthiswasthebeginning of the rest of mylife. Not so. But it’s worthtwominutesofrecollection.

Iwasawkwardasayoungwoman (not so terriblydifferent now): a tangle oflongarmsandlegsthatfoundtheirwayintoaspaceslightlyahead of the rest of me,mixing it up with whatever

wasintheirpath.Therewerealways offending inanimateobjects, taking on lives oftheir own against my dailyprogress. One day in mysecond week as productionassistantIwasrunningacrossthestageonsomemomentousmission when the cameracablereachedoutandbroughtmedown.

Now I am lying spread-eagleinfrontoftheentireTVaudience while JohnnyCarsonisdoingthewarm-up.“There she is, ladies andgentlemen—I give you theJewishElizabethTaylor!”Ohno, Johnny’s not talkingabout me?! “Smile, Stevie,you’re on camera.” On bigmonitors no less, placed

strategically around theaudience of 499 giddyspectators laughing at myexpense. Elizabeth Taylorhad nothing to worry about,but then the audience couldseethatforthemselves.Iwasstill a natural brunette, andmy green eyes—all thatremains of that naive, youngwoman of twenty-three—

were then, and still are, mybestfeature.Johnnycouldseetheywere not violet like herbeautiful eyes. In fact hecould see theyweren’t violetevenafterhe’dhadanumberof strong belts. Iwas alwaysgenerously invited along forpre-warm-updrinksatSardi’sbarnextdoor.

Thewaythatguyknocked

back two double shotsshowedmehe’dhad a lot ofpractice.Still, Johnnyhadnotrouble standing up or doingstand-up, whereas I, on onesimple, well-nursed glass ofwine,wouldfalldown.Sadly,when the showwas canceledat the end of the season, sowasI.

Thisexperiencereinforced

something I already knew,something that has been truesince the beginning of time:Being attractive helps. Iwasn’t totally dim. I alwaysknew I could count on myappearance to some extent.But I also understood fromthe get-go that competenceandintelligencemattermore.

CHAPTERFOUR

CanITellYouAbout

“Menial”?

How I wish my mom hadhung around long enough tosee how things worked out.Shewas,however,onlythereatthestart,anditwasaslowstart.Ididn’tactuallygetmyfoot on the first rung of thesuccess ladder until I got ajob at the hugely successfulagency called MCA (MusicCorporation of America). I

wantedapermanentjobthere,andIhadnoideaiftheywerehiring when I popped in toPersonnel to fill out anapplication. The reason Ifound MCA so appealing isthat it was across the streetfrom my husband’s firstprivateoffice.

As a young lawyer withhis ownpractice, he couldn’t

afford a secretary. I couldtypeuphisfewlettersonmylunchbreakandthenagainatnight afterwork.Aswell, anagency represented anotherarea of show business that Iwas curious about, one that Ithought might lead tosomething.MCAhiredmeonthe spot because I was acollegegraduate.Mostof the

othersecretarieswerenot.I had no difficulty doing

whateverjobsMCAgavemewhile also doing myhusband’swork.Andhewastotallygrateful.Ourmarriageprojected the appearance ofpicture-bookperfection,butitwas a lie. All of it. I likedhim, but when we had sex Ilay in bed feeling nothing

even though he was such aconsiderate lover, alwayseager to please me. Ourlovemaking was notunpleasant but far fromexciting, and I faked myresponses. In that as ineverything else, creating agreat impression was alwayseasy, and it saved me fromembarrassing honesty. I was

totally disingenuous, clearlynot the doting helpmate andsweetlittlewife.Myambitionfar exceeded the feelings Ihadforhim.Iwasselfishandself-involved, thinkingexclusively of number one. Ifelt guilty even thinkingabout home and hearthbecause he was so kind andgenerous,soanxioustomake

itwork.As my career progressed

and he saw less of me, henever raisedanobjection.Hewantedtohavechildren;Ididnot.Iknewfromdayonethatone day I would leave him,and children wouldcomplicate it. I hung in farlonger than I should have. Iknew itwas over forme the

firstyear.Guiltkeptmetherefor five. But the bottom lineisthathewasthekeeper,andIblewit.Thereweresomanywonderful things about himto love—his thoughtfulness,kindheartedness,honesty,andloyalty, just tonameafew—and I was too young andstupidtorealizeit.

Given the marriages that

followed, I can now say hewas the only decent man Imarried, and he was muchmore than simply decent. Itno longer embarrassesme totalk about it because as Imatured I developed enoughgrace to apologize to him,andwebecamegoodfriends.

***

MCA was a class operation,and its overall appearancereflected that.Thehallswerepaneled in mahoganythroughout, and, hangingeverywhereone looked,wereantique equestrian printsmatted exquisitely inmatching black-and-goldframes. There was a lot ofFrench country furniture,

much of it the real deal. Theheavy doors with theirbeautiful brass hardwarematched the paneling, and Imentionthedoorsspecificallybecause many, many yearslater, when I’d become theoccupant of one of thosegrand offices, the littleBoston terrier I took to theoffice daily missed me so

much during my lunch datesthatheeventuallygnawedhisway through my door. Onemorning when I came towork,Ifoundasweetnoteonmy secretary’s typewriterfrom Lew Wasserman, thegreat gray eminence himself,askingmetoreplacethedoor.And I did—at no smallexpense.

“Uncle Lew” to some,“Mr. Wasserman” to me, hewasthemastermindwhobuiltMCA into the studioconglomerate that dominatedHollywood.What started outas a company that bookedmusicians and bands grew,underhismanagement,intoamegamonster agency thatrepresented singers, dancers,

producers and directors,writers of screenplays andbooks,andfamousactorsandactressesoftheday,includingsuch legendary stars asBetteDavis, Cary Grant, TonyCurtis and Janet Leigh, and,of course, Ronald Reagan,whom this kingmaker wouldlater help become presidentoftheScreenActorsGuild.A

dealer of unmatched stature,Wasserman alone wasresponsible for installing hiscandidate as the head of theMotionPictureAssociationofAmerica.

His influence extendedwell beyond the Sunset Stripinto governors’ mansions,Senate chambers,internationalboardrooms,and

the White House. He heldsway over dozens of laborunions, and he became thecultural statesman for theentire entertainment industry.Heandhiswife,Edie,whomI met only once, broughtglamour to Las Vegas bylending the city their statureand bringing along theirfriends. Maneuvering

together, they helped shapethe television industry intothebusinessweknowtoday.

Additionally Wassermanfound time to pioneer theblockbusterfilm,andwithhisgolden touchwasresponsibleinlargepartforthesuccessesof Psycho, Jaws, and E.T.And, as noted, he also foundtime to charge me for the

door my dog ate. I amgrateful to be able to boastthat many years down theroadwebecamebuddiesofasort when he inadvertentlydiscovered, through anoffhandremarkImade,thatIwas interested in currentaffairs. After that I lookedforward to his New Yorkvisits because I would be

invitedintohispalatialofficesuitetodiscusspartypolitics.TheIranhostagecrisiswasinthe headlines, and it amusedmethatUncleLewaskedmewhat I thought PresidentCarter should do. I knew hewas toying with me, and Iloved it. On a more seriouslevel he encouraged me tobecomemore involved in the

DemocraticParty, inwhich Iwas a card-carrying memberand he an important fund-raiser. At that point I was aBroadway producer workingunder one of Uncle Lew’scorporatebanners.But—backtobeginnings!

I didn’t mind the awfullow-man-on-the-totem-polejob that MCA gave me:

something called “floatingsecretary,”whichpaid$69.50a week, even less than thestarvationwages I’d receivedat temp jobs. At first it wasnot at all different from thetemp jobs; Personnel hadmereplacing secretaries whowereilloronvacation.

The upside was that I gottowork for all the important

agents in the organization:vice presidents like SonnyWerblin, who a few yearslater went on to buy theTitans, the team he renamedthe Jets. I was now on mybest behavior, for I was apermanent employee who Ifelt would soon be placed inanoffice that suitedme.Partof that choice, I was

encouraged tobelieve,wouldbe mine, pendingavailabilities, of course. IreadeverythingIwasallowedto see, and at Mr.Werblin’sdesk (though there onlybriefly). I started to learnwhat “tough” meant. OldSonny didn’t mince words.“Shut the door, you idiot. Idon’t want anyone to hear

me,” he told one of theyounger guys. I wanted tohearhim.

Some of the agents Itemporarily worked forseemed overwhelmed, andsome dazed and confused asthey wandered around thehallsseekinginformation,butnotSonnyWerblin.Iadmiredhis take-no-prisoners

approach: Deal with whatyou’resupposedtoknow,andtake responsibility for it.After working for him, Ilooked for the tough guys. Iaskedforthedifficultjobsonthe music side, where theagents were frantic. I stayedlate. I worked insanely hard,which attracted attention. Iattracted attention. I knew

how to subtly size up thepowerful men. And theyknew the look. SuddenlySonny Werblin and LarryRosenthal—the two top guysin New York—started tonoticeme,andthenext thingIknew,Personnelwasaskingme what I wanted to do.Whentheyaskyouwhatyouwant todoatanagency,you

say: “I want to be anagent”—unless you’re acomplete dummy. And so Idid. I became an agent-in-training.

What that means is fourthings: You get a raise(totallymodest),yougettositinside your boss’s office andlisten in on his calls on anextension (except when the

callsarepersonal),yougettobe the gatekeeper andcustodian of the calendar(which starts to put you onthe shit lists of people whocan’tgetinthedoor),andyouget watched by those whomakedecisions—whichistheonly part that really matters.As far as I know, I was theonly young woman accorded

thisprivilege.My “takeaway” from my

early days at MCA has alsobeentruesincethedarkages:Hard work matters. When Ilookedatatonofpapersthathad been piling up, I didn’twait to be asked, Imade thepilegoaway.Ididn’taskifIcouldfinishthelongmemointhe morning. I made sure it

wason“his”deskbythetimehe came in even if it meantstaying late. I was efficient,organized, and as mistake-proofaspossible.IknewthatifIdidagoodjob,Iwouldberewarded, and I was, forwhen I was called in to myfirst closed-door meeting, itwastodiscusswhatIwantedtodowiththerestofmylife.

CHAPTERFIVE

TheNewKidsontheBlock

I had been an agent-in-training only a few monthswhen something unexpectedhappened.MCAwasbroughtup on antitrust charges inWashington, DC. Thegovernment accused theagency of takingcommissionsfromperformersmore than once for the samejob,andLewWassermanwas

forced to choose betweenstaying in the agencybusinessorholdingon tohisnew acquisition, UniversalPictures. Mr. Wasserman,whom I remember back thenonly as the man in themidnight-blue suit whoseforbidding presence silencedallelevatorchatter,decidedinhis infinite wisdom to keep

themoreprofitableUniversal.The agency doors wereclosing immediately. In onedayall the lovelyaccessoriesthat graced the offices andcorridors of MCA vanished.Ithappenedsofastitwasasifamagician came through thehalls andwaved a wand thatmade things disappear.Neither a magician nor

thieves in the night wereresponsible:Itwastheagentswho ran through the hallsgrabbing everything thatwasn’t nailed down.Expensive lamps, blotters,trash baskets, leather pencilboxesanddesksets,someofthe horsey prints, and theextant office supplies all leftthrough the front door. Just

abouteverything,shortofthewall paneling and the largestpieces of furniture, wascarriedoff.

AfewdaysbeforeMCA’sdoors closed for good,Personnelsentmeasafloaterinto a double-office suiteshared by Freddie Fields andDavid Begelman. Of all theguys I’d worked for, these

two were the hippest, thecoolest, and the mostexciting. Freddie was thenattily sport-coatedwisecracker; David, the verymodelofsartorialelegance—turnedouteverydayinoneofthe dozen or more that heownedofthesameexactsuit;blue shirt by day, white bynight—was the brilliant

raconteur.Bothwere in theirlatethirties;bothweresharp-witted, smart, flamboyanthotshots. They could callRock Hudson, Doris Day,Ronnie Reagan, andMarilynMonroe and get their callspicked up, but they had notsigned these West Coastclients. Freddie had broughtDeanMartinandJerryLewis

with him from his prior job,and they were his ticket ofadmission to MCA. He wastheagentresponsibleforPhilSilvers, who was a bigBroadway, Hollywood, andTV star at the time, and hewas married to the singer-actress Polly Bergen, whowasalsoingreatdemand.

Freddie got his pal

Begelman into the company,andtogethertheyweretryingto hustle comedians popularin the Borscht belt. Theyalways broughtme into theirinner offices for dictationwhen calling someoneimpressive so that I couldbeimpressed. Seemed to methey spoke to theA-list onlywhen I was around. They

were show-offs in the mostcharming way, full ofthemselves and aware of it,keeping things light all thetime. When we left thebuilding together they didtheir “crowded-elevatorshtick,”whichneverfailedtodelight me. David might saysomething like: “She was sosick: sneezing, coughing,

running a high fever. I trieddesperately to keep awayfrom her, but she wascrawling all over me.” Andthenhewould let out a hugefake sneeze, and I wouldwatch as everyone in theelevator shrank into thecorners, backing into oneanother to gain as muchdistance as possible from

him.OrFreddiewoulddotheone about the rash and thenjusthappentonoticeitonhishand.“Omigod,David!”he’dsay, feigning abject horror.“What’s this?Doyou thinkIcaught it?” Nobody in theelevatorhadtheslightestideawhat “it” was, but from thehorroretchedonallthefaces,you knew they thought “it”

was at least as awful as thebubonic plague and clearlynot worth catching. I wouldbegiddywithlaughter,tryingmy hardest not to give it up.They were both the mostamusing men I’d ever met,and they liked that I likedthem.

Actually,at thestart Ihada crush on them both, but it

wasn’t a physical thing; itwasabout their style. I lovedtheir act, their two-manvaudeville show. They mayhave borrowed their shtickfrom the Borscht beltcomedians they hung with,butIdidn’tknowthat then.Isimply thought they werehilarious. Sadly, I foundmyself comparing my

husband with these twocharacters. He was so muchkinder and sweeter, but hecouldn’t makeme laugh likethey did.He didn’t have thispizzazz. On the other hand,he was real, while all thepizzazz was phony baloney.That I understood this didn’tmatter.

So when these two

colorful characters told metheyweregoingtoopentheirownoffice,askingifIwantedto come along with them, Ijumpedallover it.Boththeirsecretariesopted to staywithUniversal because each,having been with the parentcompanymorethantenyears,was fully vested in the richMCA pension plan. I heard

the universe speaking loudand clear, telling me thatFreddieandDavidwouldgettothetop,tellingmetobetonthem, and if I was clever Icould ride their coattails tosuccess.Ofalltheagentsthatwere flushed out into thelarger world the day MCA’sdoors closed, these were thetwo that would make it big-

time.A woman entering show

business in the sixties wasnothingmore thanascribe—not even. I was only a tadmore noticeable because Iwasattractiveandhadasenseof my own style, even on alimited budget. I inheritedvanity from my father andcared deeply about my

appearance. Iwas also a flirtand always anxious to bethought of as pretty bymen.Flirtingwas,sadly,oneofthefewways tobenoticed inanofficebackintheday.Anicesmile and a clever remarkwent a long way towardhelpingawomanrealizeeventhesmallestofambitions.

One didn’t—I certainly

didn’t—get an opportunityright away to demonstratethatmytrendyhairdoframedaheadwithabrain in it,andalthoughmytwobosseswereready to acknowledge that Imight have a brain, theyweren’treadytoacknowledgeit financially. Men got cashfor Christmas; I got ahandbag. It was a beautiful

handbag, bought for me atBendel’s by Freddie’sbeautiful wife, Polly. Ipeeked inside withtrepidation, hoping to find acheck for even a hundreddollars, but there was none.Worse,Iwasstillcalledontofill in as a babysitter as afavor. You know what“favor”means.

***

The women’s movementdidn’t fully get under wayuntilBetty Friedan publishedThe Feminine Mystique in1963. Prior to that womenwereinvisibleor,ifnoticedatall,seenmainlyassexobjects—certainlynotaspeoplewithleadership potential. Formost,workwasonlyameans

to an end. I, however,yearned for a meaningfulcareer, a way of life, and Iwas beginning to understandjusthowimpossiblethatwas.I heard a little voice saying,Hey,wait aminutehere. I’mjustassmartassomeofthesepalookas. I want the samechance they got. This hadnothing whatever to do with

sisterhood. I was thinkingexclusivelyofmyself.

Fortunatelyforme,thebetthat Imade paid off. FreddieFields and David Begelmanstarted a company that grewtobeoneof the twoor threelargestagencies in theworld.Although at the start theytook advantage of my officeskills,oftenleavingmeatthe

end of a long day withenough typing to keep meworking until midnight, Inever once complained.(Sometimes one of themwouldcomebackatabouttenwith a thank-you and abuttered roll from Danny’sHideaway.) I sucked up andsoaked in everything. I hadmy eye on the summit from

the start, and, bymaking thecompromises tomymarriagethat I found necessary, I didin fact ride their coattails tosuccess. A good part of thereason it happened hadeverything to do with JudyGarland.

CHAPTERSIX

HowGoodIsReal?

Suddenly Judy Garland isstanding in front of me. Shehaswalkedintothereceptionarea of Freddie FieldsAssociates all bundled up.This very cold Decemberafternoon at the end of 1960isonethatIwillneverforget.Thirteen-and-a-half-year-oldLizaiswithher.Judy’shairisshort. Not as I remembered

her. Liza’s hair is halfwaydown her back. Not as mostof you have ever thought ofher. Judy, who has metFreddie only once at thatpoint, has come to the officein order to meet his partner,David, to see exactly whomshe has gotten back intobusinesswith.Itisared-letterday for me. The girl whose

life I fell in love with, myidol, is standing three feetfrom me, and I am about tobe introduced. I may benothingmorethanpartofthewallpaper to her, but I amgiddy with anticipation,delight bubbling up insideme. I imagine I am one bigstep closer to my childhooddreamofwalkingthroughthe

screenandmakingJudy’slifemine.Inthatmomentonthatfateful day, I forget I haveheard she can be trouble. Iforget she is no longerwelcome in Hollywood. Iforget that what I loved wasJudy’s screen life. My mindwipes out everything but thefeel of her hand in mine.There is no way in that

electric moment that I canimagine anything but therainbow.Andofcourse thereis no way I can imagineputtingouta fire shewill setto herself at the Plaza tenmonthsdowntheroad.

“I found Judy in a tinysecond-floor walk-up in anuninterestingneighborhoodinLondon,”Freddiehastoldus.

“IconfrontedasmallBuddhaunabletoearnmorethanfivehundred bucks for anyappearance.Itlookedlikeshespent most of her timeeating.” Judy then tells himshe wants to get back intofilms, andFreddiemakesherapromise tied toherweight:The more she loses, thebigger the movie roles will

get. Judy takes up thechallenge; her diet will startcompletely on Freddie’sdime. Using plane tickets hehashappilypaidfor,shegetson the plane to New Yorkwithher threechildren,Liza,Lorna, and Joey. Freddie hasa limo bring her fromIdlewild Airport directly totheoffice.Shetakesmyhand

andflasheshermillion-dollarsmile.

She has becomeFreddie’sthird client. His wife, Polly,and his best friend, PhilSilvers,haveloyallyfollowedhim into his new company.Thesetwohavegivenhimnotonlyalaunchingpad,butalsoa head start in earnings. Hisdream, however, has been to

do something spectacular,something that will attractmajor attention from theentire industry and kick-startthe company on the road tosuccess. Freddie has divinedthat the answer is JudyGarland.He is determined toarrange a comeback thatwillrestore Judy to her formerstardomandglory.Thisisthe

miracle he needs to put hisnew management company,FreddieFieldsAssociates,onthemap.

My becoming Judy’sshadow (I don’t know whatelse to callmyself here)wastotallyunplanned.Davidsentme to her hotel with somepapersforhersignature.Aftershe signed them, she asked

metositandtalkforawhile.She needed company—notwanted,needed. It was clearfrom the first that she hatedbeing alone. The childrencould be parked in a roomnext door (and in fact theywere), but they werecompany only when shewantedtobewiththem.Iwasadult company, and I was

immensely flattered.Beyond!Ihadbeenwith thecompanyalloffourmonthsatthetimeand didn’t expect to actuallytalktoastarotherthanonthephone when I said, “I’ll putyou through now.” Iwant toremindyouthatIwasnothingmore than the office’s all-purpose schlepper, file clerk,typist, stenographer,

babysitter, coffeemaker/-getter, and the occasionalmessenger, which is whatbroughtme to Judy’sdoorattheDrake.

And when I walkedthroughthatdoor,Iopenedawholenewchapterinmylife.Only what I thought wasgoingtobeathrillingchapterbecameinsteadawholebook,

and not the kind of book Iwould ever have imagined.Entering that room changedmy life from ordinary intosomething else entirely. Iwalked in a total innocent,perhapsabitlonelyandworndown by family dysfunction,butstilljustagirl.

Judy did her impressionsof Freddie, and she was not

only funny but also a goodmimic. Iwould discover thather imitations were alwaysslightly skewed to theridiculousandcoupledwithasoupçon of nastiness thatcomes from anger. But all Iknew on that particular daywas that we laughed andgenerallyhadapleasanttime.Shewasonherbestbehavior

then and maybe for a fewdaysmore.ShehadsomeoldfriendsinNewYorktogooutwithwhomshehadn’tseeninalongtime.

Shortofaweek,however,her good behavior wasfinished. And then the callsstarted to come—calls toFreddie and David in whichshedemandedtheirundivided

attention. If she couldn’treach them, she got pissed.And then she settled forme,and I became no longeravailable to them. She wasplummeting back into whattheguyswouldquickly learnwashernormalbehavior,andwhile the elevatorwas goingdown shewouldkeeponeofusonthetelephoneendlessly,

making it impossible for thatpersontodoanythingelsebuttalktoherallday.

Freddie and Davidunderstood immediately thatbeing with her 24/7 was notgoingtoworkforthem.Theycouldn’t do business. Theydecidedintheveryfirstweekthat they could not endurefollowing her around on the

concert tour they wereplanning. Judy was needy tothe point of desperation, andthey had to find a way tohandleit.They’dtakennoticethat when I was around shewasalwayshappier—orifnothappier, at least satisfied.This presented them with auniqueopportunitytouseme,andbeingthegoodusersthey

were, they were totallywilling to sacrifice me toappease the entertainmentgodswhowereallowingthemtobuildacompany.

***

Would Judy ever be salableagain?Could she be countedon to show up on time?Would she show up at all?

The game plan was to bookher into large venues andprove to the Hollywoodcommunitythatshestillhadahugefollowing.F&D(kindlyallowmetoabbreviatethem)wanted to establish areliability factor, to show theworld that shecouldperformnightafternightanddealwithadifficultschedule.

Although he didn’t talkabout it much, Freddie hadstarted his career as a kid intheBorschtbelt,wherebeinga waiter gave anyone whowanted it an education inpersonal appearances. Helearned a lot about nightclubacts, about production, aboutlightingandstagedesign.Hedecided to takemewith him

onJudy’sfirstfewconcertsinTexas to show me the lightcues; he taught me how tocall the show (which meantgiving the light cues to theelectrician backstage) andwatchedmedoitacoupleoftimes.

Given that I could, Ibecame her stage manager.Then, having discovered that

Iwasafastlearnerwhocouldhandleotherroadchoressuchastheload-in,thestagesetup,and the sound check, he cutback his handholding. F&DcouldstayinNewYorkwhileI went to such cities asBuffalo and Birmingham,Pittsburgh and Cleveland,placestheyhadnointerest in(andnot exactlyplaces I had

dreamed about traveling toeither).

F&D thought they werehome free, and to a largeextent they were right, forthey now had a wage-slaveassistant for Judy who coulddouble as a constantcompanion. It was myhusband who suddenly, afteronly a year and a half of

marriage,hadnoone.Buthedidn’t see it that way.Although Iwould sometimesbe gone for a good part ofeveryweek, duringwhichhehad to fend for himself, hethought this was agroundbreaking careeropportunity, and with thegenerosity that was socharacteristic of his good

nature,hewashappyforme.I, on the other hand, was

grateful for thechance togetaway from the marriage.Being on the roadwith Judypersuaded me that I didn’thave a clue about marriage,ormy role in it.More to thepoint, I was now swellingwithhope that Iwaswell onmy way to the success I

lustedafter,andmarriagewasdamn inconvenient. I wasrunning Judy Garland’sshows. I was traveling inlimousines, and talking withauthority to members of thepress.Iwasfullofmyself.

When you worked withJudy, you took good care totakegoodcareofher. Itwasexpected that anyone in that

job would want to do that,and I did. JudyGarlandwas,after all, a public treasure,beloved by millions for herbrilliant body of work andcherishedbychildrenallovertheworldwhohadgrownupwatching The Wizard of Ozyear after year. She was anobjectofuniversal adoration,anddeservedly so.Andnow,

my having acknowledgedthat,myhavingmadetheall-important disclaimer, I haveto tell you that “time-intensive” doesn’t begin todescribe what it was like towork with her. She wasdemanding beyond anydictionary definition. Asjaded as it may sound, thethrill of beingwith her night

anddayfadedfast.Road manager was only

just the start of it. I grewquickly into much largerboots—with nasty cleats andsteel-tipped toes. I had nochoice in the matter (exceptquitting, not an option). Inadditiontohandlingtheload-in, the stage setup, and thesound check, I now also

handled the press. For metherewerepreciousfewhoursbetween the end of oneconcert and the start ofanother. A day with Judyended around four in themorning, and the new daybeganwiththeload-inforthenext concert at 10:00 a.m.Time was not my friend.Therewasneverenoughofit.

And,ofcourse,travelingwithJudy was necessarily allabout her all the time. Thethings I might do for myselflike occasionally go to ahairdresserortakemyclothesto the cleaner didn’t happenbecause Ihadno free time. Isawtoit,however,thateveryradio interview started ontime,thatherhairwasalways

perfect, that her designerclothes were meticulouslypressed. I made sure that abottle of her liebfraumilchwasnofarther thanhergraspand that she would neverhave to ask for it lest thatmake her the slightest bituncomfortable.Alovelyglassand the bottle magicallyappeared wherever and

whenever.Shepreferredtodoher own makeup but wantedmeintheroomwhenshedidit in case she couldn’t findsomething right in front ofher.Thishadeverythingtodowith her compulsive need tohave someone there, andnothing to do with lostlipsticks. She simply couldnotstandtobealone.

Freddie and David startedto believe that I could fendfor myself, and if I couldn’t—well, that was my toughluck.Iwasexpendable.OnceI’d left to go on tour withJudy, I was out of their hairand beyond their care. Whathappened to me in theboonieswasnotimportant.IfI became roadkill, someone

elsewouldpickup thebody.Foras longas I lasted, Iwasgivingthembreathingroom.

However, havingdiscovered that my servingJudy solved a huge problemformy two bosses, I wantedto make sure that no otherperson ever replaced me. Iwanted to impress them; Iwanted to become

indispensable to them. Forthis I needed to appearsupremely confident, and, intruth, I wasn’t confident atall. Iwasa twenty-four-year-old innocent who knewalmost nothing about theworkings of show business,and in terms of worldlyexperiences,Ihadn’tamassedany.Iwashardlymorethana

clumsy grown-up child intrendy clothing, only a smallstep ahead of the demuresecretaries who still worestrawhatsandwhiteglovesinthesummer.

The eighteen-wheel semithat rolled all night with therisers, the lights, the musicstands, the scores, and thecostumespulled into thenew

venue in each city sometimeafter nine. It was then that Iwould have to startfunctioning on about threehours’ sleep if Iwas lucky. Iwent to each load-in alreadydressed for that night’sconcert,becauseIknewtherewouldn’t be any chance tochange. By two in theafternoonmymakeupusually

looked as if it had beenapplied with a trowel. Iwasn’t exactly a naturalbeauty, and without eyelinerandeyebrowpencil,mygreeneyes disappeared into myolive complexion and Ibecame featureless. But theroad was intense andpermitted no time forpersonal touch-ups. I ran up

and down the aisles all daylong like a perfect MissKnow-It-All,withauthority Igrantedmyselftotalkforoneof the world’s greatestentertainers.

Although shewas startingto make money again, wehadn’t enough extra to payfor a roadie (those guys weseebeforeaconcertdragging

cables around the stage,checking the amplifiers andthe setup) and so I was theonedraggingthecablesandIwas still getting mysecretarial wages of $150 aweek. It was just the two ofus together, traveling on thecheap. She did the onlyimportant thing. She sang. Idid everything else,

beginning with calling theshowfromthelightbooth.

After a while every citylooked the same tome—thatis, what I got to see of it,which was precious little.Occasionally Judy sent meoutintothecitytolookforapair of new tights or one ofthe smocks she lovedwearing. Her liver was

distended, and maternitysmocks hid a figure problemthat would endure until shedropped more weight. Oftenwewereon the road for fourdays and back in New Yorkfor three, and on those dayswhen I was home, I role-played the little wife, tryingto make all the roadanecdotes entertaining to my

husbandandourfriends.Judywould go home to thechildren, who were nowsettled in an apartment I’drentedforheratthelegendaryDakota.

After I caught up on mysleep I always went to theoffice to catch up on thefilingandtobedebriefed,mymenial mind-set still firmly

locked in. And then one daywhen I went to FFA, Idiscovered that Freddie hadhiredsomeonenew,someonepermanent. No more tempsreplacingme.Iwasnolongertheir secretary. Freddie hadfound an elegantman namedJeffHandwhowaspartvalet,partsocialsecretary,andpartconfidant. Whatever he was,

hewasabovefiling.ButIhadno time to worry about that,for all too quickly concerttimewouldrollaroundagain,anditwasbacktoplanesandlimos,hotelsandhalls.

But there was somethingelse going on here besidessimply getting Judy outonstage and getting the jobdone.Sure,itwasafast-track

educationinworkingashow,but way more important, itwasahigh-speededucationinaddiction, in the humanbehavior of a very troubledsoul. I couldn’t put Judy inthe same category withanyone I’d ever met in mylifeuptothatpoint.Andyet,peculiarly enough, it wasn’tmy first exposure to people

whohavetodrink.

***

Mymother’solder sister,herbest friend, my aunt Julie,was known as “Julie, Queenof the Bowery.” This was inthedayswhentheBoweryonthe East Side of lowerManhattan was a haven foreveryalcoholic inNewYork

City. The street lined withpolite commerce on what isnowcalledThirdAvenuewasthen lined with no-frills barscheekbyjowlalongtendirtyblocks, where drunkswallowed in the gutter. Myaunt, who never touchedliquor, owned the largest oftheseestablishments.

This came about because

when her husband camehome fromWorldWar II analcoholic,heboughtthishugebeerhallwherehecouldfeedhis need while serving thepublic—serving them muchmore than beer, but nothingquiteasgood.Hediedyoung—not unexpectedly—ofcirrhosis and left Aunt Juliethe business. My mother’s

clan, theWeiss family, wereall rather tall and stately, butnotJulie.Shewastheruntofthe litter. Yet this little ladywould stand behind the barand serve former judges andinmates alike the swill thatconstituted their total diet.MyaunttoldmeshecouldbefinedifshewascaughtbytheABC (Alcoholic Beverage

Control) board serving adrunk. But drunk was alltherewas.Sowhen someonefell asleep at one of thetables, Julie would go overand get him up, sometimesthrow him out. She couldmanhandle those guys, sometwicehersize.Intheendthisled to two unfortunateincidentsinwhichthedrunks

foughtback.The first ugly episode

caused Julie a broken wrist.The second and last littlecontretemps ended in severalbrokenribs.Shewasseventy-three at the time.Around theholidaysbusinessswelledtoapoint where customers couldbe three-deep at the bar andunpaid assistance was

required. My uncles and mymother would help servebehind the bar, and I wouldstay in the back avoiding,detection while dryingglasses.OtherthanthatIwasnothingmorethananamusedwitness.Heronlycompetitiondowntownwasfrom“TomatoMary,” another woman rightnext door. I never found out

whyshewascalledthat,butIimagined it was from a redface caused by too muchdrink.

Men of the Boweryinhabited a different worldfromJudy.Shebelongedtoaworld that I very muchwanted to be a part of, andnow she was drinking asmuch as they, and herworld

also no longer felt normal tome. Was it typical for somanytodrinksomuch?AsImoved around the countrywithJudy,Iwaslearningthatin showbiz alcoholismwas apart of many people’s“normal”—people who werehigh-functioningprofessionals, well regardedand highly respected, and

preferredtoorbit inarefinedstupor.

CHAPTERSEVEN

HaveYouHeardof

Haddonfield?

Everyconcertwas thrilling. Inever saw Judy phone it in,nomatterhowexhausted shewas. Her performances werealways joyous, and in somecasessointenseIworriedthatshewouldspinoff intosomeemotional hell. That neverhappened. Instead eachappearance collided happilywith the highest of audience

expectations. I watched fansin very different cities reactexactly the same way—streaming down the aisles inordertomobtheapronofthestage, hoping to get closeenough to shake her hand orto throw a rose she mightpickup.

Love of her was thecommon denominator

everywhere, and that nevergot old. It made me reallyhappy, sometimes teary-eyedhappy,toseeherwinbig.ButI also felt a sadness thatalways floated just on top ofthe happiness like a stormcloud,and if Idrewmyeyesupandawayfromtheecstaticaudienceforamoment,Isawitlyinginwait.NoëlCoward

wrote an exquisite song thatJudy usually included in herperformance: “If Love WereAll.” It contains the lyricphrase “a talent to amuse.”Judy understood what thatmeantassurelyandasdeeplyas anyone ever did, and sheownedthattalent.Thereweretimes when she understoodthat her talent to amuse was

her undoing because it madeeveryone want to takeadvantage of her. Sadly, shewasright.

By the time I startedtraveling with her, she hadallowedherlifeexperiencetomake her unhappy,suspicious, and often mean,and therefore her talent toamusewastheonlythingshe

had left that anyone caredabout. So there were alsomoments when I stoodbackstage at the end of theperformance thinking,Wouldthese ecstatic fans feel thesame way about her if theyknewwhat I know? Itwas asinister feeling. It was ironicthat all anyone loved her forwashertalent,becauseallshe

ever reallywantedwas to beloved—not just forher talentbut for herself.And thatwaswhat she herself madeimpossible. Midway throughthe tour, she had turned myopen heart into a dry littleseed.

***

Although the concerts were

alwayswonderful,whatcamebefore and after was not.Sometimesitwasplainawful,andafewtimesalmosttragic.The before and after couldnot have withstood aspotlight. Often getting heronstage could involve acontest ofwills, a test ofmyendurance, a hard sell,chicanery, or all of them. It

could sometimes precipitateevents that I couldn’t handlewell. But there was one Iwished I had filmed. Mymindfliestothebeforeatthearena in Haddonfield, NewJersey. Preparations for thatnight’sconcertwereunique.

Thearenawasashithole.Nootherwaytodescribeit.Itwasoldanddirty,andwhenI

walked into the dressingroom I knew instantly wewere in trouble. The largeroom was a cement bunker.Broken lockers, their doorsfalling off, lined one wall.Old jockstraps hung fromrusty hooks, a few litteringthe floor. The windowpaneson the short wall containedtwenty-five years of grime,

grimethatwasgrowingmold.Two wooden chairs and atable with a broken legcompleted the decor. Thestench was so strong it waslike awall trying to stopmefrom entering the room. Ithad been collected from theaccumulated perspiration ofall thebasketball andhockeyteamsthathadeverplayedin

the premises. It threatened tostraightenmycurlyhairwereI to remain there more thanfive minutes. The bathroomwasunusable,andonehadtohopetheratsandmicewouldbe annoyed enough by ourpresence to stay hidden fromview. Sadly, the only mirrorwas in the john. The concertpromoter that night was the

nicest old man, FelixGerstman, who had beenpresenting concerts all hisadult life. What was hethinking?

Ihadtodosomethingfastbecause the arena’smaintenance departmentassuredme this was the bestdressing room in the wholeplace. There wasn’t even an

unused, unlocked office wecoulduse.IknewitwouldbeadvisableforJudytodressatthe hotel; however, that wasturningouttobeanightmare,themainproblembeingthatIhad all her clothes with me.She accepted no calls beforefive, and that was when thecritical sound check tookplace. I had to be in the hall

forthat.IfIwentbacktothehotel to dress her after that,wewouldnevermakecurtaintime.

Ispentmylunchatafive-and-ten loadingupon all thecleaning products I couldcarry (the backstage crewlaughed when I suggestedmopping to them); I alsobought the biggest mirror I

could find, lots of whitetowels,abedpan,anda largescreen. I mopped and Ifumigated, I wiped and Irepaired, and I have to saythatitlookednobetterwhenIfinished than when I’dstarted. But the makeup waslaid out the way Madamliked, on clean white towelsin front of a mirror, and if

push came to shove, shecouldpeeinapanbehindtheersatz shoji screen I’dpurchased.Talkaboutbeyondthe call of duty! I waswrecked and held my breathwith terror at what wascoming.Andwhenitcame,Iwasstillnotprepared.

Whilewaitingforthelimotopulluptothestagedoor,I

figured that warning Judyaboutwhattoexpectmightbeagoodidea.Wrong!Itwasamistake that stemmed frommy inexperience. Here’s anagencyroadrule:Nevershareyour bad news in advancebecause it’s pointless tosuffer before you have to.When Judy saw the hall, herface dropped; when she saw

the dressing room, shewanted to drop me. Herfeatures froze into an angrymask, and the silence thatfollowed was moreintimidating than any of thewordsshemighthavechosen.If it’s true that anger turnedinward becomes depression,it was proved again thatnight. An old arena wasn’t

somethingJudycouldaccept,even knowing that in twohours she’d be gone from itforever, and a lot richer toboot. It was instead areflectionofherawfullife,anopportunity to make otherssuffer for her presentunhappiness.

By 8:00 p.m. she stillhadn’t talked to me, but she

had started crying nonstopand occasionally sob-speaking through the tears tonoone inparticular. “All theyearsofhardwork,andthisiswhereIendup—inafuckingrat hole. I’ll kill Freddiefucking Fields—and thatcocksucker Begelman. Howdare they.…” It was asorrowfuloutpouring,causing

themascarashewasapplyingto stream down her face ingreasy black rivulets. Everyso often she would stop theprep altogether and cry flatout for fiveminutes.And allthe while we heard footfallson the iron steps just abovethe dressing room, made bytheeagerconcertgoersgettingto their seats in the upper

deck. The din was beyondawful, more icing on thislayercakeofdespair.

“Judy, it will all be oversoon,”Isaid.

“What will be over soon?This concert or my fuckinglife?”

“This concert.” I tried tosound repentant. Thatsometimesworked.

“Shutup;you’renobetterthan the rest of them.” “Therest of them”meant virtuallyeveryoneinherlifeuptothatmoment. She held everyoneshe’d ever met responsiblefor her feeling like a victim.ClearlyIwasn’ttoblame,butI was the only one there toabsorb her anger. I, too, feltlike a victim. Even though I

could still rationalize that Iwas merely a victim ofcircumstance, a circumstancethatwouldend,itdidn’thelp.It was a feeling I’d gottenused to, but don’t confuse“being used to” with “beingcomfortablewith.”Ifeltasifmy body temperature wasdropping. At times I wouldactually start to shiver as if

seized by a cold dread that Iwouldsoonbefacingamuchlarger problem—that shewould not perform. Whatthen?Never oncewas I ableto reassure myself that Judywouldfinallydowhatshehadcommitted to. There wasalways a chance that shewouldnot,orworse, thatshewould do something awful,

andIwouldbelefttoexplain.AndIwouldbeblamed.

***

Great entertainers like JackBenny, George Burns, NatKing Cole, Frank Sinatra,Dean Martin, and SammyDavis, Jr., were nowmakinghuge sums of money in LasVegas. Could Judy do that?

Could she get there again?AndifshecouldgetasfarasLas Vegas, could she get allthe way to Hollywood? Somuch depended on theseconcerts.Myjobdependedonthese concerts! It had beenexplainedtomeearlyonthatgetting her out on the stageon time each night was myjob—all 150 percent of it.

(The extra 50 percent wasabout getting through theshowwithoutaglitch so thatIwouldn’tgetscorchedattheend of it.) Never gonnahappen tonight, never gonnahappen tonight.… The loopran around in my brain,repeating nonstop. Eightthirty, and she was redoingthemascaraforthethirdtime.

Howlongwould itbebeforeten thousand people beganclapping inunison,orworse,stamping their feet over ourheads?

After the mascara camethe instant face-lift.Thoseofyou unfamiliar with thisprocedure probably neverhungoutinGray’sTheatricalDrugstore while it still

occupiedthecornerofForty-third and Broadway. Thefacelift came in two piecesthat looked like ordinaryflesh-colored Band-Aids.Each had adhesive on oneside that went against yourskinjustlikeanyotherBand-Aid, but at other end of thematerial there was an elasticstringwithahookontheend

ofit; thecorrespondingpiecehad the same elastic with aneye. One could put the twopieces on either side of theface by the ears, connect thetwo elastics under the hair,and voila—everything thatgravityhaddraggeddowngotdrawn up tight again. Thetrick was to get them onstraight. If they went on

askew—as was totallypossible under these volatilecircumstances—you mightend upwith a crooked smileor, worse, singing out of thesideofyourmouth.

Judytookoutherliftsandbegan taping them on.Application normally tookfiveminutes.Judy’shairwasdone last. On this frightful

night her hair hadn’t evenbeen started. Nine o’clockwaslookinglikeapossibilityifshewouldjuststopcrying.I was chattering on a lotabout Freddie and David;defending them, telling herhow much they really caredabout her. It was exactly thewrong conversation. Crying,cursing, crying, cursing. She

couldn’t get the lifts onstraight, and there was apossibilityshewouldgiveuptryingandstormout.Butjustthen came a knock on thedoor. I prayed for a miracle,anditwasstandinginfrontofme in the figure of “FreddiefuckingFields.”ThankGod,Ithought.

***

With his sensitive antennaeand completely intuitiveunderstanding of divas,Freddiesizedupthesituationin seconds. “Judy, Judy,Judy,” he started, doing hisCary Grant bit. I could seeher lip curl. Undaunted, hepressedon.

“You know Roz Russell

didn’tusejust twoliftswhenshe went into makeup.” Hehad her attention, althoughshe feigned indifference.Freddiewentintofullaction-figure mode: He was usinglots of exaggerated hand andarm gestures as he identifiedalltheplacesRozRussellputherlifts.

“She would put two low

on her forehead, and whereyou’re using two, she gluedonfour.”AsmilewasstartingtocrackJudy’sgloomlook.

“She used six on eitherside of her neck.” Judy hadnow turned around to faceFreddie, her amusementimpossibletoconceal.

“And the master stringcame out her ass.When you

pulled it, she smiled!”Hysterical laughter followed.Nooneenjoyedagoodlaughmore than Judy. And sinceput-down humor was Judy’sfavorite kind, Freddie hadfound a receptive audience.Allwasforgiven.

“Freddie, we will not bedoingshitholeslikethiseveragain.”

“I didn’t know therewereanyplacesthisold.”

“Well, you should haveknown.You’re as old as thisplace is.” She was laughingwhen she said it, and flyinginto her clothes while thehairdresser of the momenttried to work around theflurryofsuddenactivity.Shedid a great show that night.

Better than great! Theaudience may have had towait an extra hour, but theygottheirmoney’sworth.

We drove back fromHaddonfield that night inFreddie’s limo. I wasrelegated to sitting in frontwiththedriver,andsincetheglass privacy partitionseparating the driver from

thoseseatedinbackhadbeenemployed, I, too, could hearnothing until the glass camedownandFreddieorderedthedriver to get off at the nextexit. We then drove into aless-than-lively townsomewhere in lusterlessNewJerseyandwent intoabarsothatJudycould“relax.”

It was a cold night, and

Freddie took pity on thedriverandme,allowingustocome inside,wherewe sat ata small cocktail table whileFreddieandJudystoodatthebar. From where we weresitting I could see a womanwho was overwhelmed byJudy’s sudden appearance.She could not contain herexcitement, andbecauseof it

—and not for any otherreason—her hands were allover Judy.This happened allthe time, and Judy just hatedpeople touching her. Freddietotherescue.Heengagedthewoman in conversation, andas he did so, he startedundressing her, making hermore comfortable. Judyimmediately picked up on it,

and she also kept talking tothe woman who was almosttoo excited to notice whatwas happening. By the timethe woman finally pushedFreddie away she was downto her bra. Everyone in thebar, except herself, washysterical. Judy was almoston the floor. In the end thewomanwasagoodsport.She

gottheautographshewanted,and we laughed all the wayhome.

Freddie taught me thathumor works wonders. Well—not exactly a newsflash,and easier said than done;however,Iembracedtheidea.I simply knew that I wouldhave to learn to see thingscockeyed as well as straight

on.AndIdo.

CHAPTEREIGHT

Boston

The “before” the show in

Boston was another thingentirely. It is still one ofmymost painful memories thesefifty-twoyearslater.WewerestayingattheRitz-Carlton,atthat time arguably the besthotel in thecity.Judyhadanelegant gold-and-white suiteoverlookingBostonCommongardens and pond. She’ddecided to dress in the suite

thatnight,whichwasunusualbecause shedislikeddressingat the hotel prior to anyconcert, and she gaveme noreasonwhyshewaschangingher routine. It meant,however,thatIwouldhavetoreturn from the setup to theRitztocollecther.

At seven I left theBostonGarden, went back to the

hotel,wentup to the suite toput together the Act 2costume change, and as Istoodaskingherabouttakingadditional eyelashes to thehall, she slit her left wristwith a razor, cutting deeplyinto an artery. The momentwasmadeevengrislierbythefact that when she made thecutshewaslookingatmeand

smiling.I learnedmany things that

night that I could have goneonthroughlifeneverneedingtoknow.Onewas that blooddoesn’t leak out; it spurts, itarcs. I can see it still on thegold-and-whitebedspread,ontheflockedwallcoveringandmatchingdrapes,andonme.Iwaswearingmynewfavorite

outfit, my first-everensemble,athree-pieceoutfitmanufactured by myhusband’s uncle, fromwhomI bought the most wonderfuldesigner rip-offs wholesale.Thefabricofmywoolchallisblouse matched the lining ofmy coat. I definitely loved ittoomuch. That nightwhen Iwalked into her room I

thought I looked so snazzy.ButallIseenowisherbloodall over my once-beautifulensemble, on my skirt andcoat. My hands. My hair. Istood there horrified. Thiswashernormal!This iswhatshedid.Thisiswhoshewas.This is the kind of a teachershewas.

I was beginning to

understand that these eventswere all about manipulationand control. Judy’s suicidalepisodes gave her power.With every horror shebecame the center of “his”attention. “‘His’ attention”wasownedbythemanofthemoment.She cravedhis lovemuchmorethantheadorationof her fans. They were

strangers. It would soon beover for her—this episode—and she would go on to thenext, but not so for me. Iwould never forget it. Itwould be seared into mymemory, and I would replayit forever. You know whatelse?Istillfeelsorrierforme.

So why slit her wrist onthat particular night? Let me

repeatit:It’salovestory.OnthatparticularnightshediditforDavid,fortheloveofthismanwhowas,atthismomentin time, the single mostimportantconsiderationinherlife. (I often wondered—stilldotoday,andwillforaslongas I live—if I couldhave sather down in a totally sobermoment—of which there

were none—and asked her:Judy, what’s more importantto you? Being in love? Orsinging? What would heranswerhavebeen?Somemaythink theyknow that answer,and theymay be right.But Idonotknowit. Ineverhave,andIdon’tthinkIeverwill.)But let me get back to herheart, and her affair with

DavidBegelman.After an absence of a few

weeks,BegelmanwasbackinNewYork.Judywasinthrallto him. Obsessively. They’dbeen having an affair forsome months, and the affairwas forever tripping down arockyroad; for the lastmanyweeks it had been caught onsome insurmountable

boulders due to David’sdisappearance. Judy did not,like other women, telleverything toherhairdresser,because her hairdressersometimes changed as oftenas her wardrobe. I was herconfidante; she told meeverything,andIknewabouttheaffairfromthebeginning.I often wished I did not,

becauseDavidwasmy boss.It put me in the veryuncomfortable position ofbeing in the middle whenJudy sought insiderinformation. She would askme questions about his wife,Lee,andwherehe’dbeenoncertain nights, questions Icouldn’t answer—sometimesbecause I didn’t know, and

sometimes because I didn’twantto.

Recently he’d gone on atrip abroad, andhaddared totakehiswifealongwithhim.AndhowdidJudyknowthat?Not fromme. She’d checkedwith his housemaid, whoseconfirmationhadsentherintoa tailspin. She could not bejolliedoutof it. I faceddaily

questionslike:“Doyouthinkhe’s sleeping with Lee?”What was I supposed toanswer? My best shot at aresponsewas:“Howcouldhebesleepingwithherifhe’sinlovewithyou?”

Answering her questionwith a questionwasn’t reallyansweringherquestionatall,and I preferred doing that to

lying. Judy was sure thatDavid was in love with her.And I was happy to leave itright there. I knew the truth,and it was ugly. David wasugly. I had now been in hisemployayearandahalf,andIwas learningwhat a liar hewas. The truth would havehurt. The truth might havecured someother person, but

not Judy, who lived in amake-believeworld.

She would sometimes tellmetheromanticthingsDavidtold her, and I knew theywerealllies.Shegiggledlikea schoolgirl when sheconfided: “We’re makingwonderful plans to travel.”TravelwithDavid?Hewasadifferent kind of addict: a

gambler and a workaholicwho went on vacation onlywhen forced to by his wife,and this is exactly what hadhappened.LeeBegelmanhadher social set, a finite groupofwealthycouples,thewivesof which performed goodworksmostly for themselves,and who spent hours on thephone each day discussing

howtospendtheirhusbands’money. One day Leeannounced that theywere allgoing yachting in the GreekIslands, and off David wentwithasmalllibrarytoforfendagainst the boredom hesufferedaroundLee’sentitledentourage. He told Judy hewas going to London onbusiness.“Whatplansareyou

and David making?” I askedJudy.“We’llrentamarvelousbig yacht just for the two ofus,andwe’llcruisetheGreekIslands.” There’s no otherwordforit.Davidwasacruelman.

It hurt me to see Judytaken in by David’soutrageousness, but I couldnot or would not attempt to

convinceherthatDavidlovedno one but himself. Shebelieved what she wanted tobelieve, and in spite of theirfights about his prolongedabsences, regardless of hislimp ad-libbing about hisfailure to get a divorce, Judyremainedabeliever.AndnowDavidhadcometoBostontoattend her concert and was

dressing in a room almostnext door when she slit herwrist. Judy Garland wouldshow him. Judy Garlandwould die for him.WhowasJudy Garland reallypunishing? It wasn’t DavidBegelman.

Imadeatourniquetoutofatowelandahairbrush.ThenIpickedup thephone to call

DavidwhileJudysatdocilelyby. She didn’t cry or screamorhaveanyreactionatall,forthatmatter.Shewasstandingwhen she did it; now she satdownon thebedand,staringstraight ahead, calmlywaitedfor David to arrive. Davidimmediately called for adoctor, and one arrived inrecord time; in fact he got

theresofastitmademymindspin a fiction that Judy hadstationed him downstairs inthe bar in advance for herownnefarious purpose.That,of course, is ridiculous, but Idohaveasensethatsheknewwhat she was doing, that infactshehadplannedit.Couldshehaveknownthatwhatshehaddoneor theway shehad

done it was not seriousenough to cause a majorproblem? It sounds awful toeven think such a thingbecause the slice she madelooked ghastly, but that maybe the truth of this horror.Maybe thiswas not somucha suicide attempt as it was ascream: I hurt! Come takecareofme.Comeloveme!

It was a gash in a lifecareening out of control, ahuge, ugly gash that wouldhopefully make David seeher,andseethepainthatwastearingherapart.Ifshediditfor effect, the effect on mewas shattering. I was angrythat she would do such aterrible thing to herself, and,atthesametime,doittome.

Myangerfilledaspaceinmybeing like air filling aballoon. And I didn’t knowhow to show it. I even feltguilty for having it. Howcould I be angry at someonewhowas so sick?Well, it ispossible. The anger stayedwithme for a long time, foryears,untiltheballooninsideme got so old andweak that

alltheangerseepedout.Onlythepictureremains.

Put her in an institution.Get her the help she needs!That’s the scream that wasraging in me. It never cameout of my mouth. Couldanyone have institutionalizedJudywithoutherpermission?Maybe not, but it didn’tmatterbecause therewereno

candidates.Everyonewastoobusy exploiting her. To thisdayIthinkIshouldhavetriedhardertogetherthehelpshesoobviouslyneeded.IshouldhaveappealedtoDavidtogetherseriousattention.Ishouldat least have tried. I didn’t. IknewthenasIknownowthatany plea for saving Judywould have been gratuitous,

made forwanting tohear thesoundofmyownvoice—forall the attention such a pleawould have received. ButmaybehadIatleastgivenlipservicetothistragedyImighthave felt less guilty. Here’smycop-out:Iwasonlyafootsoldier doing my duty. Andmy dutywas to obey orders.There was only Do the job

andshutup,orquit.I’llsayitagain.Quittingwasn’teveranoption.

When I describe whatfollowed, you may find itdespicable. I do. I wasrepulsed by my ownbehavior, but I knew I wasdoing what Judy wanted meto do. “Here’s a hundred,”David said, peeling a bill off

alargerollandputtingitintomy hand. “Buy enoughbracelets to cover thebandages.” Judy sat by,admiringDavid’stake-chargecapability. There wasn’t aniota of protest from her.Under the circumstances onemight think she would wantto go to the hospital, or atleast pull the covers up over

her head. Wasn’t anyonegoing to cancel the concertand give her tender, lovingcare? Heavens no! Judy wasnowready togooutonstage,and if Judy intended toperform that night knowingfullwell that shehad slit herwrist on the way to thetheater, so be it. If buyingbracelets to cover her wrist

wastheonlythingIhadtodoto hold on to my job thisnight,Iwoulddoit.“Hurry,”Judy told me. I ran out intothestreetsofBostontofindastore where I could buyenough cheap bangles tocoverthebandagesthedoctorhadputonherwrist.Itwasn’tsoeasyatseveno’clockonaSaturdaynight,butIwasona

mission and I would dowhatever I had to—beg,borrow, or steal—to get heronstage. And get there shedid.Shedidsuchawonderfulshow no one could havesuspected she wasn’t at thetop of her form. On secondthought,maybeshewas.

That Judy desperatelyneededhelpwasclearevento

anaivedummylikeme.Iwasbrought up to believe thatwhen someone was ill, youtookhimorhertothedoctor.But the point here is that“doctor” (as opposed to pillpusher)was not the help shewanted. Itwasn’t thekindofhelp she felt sheneeded, anditwasn’tthekindofhelpshewouldhaveaccepted.Itwasa

hardlessonforme.

CHAPTERNINE

RealityChecks

I was wearing chicken soupstainsthedayJudycalledmeout onstage to sing “Just inTime”with her. No, I’m notmakingthisup.Ididn’tthinkit would ever happen,although she had threatenedtodoitatthelastconcert,andthatdaywasnowhere.Itwasthe culmination of a tour toestablish her reliability that

had taken us on the road formonths in 1961, against thehope that Hollywood wouldtake another chance on her.Freddie’sstrategyhadprovedsuccessful. Alas, thatafternoonIspilledsoupdownthe front of my beautiful,almost-new, brown wool A-line dress when a lumpyelectrician backed into me

withaladderinaplacewhereI should never have beenstanding. This is whathappenswhenyoudrinkyourlunchstandingup.

ThelovelyLanzdress,softandwarmwhen I’dzipped itup early that morning, wasnow ruined and still wetaround the chest area fromrepeated soakings in several

oftheArmory’sbathrooms.Ihadn’t brushed my hair allday,andoneheelwasbarelyhanging on to its shoe. Judycouldn’t’ve cared less aboutwhat I looked like as I stoodin thewings as usual for theencores, a towel hung overmyrightarmlikeaVictorianmaitre d’, and the earphonesI’dused in the lightbooth to

call the show still hangingaroundmyneck.Shedidtakeawaytheliebfraumilchinmyrighthandandpasseditofftoa stagehand paging thecurtain, lest I walk outholding booze the audiencemight think was hers. Thenshe grabbed my arm andpulled, and suddenly I wasout onstage, framed in the

spotlight, and totally terrifiedthat I was really going tohave to sing. My throat wasclosingwiththefearofit,andI was positive no soundwouldcomeout.

***

Thousands of miles traveledhad brought me to thatmoment. Many of them

traversed over well-pavedroads. Boring rides inlimousines. Overheated orfreezinglimos.Onthewaytoairports, from airports tohotels, from hotels to gigs,from gigs to restaurants—orwhereverelsewewentattwoin the morning—from“wherevers” back to hotels,and finally back to airports.

Those rides became tootedioustoendure—exceptforthe day in which her handbegan a trip from my knee,whereshehadplaceditwhenthecarlurched,tomycrotch.As it slowly crept no morethan an inch every two orthree minutes, I started topanic. Her move wasn’tinadvertent. Judydidnothing

inadvertently. Like Alice, IgrewsmallerandsmallerasIshrank into the upholsteredcorneronmysideof thecar.Her arm, however, grewlonger and longer as itstretchedacross the lengthofthebackseat.

Omigod!WhatamIgoingtodo?Itwas,forme,acloseencounter of the unwanted

kind. In an instant my bodyturned rigid, and I stoppedbreathing while everypossible weak-kneedsimpering response like, Idon’t think so. Please! Notmy thing. I wish youwouldn’tcollidedinmyhead.I rejected them all. Breathe,Stevie. Dare I look at her? ImusteredallthecourageIhad

and turned in her direction. Ihesitate to recall the painedexpressionImusthaveworn.Take another breath and saysomething, I commandedmyself.Nothingwould comeout.Her handwas now fullyin my crotch, and she wasstaring straight ahead. Thenshe turned and smiled.Whatdiditmean?WhywasIeven

thinking about that? Whatshould I do? The idea ofbeing intimate with Judyrevolted me. I wanted toreject her.And itwasn’t justbecause she was a woman,although a relationship withanother woman did notinterestme. It was because Ididn’t like her. That was thebiggestOhno!

In that minute I knew, assurely as I knew my name,thatInolongerlikedherandI could admit it to myself. Iloved her talent, but I didn’tlike her. The pass might nothave been as distasteful if ithadcomefromsomeoneelse.Beyond that, there was thatotherbigOhno!ShewasthegreatJudyGarland,andIwas

herassistant cumroadiecumwetnursecumallotherthingsmenial. I was scared. Will IlosemyjobifItakeherhandaway? Will I offend her?These insipid questions wereexploding in my head.Breathe,Stevie.

And then suddenly itdidn’tmatter.IfIlostmyjob,so be it. It all happened in

that moment. I took anotherdeep breath, and then I tookher hand and put it back inher lap. I looked at her andsmiled. And when I did, Iunderstood that I had thecourage of my conviction.After that I would neverdoubt it again. She smiledback,andwebothmovedon.Itwasanotherstepforwardin

my real education, but I’mgrateful that Iwas not testedagain. She kept her hands toherselfafterthat.

Having car sex with JudyGarland was in no way theright answer to alleviatingboredom, but after a whileone simply had to dosomething.Iwasdrowninginmyownmiserablesmalltalk.

“Tell me what it was likeworking with Gene Kelly inThe Pirate,” and then therewouldbelittlesnatchesoffunwhen she talked aboutworking with Mickey, Fred,and Gene. But I was notknowledgeable enough, orinsiderenough,todiscussthegreat professionals like theproducer Arthur Freed and

the other creative geniusesthatshehadworkedwith,likethe composer Roger Edensand thechoreographerBusbyBerkeley.

InthesecountlesscarridesIwentwithherthrougheverymovie she’d ever done,patting myself on the backeachtimeIrememberedsomesilly casting detail, while

unintentionally boring her todeath. And when she wasbored she was nasty. I waspredictable in my style,formulaicinmyconversation,and, with Judy, limitedmostlytopraiseofhervoice,her clothes, her wit, and herlastperformance.ThankGodshenevertiredofpraise.

***

Away from her I triedrecapturingthefeelingsIhadhad for her before we met.She was, after all, the livingincarnation of my childhooddream. But it became moreand more difficult even topretend I was in awe whenwewere together.Thedreamdisappeared when the real

Judy Garland entered theroom. Clearly I had nothingin common with her, or shewith me. She wassophisticated;IonlythoughtIwas. I was totally naive.Going on her concert tourwasthefirsttimeI’dbeenoutof New York. She wasworldly;Iwasinexperienced.Myhusbandwasthefirstman

I’dsleptwith.When shewas in her best

of all possible worlds, Judyhad a great imagination, andonedaywhileonourway tosomewhere,shetoldmeshe’dcomeupwithasuggestiontorelieveourlimodespair.“I’mgoing to teach you the MortLindseyarrangementof“Justin Time” (a superb song

writtenbytheBroadwaykingJuleStynefor theshowBellsAre Ringing). Judy didn’tbother to ask if I could sing.If I couldn’t I might thenbecomethevictimofsomeofher outrageous nasty humorforacoupleofrides.TruthisIsang in tuneandplayed thepianoabit.

***

Let’s talk for aminute aboutwhatJudythoughtwasfunny.She had a fine, funny, andfertile creative mind. Sheloved hearing a good joke;she would howl withlaughter, andshewasagoodjoke teller herself. But herbest indoor sport was put-downhumor,theDonRickles

variety that identified ahuman target and theneviscerated it with a sharpblade.Itwasmeanhumorandoften dealt with one’sphysical attributes. Forinstance, Billy Barty, thewonderful elfin actor whowas featured in movies andcountlessTVshowsonce thelittle box became so popular

inthefifties,didnotfarewellwith her. All things small instature got “Barterized.” Sheloved to toss a good “bart.”Of Debbie Reynolds’shusband, Harry Karl—whosemanners she deplored—shequipped:“Heeatstwo-minuteeggs with his fingers.” Thenthere was also more subtlynastyhumor.

One of my favorite Judymoments happened in anelevator at the BeverlyHilton.JudyandIstepped inon the twelfth floor. RichardNixonandanothergentlemansteppedinonthetenth.Nixonlooked at Judy and thenturned toward the front,showing her only his back.On the fourth he turned

around and said, “And youmust be Judy Garland.” Shesmiled politely and, withoutmissingabeat, replied,“Andyou’reRichardNixon.”Backtothecarand“JustinTime”!

***

Mort Lindsey’s arrangementwas brilliant, and difficult. Itcontainedelevenhalftonekey

changes: one modulationevery eight bars. A whole-tone key change is hardenoughtosing,butahalftoneis impossible—unless, ofcourse, you’re Judy Garlandwith avoiceof liquidmagic.Whensheperformedthesongonstage, it was nothing lessthanamazing.Youcouldonlylisten in total awe of where

that voice could go andadmire the versatility of herenormous talent. She couldtake amelody anywhere, putit through the wringer, andsqueeze tears out of theaudience.On the other hand,whenIattemptedtomakethehalftonechangesthatcamesoeffortlessly to her, I waslucky that Jule Styne was

nowhere within earshot. Butrepetition, herein thesubstitute for talent, finallyput me on the road to nine,ten,and,yes—atlast—elevenkey changes. I thought Iwashomefree.Notsofast.

Once I had mastered thekey changes in the melody,she started singing theharmony alongwithme.The

newfunwasseeinghowfarIcould now go before Icrashed.Theanswer:notveryfar. “Youbetter get it right,”she warned, “because in thelastconcert I’mgoing tocallyou out onstage to sing itwith me.” It was a teasingmoment she was relishing,and so was I. It was alwaysgood to see her in a good

mood.“I dare you.” I told her.

“Daring me is treading onvery dangerous ground,” shewarned. I had no doubt thatwas true. The Judy GarlandI’dcometoknowwaswillingto try anything—twice—toavoidarushtojudgment.Shemade it easy to believe thattrying kinky things was fun

for her. There were alwayssly sexual intimations aboutrelationshipswithwomenthatwere titillating and borefurther investigation, but thatwas really treading ondangerous ground, and afterthe touching incident in thelimo, I didn’t want to gothere. But the stage was notdangerous ground, it was

sacred ground, and that wasdifferent. Performance wassomething she didn’t shareexcept with superstars. Judywas the single and completeowner of whatever concertstage she walked out onto. Icould count on her notwanting tosharehermomentwithme—notevenasajoke.

“You better be prepared,”

she warned. “I’m gonna doit.” Not bloody likely, Icontinued to think. The onlynonsuperstarsheevergotouton theconcert stagewithherwas Liza, which fell intoanother category entirely.Occasionally she would callLizaup from theaudience tospell her for five minutes. Itgave Judy an opportunity to

catchherbreath,mopherwethead, and gulp down somewater.Shewouldsitwithherlegs hanging over the apron—mugging and stealing thescene—while an earnestthirteen-year-old Liza kickedup her heels to her ownchoreographed rendition of“Swanee,” and I, up in thebooth, intoned a prayer that

Li’s unwashed underwear—peeking out from under hershort skirt—couldn’t be seenbytheaudience.

***

So there I was, wearing thechicken soup and standingnext to her on center stagewhileshe’sprattlingonabouthowshecouldn’thavedonea

thingonthetourwithoutme,and I’m staring out into theaudiencewithoutanygraceofwordormovement.Iamthisbig soup-stained, exhausted-lookingcreaturefrozenintheglare of the spotlights,nothing delicately deerlikeabout me. To complete this“deer-in-the-headlights”cliché,thecarshe’sdrivingis

about to roll onoverme andkillme.Iseeitcoming,andIcan do nothing to stop it. Iwill die there in front ofthousandsabout toenjoy thisjoke at my expense. Judyturned to Mort Lindsey, herconductor, nodded, and Iheard,or thoughtIheard, theintrofor“JustinTime.”Thencame the downbeat along

with a poke in my ribs, andthere I stood, stupidlysinging.

As it turned out, I gotthrough the first key changewithout falling apart andmovedrightontothesecond.I know I was smiling—andnot because my childhoodtap-dance teacher, CharlesLowe, taught me always to

smileatrecitals—becauseI’dmanaged not to mess up thesong for her—yet. I canremember that I was evenstartingtoenjoymyselfjustalittle. Can you be scared todeath and enjoy yourself atthe same time? I know theanswer.Yes!

But wait a minute. Whathappened to the music? I’m

suddenly aware that I’mstanding there singing alone.NoJudy.Noaccompaniment.And now I’m being pushedoff thestage. I see thewingscomingupinfrontofmelikebig,flat,blackmawsabouttoswallow me, and I hear hermimicking the vaudevillianwhocoined thephrase“Givethe little lady a big hand.”

Hey,holdonthere!WhatdidI do wrong? I got it right.That’s what. I had held onand sung,made three correctkey changes.The jokedidn’twork.

ShesawIwasn’tgoing tobecomeanobjectofderision.Shewouldn’tbeabletomakefunatmyexpense.Shedidn’tneed a straight man, she

neededafoil,andIwasgoingtobeflat-outsquare,dull,andboring. The usual.Of courseshewasn’tgoingtosingwithme.OfcourseIwasn’tgoingto sing with her. Judy nevershared a stage with anyone.Until she had to. Gee, Judy,thanksforthememories!

CHAPTERTEN

Love—orSomethingLikeIt

Judywanted romancearoundthe clock. She was starvingfor it. The love she got fromher audience was neverenough. Not even close. Theminuteshewasnotinfrontofthe footlights, she cravedmaleattention.Shecouldnotfeel attractive or beautifulwithout being told so by aman. When he was present,

Judy sublimated so it couldbe all about him. He waseverything as long as headored her. Without a man,50 percent of her wasmissing.And thiswasDavidBegelman’smoment.

I’d watched, and listenedin on phone calls in whichDavid promised hiswife andhisclients thathewouldtake

care of business for them inways that were neverfulfilled. For instance, it wasno more than routine forDavid to assure the finecomedian Shelley Bermanthat he would call WarnerBros.onhisbehalf,acallthatwould never happen and forwhich there was probablynever any intent. But

substitutethenameofanyoneelse in Shelley’s place, andthe deal with David wasalways the same. He was aslime. However, going wellbeyond the ugly episode inBoston, David—thescoundrel,theliar,thethief—could do no wrong as far asJudywasconcerned.

Davidwasn’t beautiful by

any means. He had a largenose, flaccid cheeks (alwaysby 5:00 p.m.), and beadyeyes. Somehow all thisugliness came together in itsowninterestingandgruesomeway,distinguishinghimfromthe rest of the ugly powerfulmenheranwith.Hewastall,and his height, coupled withimmaculate tailoring, helped

to hide his protruding belly.HisshoeswerehandsewninItaly,hisshirtsmadetoorderin London and shipped inboxesfromBondStreeteverysix months, and his suitscustom tailored at one of themost expensive ParkAvenueateliers. He loved only thebest, most expensive thingsforhimself, andhe lived like

a sheikh on what he earned,borrowed,andstole.

What did we all see inDavid? I include myselfalong with Freddie Fields,Judy, Lee Begelman, and alegionofshowbizfriends.Wewereallsoblindedbyalittlecharm that we couldn’t seethetruth:Hewasnogood.Infact he was worse than that.

Hewastoxic,fatalforallhiswives, but most of all forJudy. He took aim andleveledashotacrossherbowthatfilledherwithhispoisonand overwhelmed her. Hiswas the charm of apsychopathic personality:totally flamboyant, witty,intelligent,andintellectualontheoneside;aliar,acheat,a

completefraud,irresponsible,and self-destructive on theother.

He was a world-classwomanizer who loved theseduction. Women wereenchanted with him becausehewasawonderfulraconteur,extremelyalert, quickwitted,and totally attentive. Judyresponded to him instantly

becausehekeptherendlesslyamused. Her enchantmentbegan on the first day theymet, when she walked intoFreddie Fields Associates tomeet the partner she’d heardso much about. I watchedfrom my desk outsideFreddie’s glass-enclosedprivate office until Freddieclosed the mechanically

operateddraperies,cuttingoffmy view. Nor could I hearanyone, but I could imagineDavidgreasingonabouthowwonderful Judy looked, howlucky he was to be sittingtherewithher,andhowluckyshe was to be sitting therewith him. She would havelaughed politely and perhapsraised a question about the

latter, whereupon Davidwould have assured her thatshewouldnowbecomericherand more famous than everbefore. It would be thestarting point from which,over the next few months,David’s professed adorationwould grow to unbelievableheights.

ItwouldbeeasyforJudy,

sowantingtobelieveshewasadored, to cross the Rubiconand imagine that this manheld her in something morethan simple professionalesteem. And he was willingtoprovethat inbed.Itdidn’ttake long, however, for Judyto decide she wanted himexclusivelytoherself.

And so, with David’s

encouragement, Judymanaged to persuade herselfthat they would soon behusband andwife. The affairhadstartedafewmonthsaftershe became a client. Andperhaps, by bedding her,David was determined toensure that she, and herincome,wouldremaintiedtoFFA. The wonderful success

that was coming for FreddieandDavidhadn’tyetarrived.

Meanwhile, David’s wife,Lee, was a woman whowouldnotbedenied.Shealsowantedhercharminghusbandaround all the time, and shedemandedallthebaublesandperks he could afford—andmany that he couldn’t.Divorce wasn’t anywhere on

her radar, and she resentednotonlythetimeDavidspentwith Judy but even themeremention of Judy’s name.David let Lee buy theexpensiveclothesshewanted,allowed her to keeprefurnishing their apartment,put up with her need to beseen at every opening, gala,and charity event—all in the

interest of placating her sothat she would remain silentwhenheneeded tobuysometime with Judy. Then hewould go on the occasionalafter-concert honeymoonwith Judy in order to placateandsilenceherforaslongashe could. It didn’tworkwitheither woman. They eachwanteditall,anditwasallso

apparent to me. Davidseemed to enjoy the enmityhe saw growing between thetwo women. That was hiskindofgruesomepleasure.

The Newport concertoffered Judy just such aweekendopportunity,andthetwo “lovebirds” planned alittle idyll among the idlerich. (Judy had a long list of

society friends.) When theconcertwasfinishedshetookoffwithDavidintothestarrynight, while I stayed behindtopickupthepieces,literally.Ipackeda rental carwithallthe extra clothes, thecostumes, the makeup, andthemeds,and I left forCapeCod. By the time I leftNewport on the way to

Hyannis, it was well pastmidnight.

As my office’s real-estateagent par excellence, I hadstruck pay dirt. I’d foundJudy a house on the waternear theKennedycompound.It was a big old clapboardhome with a wraparoundporch right across the roadfrom the president of the

UnitedStates. Judyhadbeenenjoyingspendingtimeattheold house when she was notworking.Mymarchingorderswere to take the car witheverything to the Hyannishouse. Judy had no concertsimmediately followingNewport, so after the “Davidhoneymoon,”shewouldrelaxwith the children and party

withthevacationingKennedyclan until she went back towork.

Itwasnotpartofanyone’splan for me to get lost enroute. I was traveling on theoutskirts of small townswhere there was minimumlighting, and on narrowcountry roads where therewasnone. It’snota long trip

fromNewporttoHyannis,butImanagedtoturnitintoone.

Sometime after three Ifinally found myself in theright neighborhood. Thestreetwhere Judy rentedwaspitchblackanddeserted, andIwas anxious and dead tiredas I tooled along at aboutthreemilesanhour.Suddenlyfromoutofthebushessprang

a half-dozen men with theirguns drawn and pointed atme. I was hustled from thecar, frisked, and asked to siton the pavement while theysearchedthecar’scontents.

Initially I was toofrightenedtorealizewhathadhappened,but as I saton thestone-cold road in my thinpink-and-white-checked

cotton pants with a gunpointed atme, I realized thatmy welcoming committeewas the Secret Service. Irelaxed because I thought Icould explain myself, butthey didn’t know that Judywas renting across the street.How could that happen? Ifound it hard to believe howdeficient their intelligence

gathering had been, amazedthey didn’t know the nameand complete background ofeveryneighbor,butthereitis.Indeed they were curiousabout such a large carton ofdrugs in the backseat of arented car, all bearing Judy’sname.You couldn’t find thismany drugs anywhere but apharmacy. And there I was

trying to explain what thevariousdrugswereforwhenIdidn’tevenknowmyself,butit was a way of trying tomake them understand that Iwas who I said I was.Anyway,my explanation fellon deaf ears. At some pointthe situation started to strikemeasevenalittlefunny,butmy armed guard was not

amused. Nor at four in themorning was anyone willingto knock on any door, forwhich I didn’t have a key.WhiletheSecretServicekeptthe rented Chevy in tow, Iwastakenintocustody,whereIremained(ontheroad)untilaround dawn, when one ofthe men accompanied me toJudy’s house. It was a long

coldnight.Only one thoughtwarmed

me,andthatwasmyknowingit was David Begelman whowas now sitting in somefancy hotel suite holding thegin rummy cards instead ofme.Okay,somaybeitwasn’tgin rummy; it was whatevergame he was playing withher.

The good news was thatthey didn’t confiscate thedrugs. And I got terrificmileageoutof thestory,firstwithJudy,whothoughtitwasa riot, and then with manylesser lights. But I alsorealized that life with Judytook me down many darkroads where real dangerlurked.

***

David continued to press hisluck to the limit, constantlylying to both Judy and Lee.On occasion he seemed tohave funmakingmewitnesshislittlegame.WhileIsatinhis office ready to takedictation that he said had togo out immediately, I wouldlisten to him lying toLeeon

the phone about thework hehadtodo,andthenhewouldputonhisjacketandleavetogodinewithJudy,andhedidso in restaurants for which Imade the reservations, mostofthemLee’sfavorites.

Sometimes I managed torationalize this, persuadingmyselfthatbothwomenwereunbearably demanding, and

tokeephisheadabovewaterDavid would of course needto tap-dance around the trutha little bit.But I really knewbetter. He was a snake. Hedidn’t know how to tell thetruth, and it amused him toshow me how outrageous aliar he could get away withbeing.LikeJudy,helovedanaudience. It’s almost as if he

neededme toknow justwhohewas.

Hedidn’tseemtocareoneiota about his wife, and hetold everyone that Judy alsomeant nothing to him.Giventhe treatment they bothreceivedathishands,thishadto be true. I remember thedinnerwhen Iwas invited tojoin him and some friends at

Danny’s Hideway, thefamous steak house, whereDavid held court and madehisuglydeclarations. In fact,on the night I was there hemade one of the mostdisgusting statements aboutJudy that I’ve ever heardmadeaboutanyone,sayingtothe group, “A ragpickerwouldn’t throw a hook into

her!” And this was the manJudyGarlandadored.Hewasapig.

After working with himfortwoyears,however,itwasapparent to me that Davidwasmore than justapig:Hewas a sick pig. It’s easy tosay of someone who makesugly remarks, “That guy issick.” It’sacheapexpression

that gets tossed around a lot.ButevenasnaiveasIwasattwenty-five, I thought Davidneeded psychiatric help. Hewasalwayssettinghimselfupto be punished. And nomatter how bad thepunishment,David raised theante so that the nextpunishment would be worse.Las Vegas and Londonwere

primeexamples.

***

The stakes for him werealways high. In Las Vegaspeople get punished everyminute, but very fewplummetintotheDavidclass.Icouldn’tbelievewhatIsaw.There for Judy’s openingnight in 1962, what her on-

again, off-again lover sethimself up for confirmedmysense thathewassickand ingreat need of help. But theonlyhelphesoughtwasmorepunishment.

Watching David at thecraps table meant waiting toseejusthowfarhewouldgo,how far he would push theenvelope. It was always to a

placewaybeyondhismeans.Wanting to win but settinghimself up to lose, he was afascinating paradox toobserve.Onesimpleexampleof how this “prospectivepunishment” worked waswhen I was with him in thecasino at the Sahara Hotelone night during Judy’sengagement. He signed an

IOU for fifty-thousanddollars. I watched as hesuccessfully gambled andparlayed his winnings intomore than one hundredthousand dollars; then hestood there losing until notonlywere hiswinnings gonebutalsotheborrowedfifty,aswellas thenextseventy-five.He did that more than once

onthattripalone.As I think about it now, I

can’t imagine the casinomanagement lending thisperson, relatively new tothem, those sumsunless theymade Judy Garland aguarantor. More likely hetook themoney in her name.Theoutcome:Strangemeninshinyblacksuitsthencameto

the New York officeunannounced, carrying theirshiny little black suitcases. Icalled them “the bent-nosebrigade,” and it clearly wasmore than coincidence thatthey showed up right afterJudy was in Las Vegas. Icould imagine, after Davidclosed the drapes and lockedhis office door, that guns

came out of those attachés.Whathehadtogiveinreturnfor his life was undoubtedlymore Judy engagements. Butthat was not yet punishmentenough.Muchmorewas stilltocome.

***

By the time the “Londonincident” occurred, Judywas

employable in Hollywood ifnot exactly back on top.FreddieandDavidhadgottenher several movie deals,including Judgment atNuremberg, for which shewas nominated for anAcademyAward,andAChildIs Waiting. I Could Go OnSingingwasthethirdstarringfilm under the FFA

management. During all thistime—from the end of theconcerts in 1961 through themaking of the films—I wasthe go-to person for Judywhenever she was in NewYork, and always on call nomatterwhere shewas.Davidand I accompanied Judy toEngland on the press junketfor the world premiere of I

Could Go On Singing. Theplane, filled with Americanpress, took off for London,where we had approved aschedule that would requiretotal efficiency. All of theEnglish entertainment presswas at the airport awaitingher arrival. Meanwhile, theuniversehadadifferentplan.Fog, of the densest kind,

socked in Heathrow, makingit impossible to land.Although the plane buzzedtherunwayseveral times, thepilot finally had to land inManchester, about whichthere is little worthmentioning except it wasthere that I learned theEnglisheattheirfishcoldanddrinktheirbeerlukewarm.

The next daywe took thetraintoLondon,checkedintotheSavoyHotelintheStrand,andIwasreadytobelievelifewouldreturntoascheduleasclosetonormalasitcouldbewhen I was on “Judy time.”Instead Lee Begelmanshowed up, uninvited andunannounced, checked intoherhusband’s roomwhilehe

was out, rested for a little,andthenfoundoutwhatroomJudy was in—which justhappened to be right acrossthehall—andknockedonthedoor.

Did Lee come to Londonto confront Judy? I don’tknowforsure,butIdoknowshe was expecting to beinvited in, because she was

wearing only a nightgownwith a light travelingbathrobe over it. Judy wasalsoinanightgownwhensheanswered the door, and shehadnointerestinalittletête-à-tête. Clearly they hatedeachother.Icouldn’tseewholanded the first punch fromwhere Iwas sitting in Judy’slivingroom.Andbythetime

I realized what washappening, a ferocious fightwas under way, and Icouldn’tstopit.

Thewomenweretryingtokill each other: kicking andclawing, pulling hair andclothes. Both were bleeding,gowns torn, now almostnaked in the fifth floorcorridor, which houses the

exquisite river suites on theThames side of the Savoy.Guests came out of theirrooms. A crowd startedforming.Neitherwomanwasbackingdown,eachfueledbyhatred and resentment of theother—loathing that Davidhad allowed grow—and bothlooked prepared to fight tothe death. I was still

strugglingtobreakitupwhenthe manager arrived—calledup, I imagine, by one of theshocked spectators. With hisupper-class British mannersfirmly in place, and lookingbeyond horrified, he boldlystepped in,buthe, too,coulddo nothing. It was a viciousbattle, andone risked seriousinjurybygettinginvolved.In

fact there were enoughspectatorsforustohaveactedin some united way to stopthe fight, but everyone wastoomesmerizedtomove.Themanagerwas calling securitywhen, by fortuitouscoincidence, David cameback and immediatelystoppedit.Hedidnottreathiswifegently.Takingherupper

arm roughly into his twohands,hedraggedherbacktohis room and threw her intoit.Hethenslammedthedoorbehindthem.

“I hope he throws her thefuck out!” yelled Judy. Andshedidn’tmeansimplyoutofthe hotel, or out of London.Lee Begelman did indeedleaveLondonwithinthehour.

I retreatedwithJudy intohersuite. She was in manicheaven. I listened as sherattled on and on: “She’s ano-good cunt, that one,”pronounced with a perfectEnglish accent. Judy nowexpected to celebrate withDavidat lunchandstarted todress for the occasion,deciding to wear black in

honor of what she was surewouldbethedeathofDavid’smarriage. Soon David wouldknock on the door and comein to continue spreading hisblack confetti like so muchfairydust.Heappeared tobeinfinehumor,buthehadsethimselfupforthepunishmentofLee’swrathand the threatofanexpensivedivorce.

CHAPTERELEVEN

Vegas

I was a Vegas virgin (so to

speak)whenIvisitedin1962.Backintheday,itwasn’tjusta place to go for fun andgambling. It was, I felt, oneofthemostglamorousplacesin the world. Men woretuxedos in the casino, andwomen the most lavishcocktaildressesadornedwithmagnificent jewels. I didn’townlavishcocktaildressesor

magnificent jewels, and Icertainly didn’t have a guywith me who would wear atuxedotothecasino,butIhada good body that mennoticed, and Inoticedmyselfstartingtolookbackatthem.I wasn’t yet ready to act onmyimpulses,butIwasonthelaunching pad. Vegas was alooseplace.

Itwasalso the siteofoneof Judy’s most terribledisasters—followed by acomplete meltdown. Whatmadeitsoawful?Inmyviewit was unintended. Somemightevencallitanaccident,but then maybe it was noaccident,given thecause.AsI counted out the days ofwhat was to be a virtual

imprisonment for me in thisutopia,Iwonderedhowmanyoftheseincidentstherecouldbe before she died? Howmany of these could Judy’sbody, already weakened bydrugs and liquor, withstand?Wouldthenextonekillher?

It happened as we wereapproaching the end of thesecond week of Judy’s

monthlong engagement,sandwiched intoherscheduleinbetween the filmsshewasstarring in. We’d beentogether a couple of yearsnow,andshewasbackinthebig time after a successfulconcert tour, happy to beappearing at the Sahara, oneof the grandest places on thestrip. The four-week

engagement (which could beextendedbyanothertwo)wasworthhundredsofthousands,and it took more than a fewconcertsforJudytoearnthatmuch. After an exciting firstweek, we settled into aroutine.The contractwas forone sixty-five-minute show anight, which, with any goodfortune, got under way at

10:00 p.m. She, however,would usually come off thestage closer tomidnight, andthen one of two scenarioswouldbesetinmotion.

Scenarioone:inwhichsheshowered and changed intonightclubbing mufti inpreparation for the twoof usgoing out on the town. Idreaded this one.Would that

I could have gotten into itmore, but I was always soexhausted. It wasn’t just amatterofphysicalexhaustion.Iwasstronglikeabull.Itwasmental exhaustion—theexhaustionofhavingtobeonyour toes all the time, neverbeing allowed to relax,always on the edge of theledge, worried about what

mightfallorfail.On topof that Iwasnota

party animal. Drinking wasnevermy thing, andby threeinthemorning,Iwasusuallydragging my ass, which waswhen we typically foundourselves,yetagain,watchingFrances Faye do her loungeact at the Thunderbird. Judy,however, was going strong

and growing stronger pill bypill. I’m embarrassed toreport that our third timethere I fell asleepat the littlecocktailtabledirectlyinfrontof the tiny stagewhereMissFaye performed. Judyattempted toprodmeawake;that is to say she gaveme awell-deservedshoveandinsodoing pushed me onto the

dance floor. I lay there,spreadeagleinmycustomaryfashion, apparently lookinglike I needed help fromeveryone present. And theyall jumped in. I was carriedinto Miss Faye’s dressingroom, where a group ofwomen with a strong sexualpreference for one anotherstartedpawingatme—inmy

interest, of course—whichwokemeupfast!

Back to scenario one: Itusually ended with breakfastatdawninsomedineronthestrip,whereJudywouldchowdown, usually on enoughsteak and eggs to satisfy ahealthytruckdriver.Wewereback at the Sahara by eight,and we’d both go to our

rooms. Judy didn’t have togetupagainuntileightintheevening. I had to meet thecaptain in thedining roomat10:00 a.m. to go over theguest listfor thatnight.Thenit was time to deal withthank-you notes, wardrobe,send out invitations, makecallstoNewYork,andsoon.

Scenarionumbertwo—my

preferred ordeal—saw usretire immediately after theshow to Judy’s suite, whichin this case (and almostalways) was the penthouse.Thetwo-bedroomaerieattheSahara was furnished incontemporary style; thebackdrop a virtual symphonyinwhitethatframedthewhiteupholstered pieces, all of

which were done in rich-textured fabrics and nestledintowall-to-wallwhitecarpet.Itwasmovie-star glamorous.VeryHollywood.

After Judy changed into anightgown, we would sit onthecouchinfrontoftheglasscoffee table and play ginrummy until she felt tired.Getting tired was a

manufactured state broughtonbythecocktailofpillsshecontinuedtotakeforaboutanhour. Reds, greens, yellows,purples, blues, and whites,bicolored capsules too, wereall washed down with herwine. During that hour sheoften took twenty or thirtypills, believing that it wouldtake that many to counteract

themany pills she had takenearlier to get her up for theperformance. In spite ofwanting to sleep, she alwaysseemed to be fighting it,fighting tomake the day lastlonger. Her eyes could be athalf-mast,andstillshewouldorder me to deal anotherhand. However, in scenariotwo,usuallyby4:00a.m.,she

wouldbidmegoodnight,andIwouldgotomyroomafewfloors below and collapse,mosttimesfullyclothed.

Thenightofthedisaster—a scenario-twonight—startedoff in theusualwaywithmegrowing terrified that itwould soon be dawn, withJudyfightingsleepbutfinallylaying down her cards just

before the light crept inaroundtheedgesofthedrawndrapes. Her tiresomegoodnight was always thesame:“IthinkIcangetsomesleepnow”—mycuetoleave.But on this night when shegotupand tookastep in thedirectionofherbedroom,onestep was all she couldmanage. Shewent down like

a stone, her face hitting theknife-edge of the rectangularsteel-and-glass coffee table,whichslicedthroughherskinsoquicklyIcoulddonothingbut stare in disbelief. Thecornerofthetablefirstcaughther upper lip dead center,then went slantwise throughonenostril,grazedthesideofher right eye, finally exiting

after making a long gash inher forehead. She fellfacedown, and bloodimmediately started to poolaround her head onto thewhite carpet. I bent over herin panic to see if she wasbreathing, way too scared tomove her or even to touchher. Nevertheless I tried totake her pulse. I was so

scared I could feel nothing. Ihadnoideaifshewasdeadoralive.

Steadying myself, andwithacalmvoicesoasnottostir concern in the hoteloperator, I asked to beconnected with Stan Irwin,the entertainment director oftheSahara. I followedJudy’sinstructionsnever togiveout

anyinformationonthephone,as she was certain alloperatorssolddirtonheratagoodprice.When I hadStanon the line, I told him thatJudy wished to see himimmediately. A businessmeeting at that hour mighthave seemed peculiaranywhere other than LasVegas, where life proceeds

apace at 4:00 a.m. andnothing is strange. Stan, akindandattentiveman,heardthe urgency inmy voice andwas there within minutes,dressedtoperfection,becauseit was he who prowled thecasino until the last loungeactwrapped.

Icanconjurehimupevennow, in a wonderful tailored

gray silk suit thatcomplemented his head ofsalt-and-pepper hair withperfectly barbered silversideburns. During his manyyears in Las Vegas he haddeveloped a kid-gloveapproach to talent, includingtroubled talent. He wasintuitive in a way that gaveone confidence that he had

more than likely handledsome hairy scenes, could becounted on in a clutch, andknew far more than he wastelling.ButIdoubthe’dseenanything like this. When Iopened the door to him, hewore a worried look thatmatched mine. Heinstinctively knew somethingwasterriblywronginspiteof

myfeignedcalm.Imayhavegone into some kind offunctioning shock, for thehandStanIrwintookintohisin that moment at the doorwaslikeanicicle.Alookthatconveyed the horror of thiseventpassedbetweenus,andwhen he saw her it becamechillinglyreal.

However, he remained as

calm as I was, but lessfrightened. He found herpulse,andheassuredmeshewas alive. My God, I wasrelieved! He didn’t have toaskhowithappened.Thepillcollectionon thecoffee tableonly confirmed what healready knew. He turned theunconscious Judy over,applied some wet towels I

suppliedascompressestothewounds, stopped thebleeding,andcalledadoctor,and together we sat waitingforhimtoarrive.

We talked about howwonderful the audiences hadbeen,butitwasnomorethanaimless chatter meant tocoverwhatwas really on hismind.Whowasgoingtostep

inforJudy?Whowouldbringin that kind of business?What about the thousands ofreservations, and so on? Thedoctor was there in twentyminutes, and after treatingJudywithwhatevermagichehad in his little black bag,assured us both that the cutswere superficial and wouldheal well in time. He

suggestedthatIstaythenightbecause Judy would beuncomfortable when sheawoke. “Awoke?” I couldn’tbelieve it. She’s notunconscious? “No,” he said,“she’ssleeping.”

The men carried Judy toher bed, and the doctor saidhe would stop by again nextday to check on her. His

suggestionthatIstaywithherwasnotasuggestionatall.Itwas an order. When Imomentarily balked—and Idid,tellingbothhimandStanthat I needed to sleep—thedoctor said he could get anurse thenextday to replaceme,buthethoughtsheshouldnot be alone, just in case. Incaseofwhat?Iworried.ButI

knew he was right and alsoknewitwouldbepointlesstotellhimthatI’dbeenupwithher for countless nights onend. He was brusque andwouldn’t have cared. Hepointed to the secondbedroom and told me to liedown there. “She’ll sleep forthe next five or six hours atleast,”heassuredme.“Bythe

timeshewakesup,I’llhaveanurse here.” Then the doctorandStantalkedprivatelyforafew minutes while my mindranged over a minefield offeelings—allofthembad.

Generally I didn’t engagein a lot of self-pity, but onthisnightIfoundawellspringof it and I jumped right in. IfeltsorryformyselfbecauseI

was so whipped. I hadreachedtheend.Iwastiredofbeing constantly tired, ofenduring her innumerablenightly overdoses. I hadsufferedherendless3:00a.m.phone calls for almost threeyears now (as had myhusband),andintheprocessIhad become hardened andjudgmental. I held Judy

responsible for tonight andfor what she had done toherself. The well-known,well-publicized turbulenthistory that had brought herto this most terrible collapsewas right on the money. Ihatedher for itandfeltsorryfor her at the same time. Iworried about what wouldhavehappenedhadInotbeen

there, and fretted that Icouldn’t stop her fromswallowing a drugstore evenwhen I was. I worried that IwouldbeblamedifIallowedsomethingtohappentoher.

Judy’s prescription-pillintake was terrifying.Somehow it was differentthan burning herself orcutting herself. How? Well,

she only did those thingswhensomeonewasaround.Ifthere is such a thing as acontrolledburn,thenthatwaswhat she did. It may soundstupid, but it’s the way Irationalizeditthen.Ofcourseanything anywhere can godreadfully wrong. I realizedthat, but as long as I wasthere to put out the fire, or

stop the bleeding, or call thedoctor, it would all be okay.But pills, somehow, weredifferent. She took themwhen we were together andwhenshewasalone.Shetooksomany.Howmuchwastoomuch? I didn’t know. Nevermindputtingdrugstogether.Ididn’t think then aboutwhether Ritalin went with

Seconal. Who knew? I onlyworried about the number,andIworriedaboutthatalot.Iwarnedheraboutthedangerofherconsumptiontimeaftertime. How simple-minded ofme. How innocent. Hownaive. How stupid I musthave sounded to her. Shewouldtellmeto“putitwherethesundon’tshine”—andshe

did, more than once. Andnow this! I didn’t know if Iwas more relieved or angryshe hadn’t killed herself thistime, as I looked at the hugestainleftonthecarpet.

I glanced at her in thebedroom. Itwashorrifying. Ididn’twanttobethere.Well,that’s not entirely true.Someone had to be there.

Better the someone be me.DeepdownIwasgratefulthatI was the only someonearound. Iwould not fail. If Icouldn’tstandonmytwolegsbecause of exhaustion, if Ihadtocrawl,thenIwoulddoit. I would not lose my job.This seed in me calledambitionwouldpushthroughwhatever frozen earth it

found itself in.So, finally, atfourinthemorning,IdecidedI was more worried I wouldlose my job than I wasworriedaboutJudyGarland’swelfare. I was frightened forher, she did engage mysympathy, but those feelingslost the battle raging in myhead. Worrying about losingmyjobhadwononcemore.I

was not going to let thathappen.Nomatterwhatwentdown, I would not be aquitter.Iwouldstaythenight.I was out to prove myselfinvaluable. I intended tosucceed. I just needed tosleep.

***

Without asking anyone’s

permission—nor did he needany—thedoctorsweptalltheopen drug vials from thecoffee table into his littleblack bag and assured Stanandmethateverythingwouldbe fine. I knew it definitelywould not be. I tried tellingthe good doctor that Judywould be out of her mindwhen she awoke if the pills

weren’twheresheleftthem.Iwas direct, evenconfrontational. I told him Ispokefromhardexperience.Itold him I was the one who“knew” her. Of course thisannoyed him. He refused totake me seriously for even aminute.WhowasI,afterall?Some young dumb littleassistantfromNewYorkwho

thoughtshekneweverything.I saw myself in his eyes:stupid, thoughtless, andarrogant.Hisscowlconveyedit all.He fastenedmewith adisapproving look thatreminded me of a sternNorman Rockwell countrydoctor straight out of aSaturdayEveningPostcover.Someone in the portrait was

questioning the doctor’sjudgment.Who is this youngwhippersnapper? the pictureseemedtoask.

He would not allow aninexperiencednonentityofanassistant talk him out ofconfiscating the drugs thathad caused such an awfulaccident,anaccidentthathadcome within inches of

blindingoralmostkilling thegreatJudyGarland.Butthen,he did not seem in the leastimpressed with the fact thathe was treating Judy, and Icouldseethathewasdealingwith her as he would anyother patient. I reasoned thathemusthavebeenStan’sgo-to guy for all star problems,and his been-there, done-this

manner made me understandthat thisJudycouldhavehadany other last name and hisresponse would have beenexactly the same. He wasunlike the doctors, listedalphabeticallyinmajorcities,inmylittleblackbookwhomI could call upon for latedates.

Now what remained was

to finish up the business athand.Therewasalways that.Business. Judy Garlandwasn’tjustaperson:Shewasa franchise, first andforemost! Stan called DavidBegelman, and they quicklyagreed that Stan wouldindeedhave to findsomebigstar to step in for Judy untilshe could perform again. A

proper press release aboutvocal strain would beprepared. The public wouldbe assured that with a littlerest, Judywouldbefine.ShewouldthengivetheSaharaanadditional two weeks bydoinga2:30a.m.showeverynight. Two thirty in themorning? Omigod! Perfectfor Las Vegas, and easy for

those who slept all day. Idreadedit,butIsaidnothing.I sat on the couch, numbed,andwaitedforStantoendthecall. When the arrangementwas completed, Stan wasabout to go back to work. Icouldseehefeltsorryforme.Still, he found a way tosuggest that I do somethingabout the stain on the carpet

before he was out the door.“Wewouldn’twantthemaidstoseethat,”hesaid.

So the main event of thenight is now over, and I amonce more dealing withJudy’sblood,thistimetryingtodisguisethestain, tomakeit look more like coffee wasspilled.That is thebest Icanhope for; there is no way of

getting the completebloodstainoutofthecarpet.Iam feeling bitterly sorry formyself. I am crying andasking myself, Why? Whyam I doing this? Why do Icare what the maids think?Suddenly I am sobbinghysterically, my tears fallingonthecarpetandmixingwiththe rest of the bloody mess.

‘Is this only about ambition?What iswrongwithmy life?Who matters to me more?Me? Judy? I am cold andangryandsad.

At sunrise I passed out inthe second bedroom andcouldn’t have been asleepmorethananhourwhenJudywas standing at the foot ofmybedpullingonmy leg to

awakenme.Regardlessofthesunshine streaming in, Judyhad turned on all the lightslest Imiss something. “Lookatme!” she screamed.And Ihad to.Dare I use the cliché“Itwasworsethanyourworstnightmare”?Shewasaghoul.ThePhantomunmaskeddoesnot come close. Shewas theElephant Man, a total

grotesque. Her lips were themost awful part, huge anddiscolored.Onewholesideofherswollenfacewasblueandgreen. “Letme call for someice packs,” I said. “Thedoctor said you should usethem constantly until he cangetbackhere.”

“Fuck the ice packs.Where’smymedicine?Ineed

my pills, and I want themright now! Where the fuckdidyouhidethem?”

“Me?! No! Not me. Iswear it. The doctor tookthem. He didn’t want you tohurtyourselfagain.”

“Then call the fuckingdoctor,andgethimbackhereright now. And I want myowndoctorflownouthereby

this afternoon.” It wasn’t yet8:00a.m.,andIdidn’thaveaclue about how to reach thisdoctorathishome.Hewasn’tlisted. I awakened Stan andbeggedhim tomake thecall,but an hour passed andnothing happened. Judy wasgoingberserk.ShedemandedI call all the area hospitals. Idid so and got nothing. At

nine I was able to reach thedoctor’s office and was toldhe was on rounds, thereceptionist assuring me hewould call as soon as hereturned. It was a formulaicresponse, and no call came.Judy made me phone all thehospitals again. She waspacing, she was screaming,shewascrying—andnoneof

it was about the way shelooked.Itwasonlyaboutherdrugs.

By noon I had called thedoctor’sofficeatleastahalf-dozen times, nowunderstanding that I wasintentionallybeingputoffbyhis staff. I was frantic, andthewomenIspokewithcouldsurelyhearthedesperationin

myvoice; they did their besttocalmme,but therewasnoway they could haveimagined what I was goingthrough,norwasthereawayI could attempt to explain itto them. In their lives theysurely had never felt asthreatened as I did at thatmoment.

Finally they got a dose of

it. Judy came out of herbedroom and was hoveringover me, screaming in myear,screamingintothephone.Atonepoint shegrabbed thephone and yelled out everyobscenity she’d ever heard,probably many more thanthose on the other end hadever heard. In addition tousing “fuck” every other

word, “cunt” and “cooze”weretwoofherfavorites,andI doubt the doctor’sreceptionist had ever beencalled either. Whoever waslistening remained calm andacted as if they had heard itall before, for when Judyhandedthephonebacktome,the woman on the other enddidn’tseemrattledatall.But

then, what could they do? Icouldonlyimaginethedoctornot responding because hehadnotyetfoundanurse.

By midafternoon Judyconvinced herself that I wasthe one who had hidden herdrugs. She went into thekitchen, took a large black-handled knife out of thedrawer, and came after me

with it. Would she havestabbed me? I don’t know.She was a raving lunatic atthatpoint.ButIwasyounger,stronger,andwayhealthier.Iwasn’t going to get into afight or try to take the knifeaway. I didn’t want to riskeither of us getting hurt.Terrified,Ibarricadedmyselfinthesecondbedroom.There

wasnolockonthedoorandIputmywholeweight againstittokeepitclosed,whileshedid the same thing on theother side. Where did herstrength come from? Was itfueled by some demonicadrenaline? I was managingtoprevail,buthowlongcouldI keep this up? It wasmadness. I needed to get out

ofthere.Ineededaplan,andI formulated one. I wouldjumpawayfromthedoorandlet her rush in. I could onlyhopeshewouldn’tfallontheknife. I would then rush outthe moment the momentumtookher.AndIdid!Igotoutthedoortothehall,randownthestairstomyroom,gotthemaid to let me in, and

collapsed crying on the bed.Itwasover.Fuckambition. Iwasnotevergoingback.Onewould have to be crazy eventocontemplateit.

***

OfcourseIwentback.Inthelate afternoon I wasawakened by a call fromDavid Begelman, who spent

twentyminutes on the phonetelling me how sorry Judywas. He assuredme that shewas feeling better now. Hetold me a new doctor hadbeen in to see her and hadgiven her some medicationforherpainandsomeforhernerves. That was shorthandfor “She’s drugged,” ergoeverything’s okay. David

surelyknewhowtofindthosekindsofdoctors.HesaidthatJudy desperately wanted tocall me to apologize.Wouldn’tI justspeaktoher?Hewas actually beggingme.Isavoredthat.AlthoughIhadcried myself to sleep, nowwithsevenhoursinthetank,Iwasanewperson;thatis,theoldmewasback.

An hour and a two-hundred-dollar raise later, Iagreedtohaveaconversationwith her. I thought David’soffer was generous, and Idecided it was okay if Ireturned purely for themoney. Not for him, not forher. I also thought that if Irefused to go, I might bereplaced. By late in the

afternoon, losing my jobagain seemed like a biggerthreatthanlosingmylife.

Within two hours I hadmovedmyclothesintoJudy’ssuite, adamantly refusing,however, to give upmyownroomkey,andforthenexttendays I remained there withher. Of necessity she wouldnot allow anyone else to see

herlookingthewayshedid.Iwas the waitress, the maid,and the doorman, alwaystheretomakesurethatnooneput so much as a toe inside.All management keys weredisallowed.Thedaysdraggedon. Our boring routine hungon us like a curtain thatadmitted no light. Nothingwentwrong,butthennothing

was good either. In spite ofmy staying up late, myinterior clock never changed.I awoke at the same ghastlyhourofseveneverymorning,regardless of having playedcards until three. I orderedroom service and read. Ilookedout thewindowa lot,staring at people enjoyingtheir freedom, wishing I had

mine.Itwasobsessive.At about noon I would

hear her moving around inher room, but she rarelyshowed herself before threeor four. Then she demandedeverythingatonce.Breakfastmight be French toast and ahot fudge sundae. Beingindisposed was heropportunity for more than a

bitofsweetself-indulgence.Iencouraged it. Anything tokeep her in what I called “aharmless place.” I receivedthe linens at the door andmade up a fresh bed for hereach day by five. I changedall the towels and wiped upthesinkandtub.Ivacuumed.We played endless cardgames and listened to her

records.ShehadFrank’sandNat King Cole’s sent in, butwe mostly listened to herown. She admired her ownability above all. Sometimesshewouldsingalong.WouldthattherehadbeenTVsinthesuite,wemighthavewatchedall day, but that amenitydidn’t yet exist. (It’ssomewhathardtobelieve,but

the early sixties were a timewhenshampooinhotelroomswasjustbecomingamust.)

Wetalkedaboutheraffairwith David Begelman adnauseam because he was thecommondenominatorinbothour lives: her lover, hermanager, and my boss. Wetalkedaboutwhatshewantedin the future—how she and

Davidwouldtravelandenjoylife together. This was farbetter than hearing her talkabout the past. For althoughthepastwasmoreinteresting,revisiting it could send herintoatailspinthatoftenledtoaplaintivediatribedirectedatLouis B. Mayer. Mayer, themanwho,asshehadadmittedon television, had had the

greatest influenceonher life,butalsothemonsterwhowasresponsible for overworkingher, underpaying her, andstarting her down the yellowbrickroadtoruination.

***

Trust me, I did not feel asthoughIwasinonsomethingdivine,listeningtothe“voice

of greatness.” I was aprisoner yearning to be free.While David had turned thesuite into a drugstore,guaranteeing that Judy hadeverything she needed, not asingle one of my needs wasfulfilled. No Vegas sunshinewouldtouchmyskin.InsteadIlearnedmoreaboutwhoshewas and more about who I

was, and I didn’t much likeeither one of us. She waswilling to do anything tosatisfy her habit, and I waswilling to do anything forsuccess.

CHAPTERTWELVE

BackinNewYork

Survivingacatastrophehasaway of making you realizeyour own worth. It was theendof1962and,afterhavinglived through Judy’s LasVegas disaster and gettingmore than a few raises, Istarted to feel I wasirreplaceable.Whowouldputupwith the things Ihad?NooneIspoketo.Certainlynone

of my friends! My motherthought I was crazy. Myhusband was beginning tobelieve the same. But itworkedforF&D.Nothavingto be with Judy all the timehad allowed them to build abusiness. I patted myself onthe back and was a littlecocky.IbelievedIwaswortheverypennyofthe$450they

now paid me every week. Iwas no longer expected totake dictation or type lettersforanyonebutmyself.

Freddie Fields Associateshad grown significantly.Freddiecalledit“theTiffany”of management agencies.While talent agents wererestricted to commissions of10 percent, Paul Newman,

Joanne Woodward, HenryFonda, and Lauren Bacallwere now clients andwillingto pay FFA 15. There weretwo more agents squeezedintoourspace.FFAwaswellon its way. And Judy? Shehaddoneherjob.Theconcerttourhadbeenahugesuccess.Judy at Carnegie Hall washeralded as one of the best

concerts ever in the entirehistory of entertainment.Hollywood was back inJudy’scorner.Televisionwascalling. The press wasclamoring. EverythingchangedbutJudy.

By then Judy and herchildren had been living forslightlymorethanayearinalovelyhomeinScarsdalethat

I had found for her in inmyrole as FFA’s real estateagent.

I’doriginallyputthemintoanapartmentattheDakota,adark, dank, dreary eleven-room pad owned by JohnFrankenheimer, the brilliantandprolificfilmdirectorbestknown for The ManchurianCandidate.All itsapartments

surround a quad that waseerie at four in the morning,which is when I usuallyshowed up at least severaltimes a week. “WutheringGothic,”withacourtyardintowhichnosunlighteverfilters,is theway I still thinkof theDakota.Theplacescaredme.I was delighted when Judywantedtoleaveit.

She had no desire toreplace it with sunnyCalifornia. She seemedfinished with her life there.Thiswas a new chapter. Shedefinitely wanted to stay onthe East Coast. Would thatshe could have chosen ahomeinNewYorkCity!Shesaid, however, that shealways felt better in the

country, so she had sent meout to find the ideal bucolicretreatforthefamily,ahouselarge enough so that each ofher children could have aroom of their own. Sheneeded something furnishedbecause from all her homesover the years, Judy hadsalvagednothing.Nota stickof furniture. Not a single

memento from her brilliantcareer. No linen, no dishes,no silver. No preciouspossessions from all thehomes she’d lived in in LosAngeles.Shedidcarrya fewpicturesinhersuitcases—likeahomelessperson.Shecamewithnothingelse.Nothing.

OnceIidentifiedaplaceinWestchester, Judy asked me

to make the movingarrangements. She didn’t askto see the place first; I thinkshe couldn’t have cared less.But I cared. This was a realfamily home, like a familyhome in themovies. It hadastaircase and bedroomsupstairs. If this sounds silly,sobeit.Itfulfilledmyideaofthewaythingsweresupposed

tobe.ItmademefeelasifI’ddone something good. Afterthe family moved in, sheasked me to buy newfurniture for the children’srooms, but she took nointerestwhatsoever inwhat Ibought.Itmystifiedme.Howcould one not care, but theJudy I knew seemed not tocare about things! Stuff

wasn’t ever important to her.Once all the arrangementswere taken care of, I had todeal with a new realization.Instead of running acrosstown to the Dakota, I nowhad to travel up to Scarsdaleatfourinthemorning.

One night (meaningbetween3:00and4:00a.m.)Ithought Judy sounded

“different.” It made meanxious. I threw on a sweatsuit and called DavidBegelmanafterassuringJudyI was on the way. I knew Icould call a limo and go toWestchester bymyself, but Iwouldn’t do thatwhen Iwasworried stiff something waswrong. The final Judyresponsibility laywithDavid

or Freddie; I was not evergoing to be there alone ifindeedshewasdying.

I didn’t ever call either ofthem carelessly because Iknew their wives were notnearly as supportive as myhusband.Bothwomenfumedat the late night calls, andboth spoke of it with me,morethanonce.Mostoftheir

conversations had an openerlike “Just who the fuck doesshethinksheis?”Thisnight,however, I made the call toDavid. “I think something isreally wrong this time,” Iwhispered. Although thesewerewordshe’dheardmanytimesbefore,heknewthatifIcalled,he’dhavetogo.Iwasthe poison taster, and the

poison taster is neverwrong.“I’ll call a car and pick youupintwentyminutes.”Thosewere the only times I eversaw David in store-boughtpolyester rather than custom-madeworsted.

We got to Judy’s housejust before four. We foundhersprawledonthefloornextto the frontdoor.Thismeant

we wouldn’t have to goupstairs and disturb thechildren. It smelled fishy.That she was beautifullydressedinadiaphanousgownwith matching peignoir wasthe giveaway. Indeed, shewore matching satin slipperswith a little heel and cariboutrim, and her hair wasperfectly coiffed. After only

twominutes I knew itwas ahoax. I told David what Ithought.What an actress shewas. She had sounded“different” on the phoneknowingIwouldthenwanttobringD or F alongwithme.But David looked at her andtold me he thought she wasturning blue. Had he reallyswallowed the fish, along

with the hook, the line, andthe sinker? But then headded, “Her pulse is notstrong, and she’s very cold.Call an ambulance.” I did itimmediately, becomingscared that we might belooking at a suicide attemptthat had actually worked.David was no drama queen,quite the reverse. He was a

cool customer. He neverexaggerated except whentelling stories in theaftermath. Then he could goway over the top and behighlyamusing.AswestoodoverJudy’scomatosebodyatthatmoment,hewasdour.

Fifteen minutes later,without our once havingawakened anyone in the

house, our limo was trailingtheambulanceasitscreameditswaydowntheHutchinsonRiver Parkway. Had Judybeen dying, the forty-five-minute ride would not havehelped,but thenwecouldgoonly to her personal doctor,Kermit Osserman, whorecognized the need to keepeverything out of the press,

and he could only do that atMt.Sinai,thehospitalhewasaffiliatedwith.Ossermanwasan elderly internist onwhomJudy’slate-nightravingstooka great toll, but he was atrouper, wanted never todisappoint, and whenevercalled upon, this capabledoctor and lovely gentlemanwasthereonhismarks.

With the limo on its tail,the ambulance raced up theramp into the emergencydock, where four white-coatedorderlieswerewaitingtotransferJudyontoarollinggurney that would carry herinsideforanexaminationandwhateverother treatmentwascalledfor.At thevery least Iexpected itwould be another

stomach pumping. Evenbefore the brakes were set,the orderlies had the backdoor of the ambulance open,and in an organized phalanxquickly pulled the bed, onwhich Judy lay motionless,outofthetruck.Theylineditupparalleltothegurney,andthen in one brilliant motionall four men grabbed the

cornersofthesheetonwhichshe lay, yanked it up, andplunked her down on theirrolling cot. WhereuponMadam sat up straight as aramrod and, in a toneindignant with rage, spokethesememorablewords:

“How dare you fuckingmorons handle me like afucking side of beef? How

dare you! Get your fuckingmeat hooks out of me, youfucking apes!” No commentfrom the astonished gallerywas possible. Judy then gotup,andwithasmuchdignityas she could muster—giventhat one of the satin slipperstrimmed in caribou had gonemissing—Madam limped,one-shoe-on, one-shoe-off,

overtothewaitinglimousine,got in the backseat, andorderedthedriver totakeherhome.

Poor Kermit! He didn’tdeserve to be awakened atfourinthemorning.Judywasturning his practice into awater-cooler joke. He was amanofgreat integrity, totallyunlike the many Dr.

Feelgoods in my little blackbook who would prescribeunlimited amounts of anydrugsJudywanted, fora fee.At one point I became soconcernedabout thehandfulsof Ritalin Judy wasswallowing that, without aword to anyone, I decided Ihadtodosomethingaboutit.Looking through the Yellow

Pages, I found a smallpharmaceutical house insouthern New Jersey andmade an arrangement withthem to mill an identicalsugar-water version. Iimagined Iwould be helpingher,but Ihadno ideawhat Iwas doing. I replaced all thereal Ritalin in her vials withthe placebo, which I

purchasedinbigcanningjars,ten thousand at a time.Although after that I neversawone iota of difference inher behavior, just doing itmade a big difference tome.At least I knew that shewasputtinglesschemicalshitintoherbody,andthatgavemealittlepeaceofmind.

***

It seemed that most of thedrugswereforinsomnia.Herinability to sleepwasanastymonster that stalked her. Itlived in a black hole. Sheteetered on the edge of thathole all the time. I imaginedsheknew that if she fell intoit she would go mad. Drugskeptthemonsteratbay.They

helped her to quiet a mindthatwouldn’tbe still, amindthat made sleepingimpossible. Judy cried aboutit. Sometimes she put herheadinmylapandjustwept.Howsad is that? Itmademewonder from time to timewhetherornot leavingher inpeace, as she was beforeFreddie sought her out in

London, would have savedher. If she had been allowedto veg out, eat, and donothing, might she havesurvived?Finally I thinknot.Idon’tthinkveggingoutwasat all what she wanted. Sheknew she had options, andshe chose what she wanted.She wanted the fame, thepower, leastofall themoney

—these things went into acocktail shewanted to drink.She was as addicted to allthose as she was to theprescription drugs.And onceshecameback,sheneededasmany drugs to get her up assheneededtogotosleep.

Iknewnothingaboutdrugaddiction until I startedworkingwithher.Oh,Iknew

about alcoholism, about thefalling-down drunks whopopulatedmyaunt’splaceonthe Bowery, but I hadn’t theslightest notion that anyonegot addicted to prescriptiondrugs. Bayer Aspirin is allthat was found in themedicine cabinets in myhome. Thrust into Judy’sworld, I was getting a fast

education about a dozendifferent kinds of pills. Ineeded to know more, so Iscoured the news for storiesand devoured what I readaboutheroin, thedrugthat inthe early sixtiesgot themostlurid coverage. I could seethat what I read exactlymatched what I knew to betrue about Judy and my

experience with her—thataddiction was a progressivedisease thatkeeps increasing,as does the amount and thestrength of the drugs neededtosatisfythecraving.

Finally there are neverenough pills. And so it waswith Judy. As it was withMichael Jackson and otherfamous people. The more I

understood her addiction, thesorrierIbegantofeelforher.It was tragic, and no oneunderstood it better thanDavid, who for his ownpecuniaryreasonshadtokeepher working. I will get backtothat.Davidalsounderstoodshe desperately needed abreak,andheplantedoneintoher schedule. And thereby

hangsatale.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

AVacation

Apropos of nothing, David

invitedmeintohisofficeoneafternoon and asked, “Howwould you like to go onvacation?” I had now beenworkingtwoandahalfyearswith nothing more than theoccasional Sunday off. Ipreferred to think of what Iwas doing as building mycareer, butwhat Iwas reallydoing was acting as an

enabler and generalhandmaiden to a demented,demanding, supremelytalented drug addict, whilealsobeing adoormat foronebrilliant male narcissisticegomaniac.AndIwastotallywhipped. I got all excited atthe prospect of a vacation,forgetting for a moment thatwhena snake is in thegrass,

you can’t always see it. Ijumped at the opportunity.Then David added, “Judy isgoing yachting in theCaribbean, and she wouldlikeyoutogowithher.”Cananyonemake“yachtingintheCaribbean”soundbad?Davidjustdidthat,Isaidtomyself.Davidofferedmea thousanddollarsextratogo,andIsaid

Iwould.Ididn’tdoitforthemoney—not that I dislikedhaving it—I did it because Ihadn’t arrived at a pointwhere I felt comfortablesaying no. I wasn’t yet surewhat letting Begelman downwould cost me. I hadn’tdevelopedenoughconfidencetotaketheriskprofessionally.However,that,too,wasabout

tochange.I went home and told my

sweet husband I was leavingfor two weeks. As usual hewasjustfineaboutit,actuallyexcited forme. Iwas alwaysa tad less guilty when Iwasn’t home cooking dinner,whichwasnotanythingIdidwell, often, or had anyappetitefor.

***

So how does a non-yachtingperson get a yacht withouthaving to rent it? Oneborrowsitfromarichfriend,ofcourse,andJudyhadafinecollection of those. Newportwasn’t the only place wheresheknewwealthypeopleshecould call upon. CharlesWacker was rich enough to

have a whole avenue namedafter his family—as inWacker Drive in Chicago. Iassumed that Charlie—asJudy liked to call him—owned a lot of shares in thefamily’s holdings on thestreet that bears his name.I’ve never been on WackerDrive in Chicago, and I’venever met the man, and I

oftenwish I’d nevermet theboat.

The plan for the vacationwith Judy was to cruise onCharlie’s yacht from MiamitoNassau.WhenIheardthat,thingsbegan to sounda littlebetter.Theremightbeatleastsomeupside togowithwhatmost likely would be adowner.

Inmymind’s eye I sawabigbeautifulboat, somethinggleamingwhitewithpolishedteak accents and oversizestaterooms, a fantasy yachtmade byChris-Craft. Puttingmy marriage asidemomentarily—which wasgettingeasierformetodoallthe time—I imaginedstopping at glamorous yacht

clubsandmeetinghandsome,debonairmen, spending dayswith charming company aswe glided over a silken sea.ThefactthatJudywastakingalongahairdresserseemedtoconfirm that possibility. Ourcrewwouldbeuniformed,thecook world class; maybe wewould have a madcap, wild,and wonderful time. I

prepared myself for that,mostlyatSaksFifthAvenue.It was the season for cruisewear, and I treated myselfwell.IthinkIwasreadyforalittle romance, but even if Icouldn’t find it on this trip,the consolation prize wouldbemynewwardrobe.

Judy and I, along with ahairdresser named Orval

Paine, who I believe hailedfrom somewhere in theMidwest, went directly fromthe airport in Miami to thedocksatfourintheafternoon.All thegleamingyachtswerethere just as I had imagined,each one tied up to its ownslip.Noneof themwasours.Moored out in the distancewas a very large trimasted,

square-rigged sailing vesselthat lookedlikeapirateship.It had to have been salvagedfrom an old Errol Flynnmovie, or maybe had oncebeen a floating junk on theChinaSea.Ithadonitsprowa carved wooden bare-breasted mermaid withflowinggoldenlocks.

Not that, I said to myself

as I looked at the oddity,already knowing, withoutanyonehavingtotellme,that“that” was it. Gratefully Inoted that there were noportholes with cannonspeeking out. Somehowstrappysandalsdidn’tgowiththisawfulspectacle.Backlesschiffon didn’t. Gleamingwhiteducksdidn’teither.The

beautiful luggage we hadbrought filled with lovelythings didn’t go with. Acorncob pipe and a parrotwentwith.

I don’t think Judyexpected to see this hugehunk of floating junk either,for while she hadn’tdiscussed her wardrobe withme, it was clear from her

abundant luggage that she,too, expected somethingdifferent.Thefourandahalfinch stiletto-heeledFiorentinas she was wearingwere more than a bitinappropriate. However, sheneveronceflinched,andaftersheseteyesonthecaptainforthe first time, the boat couldhave been an old claw-foot

bathtub and it wouldn’t havemattered.

It was clear she liked theeyecandyshewaslookingat.Therewasnothingnottolike.Our captain was young, tall,slim, blond, blue-eyed, andattractive. Judy eyed himlasciviously and said, “Well,what are we waiting for?Let’sgetthehelloutofhere.”

She instructed me to countthepiecesofluggagetomakesure nothing was lost, whichwas only a reflection of hernervousness about the littlewhite carry-on with theprescription drugs. Restassured it had become anextension of my arm. Thenshe told the sexy sailor wewerereadytocomeaboard.

Thecaptain,however,hadother ideas. He thought wehadcomedowntothedocktolookattheboat,andthat’sallhe was prepared for. Hehadn’tevenshoppedforfoodyet. He saw that we wouldneed a barge just to get ourluggage out to the mooring,andhedidn’thappen tohaveoneofthoseeither.Hewould

need the balance of theevening and part of the nextdaytoorganize.

“I’msorry,MissGarland,”waswhat the captain openedwith.“It’sareallybadideatogetunderwayatnight.Ithinkyou would enjoy yourselfmore if you rest tonight,especially after your trip. Itwillgiveussometimetoload

your bags,” he said, lookingatenoughsuitcases to fillhisentirehold.“Treatyourselftoa great meal in a goodrestaurant tonight, because itmaybethelastgreatmealfora few days.” He chuckled athis own humor. I did not.“We’ll leave by noontomorrow.”Uh-oh,Ithought.Noworld-classcook?Uh-oh,

issuing instructions to Judy?Uh-oh.

Judy, who knew betterthan the rest of us thedifference between eleganceand crap, was now going tospend two weeks on thishunkajunk so she could fuckthe captain. For goodnesssake! Sexual politics had notyet granted women

permission to be avaricioustakers. Judy was way aheadof the curve. She was themostpromiscuouswomanI’dmetuptothatpoint.

“We’ll havedinner on theboat and leave tonight.”Judy’s responsewasdefinite,and slightly tinged withanger.Shehadalreadypickedouthercourse.

At her command I wadedintothewetandnastydinghythat had brought the captaintoshore.Judywaiteduntilhecarried her into the dinghy.Was this going to be thetransportation for the bagstoo?Itwouldtakemostofthenight just to load them. Mymoodwassinkingfasterthanthesun,anditdidn’timprove

onceonboard.The boat was ugly, all of

it. My “stateroom” was aneight-by-ten dark,windowless closet with adouble-decker bunk nailed tothe wall. A dresser was itsonly other piece of furniture,and the unfortunate smellinside the drawers wasreminiscentofwhatIthought

Smee the pirate might smelllike. I knew I would put nonew clothes away there. Thecarpet in the living roomlookedas if it hadbeenon asinking ship, and thefurnishings, such as theywere, could generally befoundona curb awaiting thegarbagetruck.WheredidIgowrong? I asked myself. The

most obvious answerwas: inSaksFifthAvenue!

Orval—such a decent,kind, concerned, and likableman—and I had absolutelynothingincommonexcept,ofcourse, Judy. Conversationabout her was off-limits. Sothere we were, chugging offinto the dark, wateryunknown with little or

nothing to say to each other:one Midwestern hairdresserandoneNewYorkwannabe-sophisticate. He wondered ifhehadbroughtalongenoughhairspray,giventhehumidity,andIwonderedifIwouldeatorstarve.Thebestwe’dbeenable to pull together in thatdepartment was cheese-and-mystery-meat sandwiches

moldering in the ship’s tinyfridge. Our first-and-onlymate was busy with theequipment. Omigod! Wherewasthecrew?

ThehandsomecaptainhaddisappearedintoJudy’slivingquarters and was not to beseenagainthatevening.First-and-only mate was all byhimself. I didn’t know squat

aboutsailboats,saveforwhatIhadseeninthemovies,andwhatIhadseeninthemoviesconvinced a sailing moronlikemethatastaffoftwoonan eighty-foot boat waswoefully insufficient. Andnow we were down to one.Didn’t Errol Flynn have atleastfortypirateswithhim?Istartedrecountingthefacesof

the character actors Iremembered in piratemovies—kindoflikecountingsheep—to occupy myself withsomething silly enough tokeep me from beingdepressed.

Handsome C (which iswhat I will call our captainbecause I no longerremember his name—and he

was not memorable, exceptmaybe to Judy) wasn’tanywhere in evidence thenextmorningeither.Atsomepointthatnightwe’dputintoport in a small marina atBimini.Everyonewasasleep,ostensibly,andsinceitdidn’tlooklikeweweresoongoinganywhere,Igotofftheship.Ithoughtthatifitsuddenlyleft

withoutme,thatwouldnotbethe worst thing. It was nowmore important to try to finda muffin or a bagel. Therewerebikestorentrightacrosstheroadfromthedock; Igotone and pedaled all threemiles of the island from oneendtotheotherwithout,alas,finding a town, a scone, oreven a bread crumb. So far

nothing on this trip wasdecentexcepttheweather.

Judy called for Orval atthree that afternoon. It hadbeen smooth sailing, not thatI had as yet seen one sailhoisted. Apparently it tooktwo to do that, and ourcaptainwas still belowdecks.Sowesimplychuggedalong,using up our supplementary

fuel,andIsupposeHandsomeCbelowdeckswasstilldoingthe same thing. At four wepulledintoagorgeousmarinawithayachtclub,atthetipofan island called North CatCay.Finallyaplacethatheldsomepromise!

Hungry formore than justbreadalone, I ran around thesmallish island to seewhat it

was about. Money! That’swhat. A haven for wealthyfisherfolk, but hardly whatone thinks of as your littlefishingvillage. Isawnothingbut large estates scatteredabout, and the kind ofgleamingboatsIhaddreamedofnotlongagoinSaks.

Returning to the yachtclub,Iwasabletoconapiece

ofpieoutofaservercleaningup after the lunch crowd,hoping that it wouldn’t belong before I would besampling something morenutritious. Every step alongthismerryvacationseemedtobeaproblem.Notyethavinghad breakfast (or dinner thenight before), I felt ready todo an unnatural act for the

kitchen staff to get ussomething to eat. The nameJudy Garland opened theirrefrigerator if not theirwarmovens and hearts, and soonthe five of us were gobblingup all the leftovers, the onlypatrons in the empty diningroom. Oh, for some glamourtoo!

Handsome C’s head was

falling into the gazpacho.First-and-only mate wasdazed as well. Orval waspraising the hairspray he’dchosen, and Judy’s coif borethemotionlessproof.Butshewas smiling. I was too busyeating to care about any ofthem. Who could possiblyknow when, or even if, thenextmealwouldappear?

At Cartier, one of a fewelegant shops close to theyacht club, Judy bought thecaptain awatch.The thoughtcrossedmymind that such agift isgenerallyawardedtoafaithful employee aftertwenty-fiveyearsofservice.Iwondered if something evenmore substantial should havebeengiventoourbeleaguered

HandsomeC,whohad likelydone twenty-five years’ hardlabor overnight. He forced asmileingratitudeandmadeashy thank-you in front ofOrval and me, while leaningagainst the exterior wall ofCartier helped keep himupright.

Iinquiredifwecouldstayovernight at the yacht club,

thinking there would be aswell dinner crowd and thestrappy sandals would gettheir first outing. I saw thecaptain’s face brighten alittle.I’msurehewasgratefultobe topside.Judy,however,wasn’t interested. She wasanxious to get going again.The break was over.HandsomeC had to go back

toworkbelowdecks.Then we were again

powering off into anothersunset,nowawarethatitwasthewrong timeof day to getunder way. Judy andHandsomeC again vanished.Not able to endure anothernight talking about eitherhairsprayorseaspray,Iwentbelow to spend time in the

library, such as it was. Thebookswere yellowwith age,their bindings cracked anddried. I was in despair. Iturned in by nine, knowing Iwould want to get an earlystart in Nassau the next day.Civilization! Sophistication!Foodawaitedme!

Sometime in the weehours, maybe around two, I

was thrown out ofmy bunk.Wacker’s wonder waspitchingandrolling,eachrollsending me across the smallroom to collide with thenearest wall. It was almostimpossible to stand, harderstill towalk,but Ihad togetout of my tiny cabin beforesustainingseriousbruisesandupchuckingtheonlymealI’d

eatenintwodays.Imademyway into the living room,where I sawayellowoilskinoutfit lying on the sofa. Noonehad to tellme itwas forme. I had a terrible timegettingthepantson;IfeltlikeI was inside a bottle beingviolently shaken. I had adeathgriponthediningtablewith one hand, simply trying

to steady myself so I coulddresswiththeother.AfterI’dsomehowmanaged to tie thehood tight under my chin, Iclimbeduptothedecktoseewhere the merry vacationerswere. The massive waves Isaw overwhelmed me, but Ihad no time to think aboutbeing scared. I had to tie onto the lifelines first. That or

gooverboard.Here comes the tall-sea-

tale part. Even as I thinkabout it today, I fear no onewillbelieveit.ButIdoknowwhathappenedthatnight,andI’mgratefultobealivetotellthestory.

Everyonewas up on deckclingingtothelifelineswhilewaves washed over our

heads, leaving each of usgasping like so manyasthmatics.It’sover,Isaidtomyself. This ship is goingdown, andwe’re all going todie right here, right now,tonight.

Suddenly the most insanethought washed over mealong with the very nextwave:theblackhumorofthe

dying.NoonewilleverknowI was here. Headlines willscream:“JudyGarlandlostatsea!”Ihatemybilling.Ihaveno billing. There won’t evenbe a single mention of myname. It will all be Judy. Ilooked over at her. She wasshrieking nonstop. This timeshe finally had good reasonto.Mynext thought: Judy, it

doesn’t matter if you strainyourvoiceanymore.Nothingcan save you. I remainedcalm and stupid. “Are we inthe Bermuda triangle?” Iscreamed, aware of all thevesselsthatwerelostouthereand never found again. Noone could hear me. Wouldthey send out people to findus?Would the loss at sea of

the great Judy Garland bemade into a film? My minddanced around these stupidquestions as I struggled tostayonmyfeet.

Wefinallymanagedtouseup our fuel. No-longer-Handsome C and his first-and-only mate somehow gotto themainsail, and in tryingtohoistit,bentthewinch.No

gas, no sail. We would tosslike a little microbe in thismaelstrom until either thestorm was over or we werefinished, and I thought thelatter the more likely of thetwo.

But no—not whathappened.Thestormstopped—just stopped dead. Itdisappeared as quickly as it

had arrived—from out ofnowhere, back to nowhere.No-longer-Handsome C toldus squalls like this suddenlypopped up and then, just assuddenly, vanished.Nowhereonthehorizonwasthereevena vestige of the storm left tobe seen. The sky wascloudless, and our captainwent about his business as if

nothing had happened.InsteadofbeinggratefultobealiveIwasangrythathewasliving.Why didn’t youwarnusearlier,youmoron?Itwasa silent scream. There hadbeenenoughscreaminggoingonwithoutminetoaddtotheconfusion.

Theseawasnowasflatasa tabletop, and we were

restingonitssmoothsurface,motionless inagently fallingrainwith one single cloud insight. Right above us, ofcourse. Looking east on thehorizon we could see theglow from a sun that wouldsoon show itself on whatpromised to be anotherperfectdayinparadise.Itwasthe most beautiful dawn I’d

ever seen. There’s nothingprettier, I thought, thanwatchingthestartofasunrisethrough the rain. It was aspiritualmomentdeservingofan inspiring movie score bythe likes of Dimitri TiomkinorVangelis.Judymighthaveappreciated that, but at themoment she could appreciatenothing. She was still

shrieking.Our hapless captain was

finallyabletoget throughonthe radio to the shore patrolon the Nassau coast. Theircoast guard arrived a fewhours later with fuel andprovided us with an escortinto the harbor. We haddrifted fifteen miles in thestorm during the night, but

wehadsurvived.Thispartofour luxury vacation cruisewasnowover,thankGod.

The beautiful Nassau I’dimagined, however, was notwhere our nautical escortbrought us. The large cruiseships, gleaming yachts, andsailboats were all missing.We were in an ugly, heavy-duty commercial port where

the freighters that normallysupply Nassau were beingunloaded. Big old rustedcontainer ships were tied uptothelargecementdocksthatjuttedout into theharbor.Asusual, our galleon lookedridiculous, and our sillyappearance attractedunwanted attention. Thelongshoremen just beginning

their day’s work stoppedwhattheyweredoingtostareatusaswetiedup.Wewerean oddity in any port; I’dgottenusedtothat,butJudy’showlingturnedusintoafreakshow. I decided immediatelythat we had to get Judy offthe boat and away from thisisland ASAP. Personally, Icouldn’t wait to get away

from the boat. If I never hadtolookatitagain,thatwouldbejustfinewithme.

No-longer-Handsome Cwantedtoknowtheplan.Hislook was grim. I assume hewas worried that we wouldwant to stay here a littlelonger, or, worse, gosomewhere else. “Get out ofhere as fast as we can,” I

assured him. It came outsoundingas angry as I reallywas.Inoticedthathedidnotoffer to help; he just stoodtherewaitingforinstructions.I spied a dismal little hotelacross the street and toldOrvalIwasgoingtocheckitout. He said, “We can’t takeJudy to a place like that!” Icould see that no-longer-

Handsome C, too, wasworryingthatIwouldchangemymindaboutthedumpanddecide not to leave his ship.Trust me, when I took asecondlook,Ialmostdid.

The lobby of this drearyhotelwasahavenbeingusedby some nonthreateningderelicts to sleep off theirdrunkfromthenightbefore.I

hadafeelingthatthey’dbeenin the same chairs, rent-free,forthelasttwentyyears.Thedeskclerkgavemethekeytoa suite on the second floorthat was not only availablebutforwhichIdoubtedtherehadeverbeenanydemand. Iran back to the boat, whereOrvalhadbrilliantlymanagedto calm Judy (with promises

that he could save her hair?Mine was completelyfinished)totheextentthatshewas now merely crying—anotch down on the disasterscale from shrieking. Cryingwas manageable. However,Judy could not manage towalk.Igrabbedherpurseandthe little white carry-on, leftmy beautiful Saks wardrobe

behind (it didn’t seem Iwould have any immediateuse for it), and Orval and I,each holding Judy under anarm, literally dragged heracross the street. Our greatcrew had disappeared below.IintendedtocomebacktotieupthelooseendsoncewegotMadam sedated and putdown.

We dragged Judy into thelobby,andthedeskclerk(andeveryone else who camesuddenlyawake)lookedatuswith something betweendisbelief and disgust. Afterexplaining to him that our“friend” was seriouslyseasick, we were able toschlep Judy up the flight ofstairstothesecondfloor,and

into the shabby apartment,where she swallowed theofferedsleepingpillsandfellonthebed.

Orvalfollowedmeintotheugly hospital-green livingroomso that I could tell himtheplan.“We’renotgoingtostay in Nassau,” I said.“We’lllethersleepforafewhourssoIhavetimetogeton

the phone and make somearrangements to immediatelygoback toMiami,wherewecangetsomecontroloverthismess.” Orval quickly agreedbecause in his view I haddebased Judy by putting herin this fleabag. Although hemeantwell, he had little elseto offer besides extra very-much-needed male muscle.

Andoneother thing:Hewasgood company in this awfulmoment.Hewasunflappableand of sound mind, which Isoappreciated.Iaskedhimtoreturn to the boat to startgettingour luggageoffwhileImadeplanereservationsandtriedtofindacartotakeustothe airport.Off hewent onlyto come back a few minutes

later:“They’regone,”hetoldme.

“What do you mean,‘gone’?”

“Imean the boat is so farout of the port they couldn’thear me yelling to comeback.” Our crew now hadplenty of gas, and it wasunlikelytheyweregoingonalunchbreak.Mostlikelythey

wanted to see the last of usmore than Iwanted thatverysamething.

I was nonplussed,perplexed,andparalyzed,butI didn’t have the luxury ofbasking in those feelingsbecause moments later therewas a loud, aggressiveknocking on the door. Thedeskclerkwasstandingthere

sputtering something inanger, all red faced andfurious. He pushed his waypast us into the bedroom,where Madam was holdingcourtinherunderwearonthelittle balcony that lookeddown over Bay Street. Thiswas no awful nightmare, itwas really happening, not toher, but to me. Judy was

cryingand,at the same time,singing “Over the Rainbow”to a large group of big,beautiful, black, seminakedlongshoremen below. Theirnumber was growing, andthey were hooting, hollering,andgenerallygettingcrazy. Idoubt even one of them hadany idea who she was—justsome drunken woman who

liked taking off her clothesandsinging.Theyweregoingtoenjoyitwhileitlasted,andit lasted a little longer thanthedeskclerkliked.Judyhada death grip on thewrought-iron balustrade that framedthe little balcony. It took allthe strength Orval and I hadleft to pry her fingers loose.Wedraggedherbackintothe

roomkicking and screaming,while the desk clerk toldmein emphatic terms to get herout of the hotel inside of tenminutes. “Orval,” I said, “sitonherifyouhaveto!”

Icouldn’ttakeachanceondriving in this unfamiliarplacewithacrazyladyinthecar. I needed a driver. Theonly vehicle I could find on

shortnotice thatcamewithadriver was a hearse. Seemedappropriate to me! Althoughwe were not yet dead, wewere still wrestling with anear-death experience. Orvaland I managed to get Judyback into the aqua muumuushe had stripped off and,using a hold just shy of ahammerlock, got her

downstairs again. Wacker’swonder was nowhere on thehorizon.

In moments of extremeduress I reactwithefficiencywhile contemplatingnonsense.WouldIeveragainseethestrappysandals,whichI had had on my feet onlyonce eons ago (three wholedays) in Saks Fifth Avenue?

Good-bye, floating chiffon!The once-gleaming whiteducks,nowstainedandfilthypastrecognition,wereallthatremained of my purchases,and only because they wereonmeandhadbeenfromtheget-go.Theywerenowreadyto be trashed. My clotheswerestickingtome,andtheysmelled. I smelled. It’s okay,

I reasoned, still somehowcapableofbeingmomentarilyrational.

Judy had admirers in thehotels where she hadperformed. Someone wouldsurelysaveus.Onthewaytothe airport, Judy’s demeanorratcheted down yet again tomewling and whiny, andalthough she was operating

on shaky legs, theywere herown. Things got even betteronce in transit. We wereseatedagainstthebulkheadofthe all-one-class plane; Judyat the window, I sat on theaisle next to her and Orvalacross from us in the samerow. Only a sprinkling ofpassengers behind us, andgiven that Judy was still

whimpering, we werefortunate not to haveautograph seekers streamingdown the aisle. Maybe wecould even get awaywithoutherbeingrecognized.

When she asked me forher makeup, I rejoiced. Theugly episode seemed to beover. It appeared as thoughshe wanted to look

respectable when she got offtheplaneinMiami.Shetookhercompactoutof the travelpouch, looked out thewindowonherright,andthenstarted to powder her nose.Whensheturnedbacktome,it looked as if blood wascoming out of every pore inher face. She was cut andbleeding all over her cheeks,

her forehead, and her chin.Bloodstainedtheentirefrontoftheaquamuumuu.

She had apparently takenthemirroroutofthecompact,cracked it against thewindow, and powdered herfacewiththeshardsofbrokenglass. She looked at meexactlyasshehadinthepastwhen she cut herself; that is,

withasortofquizzicalsmile—IcallitherMonaLisalook—it says, Okay, feast youreyesonwhatI’vedone.Nowwhat the fuck are you goingtodo?Willyouabandonme?It was the acid test. Theepisode is made even moreghoulish when she grabs meandhugsme,sothatbloodisalloverme too. I am talking

toher,tryingtoreachher,butshedoesnothearmebecauseshe isoncemore in thatdarktunnel beyond the sound ofanyone’svoice.And,frankly,what is there to say? I’mnotsure what keeps me fromscreaming.

Judy and I had beenthrough many bad scenestogether, but never one like

this. Little by little she wasteaching me about self-mutilation. The stories aboutJudy in the press and on thetongues of the gossips wereall about drugs and liquor. Ihad never read aword aboutcutting and burning. It wasnews even to David andFreddie. Did others know? Idon’t know. I only know

what I saw, and what I sawconvinced me that Judy cutherself when I was therebecause I could save her.Here again I found myselfthinking, She will overdoseonpillswhensheisalone,butnever cut or burn herself inprivate. She needs both awitness and a savior, andsadly,itisme.Andsoitwas

during all the time we weretogether.

***

This episode went waybeyond pills (not that theycouldn’tkillher;infact,theydid) and beyond slitting herwrists because it was soghastly, grisly, sounexpected,andsobizarre.It

shocksmewhenIhearaboutsomeone cutting themself.But Judy Garland?! Thatface! That fabulous face!Perhaps not one of the mostbeautiful faces, but certainlyone of the most endearing.Dorothy’s face. The face ofour childhood. It didn’tbelong solely to her, itbelongedtousall.

It was the most horrificthing I’d ever witnessed. Ithink,manymoretimesthanIwould like to, about beingtwenty-six and sitting therewhile one of the world’sgreatest entertainers isslashing her face to ribbonsright next to me. The planewas flying over theCaribbean, but Judy was a

million miles from Oz, andmyfeetwereplantedinhell.

IsentOrvalrunningtothestews for towels, water, ice,and first-aid—whatever theyhad.TheyknewJudywasonboard,andtheywereexcited.Theyallcamerunning,emptyhanded, to see what waswrong. Wasted seconds—nothingtostanchtheblood!I

was frightened. Bloodeverywhere.All over her, allover her seat, covering hermuumuu down the entirefront to thehem,onher legs,allovermyfilthywhitepants,my shirt, andmy face. I canonly imaginewhat a horriblesight it was for them. Onequick glance, however, andthey sprang into action, and,

God bless them, they didn’taskanyquestions.They tookcare of her as well as theycould,giventhelimitations.Ipromised them allautographed pictures. Howlame is that? They wouldhave terrible stories to tell.Would anyone believe them?My mind went there for amoment. It didn’t matter

anymore.Justgetonwithit.Iwas exhausted, and I’dstopped caring about Judy,about what anyone wouldthink, about anything oranyoneincludingmyself.

Wewereabletogetofftheplane. The stews had packedherfaceintowelsloadedwithice. One of them had a so-calledcooliehat,andwithits

sash we tied everything intoplace.We tried getting somestains off her clothing andmine,butitwashopeless.Wewerebothamess.Oneofthestews spoke to the pilot onmybehalf,and,followingmyinstructions,heradioedaheadtoBenNovack,ownerof theexquisite Fontainebleau,whereJudyhadperformed.

I knew something aboutthe dealings that FreddieFields had hadwithNovack.Back in another lifetime,Novack had advanced SidLuft, then Judy’s husband,twenty-five thousand dollarsfor an engagement that Judynever played. Luft stole themoney. Freddie settled theproblem by having Judy do

two successful performancesat theFontainebleau.Novackbecame a friend again—andJudy was a friend in need.Indeed!

Fortunately he respondedto the call and, best of all,was able to arrange alimousine waiting on thetarmac when we arrived inMiami. With the cockpit

crew,we carried her into thecar, and it sped to the hotel.Novackwaswaitingforusatthe back entrance by thekitchen, where Judy wasquickly whisked up theservice elevator to thepresidential suite in thepenthouse.Novack rodewithus.Itwasakindofinsurancethat none of the hired help

wouldeversayawordto thepress if they wanted to keeptheirjobs.

Like so many others whohad done favors for Judy,Novack was extendinghimself to protect hisfranchise. Now he wouldalways be able to book Judyand fill his nightclub. Andwhatwas I getting out of it?

Mysalarywashardlyenough.There wasn’t a moment ofOh, poor Judy! left in me. Iwas fed up. Iwas finished. Ihad reached my saturationpoint.This lastuglinesswentfurther than I was willing togo. I started questioningeverything. Did Judy’spersonal unhappiness entitleher to create so many

problems for so manypeople?Wassheworthallthetrouble and unhappiness shecaused?Maybeshewastothepeople she made a lot ofmoney for, but I wasn’t oneof them. I was a salariedemployee. I hated how mybosseswereexploitingasickwoman, and I was helpingthem.And the longer I hung

in, the unhappier I got. Thisdidn’t mean I was any lessambitious than before, but Istarted to feel that maybe Icould serve that ambitionwithout serving her. I wouldseethischapterthroughtotheend, but, for my ownsurvival, I felt I had to closethebookonher.

The presidential suite that

BenNovackputusinwasanexpansive blue, white, andgold monument to luxurywith many spaces: a hugeliving room, a dining roomwith a tablemeant to seat atleast twelve, four bedrooms,and multiple baths. It wasdesignedforentertainingonalarge scale. It was decoratedwith expensive furniture

upholstered in the finestfabrics,andofferedincredibleocean views from almostevery room. I didn’t knowsuchplacesexisted.

There would be time tolook,touch,andadmirelater.Nowwasthetime,finally, toget a doctor who could takecareof Judy,dowhateverhecouldforhercuts,andputher

to sleep for at least twelvehours. (I hated thinking ofmyselfwantingalwaystoputher to sleep.) Men like BenNovack were able toaccomplishvirtuallyanythingquickly. A doctor appearedand took care of business.First he pumped a horse-sizesyringe of Demerol into herbutt, and she went out; then

hewent toworkonher cuts.Orval and I chose our ownbedroomsandsaidgoodnightto each other knowing that,without our having much incommon, we now shared abond that could never bebroken. I was so tired I wasready to go to bed dirty, butthen I would have soiled thebeautifulsheets.

A hot bath with fragrantbath oil, a shampoo, richbodylotion,avaletwhotookaway all my clothes(including the filthysneakers), a brand-newterrycloth robe that felt likecashmere to me, a king-sizebed with exquisite linen—allmine! Itwashardrealizing ithad only been three days

sinceI’dleftNewYork:threedaysthatfeltlikeayear,threedays inwhich I felt I’d agedten years. I lay back in thebathtubandthoughtaboutmynext move while luxuriatingin the glorious hot water. Iwould call David Begelmanfirstthinginthemorningandquit.Iwasreadytomoveon,and not a minute too soon.

Let someone else carry thedrug case all overChristendom; let someoneelse watch Judy pour a fruitcocktail of pills frommyriadvialsintoherhandeachnight,washing themdownwith theawful swill she drank. I wassick of the pills, andespecially sick of thegoddamn wine, of needing a

standing order for a dozencases at a time. She left halfused bottles everywhere shewent. Let someone else buyherhandbagslargeenoughtocarry two bottles ofliebfraumilch—the 9 percentsolution that she said wassaving her life—on all theplanes,trains,cars,andboats.The booze that was saving

herlifewasruiningmine,andI was horrified by the self-mutilation.

I never slept soundlywithJudy in the house. It was11:00 p.m. when I finallyturnedin,and4:00a.m.whenIawoke.Igotupandslippedquietly down the hall just tomakesureMadamwasokay.I may have hated her after

these last three days, and Idefinitely knew I was goingon without her to wherevermyfuturemighttakeme,butat that moment she was stillmy responsibility. I wasn’tsent toMiamiwith her for ayachtingvacation,buttotakecareofher,anduntilIturnedher over to someone else, Iwould fulfill that task. We

had been through somethingterrible together. She hadfallen apart. I was stillstanding.IknewIwasbyfarthestrongerof thetwoofus,anditwasmyjobtohelphersurvive.

The suite was dark andquiet; it felt normal for fourin themorning. I turnedonalight in the corridor and

tiptoedtoherdoor,openingitever so slowly so that itwouldn’tmakeanynoise.Shewasn’t in bed. I could seefrom the illumination in thehallthatherroomwasempty.I immediately looked at thebathroom door, which waswide open, the bathroomdark. I turned on the lightsandwentin.Shewasn’tthere.

I ran through all the openroomsinthesuite.Shewasn’tinanyofthem.FinallyIwentto Orval’s room and wokehimup.“Judy’sgone,”Isaid.Inhisstuporitdidn’tregister.

“Who’s gone?” he askedme.

“Judy’s vanished into thinair.She’snothere!Orval,getup.”Hewasnowfullyawake.

“She must be here,” hesaid.

“Come look.” He wentwithmetoherroom,andwestartedtodowhatInowthinkofasbeingoneof thesilliestthings I ever did.We lookedbehind the drapes and underthebedsinalltherooms.Wechecked out the closets andlooked in the bathtubs. We

got busy agreeing with eachother thatwiththeamountofDemerol that had beenpumped into her butt, evenstandingupwouldbehardforher to do. Leaving,impossible!And yet shewasgone. Finally I called theswitchboard, asked for thedesk, and inquired whetheranyonehadseenMs.Garland

go out. They gave me theanswer they were instructedtogive.

“I’m sorry, we don’tpresently showher registeredinthehotel.”

“C’mon, you and I bothknowshe’shere,exceptshe’snot—at least not at themoment, and I’m in thepresidential suite with her,

except she’s not with me.Now you can see that I’mwhere I’m supposed to be. Ihave to find out where sheis.” The person at the desksteadfastly maintained thatshe was not registered, andtheassistantmanagerondutydid the same. So much forthat! I had no clue aboutwheretolook,butIdidknow

what to do next: I calledBegelman, filled him in,suggested he get his ass onthe next plane toMiami andsaid: “By the way, I quit. Ifyou’re not here, I’m leavinganyway.Thisisyourvacationnow.”Icouldn’tbelievethosewords had come out of mymouth—including“ass.”

Imeant tomake goodmy

threat. I planned to be gonethe minute I was dressed.Unfortunately I had to waitfor the valet to deliver myclothes,andtheydidn’tshowupuntil11:00a.m.—ataboutthe same time as Begelman.BythetimehegottoMiami,he knew exactly where Judywas:atsomefleabaghotelonlower Collins Avenue (the

part of town that’s beengentrified and is now trendySouth Beach). Clearly shehad called him sometimeduring the night. It wasimpossibleformetoimagineher moving herself aroundMiami Beach with dressingsall over her face. Andbloodstained clothes. Whatkind of place had she gone

to? David told me she hadregistered as Mrs. DavidBegelman. She wasdelusional.

This“thing”withDavid(Icouldno longerdignify it bycalling it an affair) was likesomeghastlypasdedeux, inwhich she depended on thesick dynamic between herand her controlling lover.

David depended on it also.The moment one of themstopped dancing, the dancewould be over. Neither onecould leave the dance floor.They were equally addicted,andequallydependent.

I’veconcluded,atleastformyself, that “dependency” isthe operative word, as I waslearningitiswithaddicts,and

theywerebothaddicts.He—an addicted gambler—depended on creating chaos.She—addictedtoprescriptiondrugs and liquor—dependedon pain. They fed eachother’s illness. And I hadseenmorethanenoughofthisbedlam to know that I nowwanted no place in thispicture. I was willing to tar

myself with several brushes:ambition, dysfunction,neediness, but I was not anaddict living with all thesturm and drang that comeswith that, and I wanted nopart of it in my future. Ofcourseitdoesn’talwaysworkout that way. But for themoment I believed I wasgrowing up past the need to

participate in what I thoughtwas sick. Yes, I couldbecome successful withoutliving with sick people allaroundme.

So she had managed tostage another hideous dramato get David’s attention.Althoughhewasnot fuckingher at this particular time, itwouldcomeagain.Meantime

hewasstillmanipulatingher.He was the Svengali whohypnotized her, had hertotally within his control—and he seemed to exercisethis control easily asmakingmayhem was part of hisnature.Maybeshewasstillinlove with David. I wouldn’thazard a guess. It seemed tome, however, thatwith Judy,

being in love meant beingdominated and controlled.Since David was out at thistime,therehadtobesomeonewho was in. There alwayshadtobesomeone.ItwasSidLuft. And there was no onemore dominating than Sid.All I knew about him werethethingsJudytoldme.Ididnot know him, or mix it up

with him, until later. I’ll getaround to him. The brutedeserveshisownchapter.

***

By the timeDavid arrived atthe Fontainebleau, he hadalready seen her.He toldmehe put her in a hospital, andthat I needn’t be concernedabout her anymore. Iwasn’t,

and I thought he understoodthatIreallywasleaving.Ifeltso very finished, with him,with her, with the job, withanything that fit into thatsentence. He absorbed thatandthensaid,“Iwantyoutocome with me to somethingspecial.”

“No!”“It’s really important. For

oldtimes’sake!Youcanstilltake a plane late thisafternoon. I’ve put you onfirst class at five o’clock.Isn’tthatokay?”heaskedmein his most plaintive way. Isilently called it his bullshittone. But finally I agreed togowith him after I extractedanother thousand for thenew/old/lostwardrobe.

He tookme to an elegantluncheon at an estate onMiamiBeach’sbaysideinanupscalepartoftown.Itwasabeautiful white-frame homewith an imposing entrance,but it really sparkled whenyou walked through to theback. Floor-to-ceilingwindows looked out on alarge, manicured lawn that

sloped gently down to thebay.

It looked tome as thoughthe whole of Miami highsociety was politely partyingonthatlawn.Istoodtherefora moment looking at all thewomen dressed in poufyorgandy dresses withmatching picture hats, and Iwas embarrassed. I looked

like Popeye in drag. Davidhad done it again. I felt hewashavingacrueljokeatmyexpense.

Daviddidn’thaveadecentinstinct ever, ever, ever. Hehad already hurt me, hurtJudy,hurtLee,andhurtmanyothers he worked with. Hewas cruel, and I was in thewrongframeofmindforany

of his “fun.” Whateverwonderful charitable eventthese women were in themidst of participating in, ithad nothing to do with me.David knew that. He alsoknewthechapterandverseofwhat I’d just been through.Howcouldhebe so callous?But that was David: alwayspushing the envelope. While

his action might give him afewjollies,heknewitwouldmakeme angry.Why? Iwasvain about my appearance. IunderstoodthatIlookedasifI had accidentally stumbledinto the wrong place. I feltlike all the women werestaring at me, feeling sorryforme.Moreover, I had toldDavid on the phone what I

hadbeenthrough,andhewasboth sensitive and intelligentenoughtounderstandthatthisscene was completelyinappropriate under thecircumstances. It amusedhim. My anger amused him.Howcruel!

Unfortunately for him hedidn’trealizejusthowfuriousI was. I made a fist, pulled

backmyarm,andwithallthestrength I had left in mywearybody,IpunchedhimashardasIcouldintheface.Hewentsprawlingbackwardintothe table behind him, onwhose fancy white cloth atleast fifty set-ups wereresting. The table went overwithhimontopof it. Idon’tthink it was the force of the

blow that senthimreeling; itwasmore likely the shock. Ididn’twait to findout. Iwasout of there before anyonecouldask:“Whoisshe?”

***

Back in New York I stayedhome, allowing my anger tocool for a while, refusing torespond toDavid’scalls.But

after about aweek, I knew Iwantedtogobacktoworkaslong as it meant I wouldnever have to work for Judyagain. I was bored sitting athome.Therewasnothing forthe “good little wife” to do,plus—Iwasn’ther.AlthoughI discovered reading again, Ihad much too strong a workethic to curl up in a corner

with a book during theworking person’s day. Andwhen I questioned myselfabout looking for a job, theanswerwasalwaysthesame:Forget about that! I had nowput three years into FFA.That, I believed, was myequity. Iwanted to turn it toaccount formyself. I wantedDavid’sjob—well,notquite.

Itwastimeformetobeanagent,arealagent,notastagemanager,notadresser,notanassistantoratrainee.Ineededtoadvancemycareer.Ihadtogetback.Inolongerhadanyfear that limiting myboundarieswouldcostmemyjob.Myconfidencehadtakena huge leap. Freddie andDavid knew that they could

alwaystrustmetogetthejobdone. Any job. And I knewthat after what I’d beenthroughinthelast twoyears,there was damn little Icouldn’thandle.

***

I didn’t learn anything aboutJudy from this episode that Ididn’t already know, but I

learned something hugelyvaluable aboutmyself: Iwastotally dependable,responsible, and capable. Icouldbecounteduponinanysituationtoactwithreasoningintelligencetobringthingstoa reasonable conclusion.Were these qualities alwaysthere, lying dormant,waitingto be tapped? I don’t know.

But I had now been testedtime and time again, and Ididn’t disappoint myself oranyone else. Grasping thisgaveme confidence, and theconfidence was brand-new. Iwould never feel threatenedabout my job again. I was“womanpower” worthhaving.

ImetwithF&Dandmade

my demands. I wanted to bean agent. I wanted fivehundreddollarsaweek.Theyagreed to my terms. Theyneededmoremanpower.(Weweren’t up to calling itwomanpower yet.) Thebusiness was growing.Freddie was talking aboutopening an office in LA. “Ifyou’regoingtobesuccessful,

you better remember this,”Freddie said: “The businessbelongs in the hands of thepeoplewhosigntheclients!”

CHAPTERFOURTEEN

OneKindofHusband

AndnowtoSidLuft.Hewasanape!Whenwemet,hewasan attractive man in his lateforties who was built like atruck.Hewasstrong,withthekind of hard body thatsuggested he worked out.Andheknewhowtohit.Judyassured me of that. She toldmeonanumberofoccasionsthat she and Sid had gone a

coupleofroundstogether,butmercifully, I wasn’t on handtoseethem.Iwouldn’tliketothink of him, or any man,layingahandonanywoman,but that’s not reality, and itwasn’t Sid’s. He was,however, responsible for oneof Judy’s great comebacks,havingproducedthemovieAStar IsBorn years after Judy

was fired from MGM. Buttheir marriage was fraughtwithdifficulty,andtheywerenot living together whenFreddiesignedherasaclientlatein1960.

Sid didn’t think twiceabout manhandling me. IthappenedontheverydaythatJudywas leavingforLondonto start A Child Is Waiting.

AfterallJudyandIhadbeenthrough together, Davidthoughtitwasappropriateforme to bid Judy good-bye.“Shewantstothankyou,”hetold me. I was now afledglingagentintheoffice.Ihadnoclients,andIwasjuststarting to learn how to dealinTV. Ididn’thave togo tothe Stanhope that day, and I

shouldn’t have gone. Or atleast I should have realizedthattherewassomethingelsegoing on. But I boughtDavid’s bullshit once moreandwenttothehotel(nowanexpensive Fifth Avenue co-op) where she was stayingpriortoflyingoutthatnight.

IarrivedonlytodiscoverIhadbeensummonedtobethe

reliable babysitter for theafternoon. Judy needed heryounger children—Lorna,who was then ten, and Joey,seven—outofthesuitesosheandDavidcouldnegotiateherdeparturewithSidLuft,whohad a shared custodyarrangement for their twochildren. Sid wanted to keepJudy from taking Lorna and

Joeoutofthecountry.Hehadbooked a suite in the samehotel and was intending tostop her however he could.Judy asked me to take thechildren to Central Park andto check in with her in anhourtofindoutifitwasokayto bring them back to thehotel.Icountedtheminutes.

I crossed the street with

the two children and theirattractive red-haired Irishnurse,whoseemedtobekindanddevotedtothem.Wetookthe Fifth Avenue busdowntown to the littlezoo inCentral Park, some fifteenblocks south. When it cametimetomakethecheck-incallJudy had requested, I couldfind no pay phone anywhere

in the park. (Before cellphones, one had to go to apay phone on the street, andchic Fifth Avenue neveraccepted such eyesores.) Sowhile the children wereenjoyingthesealpool,oneofthe liveliest attractions in thezoo, I walked to commercialMadisonAvenue,where, if Ihad a quarter, I could make

thecallonanycorner.I asked the nurse to stay

exactlywhere shewas. Eventhough the zoo is small, Ididn’t relish the idea ofchasing through its variousanimal houses looking forher. David answered thephoneinJudy’ssuiteandtoldmetostayputandcheckbackinanotherhour.Ugh.WhenI

cameback, thechildrenweregone.No,they’rehere,Isaidto myself. The seals,especiallyatfeedingtime,aresuch a popular exhibit thatthey draw crowds two- andthree-deeparoundtheirfence.I ran around and around thecircular pool assuringmyselfthat the nurse and childrenhad to be somewhere in the

crowd. But no! Then I ranlike a crazy person all overthe zoo looking for them. Ichecked all the bathrooms,and everywhere I went Iasked strangers if they hadseen this nurse, knowingonecould not miss her fire-engine-red hair. But no onehad seen them anywhere butat thesealpool.Howstrange

is that? I thought. Iwas in apanic. I couldn’t call JudyandtellherI’dlostthem.

Andthenitdawnedonmethat the nurse had to beworking for Sid. It was theonly notion that made sensefromthediscussionsI’dbeenparty to, in which Sid waspainted as a schemer and anopportunist.However, at that

moment, itwas also theonlyhook for me to hang on to.Given the battle thenwagingbetweenJudyandSid, itwastheonescenariothatworked.

Inthetaxionthewaybackto the Stanhope I wrote ascript for what might behappening.Akidnappingplotwasafoot.MoneyforSidthemotive! The closer I got to

thehotel, themore likelymyscenario seemed.Whatmadeit possible were the twoprincipals in the ongoingnegotiation: David, amercilessextorterwhowouldpush anyone’s back to thewall and then beat themdown, and Sid Luft, aboutwhomeverythingwassaidtobe unsavory, underhanded,

and slimy. But no more sothanDavid!

When I got back to theStanhope, the desk clerkcould see how concerned Iwas,and,eventhoughhewasnot supposed to give outroom numbers, he told mewhere Sid was. I think theclerk saw himself as anincidental character in an

unfoldingplot.Itwascleartoeveryonebehindthedeskthatsomething improper washappening. Famous wife andsullen husband in suites onseparate floors. The level ofinterestrisesamongthestaff.

I went directly to Sid’ssuite. I knocked on the door,andwhenheopeneditIcouldsee the children playing on

the carpet in the living roomstraight ahead. I confrontedhim, toldhim thatLorna andJoewereinmycharge,andIwantedthemback.Sidlookedat me as if I were a totalloonyjustbeforeheslammedthedoorinmyface.AtleastIknew thekidswere safe.Butthat was hardly the point. Inever for a moment thought

they had come to any harm.Whattodo?IknewImustdosomething to get them backor face ugly consequences.Both Sid and Judy had viletempers.

I knocked on the door asecond time and appealed toSid in some limp, whinyfashion, hoping that such anappeal would gain more

traction.However,thereversewastrue.Thistimehewasfarmore annoyed with me andwanted to put an end to thenuisance I was causing. Inever expected him to dowhat he did, which was topick me up and throw meacross the corridor. Literally.One hundred twenty-fivepounds of me was like a

paperweight to him. Ibouncedofftheoppositewallandlaycrumpledonthefloorlike a balled-up piece ofpapertrash.

My back went into somekind of spasm I’d neverknown. I was hurting badlyandcouldn’tgetup.FinallyIcrawled to the elevator and,usingatallsand-filledashtray

for support,pulledmyselfupwith difficulty. The elevatormanhelpedme limp into theold-fashioned phone booththat lived in the lobby,whilebehind the desk everyonestared, and without anyalternative,ImadethecalltoJudy. She went ballistic. Icould not explain, given thescreaming coming through

the phone, that the fuckingnursewas a no-gooddouble-dealer. After listening to thestream of abuse leveled atme, I then told David whatreallyhappened.Heaskedmenot to leave the hotel.Dummy that I was, I stayed,cowering on the seat in thephonebooth.

How would David solve

this problem?Well, he couldalways sell drama to Judy.Theybothfeastedonit.Soithad tobeDavid’s suggestiontohirehitmen,andgivenhisLas Vegas experience, heknew exactly whom to call.Goons were hired to breakdownSid’sdoorandgrabthechildren. They were veryeffective, and I hope they

beatSidupintheprocessandleft him on the floor in asmuchpainashehadleftme.

As Judy rushed from thehotel with the children andDavid in tow, she sawme indistress sitting in the phonebooth.Atthetopofherlungs,and she had lungs aplenty,she screamed some of herfavorite curse words at me,

“You cunt, you cooze!” andeveryone in the lobby lookednotatherbutatme.

The next day headlines oftheNewYorkPost screamed:“Judy Hires Goons!” and ittold the story of thekidnappingwithouteveroncementioning my name. But itwas clear to me that Davidhad concocted a script that

was scandalous, in which Ihad played some traitorousrole. My guess is that he’dtold Judy I had conspiredwith Sid, and that’s thereason she exited calling meevery awful name I’d everheard,andsomethatIhadn’t.I could just imagine Davidembroidering thenarrative asheconveyedit.Solikehimto

amusehimselfinthisway.

***

My husband picked up thepieces and took me home,where I rested in bed for thenext three days, but threedayswasmylimit.Boredandless sore than before, I wentback to work amid hisprotests. I was so pill-averse

at that point that neither henoranyoneelsecouldgetmetotakesomuchasanaspirin.But I was young and strong,and fortunate not to havesustainedapermanent injury.The idea of suing Sid Luftnever crossed my mind, andhad I decided to do that, Iwouldn’t have gotten anysupportfromJudybecauseby

thetimeIsetfootbackintheoffice,sheandSidweregoodbuddies once more. All Icoulddrawfromthatidiocyisthatifsomeonewaswillingtofightwithher,shecouldthenconclude that theymust careabouther.Huh?Weirdlogic.

F&D were unwilling tojudge Sid, at least not outloud. They never once put

himdowntoJudy.Fromtheirstandpoint Sid was a savior,willing to put up with thehard time with her that theywere not, and as I was nolongerinthepicturefulltime,havingabodyinplaceforherwasworthmore thanmoney.Sid, on theotherhand,hatedF&Dandwantedtotakethemto court. He was sure that

they had stolen Judy’smoney, and I’m not sure hewas wrong. I saw Davidendorse Judy’s name on thebackofmanyconcertchecks.Hediditrightinfrontofme.It was clear he was copyingher signature.What I didnotknow at the time was whataccount those checks wentinto. I stilldon’t.Theycould

have gone into Judy’saccountjustaseasilyashis.Ihad no paper trail and didnone of the company’sbookkeeping. Many yearslater, however, when David,by then president ofColumbiaPictures,wasknee-deep in scandal, having beencaught forging CliffRobertson’snameonacheck

he cashed for himself, Irealized that it was not onlypossible that he had cashedJudy’smoneybutmostlikelythat hehad.And itwas a lotof money, much more thanthe ten thousand he wastrying to steal from CliffRobertson,perhapsmorethanafewhundredthousand.

My feeling now is that he

stole from Judy to get themoneyheneeded forhisandLee’s very lavish lifestyle.It’salsopossiblethatheusedthat money to settle hisgamblingdebts,debts thathewould have created withmoney borrowed in casinosusing Judy’s name, and paidfor with Judy’s earnings, forno matter how much David

made—and he has to havemade millions over the longhaul—he never had enough.He was always deeply indebt.

***

If I learned anything fromSid,itwasthattherearemenwho like to live off women.They don’t do any of the

heavy lifting; theysimplysetthemselves up in a cozycorner and call themselvesadvisers. In my opinion Sidwasn’t fit to shine Judy’sshoes. He was neither assmart asDavid nor nearly ascharming.But they had a lotin common. Both weregamblers, hustlers, and liars.Sid likedhorses,David,who

lived like a pasha, likedexpensive homes, the bestrestaurants, pricey jewelryand clothing. And each betthe farm on being a winnerwhile they were both suchlosers.

WhatImostloathedaboutDavid—his cheating, hislying,histakingadvantageofanyone who allowed it, in

otherwords,hiscruelty—hadto be as apparent to Freddieasitwastome.Idon’tknowwhyhewaswillingtoputupwithit,excepttoimaginethathedidn’twant togo forwardalone, andas awful asDavidwas is also as skilled as hewas. A year or two beforeFreddie died, I visited himandwe talkedaboutDavid. I

toldhimIthoughtthatDavidhad stolen huge sums fromJudy.Isensedheagreedwithme, but he didn’t give it up.“Whyareyouprotectinghimnow?”Iasked.Freddiedidn’thaveananswer.

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

Endings,Beginnings,andEndings

It was time to stop thinkingabout ending my marriage,andendit. Itwassooverforfouryearsoutofthefive,andnow I was becomingintolerantofthelittlethings.Iwas sick of having to dinewith my husband’s parentsonce a week. They wererefugeeswithonefootstillinGermany,wheretheyhadlost

many dear relatives to theHolocaust. They were sad,joyless people who doted ontheir only child, the light oftheir lives.Idishonoredthemby never being fully presentat dinner. I desperatelywantedtobealone.Immersedinself-delusion,Ithoughtmydinnerswith Judyweremoreimportant. I could get Frank

and Dean on the phone (forJudy). I was self-congratulatory because theyknewmyname. I traveled toplacesIneverthoughtI’dsee.MeatthepooloftheBeverlyHills Hotel, me sitting at ablackjack table at the SaharainLasVegas,meat lunch inthe Savoy Grill in London.Not me in a little German

restaurant with bad food anda deaf waiter. I was sointolerant, so selfish. Ithought I had earned theexciting life I wasparticipating in. What waswrong with that? Myperception was adolescent.Myvaluesthesame.Andthetruth is that I was chasingafter clients and hadn’t yet

accomplished anything to beproudof.Myinteractionwithbig stars came only becauseofFreddieandDavid.

Meanwhile, what I had athomewasfarbetter: theloveof a good man. However,coming from my parents’home, I didn’t know what agoodmanwas. Ihadno rolemodel.Sowithoutbeingable

toseewhatreallymattered,Iendedthemarriageandchosethe fast-but-empty lane. Insecuring the divorce, I ranroughshod overmy husband,whichwaseasytodobecausehewassopatientandkind.

I’ve blocked out what Isaid to him. I do rememberthat he grew silent, made noprotest. He didn’t try to

persuademe to stay.Tutoredby his thrifty folks, he askedto keep all our money. Themoney didn’t mean much tome, and I thought he wasentitled for what he’d gonethrough. I agreed withoutonce thinking how I wouldput down the security for anapartmentofmyown.IwenttoMexico for a “quickie” in

Juárez. The proceeding wasconducted in Spanish, and Iunderstoodlittle,somehowanappropriate ending to amarriage I also didn’tunderstand. The irony wascomplete. I hadn’t heard therabbi on the day I married,and I didn’t understand theattorney on the day Idivorced.

As well, I didn’t realize Iwas developing a case ofhardening of the emotionalarteries.AllIknewwasthatIhad seen how the beautifulpeoplelived,andIwantedalltheir trinkets: the houses, thecars, the jewels, and theclothes.WhenIthinkbackonwho Iwas then, it’s hard forme to love that girl, but

possibletoforgiveher.AndIwould have to forgive her alotforwhatshedidnext.

***

I had an affair with DavidBegelman. I gave myselfpermissiontodothatbecauseJudy was leaving to work atCBS.Davidwouldno longerhaveher inhisbackyard;nor

would I. We both made itclear thatwewere staying inNewYork:hetoruntheEastCoast office, I to take myplaceasanagentrepresentingLiza. It was our excuse toshake free, if onlytemporarily.Judy,whohadtohaveamaninherlife,putSidLuft back in place, and theymoved into a new home in

Brentwood.With Judy gone, David’s

attention turned tome. Iwasflattered. He let me know—bythe lengthof timeheheldmy hand, by the way heappraisedme,byhislingeringand sometimes smolderinglooks—thathewasinterested,but he didn’t make a pass. Ithink he feared rejection. He

waslikethekidwithhisnosepressed against the candystorewindow.Ithoughtaboutit a while before I let himknow he could enter. Andhow did it happen? One daywhile at work I simply tookthehandonmyshoulderintomine as he stood behind melooking at a contract on mydesk.Hewalkedme into his

office, locked the door,pressed the button to drawshut themechanicaldrapes—signalingtohissecretarythathedidn’twanttobedisturbed—and undressed me. It wasmidday.

***

TherewasalotaboutDavidIdespised, but just as much

that intrigued me. I wasenamoredof his intellect.Hewas a voracious reader whooftenhadanonfictionbookinhand(helovedbiographiesofgreat historical figures), lesthe find himself at the barberwithout some worthwhilereading.Hewasuponallthegood movies and capable ofdiscussing everything from

themotiveshiddenintheplotto the work of thecinematographer. He was anewshound who took strongpolitical positions. I admiredthis. It was the start of apolitical awakening for me.And he was articulate ineverything he discussed,commanding a largevocabulary—in fact

sometimes using words Ineeded to look up.(“Concomitant” comes tomind.)And I remember howhepraisedmewhenoneday,unself-consciously, Icorrectly used the word“keening” in a sentence. Hewasdelighted.

Iwas thesexualaggressorhere. I knew I was sending

subtle signals—smilingwhenI might have looked away,lowering my eyes in anapparent come-on. I wantedto know what Judy knew.Yes, a part of my decisionhad more to do with Judythan simply giving myselfpermission to fuck himbecauseshewasn’tdoingitatthatprecisemoment.Iwanted

to be in bed with the manJudy slept with and ravedabout. Iwas sexuallycuriousabouthim.Iwantedatasteofwhat the shoutingwasabout.I wanted to sleep with theman the great Judy Garlandwas in lovewith—from timeto time. I wanted to feel herequalinthatway.

With crazy logic I

managed to persuade myselfthat as long as he was notfucking Judy, it was okay tohave this affair even thoughhewas verymarried. This isthe dumbest thinking I waseverguiltyof,andIregret tothis day that I decided, inspite of knowing what asnakehewas,tohavemyturnwithhim.

As to my affair withDavid, it’s not worth muchspace.I’msorrytodisappointyou. Trust me, no one wasmoredisappointedthanIwas.My mother used to say thatyouneverknewanyoneuntilyouwereeitherinbusinessorinbedwithhim.That shouldhave served as warningenoughforme,asIknewfull

well who I was in businesswith, and although mypowers of observation mayhave been slightlyunderdeveloped,theyweren’ttotallyuseless.

The affair itself wasanything but romantic. Nocandlelit dinners, no walksthrough Paris in the rain. Itwas about sex, plain and

simple,andhewasfarfromagreat lover. The excitementfor him seemed to be aboutwhere he could fuckme.Onhis office desk, in a ladies’room of the Pierre, in thefirst-class bathroom on anAmerican Airlines red-eyefrom LA to New York—makingusmembers,he said,ofthe“MileHighClub.”My

apartment was less exciting,although closer to atelephone.While“doing”me,David was also doing dealson the telephone. I was notamused.

If ever there was a sexobject, I was it. I had noidentity, and if I hadeagerness for the act itself, Ihad no opportunity to

demonstrate. His penis waspresent. The rest of himwassomewhere else. Of course Iwondered if he pulled thesame ugly shtick with Judy,but I knew Iwould never beable to ask either thequestion.My husband was agentle, tender, caring lover.Davidwasnoneoftheabove.“Revolting” is the only

appropriate word to describesexwithDavid.

I don’t know whetherFreddieknewaboutmyaffairwithhispartner. I took it forgranted he did. I went aboutlearning theTVbusinessandlooking for clients to add tomy roster of one (for I hadnow signed Liza, and I waspursuing the rising actresses

Joan Hackett and JillHaworth) as if nothing wasdifferent,andIdidn’tdiscussmypersonallifewithanyone.IsuspectDavidtoldeveryonethat had any interest inlistening. I was noticeablywith David all the time. Hetook me to meetings—ostensibly so I could takenotes—and we traveled

together for business. Hedidn’t needme along, but hewasinterestedinfindingnewplaceswherewecould“doit”while risking being caught,whichwashis thing.Andhishypocritical in crowd, theRudins, the Rosemonts, andthe new guys at the firm,Marty Kummer and DannyWelkes, welcomed me as an

insiderinspiteofthefactthattheywerefriendlywithLee.

The longer I allowed theaffair to go on, the more Ihatedhim—andmyself.Ihadtofigureoutawaytogethimoutofmypersonal lifewhilekeeping my job. He made iteasy: He asked me to marryhim. “No” came out of mymouth a bit too quickly, as I

recall.AndthenIbacktrackedand spoke in clichés—abouthowflatteredIwas,andhowspecial“we”were.

Butwewerenotspecialatall, and I knew that and hedid, too.He had proposed toJudybecauseshehadimpliedearly and often that theywould be married. Talk ofmarriagewasprobablypartof

his stock ammunition. Butafter six months of doingDavid, the thought of beingmarried to him wasnauseating. My escape“pitch” came out of thinkingabout the dismal prospect ofsuch amarriage.What I toldhimwasnolie:thatIcouldn’tgo on knowing that his wifewas sitting at home waiting

for him. A month into theaffair I was hugelyuncomfortable being with amarriedman, and the feelingcontinued to grow until Icouldn’t handle it. “Guilt”wasawordthatheknewwelland shied away from. Iwasn’turginghim todivorceher.Notatall!That’swhatheinstantlythought,andhesaid

he would get rid of Lee asquickly as possible. I wasnothing if not sanctimoniouswhen I advisedhim to repairhiswreck. “No, don’tworry,Stevie. I’m going to end thistravesty,” he assured me. Itwas lip service. “I hope I’llstill be working for thecompany when you do,” Itold himwith a smile onmy

face.Since we both knew his

divorce wasn’t happening, IwascarefulnottoletitsoundlikeIwasjudginghim.Thankgoodnesshecouldn’taffordadivorce!Itoldhimwewouldremain friends, and weactually shook hands on it.Once I felt secure again, Iaskedmyself some questions

I’d been avoiding. Didfucking David improve myprofessionalprospects?WasItryingtomakeittothetoponmy back? I hated thesequestions, and disliked theanswersevenmore,butwhenI finally had the breathingroom to examine whether ornot I thought the affair hadhelpedmycareer,Iknewthe

answer: You betcha! Davidfeltheowedme.

Guilt was the currencyDavid traded in. I gotpromoted instead ofmarried.If I had been some completedummywithoutanypotential,Idoubt theaffairwouldhavegottenme asmuch as a freepass to Radio City MusicHall.ButbecauseIwasdumb

only about inconsequentialpersonal things, the affairgave me a leg up—so tospeak.

However,onceitwasoverand done with, he didn’tdelay(norhasanymanIhaveever known, for that matter)securingthenextbodyforhisbed. He moved onimmediately. That sums up

for me how much I hadmattered.Firsthewentafewmore rounds with Judy, andwhen that was finally overafter the London episode, hesettledonthewifeofhisbestfriend,thereal-estatemagnateLewRudin.

***

Idon’t find it strange thatall

three of David’s wives diedofcancer,especiallyifthere’sany truth to the mind-body-connection theories. Davidbroughtmiserytoallthelivesthathe touched in apersonalway, most notably Judy’s. Iescapedthat,morethanlikelybecause Judy’s exposure tohim toughenedme. I alreadyknew who he was. He

becamemyexperimentratherthan the other way around,and rejecting him let meknow I was on the way tobecoming the independentwomanIwantedtobe.IwaspleasedIdiditwithkindness.Having said that, I’mashamed of having had anaffairwith amarriedman. Itwasn’tforme.I’msorryIdid

it then, and I never did itagain.

Nor is it at all strange tomethathecommittedsuicide.And why? Because hebrought misery as well tomost of the lives he touchedin a professional way, and itcosthim.He lostmostofhisfriends.He could send three,four, or more studio

executives to bed believingtheyhadadealwithhimonlyto find out the next morningthatnotonlydidn’ttheyhavea deal, the deal they thoughttheywerenegotiatingwasnomore than a figment ofDavid’s imagination. Hepersuadedhimselfthatpeopledidn’ttalktooneanother,andhe could say whatever he

pleased. But people did talktooneanother.

In a town likeHollywoodwhere a rumor is old newswithin minutes, this wasn’tgoodforthereputationofthecompanyhewasworkingfor—be it FFA, CMA, orColumbiaPictures,norwasitgood for agents in general.The executives inNewYork

and LA knew he was ascoundrel, but he was theirscoundrel. For a long timetheyclosedranksaroundhimbecauseoftheimportantstarshe represented (likeNewmanandStreisand),evenwhenheputtheirbacksupagainstthewall by making deals thatwere too tough—becausewhen he finally did make a

deal, he went for the kill. Itwasn’t necessary. The starsknewhewasabastard,buthewas their bastard. So they,too, put up with him untilthey couldn’t, until theycaught him in lies or brokenpromises.

In the end everyone knewhe was a louse, and the dayheneededfriends—wellafter

he had left the agencybusiness, and Columbia—they were gone. His debtsfinallycaughtupwithhim.

When he borrowed fromPeter to pay Paul, instead ofpaying back people healreadyowed,heopenednewaccountstosupporthisgrandunearnedexistence.Heknewthiswouldcatchupwithhim.

He would be punished. Heneeded that. It felt as if heintentionally drew a net ofdespair around himself sotightthatheandeverybodyinthe higher echelons ofshowbiz knew he was goingdown in disgrace. No longerhis friends or admirers, thepeopleheowedwerecomingathimfromallsides.Itwould

not be long before he wasfacing bankruptcy and, morethan likely, jail. Thirty-twoyears after he was my bedpartner, he ended his lifealone inabedat theCenturyPlazaHotelinLosAngeles.

I have never again in mylife run into anyone whoseconsiderable charmandgreatintelligence, coupled with

such ugly instincts, producedso much unhappiness. Davidwas one of a kind, thankgoodness.Hewasnever abletoput somuch as one singletoeonhighmoralground,theonly real estate that matters.Freddie and I talked about itfrom time to time. Freddiethought that one day Davidwould slit his wrists in a

warm tub. I disagreed. Ithoughtwhenthatfatefuldaycame, he would blow hisbrainsout.Andsohedid.Hissuicide was exquisitelyplanned and flawlesslyexecuted. Just like everyotherawfulthinghedid.Ididnotshedatear.

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

AVerySadDay

The day Liza married PeterAllenendedtheJudyGarlandchapter in my life. It wasMarch 3, 1967. I had nowbeen representing twenty-one-year-oldLizaforfiveanda half successful years. I amjumpingaheadtoincludeyouinLi’sweddingbecauseIfeelI can’tmoveon until I put aperiod at the end of my

involvementwithJudy.Mark Herron, a tall, thin,

attractive gay man, becameJudy’shusbandin1965.Theywere traveling togetherwhentheydiscoveredPeterandhisfriend Chris Bell, billedtogether as the AllenBrothers,performinginHongKong. Judy was impressed.She brought the two young

singers to London, wheretheybecameheropeningact,and she introduced Peter toLiza.

With Judy’s blessing,Peter and Liza got engagedquickly.Ineverunderstoodit,except to say that since theintroductioncamefromJudy,it was paramount to Liza,who forever sought Judy’s

approval. However, likeMark,Peterwasalsogay,butperhapsnotquitereadyyettoown it. Still, Lizamust haveknown. Even though veryyoung, Liza was out theresexually.Wayoutthere!Onewould have to saypromiscuous. She was ahealthy, strapping, beautiful(though not in the classic

sense) young woman. Sheand Peter seemed blissfullyhappy in each other’scompany. They wereinseparable; they ranallovertowntogether.IfoundithardtofindherwhenIneededto.Weretheyinlove?Wassexapart of it? I don’t have theanswers.

Both Judy and Liza each

married gay men. I canunderstandwhyJudyGarlandmarriedthebrilliantVincenteMinnelli, who is reputed tohaveshownupinHollywoodwearing purple eye shadow.Vincente made Judy feelbeautiful, and he made herexquisite in every film hedirected. Liza was their lovechild. There’s that, at least,

but that’s all I can accountfor. There is no point in mydwelling on what I thoughtwere weird mismatches. Iaskedmy beloved gay friendAlbertPoland,agreatgeneralmanager in theater whostarted the original JudyGarland Fan Club, what thiskind of marriage was about,andhecouldn’tcomeupwith

ananswereither.(And,bytheway, Albert knows manymoredetailsaboutJudy’slifethanIdo.)

No one in Liza’simmediateorextendedfamilystoodupandsaidtheywouldgive Liza her wedding. Judycouldn’t afford it, andVincentewasnotheardfrom.Andnowordfromanyoneon

Peter’s side of the aisle. Iwatchedandwaited,buttherewasonlyashatteringsilence.I was heartbroken for Liza,and so I decided I would doit. Li agreed that myapartment—now a lavishlyfurnished pad on fashionableParkAvenue thatmy secondhusband’s corrupt musicmoney helped pay for—

would be a suitable setting.Liza designed the dress shewantedtowear,sheandPeterchose the man who wouldperform the ceremony, and Itookcareofeverythingelse.

The day came, the guestsarrived, and Liza neverlookedmorebeautiful.Whenall were assembled, Judyarrived. I opened the door,

looked at her, andwanted tocry. The toll her life hadtakenonherwasenormous.Ihad seen her last at CBS in1964.Here it was only threeyears later, and she, at forty-five—in the prime of life—looked twenty-five yearsolder. More. Fifty years. Idon’t exaggerate. Healthywomen of eighty look much

better than she did that day.She was wrinkled and paleand so wasted that Imomentarily lost the abilityto speak, to graciouslywelcome her into my home.Her elegant outfit could nothidehowemaciated shewas.I doubt she could haveweighed more than ninetypounds. Drugs have to have

been the reason she was thissuddenly ancient-lookingcasualty.Herfacewasoverlymade up, the makeupaccentuating the skeletalholes in her cheeks, justbarelycoveredwithskin.Shewas macabre, and had to besupported by Mark Herron,herhusband,asshewalked.Itook her bony hand inmine,

and she smiled as I led herinto my living room. Iimaginedshewasinpain.

The old familiar chillseized my body, turning myhands to ice. I took abathroom break to run myhandsunderhotwaterandcryintoatowel.Regardlessofallshe and I had been throughtogether,itwasdevastatingto

seeherinthisreducedstate.Iblankedonthewedding.Fearand loathing and pity anddespair all got mixed uptogether, and for the rest ofthe afternoon I operated onautomatic pilot. It was anevent fraught with so muchemotion it blocks out mymemory.

I do, however, remember

trying to make myself seeanother Judy, willing myselfto see Esther Smith, the girlnext door whom I adored. Iwanted her once again to beyoungandbeautifulandbackin Technicolor St. Louisfalling in love with herhandsome neighbor, JohnTruett,while I,a littlegirlofeight,wasfallinginlovewith

her. That was a sustainablelove that endured throughoutmychildhoodandthensome.And now, for the balance ofthat afternoon, I wanted thedream and not the reality. Ithad to be Esther who washere in my living room tohonorher littlegirl; Ineededto push away everything thatwaswrongwith the world. I

try not to think of Judylookingasghastly as shedidat Li’s wedding. If I conjurethatup,itstillhurts.

If I once believed that I’ddeveloped immunity tofeeling anything at all aboutJudy because of what we’dbeenthroughtogether,Iknewthat afternoon that I waswrong. If I believed that the

businesshadturnedmeintoahard-hearted Hannah, I wasmistaken. Nor had Davidwrenched away the remainsofsometenderfeelingsIhadfor Judy. I found out thatMarchdaybetweenthehoursofthreeandfivethatIwasn’tnearly as tough as I thought.And why was I grateful toknowIstillcared?Becauseit

mademeawarealloveragainof how important she’d beento me. She was the one—more so than anyone—whohad made me aware of mylife—what it should andshouldnotbe.

I was grateful that mychores as a hostess kept mewholly busy. But I alsorefrained from conversing

with Judy because I fearedshe harbored residual badfeelingstowardme.Thatwasridiculous, and I’m sorry Iwastedmy opportunity to bekindtoher.Attheendoftheafternoon I again took herbony,damphandintominetocongratulate her. JudyGarland,onthelastdaythatIwouldeverseeherinperson,

brokemyheart.

***

Judydiednot longafter.Herfuneral was held one cityblockawayfromwhereIlive.I couldn’tmakemyself go. Iwentdownstairsinthecourseof my daily routine, and fortwo days saw a line thatextended up Madison

Avenue, turned the corner,andwentallthewaytoFifth.The line kept moving, but itnever got shorter. What atribute! How wonderful thatallthesepeoplelovedherandwanted to honor her. Ithought back and wasappreciativeofhergreatness,but that appreciation waslarded with the memories of

badtimes.I crossed Fifth Avenue at

one point and watched thelinefromabenchjustoutsideCentral Park and ponderedthe same things I hadwondered about so manytimes in the past—mostlywhen I was watching herperform. How would thataudience feel if they knew

what I knew? Would theythen still be sympathetic?Why could I not mourn hernowwhen Imournedher theday Limarried, and shewasthen still alive? Would Ialways be stuck with thisconflict raging inside me:lovingheroneday,hatingherthenext?HadIallowedJudyto make me feel this way?’

Who did I care aboutanymore? Could one, Iwondered, be in showbiz, behard nosed, hard boiled,pushy, and pushed aroundandstillcareaboutthepeoplewhodid thepushing? Idon’tknow. But those are genericquestions, and Judy was aspecialcase.Forgoodorbad,therewasonlyeveroneJudy

Garland.

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

Sometimes

Allow me to take a momenthere to indulge myself andsimply consider how I feelaboutJudyatthismoment.

AsIsaidatthestart,JudyGarland remains the lensthrough which I have seen,lived,anddealtwithmy life.But as I’ve gained distanceand experience, I now viewour relationship without the

same emotional involvement.However, it’s difficult toseparate the person from theperformances,whichmakesithard to love Judy as I didwhen I was a child. Myreaction today variesdepending on the mood I’min. Theword “sometimes” isone that I can’t be withoutwhenIdescribehowIfeel.

Sometimes a simple thingI’ve done a thousand timeswill trigger some Judyugliness—like picking up abread knife. Sometimes Icannot be riding the FifthAvenue bus as it passes thePlaza Hotel without thinkingofputtingoutthefireJudysetto her nightgown there. Anditwas there that I pulled her

off a high-floor ledge whenshetriedtogooutawindow.Letothersdebatehermotives,I’mhappyonthedayswhenIpass by the Plaza and seeonly a building. It happenssometimes.

Sometimeswhen I see theold Carnegie Hall albumfeatured on a Web site, itreminds me of the

magnificent performancewhose equal I have neverseen again, but thensometimes it reminds me ofBoston. Sometimes I canenjoytheoldfilmswhenI’mchannel surfing, but thensometimesIhavetomoveonquickly because I know howdifferent the image is fromthe person. I do not forget

that sometimes I feltimmensely sorry for JudyGarland. I remember herlying in my lap sobbing thatshehadworkedsohardforsolongandhadnothingtoshowfor it. But then sometimes Iwill see a limo on the streetand remember the cars shewould not allow me todismiss, which waited,

constantly changing shifts ofdrivers, outside her hotel fordays. She tore my heart outwithher tears,butfinallymypitywasengagednotbecauseof the tears but because shesimplydidn’tunderstand thatthebadchoiceswereallhers.Thetruesadnesswasthatshedidn’tgetit.

Idon’tdiscount that some

choices were beyond hercontrol, like the “monsterbed” at MGM where she,Deanna Durbin, and otheryoung players climbed inwith company executives. Ifit’strue,couldIpossiblyfeelsorrier for her? Then I askmyself: Wuz you there,Charlie? The answer is no.It’s possible that the story

was made up, told just toshock me, or maybe it wassimply the ravings of aderanged mind. Judy knewhow to lie, and exaggerationwasherlongsuit.

***

The Judy I knew neverwantedtodie.Butwhetherornot someone responded on

that tragic night or not, herbody could no longerwithstand the abuse. Manycelebrities who, like Judy,have died young remainyoung in our memories. Formost Judy was old, perhapsbecause shehadbeenaroundfor so long, or perhapsbecause she looked so oldwhenshedied.Shewasonly

forty-seven. That still shocksme. And sometimes when Imention tosomeoneelse thatshe was only forty-sevenwhenshedied,itshocksthemtoo.

***

TherearemanypeoplewhomI owe. I owe Judy themost.Shewasthestartofmystart,

andlargelythereasonIamasurvivor.SometimesI thinkImiss her, but in truth whatI’mmissingis that incredibletime in my life, which wasexciting, fun, scary, sad,tragic—somewhat in thatorder. One of the things Ilearned at Al-Anon, manyyears after Judy died, is thatwe’re satisfied with happy

endings, even if the outcomeisdifferent thanwe intended.They leave us with goodmemories. But when thingsdon’tworkoutwell,wewanta do-over. We may evencreate similar situations inordertotryforabetterresult.So sometimes what I reallywant is to go back to thatincredible time in my life,

grab it by the throat, andchange the ending. But onlysometimes!

Part2

Success

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

TheLizaStart-up

I began representing Liza in1962. But I must start withJudy. Everything starts withJudy, who went to LA in1962 to do the first of twotelevision specials for CBS,leaving Liza alone in NewYork.IalsoremainedinNewYork to start the rest of mylife. But when an invitationwastenderedtometoflyfirst

class to the coast for thetaping of the show starringFrank Sinatra and DeanMartin, I decided to put offthestartoftherestofmylifeforafewdays.

I was excited to see Judybackontop,workingwiththetop performers in theindustry,manyofwhomwerenow clamoring to be in the

show,toshineinherreflectedlight.IntheglareofthatlightI had another opportunity tosee that top performers don’talways do top-drawer things.Panic, amode Iwasused to,had taken over the stagefloor; Judy was rehearsingalone and had been all weekbecause Frank and Deancould not be found. They

were supposed to start workon Monday; it was nowFriday, and the show wasabout togooncamera.Iwasso happy to be only anobserveras Iwatchedpeopleready for the dress rehearsalscurrying around trying tofind substitutes, writersrewriting. George Schlatter,the producer, who had

everyone in SouthernCalifornialookingforthetwosuperstars, was certifiable. Iwas on the stage talking toJudy when the two starsnonchalantly strolled in.Mouths could be seendropping open in unison allover the stage. Frank took abeatandsaidtotheawestruckgroup, “If you wanted

someone reliable, youshould’ve hired EddieAlbert!” (There should be arim shot here.) Dean Martindidnothingexceptstandtherelooking beautiful. Frank andDean then hit their marks,gave wonderfulperformances, and the showwas nominated for fourEmmyAwards.

***

There was a second special,andthesuccessofbothledtodiscussions for a series.Sellingatelevisionseriesisawindfall for any agency. Abig-budget musical varietyserieswithastarheadliningitwas, in the early sixties, thecherry on the sundae. ForFreddie’slittlestart-up,asale

like this would put thecompany into the sameconversation as WilliamMorris.Negotiationsragedonfor months, going at timesfrom bad to worse. It washeavily rumored that JamesAubrey, thenpresidentof theCBSnetwork,wasnotaJudyGarland fan, which probablyhadsomething todowithhis

fight with Sid Luft yearsbefore. (Sid fought witheveryone.)

However, finally Freddieprevailed and on December28, 1962, Judy signed a dealfor twenty-four milliondollars, one of the largest intelevisionhistory,notonlyinterms of money but alsobecauseitgaveherfullsayas

to whether she wanted tocontinuepastthefirstthirteenshows(oneseason),andCBScould not cancel.Unfortunately, the shownever found as big anaudience as had been hoped,anditalsobecamemorethanJudy could handle. Therewere endless problemsgetting her to the stage on

time, if she could be gottenthere at all. Imitating thewonderfulsetforTheWizardofOz,theCBScrewpaintedacharming little yellow brickroad lined with flowers thatled to and fromher trailer tothe stage. But she could nolonger meander down thatpathassheoncehad. Iknewexactly what that was about,

and I was relieved thoseproblemsweren’tmine. Thatold bugaboo, “reliabilityfactor,” had reared its uglyheadonceagain.

***

Back inNewYorkLizawasalone. Judy took her twosmall childrenandwasgone,seeminglypermanently.Judy,

who shed all her belongingsbut for the few framedpictures that she traveledwith, was now shedding herdaughter. So here is sixteen-year-oldLiza,whoadoreshermother, in the big city. Shedoesn’t have any money atall.Thinkaboutit.Icertainlydid. I know how much Lizawanted to stay inNewYork.

Shewasmad for theater andhanging with all the gypsiesonBroadway.Idon’tknowifshehadtopleadwithJudytostaybehind,butIknowthatifI wanted to leave home atsixteen, and I had neithermoney nor a place to stay,there would have been amighty struggle, and Iwouldhave lost.AlthoughJudyhad

no home, to Liza at sixteen,“home”meantbeingwithhermother. Liza was nowhomeless.

I knew I had to make itwork for Liza, or it wouldbecome an unmitigateddisaster.IhadhelpedtokeepJudy alive; perhaps JudyfiguredIcouldnowkeepherbig girl alive. Or maybe she

didn’t think about it at all.Still, without a word to me,shewasineffecthandingmethe greatest responsibility ofmy early life, one that F&Dwanted no part of. And I’lltell you why. Liza was amess. Her waist-length hairoften looked as if it mighthave been home to bothanimateandinanimatethings.

(The gamine haircut thatbecame her signature stylewasstillafewyearsaway.)

Dirty and unkempt, shewould come and hang out inmy new office almost everyday. F&D—to whom imagewas everything—weren’thappy about it, but that wastoobad.Ifeltsosorryforher.Shewasasweetkid,modest,

andverypolite.Ididn’thavethehearttoaskhertoleaveoreven cut back her visits. Shedropped out of school anddidn’t have anywhere else togo.And all she everwanted,allsheevertalkedabout,wasgetting into show business.Mostdaysshewouldgivemeapeptalkabouthowshewasgoing to make it. She had

enormous ambition, stars inhereyes,anddeterminationinher pleas, but nothing in herpockets. I doubt she got anallowance from her motheronceJudywasgone.Itwouldhave come in the mail, andtherewasnone.NordidIaskJudyforanymoneyforLiza.Thatwasnotuptome.IgaveLi what she needed, which

wasn’tmuch.You couldbuyher off with a burger and aquartertogettowherevershewas going to hang out next.Trustme, itwasbetternot toask. It didn’t matter to Lizawheresheslept.

Nothing mattered to Lizaas much as performing. Shewas sure that all she neededwas for me to represent her.

In spite of F&D, I wasflattered. Finally one day Iscrewed my courage to thesticking place, went to themandsaidIwantedtohelpher.“Getpaperswithher,andgethersomeworksothatshehassomeplaceelse togo,”Davidordered. Liza remained anuisance to them until shestarted earning big money.

(Then,indeed,theydidcomecalling.) Liza was bothvulnerable and sensitive, andshe sensed how the guys feltabout her. She steered clearof them, although she wasalwayspoliteandenthusiasticwhen she saw them.Shehada don’t-make-enemiesinstinct that has alwaysservedherwell.Isuspectshe

developed it because of theneedtotiptoearoundJudy.

I can’t claim that myearliestinvolvementinLiza’sprofessional life was basedsolely on an appreciation ofher talent. I didn’t knowwhetherornotshehadany.Ihadonlyseenherkickupherheels to Gershwin’s“Swanee” for a few minutes

during a couple of Judy’sconcerts to allow hermotherto catch her breath, and I’dseen her perform the leadingroleinaschoolproductionofThe Diary of Anne Frank. ItwasaScarsdaleHighSchoolDramaClubpresentation thatso impressed a sponsor hepaid for the students to tourIsrael,Greece, and Italywith

the play. Lizawas especiallygood, but so was everyone,andthatwasschool.

But now school was overfor Liza, and this was reallife. My two bosses thoughtthat shewas awaste of timeandIwascrazy.NeverthelessI signed contracts with herjust in case there could besomething there—and toshut

Davidup.Butitwasmostlyasympathetic gesture. I knewwhatherlifewithJudycouldbe like from time to timebecause I knew what minewaslike.ButifIfeltsorryforher, I can assure you shedidn’t feel sorry for herself.Whatwasformeherparents’questionablebehaviorwasforherher“normal.”

I’m never sure what“normal” means, but I knowfordamnsure thatwhatLizawas given, starting from thetimeImether,wasnowarmandfuzzyhomelife.Notthateither parent wasn’taffectionate when they werewith her; Judy certainlywas,and I witnessed Vincentebeing affectionate in hisway

aswell.I’msorryInevergottoknowhimbetter,becauseIwas such a big fan of hismovies, but whenever Lizaand I stopped at his lovelyhouse just off SunsetBoulevard—which happenedonlyafewtimes—Vincente’swife, Denise, wore anexpression that seemedunwelcoming tome, andmy

antennae were totally tunedin.Sheseemed tobe treatingunkemptLizawith a kind ofdisdain that, for me,translated into “Don’t infectthis house with your messypresence.” There was neveraninvitationtostayforlunch,never a question aboutwhether or not we werehungryorthirsty.

So while I have no doubtthat both parents were veryfondofLiza,parentalconcernfor Li’s education, schedule,diet, and structure just plaindidn’t exist. Parenting didn’texist, not only in anontraditionalway,butinanyway at all. Itmay have beenthere at somepoint earlier inher life, but I wasn’t around

then. I only saw what I sawfrom the day I met thirteen-year-old Liza, and it wasawful or totally absent. Infact, once Judy left for theseriesin1962,shewasabsentfrom both our lives—if onlyon a temporary basis;someoneelsewasgetting thecalls at three or four in themorning. And I don’t know

when she and Liza spoke toeach other during those longabsences, if at all. Yet sheadoredthemboth.

***

Once the inkwas dry on thecontracts,IknewIhadtofindLiza work, and I did—intheater.ShewonravesinBestFootForward,which Imade

thebookingfor,myveryfirstin theater. Playing EthelHofflinger—a high schoolsweetheart dumped by herboyfriend (a very youngChristopher Walken) so hecould take a Hollywood starto the prom—Liza wasbrilliantcastingandsorealinthe role. I found myself,along with the audience,

watchingonlyher.OfcourseI was interested primarily inLi’s performance, but thenonegetscaughtupintheplayitself—iftheplayisanygood—and all the actorsseamlessly become a part ofit.Lizablendedinnicely,butshe also stood out, and notjust to me. Her energy washigher, her immersion as an

actress total. I could finallyseeshehadtalent,butsinceIwas not yet at all sure ofmyself, it took the audiencereaction to convince me thatshewastherealdeal.

Although thereweresomerumorsthatJudyandSidhadmissedtheirplane(andIhopethey were merely rumors),Judy may have thoughtfully

attended the performance onthe second night, knowingthat if she came on openingnight, she would attract allthe press attention. No onewas more grateful than I forher gesture, nor was anyonemoreproudthanJudy.Withinthelimitsofhercapability, itwas clear that Judy cared.The play launched Li’s

professional stage career andledtoherbeinghonoredwiththe TheaterWorld Award as1963’smostpromisingyoungactress. She deserved it. Shehad broken her ankle inrehearsal, and nonethelessjust kept putting one foot infrontoftheother.Shewasthelivingembodimentofthetitle—putting her best foot

forward.

***

While in the show,Lizawasfortunate to meet a lovelyyoung woman in the cast,Paula Wayne. They becamefriends. Paula was older andmarriedwithkids.ShehadanapartmentontheUpperWestSide of Manhattan, and she

generously took homelessLizain.Thissituationworkeduntil I started to hear somegrumblings.So Iwentacrosstown to find outwhat itwasabout. I met an unhappyhusband who didn’t wantLiza sleeping on a baremattress on his living roomfloor. “Please get her out ofhere,” he demanded. Hewas

neither rude or even a tadimpolite, merely (andjustifiably) annoyed with anintolerable living situationthat Liza wasn’t able to see,and Paula was too kind tobring up. I told Liza to grabher things; I was taking herhomewithme.Andit’snotasif that took more than twominutes.Shehadnosuitcases

topack.And so Liza moved into

the apartment I’d rented onEast Fifty-fifth Street inManhattan. It was a onebedroom and my first solopad.Shesleptonthecouchinmy living room for the bestpart of a year. She co-optedmy wardrobe, ate solid foodfrom my fridge, and didn’t

have to struggle. With alovely place of my own, Icould easily share everythingwith her until she couldaffordherownapartment.

It was amusing whatopposites we were. I was aday person; she thrived atnight.WhenIleftearlyinthemorningtowalktowork,shewasfastasleep.WhenIcame

homeatnightfromtheoffice,shewas gone. If I had to goout at night to cover theateror anything else, I wouldcome home bymidnight andshe was still gone. Not mybusiness.And Iwasn’t abouttobecomeawatchdog. I hadno interest in assuming therole of nagging parent. Iknew that wouldn’t work

because whenever I got onhercaseaboutanything(andIonlyeverdidwhenitaffectedher career), it wasn’tappreciated. I wanted to behelpful, and to give her asense of security so that shecouldgooutanddoherjob.

I wasn’t dating much atthetime,havingonlyrecentlydivorced my first husband. I

simply wasn’t interested infindinganotherhusbandrightaway. I figured if that wasgoing to happen, it would.Going to bars or clubs withfriendsinordertomeetsomeguywasn’tanythingIhadthetime or taste for, so I neverhad to worry aboutembarrassing moments withmen in the apartment. The

grocer delivered food, thepart-time maid deliveredcleanliness, and life rolledmerrily on without muchmore interaction between Liandmethanwehadwhenshestillhadahomeofherown.

At least Liza knew that Iwas someone who caredabout her enough to do thisfor her, and I hope the

occasionalhugwasmorethananemptygesture.Once Igother on a firm footingfinancially, I went out andfound her a lovely apartmentonEastFifty-seventhStreet,apremier street in New York.Itwas a newbuildingon thecorner of the block I hadlivedonwhenIwasmarried.I had seen a vacancy sign

outside just before I moved.The apartment it advertisedwasperfect.Webothlovedit.That was a great day. Wefurnishedtheplacealittleatatime from the earnings thatwere just starting to comefrom television, theplayground I was nowbecoming very active in inmy career. Li’s apartment

was beautiful until Mate’sfirstfatefulnightinhisnewlydecoratedhome.

***

Li paid one pound tenshillings for a puppy she fellin love with at a shelter inLondon while visiting Judy,and she brought him home.He was her mate, which Li

pronounced “Mite” with hernew Brit accent. I couldunderstand lonely little Liwanting a full-timecompanion. “But he’s nothousebroken,” she told me.“Whatarewegoingtodo?”Ithoughtobedienceschoolwasthe answer, but all I heardfrom Liza is, “I can’t livewithout him. I love him.” It

was so very sweet, so veryneedy, so very Liza!However, she had a fewupcoming engagements, hervery first personalappearances in small clubs,andthedogcouldnotgowithher.

I found a training schoolthat sounded perfect, and agentleman straight out of

CentralCasting, costumed asa captain of the Luftwaffe,including the knee-high spit-polished boots, came tocollect the dog. His “hello”handshake was designed tocrush more than just thelittlest bones. He assured usthat within two weeks Matewould be totallyhousebroken.Lookingathim

was assurance enough that ifMatesurvivedschoolingwiththismanhewoulddiebeforehe pooped out of place. OffMate went, and off we wentaboutourlives.IforgotaboutMate completely, and so didLi.Aftera longstretch, Igotaroundtoaskingher,“HowisMatedoing?”

“Omigod! I forgot all

about him.” This is the dogshecouldn’tlivewithout.Thespit-shined Luftwaffe captainreturnedwithadog thatboreno resemblance to the MateI’dmet.Thisdogwastallandskinny and old before histime.Givenwherehe’dbeenfor the last seven months, Ifound that understandable.There was nothing about his

facethatamothercouldlove,but Liza loved him all themore. The captain then toldus that Mate needed to bewalkedatexactly7:10,11:25,4:30, and finally at 10:15.“Andyouwillneverhaveanyproblemsagain.”

Perfect, I thought. Thiswill fit right in with Li’sschedule. He then presented

Li with a bill for fourthousand dollars plus forMate’s newfound obedience,and afterwe saw the captainclick his heels for the finaltime, the two of us laugheduntilwehurt.

That very night, just bycoincidence, Judy wascoming for dinner. Liza’sbrand-new apartment finally

was furnished—beautifully, Imight add. She had a swellbrown-and-white geometricrug on the living room floor,a great leather couch restedonit,andsilkdrapeshunginpools on the polished floor.Liza was doing fettucineAlfredo for Judy and theotherguests.Dinnerwasonlythe start of any evening that

JudyandLizaspenttogether.Forthatmatteritwasonlythestart of any evening thateither of them spent alone.Nights went on until the lastclubclosed.I,gratefully,wasnotinvited.

IftherewasonethingLizaknew aboutme, itwas that Ineeded togetmyeighthoursof sleepduring thenight,not

the day. Beyond that I waskeen to separatemypersonallife from hers. We bothwanted our privacy.Sometimes I wondered whopickedupthecheckswhenI,or some other agent, wasn’taround. Not Judy, and notLiza. I’ve since learned thatwhen there’s a celebritypresent, there’s always

someone, some star-struckproprietororfriendwhofeelsblessed enough to be in thecompany of greatness, whopicks up the tab. From theowner’s standpoint, it’s goodbusiness andcheappublicity,but I always thought being ascrounger sent the wrongmessage. Not all celebs arefreeloaders,butJudyandLiza

were.Soontheveryfirstdayof

Mate’sreturn,Liza,whowasbusy entertaining,missed thedog’s10:15p.m.appointmentwith the sidewalks of NewYork. In a show ofappreciation,Matechristenedevery new surface of thebeautifulapartment.FettucineAlfredo and poop could be

foundinplacesbothhighandlow—Mate was, after all, atall dog. This two-dollar dogwith the four-thousand-dollareducation in manners hadsubsequent chapters, butthosewouldbelivedoutwiththe greengrocer around thecorner.

CHAPTERNINETEEN

FlyingSolo

Now that Judy was gone,representingLizawasnottheonlythinggoingonwithme.I loved having my ownapartment and being alone. Ididn’t need anyone. I waswilling to paymy dues, earnmy way, and make it all onmy own. My mother wasfrightenedforme.Shehadsowanted my marriage to be a

success,butwhenItoldheritwas not, she didn’t take meonasI’dimaginedshewould.She quietly supported me.When the time came, sheeven helped me to move. Iknewshewasheartbroken—Icould see it in her face, hersad eyes—but she did notgive voice to her sorrow.Therewasalittleresignation,

yes,butotherwiseshelookedahead. I would one day, nottoofar in thefuture,come tounderstand that a substantialpartofhersorrowwasduetoher lack of courage to doexactlywhatIwasdoing.Shequietly bore her suffering. Iwouldnot.IknewIhadotheroptions. She never thoughtshedid.

It was 1964, and I wasready to confront the worldwithoutanythingoranyonetolean on. I had toughed it outaloneasachild,andIthoughtI had survived Judy. Myexperiencewithherhadgivenme the armor to face theworld. I wore a shield thatprotectedmefrommostkindsof human emotions. I was

hardened tohumansuffering.In any situation withcomplications—whether innegotiations or humanrelations—I figured I couldclean it up andmoveon as Ihad with Judy. I gave shortshrift to people who wastedmy time and had nothing tocontribute. I thought I was agood judge of that. I was

certainly judgmental—abouteverythingandeverybody.

I persuaded myself therewas nothing I couldn’t do. IdecidedthatIcouldn’tbeputin the same sentence as thedowntrodden women BettyFriedan was talking aboutbecauseIwassofaraheadofthecurve. Iwasnotonlyoutof the house and into the

workplace, I was starting totap-danceon topof theglassceiling. Look, world, I madeittoagent!Nolongertheall-purpose schlep, file clerk,gopher,andbabysitter.

Bylate1964Iwasmakingfifty thousand a year, whichwas huge compared to myfriends,butthentheywereallwomen in secretarial jobs. I

didn’tconsidercomparingmysalarywith those of themenintheofficeatthatpoint(butthat day was coming, andsooner than I would havethought). The office wasgrowing in the number ofclients being signed. Myofficewasgrowing:Itgrewawindow. My wardrobe wasgrowing, and so were my

confidence and pride. I was,for the moment, riding high,and cocksure no one couldpullmedown.

***

My job was expanding tocoverallof televisionfor theclients we represented. Myimmersion in this newmedium started with Liza. I

had gotten my foot in thedoor booking Li, who wassalable after her success inBest Foot Forward. F&Drecognizedthisandaskedmeto handle the comics. Mybosses had taken on severalnew associates: real old-fashioned booking agents,good friends from the MCAdays. With them came a

number of bookablecomedians: Milton Berle,Jack Carter, and ShelleyBerman—big earners all—who played the same clubsthatLizacouldgointo.(AndI was always thinking ofLiza, still my only client.)F&Dpromisedthecomediansmovie stardom.Not a one ofthem seemed to enjoy what

hedid:EachonewantedPaulNewman’s career. Well, thatwas understandable.All theyhad to do was earn it.Televisionwas their point ofdeparture,anditfelltometofindthemgooddramaticrolesin which they coulddemonstrate their fine actingability.Whilethemoviestarslooked down on TV,

comediansreacheduphopingto grab on to it. I was nowmandated to make thathappen.

Iwoke up every day benton figuring out how I couldget Shelley Berman on BenCaseyorDr.Kildare. I spentmy mornings cultivating TVproducers and their aides,whoweresnide,snotty,crass,

and boorish. I spent lunchtreating one or another ofthem to a better meal thanthey had manners for in theKing Cole Bar at the St.Regis or the elegant diningroom at the Regency. (Nodating prospects here. Thesewere not guys you’dwant tobring home to mother.) Bythreeorfourintheafternoon,

one of the comedians wasusuallysittingon theedgeofmy desk asking, “So whathaveyoudoneformelately?”Selling wasn’t easy. It wentsomethinglikethis:

The producer of a newtelevision series is on thephone.Hehascalledbecausehe knows my officerepresents PaulNewman.He

wantsPaul to star in the firstepisode of his new show tohelp get his series launched.OfcourseI’dliketohelphimbecausedowntheroad,iftheseries gets picked up, I cansell him lots of clients. Hethinkshisnewseriesisbetterthan Gone With the Wind.(I’ve already read the script.It’s not even as good as

Godzilla.)Meanwhile, back at the

ranch, I am clear that Iabsolutelymustnailadealforoneofthecomicstostarinaseriessoonorwe’regoing tolose him and his big incomefrom nightclub dates. Can’tallow that to happen. Notgood for business, not goodfor the bottom line. The

comic believes he is PaulNewman, or as good as.However, once the producerknows he can’t get Paul, Imust go forward pretendingShelley Berman is, in fact,every bit as good an actor,and I must persuade theproducer to take a shot withhim instead. The producerthenbumpsmeovertooneof

the boorish underlings, and Isetupthenextlunchdate.

Truth is, therewasagoodnet result. The lunch tabs Ipicked up on ShelleyBerman’s behalf probablyexceeded his salary for oneappearance on the TV seriesRawhide, but then Shelleywasawonderfulactoraswellasaniceman,and themeals

at the St. Regis were wortheverypenny.Besides,ShelleyBerman supporting ClintEastwood was a feel-goodpieceofcasting.

The new agents and Iworked closely together.Themore I helped secureTV fortheir clients, the more theyhelped me secure good clubengagements for Liza. They

knew theirway around dealsin these clubs. They got thebest money. I was a fastlearner. “One hand washestheother”neverproved truerthanwhenIbookedTV.AsawomanagentinTV,Iwasananomaly at the time. It gaveme an advantage. Being awoman made securing lunchdates easy, if for no other

reason than the curiosityfactor. A woman sellingcomicswhopickedupthetabat the best restaurants on theEastSide!Thatwasnewanddifferent. I didn’t think of itthatway at the time, in spiteof the fact that everyone Itooktolunchremarkedonit.

Andso,finally,F&Dgaveme a secretary and I ran the

TVdepartmentinNewYork,the home of every importantbuyer in that fledglingindustry. Clients fromFreddie’s new office in LAwerereferredtomebecauseIwasnowinchargeoffindingjobsforanyclientsinterestedin this growing medium, themedium in the middlebetween live and film, the

medium that was about toexplode, putting a televisioninto every home inAmerica,the medium that wouldestablish Li’s career, andpracticallyendJudy’s.

In the end I was treatedwell by TV. All the comicsworked on dramas, but noneof them ever became moviestars,exceptDeanMartinand

Jerry Lewis. Only theyweren’tours.

CHAPTERTWENTY

StarringLiza

Liza’s success on TV made

her a star, and F&D hadshownmebyexamplehowtocapitalizeonthis.Getapressagent. I hired a wonderfulpublicist,LoisSmith—agiantof a woman in every way—whose competence and take-chargeattitude relievedusoftheneedtoworryaboutpress.She milked the interest inLiza, and then I booked her

untilherfeethurt.Li did things the

comedians couldn’t do. Shedanced and sang, and did itwell, and since it was theheyday of television varietyshows, I had a playgroundthat was enormous. KraftMusic Hall, The HollywoodPalace,Laugh-In,The CarolBurnettShow—allimmensely

popular shows—kept callingher back for severalappearances. IbookedheronTheEdSullivanShoweleventimes.Icampaignedtirelesslyto get her into the AcademyAwardsshowasaperformer,and very early in her career,1966, she sang the award-winning song, “What’sNew,Pussycat?”

These appearancesfurnishedherentireapartmentand then some.She nowhaddiscretionarymoney, and herexposure made her a star.Besidesmakingherknowninevery household in America,her appearances brought hertotheattentionofHollywoodand also helped create anaudience for her out on the

road.Webothgotitright.Wherever she worked,

back then she put out 100percent. She was gracious,always gave credit to others,and never complained.Producers loved her.Directors were clamoring.The presswas hovering. Sheceased being simply “thedaughterof…”

Formeherever-increasingpopularity was heady stuff.Threeyearsintomycareerasa full-time agent, and I wasfortunate enough to beworking with a rising starwithrealtalent:atriplethreatwhose singing, dancing, andactingmeant she couldworkfilm, television, concerts,clubs,andthestage.Mycalls

wereallpickedup.While itwasessential that

everyone in showbiz knowwho she was, within “my”industry, both network andsome studio executives werealsostartingtohearmyname.I liked it;wantedmore of it,andIhadnothingbuttimetodevote to our cause.Withouteither a husband or children

to concern me, and noimmediateinterest inasociallife, the open road loomedahead, and there was notraffic jam in sight. I coulddriveattopspeed.Work,andmorework.

***

Judy, now aware of Liza’spopularity, suddenly became

interested in Liza’s talent. Itwasanassettoher.Althoughshehad featuredLizaononeof her CBS shows, that wasmore a “mother” thing thanan acknowledgment of Li’sstardom.ButonceJudy’sTVshowwascanceled, andwithnonew filmson thehorizon,Judy went off to her once-again new favorite place to

live—London—whence notsolongagoshehadcome.

While there, sheannounced a concertexploiting Liza’s fame thatLiza had not approved.As ifthatmattered.AsLi’sagent,Iknew that the concert havingbeen announced, Liza had todo it. Liza understood that,too.Andluckily,wheretalent

meets with adequaterehearsal, good thingshappen.ThePalladiumwasagreat triumph. For Judy, herbrilliancesolongrecognized,her audience so adoring, itwasjustanothertriumph.ForLizaitwasthefirstovationofthat size and length. Theoverwhelming demand fortickets led to a second

successful concert that gaveLiza a big leg up in thatmarket. She handled herselfmagnificently, and I think Iwas as proud as Judy.Although far from beingmotherly toward Liza, I didhave enough of a strongimpulse to protect herprofessionally,andIcoulddothat without emotional

involvement.Judy also wanted to

protectLiza, but I could see,clearly, that there was acompetitivethinggoingon.Itcarried an edginess, whereinsuggestions from Judy tookon an acidic tone. AnysuggestionsImade—whetherabout wardrobe or songs—were always in Li’s interest.

Judywantedeverythingdoneher way, and it came outdisguisedassuggestions.Lizahad good instincts, but Judyalways trusted her ownmorethananyoneelse’s.However,bottom line, Judy verygenerously did share thelimelight with Liza. Liza’sstock shot up, and so didmine.

***

I dealt with many producerson Liza’s behalf in the earlyandmidsixties,someofthembuffoons,someblusterers,buteach in theirownway taughtme something about showbusiness. The network andfilm company execs treatedme like a princess because Irepresented stars. Even

though Freddie or anyoneelseintheagencymighthavesigned them, the stars werestillmyclients.Lestyouhaveany doubt, there’s acorrelation in showbizbetween the amount ofrespect one gets and the sizeofthetalentoneisselling.

I became skilled at oilingmywayaroundadecentdeal.

I learned when to be bullishand when to walk away. Ideveloped, as my experienceincreased,aninstinctforhowfar I could press in a dealwithout losing it or hurtingthe other side. Someonerecently asked me how onedoes that. My short answer:There is no formula. Everydeal is a case of original

impression.No twodealsaretotally alike. One can use amusical metaphor and playthe buyers like a piano.Sometimes one treads softly,pianissimo. Occasionally onebangsallthenoteswithforceand vigor. It’s a judgmentcall.MysalarywasnotgoingtochangeifIkilledsomeonein a deal. The 10 percent

commission to the agencymightbeafewbucksgreater,but ifyouangered thebuyer,causinghimtofleeforever,itwasn’t a victory for anyone.You either have judgment oryou don’t. I have neverenjoyed putting anyone’sback against the wall for afew extra dollars (as Daviddid). And I don’t believe it

makes for a happy workingsituation for the artist. Therearemanywhowoulddisagreewith that. They need tosqueeze the last dollar out.They are bloodsuckers, and Idon’tlikethem.

Sometimesonegetslucky.ThefirstdealIevermadeonBroadway, I made with oneof the legends on that street,

and he was a prince: HalPrince. He is a wonderfulproducer,agreatdirector,andamanof enormous integrity.Such words are thrownaround a lot, butHal is trulydeservingofeachone.

Halwasinhis thirtiesandalreadyvery successfulwhenhe produced Flora, the RedMenace. In 1965 his partner,

the lategreatGeorgeAbbott,boththewriteranddirectorofthemusical,wasapproachinghis eighties. They were amagnificent odd couplewhosenameswerespoken inthe hushed tones ofreverence. They put Lizathrough the wringer,auditioning her four times—which saw both of us sitting

around the office waiting tosee if there would be yetanother callback.Shegot therole, and although she wasmagical in it, Flora was aflop. Maybe that’s why shedidn’tgettheroleinCabaretthat she ultimately madefamous on film and won theAcademyAwardfor.

Inspiteof its failure,Liza

did pick up the TonyAwardfor Flora, and she did itwearing my beautiful blackfloral print gown withspaghetti straps. She mighthaveaffordedherownatthatmoment, but it was totallynormal for her to borrowwhat I owned. We hadwalked into my closet andselectedtheoneandonly.

***

Interestingly,Liza’sveryfirstmusical act was, for me, themost memorable. I clearlyrememberher takingme toacold-waterrailroadflatontheWest Side of Manhattan. Itwasas lowrentasyoucouldget in midtown Manhattan.We entered a dark hall thatbrought the mood, if not the

intensecold,ofwinterinside.At the end of this cheerlesstunnel was a kitchen wherethestovewastheonlyheatintheroom.Ayoungmansatatan old upright piano playingshow tunes in his ownwonderful way. He couldplay anything, in any key, inany manner or mode onerequested: jazz, ragtime,

boogie, or “give me ‘GodBless America’ as Mozartwouldhavecomposedit.”Hisenergy and excitement wereinfectious.

Sitting at the oilcloth-covered kitchen tableabsorbing the warmthemanating both from herimmensely talented son andthecast-ironstovewasMama

Hamlisch.HersunshinesmiletoldmehowshedotedonherMarvin. Liza, too, couldneverresisttheopportunitytoshowoffwhenshehappenedtobeinthesameroomwithapiano and someone whoknewhowtouse it.AndasIwatched these two greatentertainers duet Gershwin,classic Broadway, marvelous

old movie music, all greattunes that I loved, I knew Iwas witnessing somethingspectacular.BothMarvinandLiza adored performing, andan audience of two wasenough.

“MarvinandIaregoingtodo an act together,” Lizaadvised. I’d certainly seenenoughofhis talents to think

it was possible. Liza alsorounded up Fred Ebb andJohn Kander, who had beenlyricist and composer onFlora, to do the gruelingwork of launching theseyoungsters.Allof themwereat the beginning ofspectacular careers. Fredbecameherlifelongfriend;hedesigned all her acts and

wroteherwonderful“special”material. With thisremarkable team in place, Iwent ahead and booked thedates.

What came out of thiscollaboration was the mostoriginal and charmingnightclub act I’d ever seen.Lizahadtwobackupdancers:one very tall and thin, the

other very short and fat,equally talented andwonderfully nimble. Thedancing threesome was purefun. You couldn’t forget theact once you’d seen it, andyou’d never forget the WestCoast opening night if youwere lucky enough to havebeenthere.IttookplaceattheCocoanut Grove in the old

Ambassador Hotel. All ofHollywoodsocietyturnedoutthat night to seewhat Judy’slittle girl could do. TheKirkDouglases, the GregoryPecks, the Gene Kellys,George Cukor, VincenteMinnelli,andJudyherselfallsitting front and center.Suffice it to say it was asuperglamorous, A-list

showbiznight.Liza’s act was not unlike

Judy’s in that both startedwith an overture. Of courseall the songs in Judy’soverture were well knownand closely identified withher. Some were songs thatbecame famous because ofher.NotsoinLiza’scase.

AttheendofLi’soverture

—again,asinJudy’sshow—there was a drumroll,following which a voicewould boom out on mikefrom behind the curtain toannounce the performer. Iwas standing backstage withan excited and nervous Liza,andI,too,wasexcited.Whenthe overture was done, thedrumrollstarted,rightoncue,

heightening the moment.Then the offstageannouncementcamefromthewingsoppositeus:“Andnow,ladies and gentlemen, MissJudy Garland!” The man onthe mike had clearly beenmore nervous thanwe.Whata horrible mistake! A greatgasp rose up from theassembled biggies. I was

speechless and had no ideawhat to do next. Not Liza.With consummate grace shetook center stage and said,“That’s an act I could neverfollow!” Then she turned toher conductor, Jack French,and asked, “Can we pleasestart all over again?” Jackraised his baton as Lizawalked back into the wings,

and the music that followedwas drowned out by theapplause.

Had the moment beenstaged, it could not haveworked better. The star-studded audience gave her astanding ovation thatwouldn’tquit.Afterthegraceshehadshownunderfire,shecould do nowrong.And she

didn’t.Shewaswonderfulnotonly on that night but on allthe nights that followed. Shewas turning intomore thanamerely good singer; she wasbecoming a great showman.Shenotonlyhadalltherightmoves, she had a beautifulslim figurewithcurves inalltherightplacesthatmadehermoves look like classy

choreography.

***

The stars in my dreamed-offirmament of clientswere allmovie stars. I was obsessiveabout my career andoblivious to the worldoutside, a world filled withpolitical upheaval. TheVietnam War was raging at

the end of the sixties, andentertainersofallstripesweremaking their political pointsofviewknown.Ididnothearthem. I was wrapped in acocoon where I could seenothingbutmyownactivitiesand how they impacted uponmyimmediateworld.Iwouldneverhavedreamedofgoingto Woodstock or embracing

its message. I didn’tunderstand what its messagewas.Imentionitbecausemyown limitations at the timestrike me as ludicrous now.My interest was only insigning the young filmmakerMichael Wadleigh, who wasundertaking the monumentaltaskofdocumenting therockfestival atMaxYasgur’s six-

hundred-acredairyfarm.Thefilm, I thought, might makesomemoney.

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

WhatIsanAgent?

Notmany people outside theentertainment industry ormedia really know what anagentis.Iwasone,andIcantellyou:Anagent isa fraud,but a fraud with goodintentions. An agent issomeonewho believes his orher own bullshit and canconvince others of its value.An agent is someone with a

great gift of gab and theability to sell with deepconviction, even if onedoesn’t believe in the value.(But then one can convinceoneself the sale is worthy.)An agent is someone whocomesupwithgoodideasandallows her clients to believetheideawastheirbrainstorm.An agent is someone totally

willingtosublimateherselftobethepersontheclientwantshertobe.Doyouwantmetobe angry on your behalf?Here I am. Do youwantmeto be docile for you? Here Iam. But regardless of whatrole-playing takes place, anagent must always maintainintegrity and never lead aclientknowinglyinthewrong

direction. An agent is achameleon.Iwasone.Bythemidsixties Ibecameapersonwho was agile on her feet,could see a strong windcoming, tack in a differentdirection, and maintainintegrity throughout theprocess.

“The business belongs inthe hands of the people who

sign the clients.” Judy hadleftmewiththefeelingthatifI survived her, there wasnothingIcouldn’tdo.Freddienow left me with theunderstanding that signingmy own clients is what Ineeded to do. In 1963 he’dmoved his family toCalifornia, where thepickings were lush, and had

opened an elegantlydecorated office in veryexpensiverealestate,BeverlyHills. Having made such agreat success with Judy, hewas quickly the new kid onthe block, somethingHollywood is perenniallyinterested in, on his way tobecomingthehottestagentinlotus land, with a reputation

forsigningthehottestclients.We were now a full-serviceagency with new call letters—CMA, short for CreativeManagement Associates(surely a twist on the oldfamiliar MCA)—and he wasprimed to take over thegreatest of all West Coastcompanytowns.

Imissedhisvoice inNew

York more than he everknew.Hehadalwaysbeensogood, so patient, explainingeverything to me. He was afine teacher. Now I onlyheard that voice occasionallyon the telephone, but it wasalways with the samemessage: Sign clients, signclients—it became mymantra.Ihadthechutzpahto

believe that if I did itwell, Iwould one day become hispartner. It might take a fewyears.

***

In1964,afterfouryearswiththeagency,Iwasmadeavicepresident. At CMA the titledidn’t come with a raise, itcame instead of one. But it

broughtwith it a soupçon ofprestige. And I was now thehead of the theaterdepartment, which wasnonexistentpriortomygrandelevation. It was also adepartment that had noactivity whatsoever. I wastoldtomakeithappen.Iwassupposed to invest myselffully in the workings of

theater and find the clientswhowould support this unit.CMA did have one client,Henry Fonda, who waswilling and eager to performonstage. Every few yearsHank was sent a play hewanted to do. He was anexperienced professional.Told that I was the “go-toguy,” he called and told me

thedealhewanted.Nosweat.I thenmade the deal, and hewent to work in a comedycalled Generation that wasdirected by Gene Saks andran for three hundredperformances, or one season.He was wonderful,compelling on stage. Duringthe run we becameprofessional friends (as in

“not at all close”) and everysooftenwemetforsupperinSardi’s.Thatwasbig-timeforme.Hewasalwaysgivenoneofthecelebritytablesnearthefront, which helped secure alittle recognition for me intheater. His lovely wife,Shirlee, was sweet andanxious to please; Hank wasmostly silent andmysterious,

notatalleasytogetcloseto.I picked up the conversationand filled in the pregnantpauses. Hank picked up thechecks.

When he gave me mypromotion, Freddie told methe following: “The day youcan walk into Sardi’s andhavetheoccupantsofatleastfifteen tables talking about

you will be the day you’vearrivedintheater.”

“What will they besaying?”Iinnocentlyasked.

“At one table they’ll bediscussing your latest lover;at the second table they’ll bewhispering that you’re alesbian. At the third tablethey’ll be saying that you’vehadachildoutofwedlock.”I

got themessage, but I didn’thave round heels. Hell—Iwasn’tevenambidextrous.

***

And so Iworked all day andpounded the pavements atnight,alwaysontheprowlforthe next big someone. I washighly motivated todistinguishmyselfasheadof

a department in an agencythatwasfastassumingalargereputation. I signed thebrilliant actor Stacy Keachand two actresseswith talentand ambitionwhoworked inboth theater and film: JoanHackett and Jill Haworth.Joan,who had beenworkingsteadily before meeting me,was at that moment more

interested in film.Submittingher for good roles inmoviesputher intocompetitionwithmany rising young stars,some of whom wereimmensely talented, andsomewhosimplywererisingoff the casting couches inHollywood. Joan was anactresswith special qualities.I read every script my

associates inCaliforniacouldget their hands on, knowingthatifIcouldgetherseen,orbetter yet get her screentested, she would have achance because of herwonderfulvoiceandacertainquirkiness that separated herfrom the rest of the blondbeauties. Joan and I becamegreat pals. We spent

wonderful times togethersociallyassinglegalsrunningaroundNewYork,andintheprocess she introducedme toRobert Redford, who wasthenstarringonBroadway inBarefoot in the Park.Everyone in the industryknew that he was the “next”leading man. He’d alreadydone his interesting breakout

films, scored in dramatictelevision, and was now asuccess on Broadway.Hollywood was beating apath to the door of this newgolden boy. What a coup itwouldbetosignhim!Hewasexactly what I needed for abigreputation.

***

Ihadtogetonlinewithmuchbigger players like WilliamMorris to grab Redford’sattention, but I had this hugeinside advantage: Joan. Shewasagoodfriendofhis,andhe liked her. It wasimpossiblenot to;herenergyand enthusiasm for life wereinfectious. She was alwaystootingmy horn, and putting

Bob and me together atdinner. I remember beinginvited tooneat thehomeofthe actor Richard Mulligan,who got so angry that I waspursuing Redford instead ofhim that he threwme out inthestreetinthemiddleofthemeal.Bobfollowedmeouttothe car, trying to make mefeelbetter.

Inmyefforttosignhim,Ichased Bob all over theUnited States and part ofEuropeaswell,poppingupatsome location wherever hewas.Iwasshameless.Inevercameontohim,norhetome,adhering to one of Freddie’sground rules, “Never fuckwhereyoueat”(ifonlyIhadlistened to him where

Begelman was concerned).BobandIhadnointerestlikethat in each other, but heliked being courted and hewas a pretty good tease,always implying thatsomeday things might justwork out if things workedout. What the hell does thatmean? He had more than alittle mischief in him, but I

wasupforthechallenge.Butwhat could I do to sign Bobthat would give me a betterchancethanthenextguy?Atthatmoment I could promisehim nothing but my interest,which I said would be fargreater than thenextguy’s. IpitchedtheFFapproach:“Weare the Tiffany of talentagents.Weonlytakethebest,

andweleavetherest.Wearenotinterestedinmanyclients,only a few wonderful ones.”AndImadeBobunderstandIbelieved he was one of thefewwonders in the world ofshowbizworthhaving. I soldFreddie hard, since he wasthenewHollywoodwhizkid.Thatwasn’tlostonBob,whohad his ear to the ground.

Lois Smith was also Bob’spress agent, and she had aninsider’s view of FFA’ssuccess. That helped. But Ineeded a big carrot to holdout to theboywonder, and Ihad thegood fortune tohaveit land inmy lap in the not-too-distantfuture.

Like Judy, who was somuchfuntotalktowhenshe

wasinherbestofallpossibleworlds,Bobwassmart,witty,and political. I never felt asthough I was wasting mytime. I always learnedsomething about theenvironment when we hadseriousconversations.Wegotalongwell.We laugheda lottogether. With Joan’sblessing, I started inviting

Bob to dinner without herwhenever I found myself inthe same town as him. (Nooneaccidentally findsherselfin Provo Canyon, where helived, but I made it seem asthough that was an entirelynormal stop on the way toCalifornia.) Sometimes I feltlike I was running in place,but I knew if I stopped

running, someoneelsewouldbe at the finish line. But letmecomebacktoRedfordthegolden boy. In 1965 Bobwasn’tpayinganypartofmysalary.

***

Meanwhile, I submitted JillHaworth for the lead inCabaret on Broadway, and

she got the part and anequitable deal. She wouldhavepaidHal Prince to playSally Bowles. Rememberedforherworkinthesuccessfulfilm Exodus, Jill wasbeautiful,delicate,andhadallthe rightvulnerability for thestarring role. She was adelight to work with. Still,truth be told, her stage

presence nowhere matchedLiza’s. The defenselessnessthatLiprojectedonthestagecame fromaplaceonecouldunderstand only if one knewJudy. Really knew her.Nonetheless Cabaret was asuccess with Jill, and I waspleased for her because sheworked so hard. It wasanotherHalPrinceshow,one

healsodirected.HalwasnowBroadway’s most sought-aftermusicaldirector,andheand Iwere cooking together.If he was doing a Broadwayshow, I always knew I’d getmyclientsseenandcarefullyregarded.

***

Some very funny/awful

things—all theater related—happenedtome,andIwouldfeelasthoughIwerecheatingif I did not talk about them.First and foremost came myexperiencewithMaryMartin.Without doubt, mightyMaryhad been the toast ofBroadway for a long, longtime.Oneofhergreatestgiftswasthatshedidn’tage.Inher

sixties, she still looked likePeter Pan. Her name on themarquee didn’t guaranteepraise from the critics, but itdid guarantee an audience,exceptfortheshowthatIwasperipherally involved in forfivehorrendousminutes.

MymisadventureinvolvedEddieAlbert,aFreddieFieldsclientwho livedon theWest

Coast. You may recall myhaving mentioned that EddiewastheoneFrankSinatrahadpegged with the gibe“reliable.”And indeed Eddiewas a workmanlike,dependable, featured actorwho preferred to see himselfasaleadingman.Hewastheonly one, however, who did.One generally found him

playing featured roles on theTVplayhousesofthedaylikeThe Alcoa Hour, The PhilcoTelevision Playhouse, andStudioOne. The best role heever had was as thephotographer in RomanHoliday, in which hecostarred with AudreyHepburn and Gregory Peck,and in which he had slightly

more to do than come alongfortheride.

Meanwhile, Mary Martin,who was not a client, wassuffering in Boston in aturkey calledJennie.RichardHalliday, Mary’s husband,andtheproducer,believedthefault for thefailurecouldnotpossibly be his wife’s. Itmust, therefore, be the fault

oftheleadingman…anoft-heard excuse. Mr. Hallidaydiscovered that CMA nowrepresented Eddie, and hecalled me with an offer forEddie to fly first class fromLos Angeles to Boston byway ofNewYork to see theshow in the hope that EddiewouldstepintoreplaceBarryNelson,whowas ruining the

show.Eddie accepted the offer,

flew first class, spent a nightat the Regency, all atHalliday’s expense, and thenwent with me to Boston,where we decamped at theRitz-Carlton—bynomeansalucky hotel for me. Eddiedidn’t like the show one bitand refused to go backstage

after. “Don’t worry, Eddie, Ipromise Iwillgetyououtofthis,” I pleaded. “But yousimply cannot refuse to gobackstage after these goodpeople have laid out a lot ofmoney for your trip!” Ibegged; I insisted. No go.Only thecliché fitshere:Mywords fell on deaf ears. Noway I could convince this

not-so-great starof stageandscreen to walk with me intothe dressing room and bepolite—ortobeanything.

While Eddie could refusetogobackstage,Ihadnosuchchoice.AndwhenItoldMaryMartin that Eddie was notgoing to appear, RichardHalliday took out a sharpknife and gutted me from

head to toe. “How dare youshow up here without yourclient?!” I apologized againandagain.ItoldtheHallidayshow hard I had tried to getEddietocomewithmewhileassiduously avoiding tellingthem how ghastly a showEddie Albert thought he’dseen. But they knew. “Andyou presume to call yourself

an agent?Get thehell out ofhere!”

I went out into the bitter-coldwinternight.Nocabs,notransportation of any kind, Iwalked back to the Ritzcompletely sobered by thenear-zero temperature andwhat had just happened tome. Did I know what I wasdoing as an agent? I was

shattered and felt I haddeservedbeingcutintosmallpieces. Halliday was right. Ishould have been able todeliver Eddie. Back at thehotel, I salved my wounds,crawledunderthecovers,andletsleeptakeme.

The following morning Ifastened down my manners,called Eddie and told him I

was taking the 10:00 a.m.shuttlebacktoNewYork.Hesaidhewantedtogowithme.He askedme to pick him upin his room, and when I gotthereheaskedmetohelphimwith something he washaving trouble with in thejohn. Stupidme! Iwalked inthrough the open door, andtherelayEddiesoakingnaked

in the tub extending aninvitationformetojoinhim.In answer to the question:Was there anything worsethan being cut into smallpieces by Mary Martin andherhusband?Yes,definitely!Having to see this ugly jerklying naked in a bathtub!Would that I could have putmy high heel on his flabby

chest and let the hot waterrun. Frank Sinatra got it allwrong.EddieAlbertwas notonly unreliable; he was aprick!

***

And then there was AlPacino.…

***

It was David Begelman inNewYorkwhogot the earlyscooponAlPacino’sbrilliantperformance in The IndianWants the Bronx, an IsraelHorovitz drama playing at alittle off-Broadway theaterway downtown. Davidsuggested (more likedemanded) that I sign him.By 1968 I had a wonderful

associate named SueMengers, who had the ballsofablindburglar.SigningAlwas going to be catnip forSusie and me. Together wewere the slick sisters. Davidknewhecouldcountonusto“wrapAlup.”Wewentrightdown to the Astor PlaceTheater inSoHo, satwithAlafter the performance, and

toldhimhowwewouldmakehim a star. Lines like “Al,you can do anything youwant. You’re that good” or“Al, is there anything youcan’t do?” always worked.An actor’s ego is generallyway too large to be definedbyasingleadjective.

Although he said nothing,itwasclearthatAlsharedour

conviction about his talent.Andwe truly thoughthewasgood. He was as convincingin that play as anyone I’dever watched onstage. Butwhile signing contracts withAl was easy, talking to himturnedouttobehard.

He came to the office forthe “official” first meeting,whose headline should read:

Whatdoyouwanttodowiththe rest of your life? Everyclient endures this boringwelcome to an agency, andfor this presentation to ournewer, elegant MadisonAvenue offices, Al dressedhimself as a homeless dirtyschlump. We discoveredquickly that this was nocostume.ThiswasAl,andhe

may have been wearing theonlyclothesheowned.

Butifhelookedawful,hesounded worse. In the manyyears that have transpiredsince I first met him, I trusthe’s developed more socialskills.Waybackthenhewasagrunter.“Unh,”washisfirstanswertomostquestions,andwhileonstageheprojectedso

forcefully, now I had to leanovermydesktohearwhathewas saying. I finally got itclear, however, that he wasinterestedindoingamusical.There is for sure a reasonwhy his career has thrivedwithout his ever havingappeared on the musicalstage.Hereitis:

Hal Prince was casting

Zorba, a musical about thefriendship between a Greekman and a young American.Given theplay takesplace ina Greek village, Sue and Ithought there might besomething in it for Al. Hewas, after all, dark andswarthy; he could as easilypass for Greek as Italian.Using my good professional

relationship with Hal Princeto set up an audition for Alwith a creative team thatincluded Fred Ebb and JohnKander, I advisedAl that heshould come to the theaterpreparedtosing.

On the appointed day Sueand I went to the MarkHellinger, a huge Broadwayhouse, to watch our budding

star. All the appointmentswere set at fifteen-minuteintervals, and at 10:45 itwasAl’s turn.The stagemanagercame from the wings andannounced him: “Mr. Pacinoat10:45.”Alshuffledout.Hehad his own special way ofwalking (hopefully that, too,has changed).He stood thereforamomentinthekeylight

while Hal Prince sized himup. “What are you going tosingforus?”Halasked.

“‘Luck Be a LadyTonight,’” answered Al. Atleasthecouldbeheardintheback, where Sue and I weresitting.

“Did you bring yourmusic?”Halasked.

“Unh…”

“Why don’t you speakwith the accompanist,” Halsuggested.Althenschlumpedupstage to the piano to talkwith a man who could doanything asked of him.(Theater accompanists are anamazing lot. They can playanything you request in anytempo and in every key.) SoAl and this accompanist

chatted for about a minute,and then Al schlumped backdownstage and again foundhis key light. We heard theintro.Dada-da-da-da-da,andAl started to sing. On key!Sue and I thought that wasveryhopeful.Here’swhatAlsang: “Luck be a ladytonight … Luck be a ladytonight … Luck be a lady

tonight … Luck be a ladytonight … Luck be a ladytonight … Luck be a ladytonight.” The lyrics hadmoved on, but Al had not.After the sixth repeat, weheard some pronounced slowclaps coming from theseventh row, where Hal andhis group were seated. Thiswas not applause. “Do you

know any other lyrics, Mr.Pacino?”Halasked.

“Unh…”Alturnedaroundand walked back upstage tochat again with theaccompanist. A minute wentby before Al returned to hiskey light. Again we heardDada-da-da-da-da! And Alstarted singing. Here’s whathe sang: “Luck be a lady

tonight … Luck be a ladytonight … Luck be a ladytonight … Luck be a ladytonight … Luck be a ladytonight…Luck…”Thestagemanagerwasnowcomingoutwith“thehook,”inthiscaseaheavy right arm with whichhe“escorted”Aloffthestageandhustledhimoutthestagedoor.

Hal, meantime, washeading directly toward Sueandme.Wehadnotonlynotbeen able to maintain ourcomposure, we were justabout on the floor.We werelaughingsohardwe’dnearlypeed our pants. Hal walkingup the aisle toward us didnothing to quell this. Wecouldn’t stop laughing. “Is

this some kind of a joke?”Halaskedme.Unabletokeepa straight face, I couldn’teven answer this wonderfulproducer-director forwhomIhad ultimate respect andadmiration. “Don’t bother tosubmit anyone to me everagain,” he said, turning tohead back to his seat. Thatwas the end of my

professional relationshipwiththe great Hal Prince for atleastawhile.(NordiditserveSusiewell,whowasabouttofollow me into the role ashead of the theaterdepartment.)

Oncewewereoutside,thefresh air sobered us a little,but only a little. Susie and Iwere still laughingbut trying

hardnottobecausewehadtofaceAl,whowaswaiting bythe stage door with aquestioning look on his face.Al didn’t have a clue.Without understanding whywe were laughing, Alinnocentlyasked:“Sohowdoyou think I did?” Sue and Icollapsed in hysteria again.Finally I calmed down

enoughtobeabletoask:“Al,honey, what were youthinking?” Al lookedperplexed; Susie and Icouldn’tstandupstraight.AtlastIsaid,“Al,Idon’tthinkamusicalisyourthing.”

As it turned out, everyotherthingintheaterandfilmdid become his. He made ithis. I had the pleasure of

proposing him to FrancisFord Coppola’s company forThe Godfather, but that waslittle more than wanting tohear the sound of my ownvoice. Coppola knew Al’sworkfromhavingseenhimina short-livedBroadway showcalledDoes a Tiger Wear aNecktie? in which Al’sstandout performance gained

himtheTonyAwardforbestfeatured actor. Coppolawanted Al before I hadopenedmymouth.Hewantedonly Al for the role ofMichael Corleone from theget-go.

There are reasons thatgreat directors are greatdirectors, and in my opinioncasting is 50 percent of it.

Coppola also fought for Al.HegotheavyresistancefromParamount—who could nothave been less interested—butFranciswaswillingtodobattle. It was an uphill fight,and Coppola hung in andfinally won when the suitslooked at a piece of Al’sbrilliantworkinThePanicinNeedle Park. I had an

opportunity to see somethingreallyspecial,whenatasmallfilm studio on theWest SideofManhattan, I sawCoppolascreen-test Al four times inone afternoon.Each time thedirector asked for a differentportrayal, and each time AldeliveredwhatCoppolaaskedfor. He was an actor ofinfinite variety and original

talent. It was amazing towatch him go through hispaces. I eventually lostAl asa client, having to dowith adustup with his manager. Iwillcometothatlater.

CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO

MovingOn

Liza was thriving. AlbertFinney, whom I hadn’t metbefore he cast her inCharlieBubbles, was the first torecognize and beautifullycapture the wide-eyed waifonthebigscreenin1967,andI thought she was brilliant.ShewasOscar-nominatedforher screen performance inThe Sterile Cuckoo in 1969

and, as far as I wasconcerned, also deserved anomination forher fineworkinTellMeThatYouLoveMe,Junie Moon the followingyear.Itwasthrillingformetoseeandunderstand thatgreatdirectors like Alan PakulaandOttoPremingerwantedtowork with her. They saw aspecial quality in her

demeanor, notably hervulnerability.

Isubmittedherforrolesinmany films, and while shecould definitely play a “loveinterest,” she wasn’t exactlyyour off-the-shelf ingenue.Shefelloutofthecategoryofordinary women’s roles.Character leads were betterfor her, and they were often

foundinmaterialthatwasnotformulaic or predictable, butthat’snotalwayswhatarrivedon my desk. It had to be aselective process. I wasforever trying to get myhands on scripts chosen bythe top directors to find thekind of role that wouldexploit Li’s special qualities.Hollywood stardom was

never going to work if sheshowedupinschlock.

***

With Liza now married toPeter, things started to shiftperceptibly. Li and I grewapart personally. It wasunderstandable. She had ahusbandandherownlife,andthatwas a great thing.When

her personal life interferedwith her professional life, Istepped in, trying to be themailed fist in the velvetglove. But it didn’t work.“You’ve got to stop singingfor free,” I told her. “BarbraStreisand calledme fromoutof the blue to complain thatyousang“HappyDays”(oneof Barbra’s signature songs)

in some nightclub. I don’trecall booking you there!”(I’d never even heard of theplace.) I might as well havebeenspeakingtoawallforallthe good it did. Li wasanxious to help Peter launchhis career. They often ranaround to late-night clubswhere they could performtogether or where she could

introduce him. “How can Igetyoupaidforyourworkifyou give it away?” Iprotested.

Many years later, when ImetHughJackmanbackstagewhile he was appearing asPeter Allen in The Boy fromOz, I told him that Peter hadbeen a thorn in my side forexactly the reasons just

mentioned. Peter, as we allknow, went on to a gloriouscareer both as a songwriterand entertainer until hisuntimely death from AIDS.Hissongsweremadepopularby many recording artists,includingMelissaManchesterand Olivia Newton-John,with one, “Arthur’s Theme,”winning an Academy Award

in 1981. I had a greaterappreciation for him once hewas out of Liza’s immediatelife.

***

I was learning thatrepresentingbig talentallowsyoutobewhereveryouwant.Itwasn’tnecessary—assomeinsisted—tobeinHollywood.

If I signed Redford, thegolden boy, no one wouldcare where my desk was. IfinallygotBobintoameetingwith F&D, and they dazzledhim with their soft-shoeroutine, talking aboutprospects and fabulous dealsthat would stir delight in theheart of any actor. Freddiewasstartingtodiscussputting

together the pieces for acompanythatwouldbecalledFirst Artists, whose mandatewastomakeiteasyforartiststo maintain creative controlof properties they caredabout. Itwas outside-the-boxthinking. He would form aproduction company of starsmighty enough to persuadestudio execs to financially

support the artist’s creativefilm instincts. The companywouldbeinthecontroloftheartists. What artist wouldn’tbeinterestedinthat?Redfordwaslistening.

***

Meanwhile, Liza continuedearning big money andgetting great reviews for

everythingshedid.Importantfilm scripts were coming tomy desk. Important directorsnow called me about her,instead of the other wayaround, and my bottom linewasprofitableenoughformeto insist that Freddie andDavidgivemeacrackat thefilm business even though Ilived in New York and had

no intentionof ever living inLos Angeles. I wanted toraise my kids in New YorkCity. I wanted them to usepublic transportation. Iwanted them to have all thiscity’s cultural opportunitiesand appreciate its culturaldiversity.IloveNewYork!Ithasalwaysbeenthecenteroftheworldtome.

Film,however,wastotallyamale-dominatedbusinessinthe sixties. The well-respected “literary ladies”whowereknowntohavesoldimportantbooksandplayssatquietlyinNewYork,athomereading or behind closeddoors in offices with lots offresh flowers and pottedplants.Buttheydidn’tdothe

actual Hollywood dealmaking. It was assumed inHollywoodthattheonlythingwomenknewhow to dowasto read and discover talent;negotiating deals remained aman’sprovince.

One of the great literaryladies, Kay Brown, foundGone With the Wind forDavid O. Selznick, but she

did not have the privilege ofsetting up the film deal withMGM. Another great agent,Audrey Wood, representedTennesseeWilliams,manyofwhose wonderful plays wereadapted for film.MissWoodinterested producers in theseproperties, and that’s a hugepartof it,but theguysinLAdid the deal. Had I shown

some predilection for thepurely literary side of thebusiness, I think Freddie andDavid would have beenpleased.Nooneintheagencyhadyet filled that niche.Theguys figured I would be anatural fit because of theMisses Brown and Woodwho preceded me at MCA,but I was never going to be

one of the hat-wearingliterary ladies; I don’t lookgood in hats, and I alwayswanted to gowhere themenwent. I was sure I could. Ididn’t want to relinquish thecareandfeedingofmyclientstothebigboys.Ohno!

HavingnowbeenatCMAfor eight years, I could lookbackover themanydeals I’d

madeandknowIhadbecomeanegotiator.WatchingDavid,I understood that forcing theconcessions necessary toclose a deal was always hisidea, but he was cleverenoughtomakesomeoneelsebelieve it was theirs. Onecouldn’t watch David oil hisway around a deal withoutsomethingrubbingoff.

Ilobbiedmytwoobduratebosses about my need andability to deal in the frontoffices of Hollywood, anddiscovered I could plead asmuchasIwantedbutnothingwould change. I got angryand dug in my heels. I wasgoingtomakeastartorelse.Orelsewhat?WouldIleave?And then providence reared

its head, and I received aninvitation for lunch with anagentatWilliamMorris.IdidnottellF&D,andIdidnotgoto lunch. However, wordalways has found a way ofgetting around fast inshowbizevenwithouttexting.Maybe F&D felt a littlethreatened. Thank goodnessthey decided they couldn’t

afford to loseme. Ifworkingin films was what it wouldtake to keep me quiet andsomewhat satisfied, theywould open the door for mejustacrack.Butfirsttheyhadtoreplacemeintheater.

***

Enter Sue Mengers. Sue—abrilliant schmoozer, client

signer,andirreverentlyfunnywoman—was the doyenne oftheSardi’sset,hangingoutatthe “look-at-me” tables nightafternightwiththecomposerJerry Herman and many ofthe other leading lights ofBroadway. She was anattractiveworld-class flirt,anoverweightblondwithapottymouth and campy style that

attracted every gay directorand wannabe star on theGreatWhiteWay.Herantics,which included putting outthe garbage naked (I wasn’tthere) and constantly liftingher skirt in public places toadjust her stockings (I wasthere), dominated herdevotees’ conversations,which made her the

affectionate butt of theirjokes.

She’d spent several yearseking out a living at a smallagency, selling respectedstage actors, and doing itwell.Shewashiredtoreplaceme as head of theater,allowing me, finally, toconcentrate on films,provided, of course, that

eitherFreddieorDavidcouldthendeal formyclientsoncethey got the job. She wasevery bit as ambitious as I,and she, too, had wonderfulclients to pitch, includingTonyPerkinsandJulieHarris(both big Broadway stars atthe time) and eventuallyBarbraStreisand (who,whilenot signed by Sue, became a

greatpalofhers).Although she and I were

anunlikelypair—sheplayingcute,theseductresshidinghersmarts; me eager to be thebusinesslike “brains”—webecame good friends. Theshowbiz set in New York,having nothing better to talkabout, bet thatwewould killeachother;buttheylosttheir

betsbig-time.SueandIwerethe winners. She made melaugh; in return I helped herwith deals, and we schemedtogether as often as timeallowed.

***

The film department in NewYork was headed up by ajolly man’s man named

Harvey Orkin, whomBegelmanadored.Hehadlotsof friends in the industry(whichcountsforsomething),but no muscle and no majorclients of his own. His veryexistence irked Sue and me.We agreed he had to godown. I wanted the chairHarvey was sitting in, andboth Sue and I wanted his

salary (we both speculatedfiguresforOrkinthatwerenomore than figments of ourimagination).Iknewfullwellthat the day I brought insignedcontractswithRedforditwouldbeoverforHarvey.

And along came ButchCassidy and the SundanceKid, written by the hotscreenwriter William

Goldman, with the very hotdirector George Roy Hill atthe helm and Paul Newmanalready cast as one of theleads.Afteralmostfouryearsof chasing him, I’d gotten apromise from Bob that if Idelivered the role oppositeNewman,hewouldbemine.

Redford needed only theright role to launch him into

superstardom. I would besitting in the catbird seat if Icould deliver the movie.Therewasone littlehang-up.Twentieth Century–Foxdidn’t want Bob. It wasn’t amatter of disliking him, hewassimplyfarfromtheirfirstchoice. They had a laundrylistofstarstheywantedmore.

CMA, however,

represented George, whosharedmyRedfordobsession.Besides that, George was alittle sweet on me andcouldn’t do a thing about itbecause hewas bothmarriedand a nonpracticing CatholicstillfullofCatholicguilt.Hecould, however, hang out inmyofficeforhoursatatime,for days on end, conniving

withmeonhowwecouldgetBobtherole.

The studio’s originalintentionwastoputNewmanand Steve McQueen on thescreentogether,whichiswhythestudiowaswilling topaythenunheard-ofpriceof fourhundred thousand dollars forthe script. ButMcQueen leftafter a dispute over billing.

One down. Next the role ofSundancewasofferedtoJackLemmon, whose productioncompany,JML,hadproducedthe 1967 film Cool HandLuke starring Paul. GeorgeHill didn’t like this casting,and I pumped himup to callDarrylF.Zanuckandprotest.This turned out to beunnecessary because

Lemmon did not like ridinghorses,andhealsofelthehadalready played too manyaspectsoftheSundanceKid’scharacterbefore.Twodown.

WarrenBeattywasnextonthe list and was consideredfor five minutes, but gettingWarrentosayyestoanythingtook too much time, andgiven that a start date was

already set, Georgewas ableto persuade Twentieth tomoveon.Threedown.

Finally came MarlonBrando, whom Georgeadmired but really felt waswrong for the role. Thatwasthe hardest battle, andwhenever George wobbledeven slightly, I was there tourgehimon.More than that!

There were days whenGeorge was exhausted fromthe battle with Twentieth. Iknew thatwhatever I had onmy calendar would becanceledsothatGeorgeandIcould have one of our long,leisurely lunches togetherneeded to fire up hisenthusiasm again to the 100percentlevel.Ididittimeand

again,anditwaswortheverypenny.Besides that, I adoredGeorge. Had he made thepass, Iwouldhaveundressedon the spot. (I never foundRedford sexy except on thescreen; George was anotherthingalltogether.)

That he never oncerelented inhis insistence thatRedford play the part in the

end got Redford the role.Meanwhile, IkeptBobcluedin by phone, and, aftermonths of machinations,when Redford was finallyhired,Igotmysignedagencycontracts. Bob lateracknowledged that this filmcatapulted him to stardomand irreversibly changed hiscareer.

When I deliveredRedford’ssignature,mystockat the agency shot up skyhigh. F&Dwere ecstatic. I’dlandedaclientwithlegs,andnot just the pretty kind.Talented new actresses showup every year; most hangaround for a few films ifthey’re lucky, and thenthey’re gone. It takes only a

new slate of pictures forproducers to cry out, Let’sfind a new girl! But sign anactor who has both goodlooks and real ability, andyou’ve managed a minormiracle.Thatactorcangoonfor forty years easily—asNewmandid,asRedfordhas.

***

And now itwas time to jointhebattle.Whyshouldanyofthe men—Harvey Orkin inNewYorkorDickShepherd,John Foreman, Alan Ladd,Jr., Mike Medavoy and JeffBerg in LA—be paid morethanSue andme? Itwasourclients—Redford, Pacino,Minnelli, Streisand—whowere on top of every good

director’slist.IfeltasthoughI’dnowearnedtherighttobetheheadofmotionpicturesinNew York, and Sue simplycould no longer deal withHarvey earning one pennymore thanshe.So the twoofus—both capable ofincredible mischief—stagedanoffice coup.Wehunkereddowninmyoffice,lockedthe

door, and set about changingthe way our world worked.Let me be abundantly clearaboutonething:Wewerenotdoing this in order to get onthe women’s rightsbandwagon. That wagon hadalready taken off and wasgathering speed. We nevergave it a thought, althoughperhaps its existence helped

fire upour confidence.Truthiswelockedmydoorthatdayprimarily to take care ofourselves.

Using the phones at mydesk, we called the heads ofevery single studio, menwhosenameswerementionedinhushedwhisperslikeFrankWells, Richard Zanuck,David Brown, and Robert

Evans, with whom Sue laterbecame close after signingAliMacGraw.Weblindsidedtheir secretaries with ourname-dropping, and oncewegottheirbossesonthephone,we put them on notice. Dealwithus—andnotFreddieandDavid—or forget about ourclients. Honestly, I don’tknowwhatrecoursetoaction

I would have had if Zanuckcalled Freddie thereafterinstead ofme.But he didn’t.He didn’t want to find outwhatwouldhappenanymorethanIdid.

***

Suewasfunny.Typicalofherwitwas the conversation shehadthatdayinmyofficewith

Lenny Lightstone, right-handman toJosephE.Levine, theclothier who foundedEmbassy Pictures and hadbecome one of Hollywood’smost colorful characters.Wereachedthemtogetherjustbyluck. Sue flirted with Lennyrecklessly. She had a little-girlway ofmaking shockingstatements sound cute.

“Lenny, I just love the wayyou talk dirty about movies.Let’s talk about moviestogether. Talk dirty to me!”Whatdidshejustsay?Icouldnever. She made Lenny andJoe laugh while I made itclear that if they wanted ourclients, they would have todeal directly and exclusivelywithus.

F&D of course found outwhat we were doing. How?We told them once all thecallsweremade. I rememberDavid slamming his fist onthe table (I had never seenthat before). Freddie simplyshook his head and said,“You shouldn’t have donethat.” And then, remarkably,theconversationshiftedinthe

opposite direction—pouringoilonthefire.Freddie:“Youknow that we always takecare of you.…”David: “Youtwo are the best.…”Uh-huh.Showusthemoney.

They were aggravated, tobe sure, but what could theyreally do? We had them bytheshorthairs.ItwasFreddiewho had said, “He who has

the clients calls the shots,” Ireminded him. Change the“he” to “she.” Susie and Iwerecallingalotoftheshotsnow, but only about ourclients, not the ones whobelonged to any other agentinNewYorkorLA.

Once we launched ourcampaign, we never lookedback. We wouldn’t let

FreddieandDavidtalkforusanymore, and they could donothing more than grin andbear it. We had become toovaluable. They couldn’tafford to lose us. In 1968 Ibecame a senior vicepresidentandheadof film inNewYork, and poor Harveywas kicked upstairs, whichwasthesameasbeingkicked

around. Sue was vicepresidentandheadoftheater,which was highly successfulandearnedheralotofmoney—morethanHarvey—butnotever as much as she thoughtshedeserved.Whatever!

I believe our persistenceopened the floodgates forthose women who becameimportant film agents

followingus.Iraisemyhandand say that we were therefirst. I don’t mind us takingthatcredit.WhileIwasdoingthesethingscompletelyoutofself-interest, I finallybecameaware of the repercussionsmyactionswerehavingintheindustry. By the end of thesixties the women’smovementwas in full swing,

and sisterhood was in theforefrontofourminds.

***

Sueneverstoppedmakingmelaugh.“I thinkI’llsleepwithRedford tonight!” Since alltwo hundred-plus pounds ofher had bedded some of thetop names in Tinseltown (Irefuse to tellwho), Iworried

as I laughed at her teasing. Ididn’t need her messing inmybackyard,butthenIknewRedford had the cold reserveofaninfantrysergeant.Itwasunlikely she would get nearBob’s zippers. Who knows?Shemayhavetried.But thenone day she told me he hadtoomanymoles on his face,andIunderstoodimmediately

that she had gotten nowherewithhim.

She was a card-carryingmember of the gay theatermafia, and accordingly wasinvited everywhere theBroadway gays went. Withheroutrageousirreverentwit,shekeptgaymen in stitches,endlessly demeaningeveryone on the straight side

ofthefence.My favorite story starts

with Jerry Herman, at thattime the hottest composer onBroadway, who had awonderful house in ThePines, thegaycommunityonFire Island. It was the onlyhousetherewithaswimmingpool,andSuecouldbefoundthere regularly on summer

weekendslollingnakedinthewater.Noneoftheguyswereoffended. They didn’t care;theylovedhavingheraround.Oh, but it must have been asighttobehold!Humorbythepound; everything added tohervitrioliccharm.

One dayMelinaMercouriand Jules Dassin, then thetoast of Broadway, showed

up at the empty house andcameout to thepool lookingforJerryoranyothersignoflife.Suewas theonly living,breathing person around, andthere wasn’t a towelanywhere in sight. Withouttakingsomuchasabeat,sheclimbed out of the pool,wringingwet, her rolls of fatjiggling aplenty with each

step as she ran up to thestellar couple. How I wouldhave loved to see their facesas Sue made her approach.Grabbing Jules’s hand andthenMelina’s, shegave eacha vigorous pumpinghandshake and said, “Oh,MissMercouri,Mr.Dassin—I’m such an enormous fan.Allow me to introduce

myself. My name is SteviePhillips.”

Sue told this story toVanity Fair, and it appearedthere first in a Sue Mengerspuff piece. Sue loved thepress.Iusedtowalkintoheroffice and find her on thephonewithgossipcolumnistsallthetime.Iwashorrified.Ithought press was for the

clients, but she was foreverburnishing her image andtrying to get her name in thepapers. She was a publicityhound, and I was naive. Inever imagined having myname splattered all overwould help me sign anyone,and when there was aphotographer present—andthere were plenty when I

accompaniedmyclientstoanevent like a premiere—Imovedoutofthepicture.Sue,on theotherhand,moved in.It was the right decision forher,anditservedherwell.

Sue moved on toCalifornia in the late sixties,where for many years shetriumphantly dominated thesocial scene in the film

business. She was a brillianthostess, and I doubt thatmany turned down herinvitations lest they becomethe butt of her jokes. Shewantedmetocometooneofher dinners, and she invitedBilly Wilder as my dinnerpartner. I was beyondflattered, and I had a goodtime. Itwasgreatbitchy fun.

ButIdidn’tneed togoagain(and who knows if anotherinvitation would have beenforthcoming). It wasn’t forme. The dinner felt a littledesperate, and after what I’dbeenthroughwithJudy,meanwassimplymean.

I did have lunchwithSuea few times at the house, ofcourse (Sue didn’t go out). I

was thrilled thatsheused theWedgwoodI’dgivenherasawedding gift. She said sheloved it, and that made mevery happy. Jean-Claudenever joined us. Itwas not alovinghousehold.

I was also asked to moveto Los Angeles. Freddieapproached me early, andDaviddidsolateron,butthe

longer I remained an agent,thelessLAinterestedme.TomeLosAngeleswas a placewhere you looked in themirror and no longer sawyourself;yousawwhatotherswere saying about how youlooked,howyoudealt,whomyouweresleepingwith,whatyou earned. Life in afishbowl! It reminded me of

theSardi’splan,theplanthatFreddie had encouraged metofollowwhenIfirstwenttowork in theater, and it hadmadesomesensethen.ButasI got older, I discovered thatthe Sardi’s plan was nolonger my style, and LosAngeleswastooeasyaplaceto lose oneself in. I didn’twant to dine out on the

business at every meal. Ididn’t want to walk into thegreengrocer and meetactresses I represented, orthoseIdidn’t.Ididn’twanttofeelbadaboutpartiesIwasn’tinvited to, or attend thepartieswhereIwasaskedanddidn’twanttoattend.Noneofitwastomyliking,soinspiteof the fact that I thought it

might be helpful to mycareer, in spite of believingthat life on the West Coastwas gracious and beautiful, Inever gave it seriousconsideration. Iwas flatteredwhen Columbia Pictures putoutafeelertome.Imayhavebeen the first woman theyconsideredforstudioheadofproduction.Itwasnotforme.

IwasthrilledthatSuewasa star inSouthernCalifornia.She enjoyed her reputation.She got everything shewanted—exceptfromFreddieFields. When he sold theagency in 1975, she felt shedeserved a big cut.Living inCalifornia, she’d persuadedherself it was she who builtthe agency, and there were

enough yes-men around tofeed her ego. Freddie gaveher nothing from the sale.AndIdidnotgetapenny,butIwasmaking$250,000ayearby then, and had been for awhile.IwassatisfiedI’dbeentreated well, and had nocomplaints. Sue resentedFreddie, and he knew it, forshe complained bitterly to

anyonewhowouldlisten.Shewas angry and unhappy, butthenshewasthatallthetime.Herwonderfulwitcamefromaplaceofvitriol.

In the end she became byfaramorefamousagentthanI, deserving her remarkablereputation. She had workedhard to develop a highprofile.Ididn’twantthatand

found a way to continuesigning important clients likeDavidBowieandCatStevenswithoutit.Privacyhasalwaysbeenimportanttome.WhenIthink of her, and I do veryoften, I remember a brilliantschmoozerandafondfriend.

***

There is a sad postscript to

the Susie (I called her that)chapter in my life. After anunsuccessful stint atWilliamMorris, where Sue wasunable to meet expectations,she was forced intoretirement—thatistosay,shewas fired. Itwasearly in thenineties, and we had spokenonly sporadically over theyears.Onedayshecalledme

and said, “Sue is depressed.What should I do, Stevie?” Idid not hesitate: “Stopsmoking those awfulGauloises and get the fuckout of bed.” Sue loved to sitin the middle of her bed allday talkingon thephoneandsmoking pot or those short,fat, foul-smelling Frenchcigarettes. “Help me,” she

begged. “I need help.” So Idid some research and foundheratrainer.Personaltrainerswere just coming intovogue,and I lookedalloverLA(onthe phone) to find one toughlittle girl with enoughstrength to withstand Sue’smouth.

When I finally locatedsomeone I thought had the

perfectpersonality, Isentherto Sue’s front door withinstructions: “See if you canget her to walk around thehouse. After a week, see ifyou can get her to walkaround theblock.Thendriveher down to the beach andhave her walk there. Shehasn’t smelled fresh air inyears. Price is no object,” I

assuredher.Thetrainercalledme to saySue firedher afteronly two days. I never heardfromSueafterthat.

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE

Crazy

Freddie signed Peter Sellers,the great comic actor, at thepeak of Peter’s career in theearly sixties. He was justabout to start a film withGeorge Roy Hill, TheWorldof Henry Orient, which wastoshootmostlyattheAstoriaStudios in Queens. AtFreddie’s suggestion Peterphoned and asked me to

locate a sizable estate hecould rent on Long Islandwithin reasonable travelingdistance to the studios.Althoughwe had never beenintroduced,Petermovedrightpastthatanddealtwithmeasif we had been friends foryears. Everything was“darling” this and “darling”that. He advised that he was

intendingtobringhisfamily:twochildren, theirnanny,hisvalet, and some pets. Herequired an “extremelygracioushome.”Aswimmingpoolwasamust;tenniscourtsoptional.

IfoundtheperfectplaceinSands Point, and at theappointed time Peter and histroupe moved in. They were

thrilledwiththehouseanditslovely grounds, and for atleast two problem-freesummermonths theyenjoyedit.

Then, early one morningaround three a.m., Peterrockedme out of deep sleep(whydostarsalwaysfeelit’snecessary to call at ungodlyhours?) to tell me that the

house had poltergeists. Ididn’t have the slightest ideawhat a poltergeist was.Steven Spielberg had not yetpopularized theword,andnoneed for it had entered intomy experience. “Uh-huh” Isaid. (David Begelman hadtaught me this all-purposeresponselongbefore.Hesaidit could be used with many

intonations and variousvoices. It could soundconcerned, acquiescent; itdidn’t have to sound stupid.)“Disembodied feet arewalking up and down thestairs,Steviedarling.Picturesare changing places on thewalls.MymanBert issittingright next tome, and he canattest to all of this.” Peter

then must have pushed thephoneintoBert’sface.

“It’s terrible,” Bert said.“Isn’tit,Peter?”

“Terrible, yes,” and Peterpressedon.

“Windows are going upand down by themselves.” Ithen heard windowsslamming shut.By this pointthe poltergeists and their

talents were all too clear.“Uh-huh,” I respondedagain,waiting to hear what mymarchingorderswouldbe.

“BynoontimeIwouldliketo be ensconced[“ensconced”?!] in theinterlocking suites in thepenthouse of the RegencyHotel.Imeanallthesuitesinthe Regency penthouse. You

know the place, don’t you?On Park Avenue.” I gotlucky. We often used theRegency for clients in fromLA, and I had struck up aprofessional friendship withthe hotel’s wonderfulmanager, a lovelyEnglishwoman,MaryHomi.Ievenhadherhometelephone.

“By noon and not a

momentlater!”“Certainly, Peter.”

Notwithstanding that starsfeeljustfineaboutphoningatoutrageous hours, proprietydictated that I wait until atleast7:00a.m.beforemakingthecalltoMary.Icaughtheronherwayoutthedoor.

The English are all sostiff-upper-lipped that they

don’t react with shock andawe to anything. Tell anAmerican hotelmanager thatyou wish to dislodge his orher clientele, and I reckonthat if theydon’thanguponyou their reactionsareboundtobemoreaggressiveorevenslightly more animated thanMary’s was. “How do youthinkwecangoaboutgetting

rid of our clientele?” shecalmly asked me. “Thepenthouse is rather fullybooked.” Her tone was ascheeryasher“Goodmorning,Stevie.”

“Make them an offer theycan’trefuse.”

“How much are youwillingtospend?”

“Money isnoobject.”We

discussed her picking up theevacuees’entiretabsinorderfor them to accommodatePeter. “Bribe them,” I said.“Whateverittakes!”forthat’swhat Peter had told me. “Idon’t need to know. JustpresentthebilltoMr.Sellerswhenheleavesthehotel,andthatwillbethat.”IknewthatPeter had an

accountantmanager type whocould be difficult. He wouldprobably give Freddie Fieldsa heart attack over this one,butnotmyproblem.Besides,thehotel costwould turnoutto be the least of theexpenses.

What I did not know onthe night of the poltergeistswas that it was Peter’s first

nightbackfromaweekendinMiami,wherehehadgonetojudge the Miss Universecontest. While there he hadfallen under the spell of allthe beautiful blond missesfrom Scandinavia, and hadinvited Miss Denmark, MissSweden, Miss Norway, andMiss Finland to return withhim to New York for a

wonderful time. (Indeed, theonly thing that had beenwrong with the house inSandsPoint is that ithadnotcome with sexy blondhousemaids.)ThevoluptuousScandinavians had allaccepted Peter’s invite, andby noon that day they wereall comfy in the Regencypenthouses, ready to enjoy a

wonderful week of partyingwithPeteringloriousNYC.

Sadlyallgoodthingsmustcome to an end, but I canonly imagine each of thewomenrejoicing,forasPeterkissed each statuesque blondbeauty good-bye she waspresented with a large rubyring encircled by diamonds.HarryWinston, theexclusive

Fifth Avenue jeweler, rolledouta redcarpet formewhenhe heard what Peter hadorderedme to select forhim.Eachrubythesizeofadime,and the circlet of tendiamonds looked tobeahalfcarat each. My popularity atthe jewelry store didn’t netme more than a thank-you,whichismorethanIgotfrom

Peter.Peter eventually married

the Scandinavian of hischoice. Britt Ekland was assweet as she was beautiful.Without any real estate helpfrom me, the newlywedsfound one of the swankiestflats in all of London anddecorated it with the mostexquisitefurniture,occasional

antiques, and the finestobjectsthatmoneycouldbuy.Peter was a rich man, andBritt had superb taste. Onenight in a fit of pique, or inthepiqueofpassion,all theirobjects, including theartwork, became weapons.There was an epic fight inwhich lamps were smashed,tables thrown: assault by

antiques—not exactlyweaponsofmassdestruction.However, the destruction totheir apartmentwasmassive;not a whole lot could besalvaged, including Peter’sreputationasasaneman.

***

IsignedDavidBowiehotoffthe Ziggy Stardust album

(The Rise and Fall of ZiggyStardustandtheSpidersfromMars). I’d been campaigningto get music clients inLondon, but I had nevermetBowie’s manager, TonyDeFries.Hecalledmeoutofthe blue. Bowiewas a risingstar in the early seventies—unique, hot, and everyoneproducing concerts wanted

hisfirstAmericantour.Bowienotonlydominated

the music scene when hearrived here, he totallychanged it. Who was thispersoninthesestrangeoutfitswiththeseoff-the-walllyrics?He created a new world, awhole universe of his own. Ithoughthewasamazing.Themanager was pretty amazing

aswell;aBondStreetguyina Lower East Side world, acool catwith shoulder-lengthhair as wide as it was long,not one inch of which wentwith his three-piece SavileRow suits and hisconversationsaboutarbitrage.

My understanding withDeFrieswas that Iwould tryhardtogetDavidworkinthe

film arena, and in return wewould book his firstAmericantour.Itwasacoup.Bowie’s upcoming tour wasmaking entertainmentheadline news. It also madethe head of the musicdepartment of the now-very-large CMA extremely happybecause it would make hisdepartmentveryprofitablefor

anentirecalendaryear.

***

Back in the day (and maybeit’s still true today),whenanimportant client had apersonal manager, an agentmostlyspoketothemanager;however, I knew that havinga separate but equalrelationship with the client

was a good thing because ofthevolatilityofstars.Anyonecan be in one day, out thenext. It felt, however, quiteimpossible to befriendDavidbecauseIwasfar frombeinga part of his scene. I neverbecame a groupie, never didstrange piercings or bodypaintings,andneverhungoutbackstage. My one real

meeting with David was theday he personally deliveredthe representation contract tomeatmyapartment.Wehad“tea and sympathy” andprecious little conversation.In the half hour we spenttogether he impressed mewith his sweetness and hisintelligence. Well traveledand aware of the political

scene,heseemedtobeamanof theworld at a very tenderage.Hewas soft-spoken andexceedingly kind and polite.That was the real meeting.Thenextwasunreal.

While I was talking upBowie to anyone inHollywoodwhowouldlisten,CMA’s music departmentwent to work to produce an

eye-popping tour, breakinglots of ground by creatingnewperksandprecedentsthelikesofwhichpromotershateagents for. The tour madegeographic sense, financialsense, and all kinds of sensetoTony,themanager.

When the contracts werecompleted, theywere sent tothe promoters for signature.

Upontheirreturn,theywouldbepresented toDavidforhiscountersignature. Many hadalready been signed andreturned to us by thepromoters.Wewereawaitingjust a few more when Tonycame to my office with thebad news: David wascanceling the tour. I waspractically speechless (I am

never entirely speechless). Iknew I was hearing straighttalk. Tony DeFries wasneither a drama queen nor akidder. I still thinkofhimasa businessmanwith an edge.Hewas all businessnow.Hedidn’t waste any words: “Icouldn’tchangehismind.Hewill not do it. I suggest youtalk to him yourself. He’s at

theBeverlyWilshire.”It was already late in the

afternoon, but I could stillmake one of the nonstops toLosAngelesat6:00p.m. if Ileft immediately, forgoingluggage and any otherpreparation. Screw what wason my desk—the unreturnedphone calls, the otherimportantdeals.Screwitall.I

told the head ofmusic aboutthe mess we were in. I toldmy secretary to get me aplanereservation.ItoldTonyto tell David Bowie I wouldknock on his door the nextmorningpromptlyat ten,andI was out of there. I had tosucceed or the musicdepartment would fall off acliff.

At the appointed hour, Iwas standing in front ofBowie’sdoorattheWilshire.I was shown into the livingroom of a suite decorated insomeersatzFrenchProvincialstyle that was warm andwelcoming.Davidwaswarmandwelcomingtoo,butnottome.Totheguyonthecouch!He was sitting on the lap of

an attractive black man, andtheywere ina lip-lock.Theywere both fully dressed, andI’m not at all sure what wasgoing on between them astheirlipsremainedsealed—toeachother’s.

“Excuse me, David. Weneed to talk.” The lip-lockremainedunbroken.Was thishow I was going to have to

talk to him? I figured it was(goingover to the couchandpulling the two men apartdidn’t seem a viable option).So I made up my mind thatdespite what I was seeing Ihad David’s attention, andwho knows? Maybe I did. Ibarreledahead,startingwithaboring logical approach.“David,canceling this tour is

a very bad careermove. Thepromoters aren’t going to sitstill for it; they will all sueyou.”OnandonIwentforatleast ten boring minutes. Noresponse.What to do next? Ihadn’taclue.

“David, talk tome. I flewall the way out here to seeyou, to talk some sense intoyou.Attheveryleast,kindly

acknowledgethatIamhereinthis room.” A no-changecase!Neithermanhadmovednor changed positions evenonce. I was looking at atableau, statue-like, abeautiful contrast in colors.David, whitish skin,strawberry-blond hair, pale-blue suit; the other man, alight-skinned black, white

shirt and dark-brown suit. Iwas looking at a beautifulblend—at my undoing. Myexasperation—nay, mydesperation—was growing.What now? I tried recitingLewis Carroll’s“Jabberwocky.” Bowie wasEnglish,afterall:

’Twasbrillig,andthe

slithytovesDidgyreandgimbleinthewabe;

Allmimsyweretheborogoves,

Andthemomerathsoutgrabe.

“BewaretheJabberwock,myson!

Thejawsthatbite,theclawsthatcatch!

BewaretheJubjubbird,andshun

ThefrumiousBandersnatch!”

Butthen,whenIlookedoverat the couch, nobody hadmovedaninch.Iwasriveted.Istaredforawhile.AndthenIwent on to gibberishof thesensiblekind.

“You know, David,something’s definitelywrongwithmylife.Canyoutellme,please,what it is?WheredidIgowrong?WheredidItakethebadturnintheroad?”

Bythat timeIwasgettingupinthewrinkledclothesI’dbeen wearing for the lasttwenty-fourhours,andwithinaminuteIwasoutthedoor.I

wanted to peek through akeyholetoseewhathappenednext inside, but no keyhole,soImovedon.Whatweremyoptions? Theway I saw it, Ihad only one: Go back toNew York. Face the music.Only there would be nomusic. Had I been closer toDavid, perhaps I could havehadarealconversation,butI

doubt it. Their tableau hadbeen too carefully thoughtout. There would be nomusic.

***

OntheplaneridehomeIhada revelation. I started tobelieve that I’d been witnesstoawell-stagedevent.Davidknew I would come to

Californiaandattempttotalkto him. He would not refuseto see me; he was a polite,kindman.Sohehadarrangedasettinginwhichhecouldbepresent and yet not respond.Callitahappening.

I decided I should beamused. I likedhim.Healsoknew that by canceling hewasputtingme inaspotyou

couldn’t sell to a leopard.Why would he do that? Theanswer has to be that he hadhis reasons, and I will neverknow what they were. Andcould he even explain hisreasons to me? I was not aMartian. I would notunderstand, and he found anamusingwaytoavoidhavingto explain.Whowould think

of such a thing? Not I. Butthen I would never haveconvinced the world that Iwasahermaphrodite,orthatIhad come from anotherplanet.

By the time we wereflying over Chicago I beganto realize that David wouldnotcancel thetourbecauseitwouldn’t simply ruin his

career, it would end it. Ireckoned he must havefigured that out. He could,however, postpone the tour.That could make some kindof sense. If somethingimportant to him intruded onthe dates originallyscheduled, a postponementmightbethesolution.ButhehadnotsuggestedthePword,

and therefore he didn’t havetodefendit.Theideabecamemine, and I thought I couldmake it work. Promotersweren’t in the business ofsuing big singing stars; theydependedonthem.

IdecidedoverChicagonoteven to try making sense ofwhat had happened, butsimply to go for the

postponement and see if itcould fly. I instructed theguysinthemusicdepartmentto come up with some newdates, ones that everyonecould live with, and wewould be home free. Whywasn’t I smart enough tothinkofthisbeforeIleftNewYork? For me, smart hasalwaystakentime.Oneplane

ridedoesnotsmartmake.I’malittleslow.Twoplanerides—andIfinallyfigureditout.Postponement worked like acharm.The tourwasamind-blowing success. Hisaudiences were beyondthrilled—transported,Iwouldsay.

CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR

FunintheSun

My mother and father weregone. My husband too. Judygone.Allwithinastunninglyshort period of time, from1968 to 1972. Time tomoveon. As the seventies opened,women’s lib was in fullflower, and I found myselfmarching in the feministparade in DC with tens ofthousands of other women

supporting the ERA.Additionally, although I didnot have a high profile likeJane Fonda, Judy Collins, orJoan Baez—politicizedentertainers whom I admiredenormously—I got on myown soapbox and protestedthewarinVietnamwheneverandwhereverIcould.

To F&D it looked as if I

had suddenly emerged fromsolitary and discovered agreat big newworld outside.In truth my politicalawakening was not anovernight thing. It was verygradual. As the world ofshow business grew smallertome,theworldoutsidegrewlarger.

Of course feminism was

anissuethathadalwaysbeenknocking onmy office door,and Iwasdetermined to takecareofnumberone.Butalso,as a true believer, I grewready to run my bra up theflagpole if that becamenecessary to get equal rightsandequalpayforallwomen.I championed the campaignand,asanactivist,launcheda

small, one-woman campaignofmyown.

I looked into the plummyold Oak Room at the PlazaHotel—upuntilthentotallyamen’spreserve—anddecideditwouldbealovely,andveryconvenient place to takeclients for lunch. Butmanagement at the Plaza didnot agree. However, the air

was redolent with amake-it-happen attitude. Customsmired in the moss of oldtimes were piling up ingarbage bins.Customs at thePlazaneededupdating.

Havingmadeupmymindto persuade the managementto take a view moreconsistent with changingtimes, I sat cross-legged

outsidetheroomatlunchandgavethemtheoptiontocarryme out or allow women in.The assistant manager at thefront desk wisely chose thelatter after only one day ofarguing and one day ofbeggingmetoleave.Itwasasmall and short-livedcampaign,suchasitwas.

But everything else was

not that easy. Liza was not.Shehadstarteddrinking,andrumorswereswirlingthatshewas doing cocaine. What Iwitnessed, however, wasmild. Li ordered rum andCoca-Cola when we weretogether. It seemed harmlessto me. I think she wasmindfuloftheissueImadeofaddiction,andIdidtalkabout

it, but because I never sawanything much, it was easyfor me to be in denial aboutherdrugs.Irefusedtobelievethat this girl who wouldn’ttake so much as an aspirinwhen we first met, thisdaughter who at first handhad witnessed her mother’sdemise, would go the sameroute.ButIwassowrong.

Reality may have beenexactly the opposite; becauseshewasJudy’sdaughter,she,too,becameanaddict.Wasitgenetic? So far as I know,nobody has yet found thegene for it. One hears thatchildren of alcoholics are farmore likely than otherchildren to becomealcoholics, but I don’t know

the answer. I hated when ithappened; that I know forsure. I thought about howJudymight have helpedLizawithheraddiction.

WasthereanythingIcouldhave done? Not that I everwas able to do anything forJudy. I have long sincelearned that only Liza couldhelpLiza.Ilearneditthehard

way when I discovered thatsupporting her addiction wasmore important than anyoneinherlife,includingme.

***

Meanwhile, Liza kept onkeeping on. She was myspecial province. No doubt Igavehermuchattentionattheexpenseofothers.Butforme

moneywasalwaysabigpartofthepicture,hersandmine.I wanted Li to be wealthy. Ididn’t want her ever to haveher mother’s financialproblems. And, at the sametime, pressure from theagencywasalwayspresent; Ihad to justify my owngrowingincome.

And so when Li did big-

moneyengagementsinwhichpart of the contract was apercentage of the gate, Iwasalways present for her in thecount-up room to make surethat shewasnever cheated. Icounted the money alongwith the promoter. No onewas going to tell me therewas deadwood (unsold seats)becauseIcheckedoutthehall

ateveryconcert,makingsuremembers of the audiencewere taking their seats withactual tickets. No one wasgoingtobeefupthecrewlist,adding names of people thathadn’tworkedontheshow.Iwas supercareful. The musicbusiness has always found away to attract smarmycharacters with their own

accounting shortcuts andshifty tricks that denyperformers.

I’ll never forget theconcert in Rhode Islandwheretheforeman,duringthecount-up, insisted that therewere forty guys on crew forthe load-in … obviously ascheme he had gotten awaywith before. “Sorry, Charlie,

there were only thirty. I wasthere. I have their names onthis list,” I told him.But theforeman had a different list,the one in his head. “Therewerefortymen,oryourlittlegirl isgoing tobedancing inthe dark in less than aminute.”Icalledhisbluff.Hepicked up the phone, andsomeone on the other end

pulledtheplug.Allthelightsin the arena went out. Lizawasdancingonapitch-blackstageinahugehousewithouta single lit exit sign. Withinsecondstherewouldbepanic.“You’re right,” I said, “therewere indeedfortyguys.”Thelightscameon,andIpaidtheextratenmenhewasshakingme down for, knowing I

would get the money backfrom the promoter if hewanted to work with theagency again, and thepromoter might be able todiscuss it with the union ifindeed those rednecks wouldbeworkingforhimagain.

On the other hand, thepromoter, too, might havebeen getting a kickback. So

all bets were off. Time aftertime, in hall after hall, as Iwalked around, I foundpatronsintheaudiencetakingtheir seats with pieces ofpaper instead of tickets. Thereal tickets would then becounted as “unsold,” therebydecreasing the amount Lizawas paid. Not on my watch.Thecheating thatwentdown

in those situations is legend,but Liza rarely lost while Iwasthere.

***

Outside theUnitedStateswehad some grand adventurestogether. Sometimes makinggood money wasn’t hardwork.Marbellawasonesuchcase, and it provided comic

relief. It started when mysecretary buzzed me to saythatamanfromSpainwasonthelinewithanofferforLizato play Marbella. Not onlyhadn’t I heard of the man, Ihadn’t heard of the place.“Tell him that Liza doesn’tplay abroad except withknown promoters, and whenshedoesleavetheU.S.allthe

moneyhastobedepositedina bank of our choice threemonths prior to theengagement.”Thosedemandswere acceptable on the otherendoftheline.“Tellhimthateven if we decide to workwith him we would need, asearnest money, at least halfthe negotiated price rightnow.” That turned out to be

acceptable,too.Still not paying much

attention, I casually said,“Tell him that Liza travelswith her orchestra, and otherpersonnel. We would needfifteen first-class airfares andas many hotel rooms,including two large suites.” Ikept trying to end theconversation,butnothingwas

a problem for this Spanishstranger, according to mysecretary, who came back tome within seconds. “Hewants Liza for a three-nightengagement.”

“Tell him Liza gets ahundredthousandanight.”Aconversation ender for sure!More than a million a nightforsomeperformersmightbe

nothing now, but back thensuch an amountwas unheardof. Iwas not eager to seeLigo to Europe to play onelone-standing three-dayengagementforsomepalookaI’dneverheardof.Iftheoffercarried any risk, therewouldhave to be a big reward.Finished! I went back toshuffling the paperwork on

mydesk,butJoangotbacktome again in practically notimeatall.

“He’s agreed toeverything.”

“Who is this guy?” Iwondered, and I picked upthe phone, suddenly willingtogivehimmyfullattention.Señor Banus introducedhimself,andIaskedhimvery

specific questions aboutwhereLiwouldbeplaying.Ihad no reason to expect himtobealiar,andif themoneyshowedup,well,itwasthirtythousanddollars’commissionfor fiveminutes ofmy time.Finding his repliessatisfactory, I sorted out thefinal details. All the moneyand airline tickets came

exactly when this caballerosaid they would. Thecontractsweresigned,andonthe appointed day, we wereoff. I wasn’t going to missthis one.Once I knewwhereMarbella was, the sunnysouth of Spain sounded justwonderfultome.

***

The rich and famous alwaysfind spectacular waterfrontreal estate with expansiveviews, sugar beaches, greatfood, and interesting activitybefore the rest of us.Wouldthat I could have googledhim; Imighthave found thatSeñor Banus wasGeneralissimo FranciscoFranco’sright-handman.The

administration he served hadtreatedhimwell,andnowhewas attempting to turn thisparadise he’d earned into afirst-class resort. He had themoney for development; allhe needed was a littlepublicity. He needed Liza.This is a measure of howimportant she was then: theBeyoncé of her time. Banus

knew her endorsement couldestablishMarbellaasaworld-classwateringhole.

As things turned out, itwas fortunate I’d taggedalong, because when we gotthereIsawnohall,noarena,andIquicklyfoundout therewasn’t even a small theateranywhere within a hundredmiles: No place to play the

date.Marbella,however,wasexquisite. Sean Connery waslooking very relaxed as heplayed golf on the beautifullinks adjacent to the hotel. Inotedafewshopsandadiscoopposite themarina,where afewsmallishyachtsnestledintheslipsandbeautifulpeoplestrolled around in expensivecasualclothes.Notmuchelse

to see, but in whateverdirectiononelooked,onesawthe name “Banus.” It wasemblazonedovereverystore,on every street sign, in bigletters that welcomed theworld to Marbella. PuertoBanus, Disco Banus, Banusshoppingmall.B-A-N-U-S inbold letters everywhere. Idevelopedanardentcuriosity

about thisman’sprovenance.Everyone spoke in hushedtones.Icouldn’twaittomeethim.Hewas standing by thedoorofHotelBanus.

Liza, tired from the trip,retiredtohersuitewhileIgotthe tour from the wealthyseñor, aportlymannot shorton confidence. “About thehall,Señor—”

“Every tree that you seehad to be brought from myvineyards up north,” he toldme, making a grand sweepwith his arm over the tree-coveredvista.

“Excuse me, sir, where isthehall?”

“It will be here,” he said,andthenhewentonaboutthefutureexpansionandthenew

luxury shops that werecomingsoon.

“What do you mean, ‘Itwillbehere’?Itisnothere.”

“Don’t worry, it iscoming.”

“Huh?”“Youmustnotworry.The

hallwillbeherebytomorrowat two.”Hewas trying inhisbestEnglishtogivemeevery

assurance, but it all soundednuts to me. I immediatelywarned Liza something wasfunny, “But we have themoney, all of it—every lastdollar is in our hands! Let’sjust wait to see whathappens.” I wasn’t about toletLizadoashoddyshow.

The next morning, acaravanthatstretchedbackto

thehorizondescendedon thegolf course. The truckscarried risers, bandstands,generators,lightsofallkinds,redvelvetbunting,apiano—everythingneededtocreateastage out on the beautifullawns. Peons by the dozenssetaboutassemblingallthesepieceswithaprofessionalismthatwould have embarrassed

concertpersonnelbackintheUnited States. It took but afew hours to complete themagnificent stage, and then,as a final gesture, they put alarge trellis behind it thatserved as a cyclorama. Thecoup de grâce came whenadditional trucks laden withhundreds of thousands ofroses arrived. The laborers

threadedtherosesthroughthetrellis to provide the prettiestbackdrop one could havewished for. Setting up stagesin parks is commonplacetoday; back then it wasalmostunheardof.

“But what about theaudience, Señor Banus?Therearenoseats.”

“I’m taking care of that

now.Youmustnotworry.” Ithen watched in mouth-dropping awe as employeesfrom the hotel brought out adozen large tables, all ten-tops, and set them with thefinestgold-trimmedchinaandsilverdinnerservice,adornedthe tables with elegantcenterpieces,andretired,onlyto be replaced by liveried

servers and stylishly turned-out footmen. It was like afairy tale. Actually it was afairy tale, because for thenext three nights Lizaperformed for almost all ofthe so-called royalty ofEurope.

Sr Banus and his portlywife—on whose amplebosom reposed some of the

largestemeraldsI’deverseen—had the pleasure ofescortingLizaaroundtomeetall the invitees. We dinedwith princes and princesses,nightclubbedwithqueensandkings forgotten by history—all of whose names had atleast five hyphenated parts—anddiscoveredthatnoteverytitled individual was as

scintillating as one wouldhave imagined from theirsmiling faces in fashionablemagazines devoted to themadcap life. Liza and Igiggledalot.Shewasonherbest behavior, charming andwilling todo forBanuswhattheSeñorandhisrotundwifewanted.Theconcertwentoffwithout a hitch. We were

havingagrandtime.On the last night some

wealthy stranger, reputed tobethepharmaceuticalkingofFrance (I never got to meethim),gaveapartyforLizaathis hunting lodge up in themountains behind Marbella.“Hunting lodge,” for somereason, conjured in mymind’seyeaGothicmansion

with lots of dusty trophiesand musty old rooms. I’dseen too many movies, ormaybe Iwas just so insular Ididn’tyetunderstandthatrichEuros know how to liveexceptionallywell.Thelodgewas a low-lying sprawlingplaceascurrentastomorrow,with lotsofglass, suede,andleather, andaccents thecolor

of a Santa Fe sunset. I feltlike Daisy in The GreatGatsby as I walked aroundtouching the soft baby-calfcushions, admiring the pastelsilks,sinkingintothelusciousrugs scattered over theSpanish terra-cotta. Threedifferent orchestras, each ondifferent lawns, playeddifferent styles of music.

What’s your pleasure? thewhole enterprise seemed toask. I got my comeuppancewhen I retired to powdermynose. Lined up at the room-length mirror were many ofEurope’s most gorgeousmodels. I like to think thatthey were there onscholarship to various richmen. And me in my little

pantsensemble,theshrimpinthecrowd,nobeautyeither.Ivowed never again to go outin public with flats on myfeet.

Andthen,therewasRiointheearlyseventies.

***

Lizawasgoingtobethemainattraction at Carnival. We

were excited. “Copacabana”and “Ipanema” to me werethe names that dreams weremadeof,andnothingwesawdispelled that illusion whenwe got to Ipanema beach. Itwasevenmorebeautifulthanthe French Riviera. Thesamba was a heady perfumewafting through the streets,putting you into a different

frame of mind. Everythingwas bursting with sensuallife: The girls were golden,andthemenbronzedgods.

Liza’s nightclubappearance was but a singlenight at a large hotel. Thatwas easy. What was moreimportantwasthatshestayeda few extra days to see thesamba parade, giving them

millions of dollars in freepublicity. Invitations arrivedevery day: to loll in theshadows of Corcovado on atwo-hundred-foot yacht (thisexquisite boat was longerthanacityblockandseemedto have more servants thanguests—a far cry fromCharlie Wacker’s washout),to elegant dinner parties

attended by the rich andbeautiful, to Carnival ballsand posh nightclubs. Therewere photographerseverywhere. Hello magazinewouldhaveitspagesfilled.

No one I met seemed tohave anything on his or hermind but dating and mating,dressing or undressing, andstaying out all night. It was

party time, and it wasirresistible to me in a waylike never before. Rio’ssensualitygotundermyskin,into my very soul, and themessage it conveyed wasrelaxandenjoy.Itwasasfarfrom my normal as I’d everbeen, and since I thought itunlikely I would ever againsee anything like it, I

surrendered to it. I boughtfloaty scarves, diaphanousblouses, and string bikinis; Ihadmyhairwashedinmangoshampoo; and I fell in lovewithabeautifulman.Hewasmy dinner partner at a partyin Liza’s honor given by awealthy entrepreneur tointroduce Li to Rio society.Howlovely,Ithought.

I’d been divorced forseveralyears,haddonesomedating, had had quite a fewaffairs; the one with Davidthatwasadisaster,oneortwoothers that wereheartbreakers. One of themwaswithamusicmogulwhohad it all. He was gorgeous,brilliant,rich,charming—anddrunk. All the time. It took

me a while to figure it outbecause he was high-functioningandsosuccessful.Another heartbreaker waswith a concert promoterwhohad unlimited potential thatwould never be realizedbecausehewascontrolledbyhis upbringing.He could notsee beyond the Midwest.These affairs were

disappointing, and they hurtme. And then there were anumber of affairs that werebores and not worth asentence.Noonemattered atthemoment.Go for it, I toldmyself.

Tostartwith,thismanwasbeautiful:tallandslim,withaplayboy appeal minus thetackiness. He had perfect

clothes, a perfect Porsche,perfect manners, even thelatest, most perfect tapes—HelenReddy,AlGreen,RodStewart—toplayaswedroveintothemountainstolookupat the favelas, and down atthe lights in the skyline thatframed the beach. Wecovered all the ground inconversation: from politics

(Brazilwasfertilegroundforthat) to sex. After fourglorious nights spent diningin lovely restaurants anddancing in chic clubs, it wastimetoknowhimbetter,butIcouldn’t give myself to him.This perfect playboy willbreak my heart, and it isn’tworth it, I decided. I wasn’tliberated enough to be a

man’sone-nightstand.Hell,Iwasn’t brave enough! It wasmy survival instinct. Idecided to test him. If hecame to New York, I wouldrethinkthematter.

HedidcometoNewYork,andhelookedasgoodonourshores as he did in Ipanema.Again I was a gutless,spineless simp, scared to be

hurt.IwasimaginingIwouldbe merely another notch onhis bedpost, and I hadn’t asyetcometothemind-set thatwantedhimasanotchonmyown. In personalmattersmyfeminist ideology was stillfighting my upbringing. Hewas the one that got away.One good thing: He willalwaysremainperfect.

***

Lizawasthefountofmyfunperks for the first four yearsin the seventies. It was likeworkingwithLadyBountiful.I got off on it as long asnothing interfered with thework. It was important thatevery engagement start ontime, and that in eachperformance she give 100

percent. And she did.However, the fun graduallydid start to interfere, and Iwatched the balance betweenuschange.Weweregoingindifferent directions. She wasalwaysonherwaytoaparty.Sometimes I couldn’t reachher for days. I beganbelieving the party mentalitywasgettinginthewayofher

judgment. That was no funfor me. The uh-oh momentcame when her conductorconfirmedLizawasdefinitelyusing cocaine. No longer arumor, it helped to explainwhy everything wasbecomingmoredifficult,whyshe would disappear, why aweek of phone calls wentunanswered.

One night I collected heratHalston’sapartmenttotakeher to a meeting. The greatdesignerwasnowdoingallofLiza’s clothes. I rememberchattingamiablyinhislivingroom filled with people andtall white flowers. No onethere made any sense. Theywere all happy, however,eventhoughtheirfeetweren’t

quitetouchingtheground.In Paris we stayed at the

grandPlaza-Athénée,whereImet Charles Aznavour, whowas occupying every minuteof Li’s free time. AlthoughLizadidn’tdiscussheraffairswith me, and I didn’t try topeek, Iwas toldbymembersof the band that Li and theFrenchtroubadourwereahot

item. Unlike me, Li had nodifficultyclimbingintobedatthe drop of a hello. NeitherhadJudy.Theydefinitelyhadthat in common, and I wasjust starting to be in awe ofwomenwhocoulddothat.

In Berlin the Americanambassador invited us todine. In Hamburg we weregiven a grand tour of

infamous St. Pauli, the red-light district. In Vienna Idrowned, delightfully, inhazelnut torte mit schlag. Ifelt like royalty: Li was thenew princess on the scene,and I was thrilled to be alady-in-waiting. But myprincess didn’t need muchattending to during the day,so Iwasmore like a lady of

leisure. I went to wonderfulrestaurants for lunch andshopped in fabulous storeswhile Liza slept in. She washappy to hang out in thehotel. Sightseeingwasn’t hertrip,butsheknewthecitybynightinawayIneverwould.Itwasthenightlifethatmadehertick.Therestoftheclockcould get stuffed. After

performing, she never lackedcompanytorunwith,todrinkwith, or to sleep with if shechose. She continued to be“in like” for one night at atimewithourmusicians, andsome that were not ours. Ifthe performance was good, Ihad no reason to complain.Her shows continued to sellout,andeverywherewewent,

audiences adored her. It wasfirst class all the way,including my travel, whichwas paid for by promotershappywiththeirprofits.Foralatchkey kid fromWashingtonHeights,thiswaslivinglarge.

***

ThegoodthingaboutEurope

was that once our planedeparted,thenewfriendsthatcamebackstagewavedgood-bye. It was different touringintheUnitedStates.Oncewegot into big arenas and bigmoney, she had constanttraveling companions. Wewere on groupie overload. Iwasneverabletomanagethefreeloaders,glad-handers,and

hangers-onthatshoweduponourcharteredplanes.

I had negotiated anarrangement with one of theairlines to fulfill all ourtouring needs; excellent forthembecausetheyhadplanestodeadheadbacktopointsoforigin, for which we morethan paid the gas bill;excellentforusbecausethere

was always a plane waitingfor us on the tarmac at 1:00a.m.afteraconcert.

These chartersaccommodatedapproximatelyseventy-fivepeople.Withtheorchestra, hairdresser,makeup artist, and othernecessarypersonnel,wefilledforty seats, but usually theplanewasclosetomaxedout.

Who were these strangelydressed people with us whowere loaded all the time?Were we carrying drugs? Ortransportingminorsoverstatelines? The airline was happytohaveourbusiness,andtheyasked no questions, but Iworried—alot,forIknewtheanswertoeveryquestionwasyes.

I had become a spectatoratamovablefeast.Thepartystarted at the beginning of atour,andthreemonthslateritwas still going on. I didn’tcause Liza to drink or dococaine; I couldn’t control it,andIcouldn’tcureit.Iknewthat. I’d learned that withJudy.ButwithJudyItriedtochange things. Granted, I

couldn’t. But at least I tried.With Liza I didn’t even try.Andwebothpaidtheprice.

CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE

TheSuccessEffect

Luckyme!Ihadtwopersonalclients gracing the covers ofimportant nationalmagazines:LizaonthecoverofTimeandNewsweek in thesameweek,andBobRedfordonthecoverofLife.Lifewasgood. Iwas representing twoof themostsought-afterstarsinAmerica.Boy,wasIfullofmyself! Enjoy themoment, I

told myself; it won’t lastforever. Was that prescient!But for seven years,beginning in 1968, I didenjoy it. I milked it. Iaccepted congratulations andpattedmyselfon thebackallaround the industry. Howmuch of it was I reallyresponsible for? Bearing inmind that I was not the one

withatalentforanythingbutorganization,Iwouldhavetosay that the answer is Notvery much. However, I haveobserved that peoplewho donothingdon’tgetluckyoften.Iworkedhard formy luck. Iscoured the pages for sourcematerial: newspapers,magazines,books,treatments,and ideas—anything that

could be put intodevelopment.

The good times continuedto rollprofessionallybecausemyclientsweretalented.Lizaand Bob Fosse, a client ofSue’s, collaborated on theextremely successful TVshow Liza with a Z, whichwon every kind of EmmyAward.All I canboastabout

is that I brought Liza, alongwith her hard work andconsiderabletalent,toaplacewhere the sale of this showcouldprofitablybemade.Theshow itself was a delightfulsong-and-dance program thatshowcased all of Fosse’ssignaturemoves, and I lovedsitting in the audience of aBroadwaytheateralldaylong

andwatching this remarkableperformance as it was beingfilmed. It was remarkable aswellthattheinvitedaudiencewas also willing to sit thereall day—eight hours withonly a few breaks—in factgratefultobethere.Theygottheir money’s worth withouthavingpaidadmission.

Fosse knew all the great

dancers inNewYork, and tothe last they clamored toworkwithhiminspiteofthefactthathewasanextremelyhard taskmaster whosewithering glances andscorching remarks—alldelivered in muted tones—could reduce even the bestdancers to ashes. He couldlook at a dancer giving her

all,andobserveinanoffhandway. One example of hislargesse:“We’llwaitwhilesoand so discovers where herfeet are!”Killer remarks likethat.

I wore my clients’enormoussuccesslikealabelsewn outside my clotheswherever I went, and as aresult of the reputation Iwas

acquiring, decided this wasthemomentinwhichtomakemy assault on the musicindustry. Rock-and-rollclientswerenow ripe for thepicking. And it was the lastunbreached male bastion. Irealized thatsince therewerenowomeninthefrontofficesof the record business, Iwould be a novelty. There

was an intriguingconversation to be had aboutmusic stars writing filmscores and maybe evenplaying featured roles infilms. Now, in the seventies,thiswasafarmoretantalizingconversation for musiciansthan that of, say, PremierTalent, which could onlyoffer tour booking. Mention

major motion pictures andevery rock star’s manager’stonguestartedtohangout.

***

Socializingwithpeopleinthenewrockandrollbroughtmeto a party where I met mynexthusband.Heisnotworthwasting too many words on.The music business, I

discovered, was a placewhere managers wereskimming off the top, takingfrom the bottom, andsqueezing the artists in themiddle.Itwascorrupt,andsowas the handsome devil Imarried,whowasinthethickof it. It wasn’t long after Idiscovered suitcases stuffedwith money coming home

from concerts that I alsolearned my latest love hadembezzledfromhiscompany,Premier Talent, and hispartnerdidnot takekindlytoit. Freddie insisted I utilizethe negotiating skills of thelaw firm CMA retained tokeepmyhusbandoutofjail.

As if that wasn’thumiliating enough, it got

worse as he watched methrive while he continued tofail. I held on as long as Icould because of the twochildren we’d had, but afterhetriedcheatingUncleSamIthrewhimout.

Alas, I’d given mychildren a crook as a father,and that has resoundedthroughout my life. In the

midst of all the good times,he was one of the worstmistakes I ever made, andI’ve suffered for it.Sometimeswhat theuniversesogenerouslygiveswithonehand, it selfishly takes backwiththeother.

Having said that, I can’tcomplain about how I wastreated by the rest of the

music crowd, either in NewYork, where the recordexecutives resided, or inLondon, where the musicmanagerslived.WithCMA’sclient list on the tip of mytongue—Newman, Redford,Pacino,Streisand,Minnelli—andhavingbeenmarriedtoarogueinthemusicbusiness,alotofthosefolksknewwhoI

was. They had used me andmy marital problems asconvenientgossip. Itwasmyentrée.Well,whateverworks!Anditdid.

BesidesBowie,Iharvestedanotherbigsigning:Withthehelp of a friend and agent inour music division, VincentRomeo, Cat Stevens becamea client of mine. Before

becoming Yusuf Islam, aprominent convert to Islam,he recorded one hit albumafter another in a soft styleuniquelyhisown.I lovedhiswork, and I never got achance to tell him so inperson.Inthemusicbusinessone mostly dealt with themanagers rather than theclients. Stevens had an

amusing manager, BarryKrost, whom I enjoyedspending timewithwheneverwe were on the same coast.Krosthaddrollcommentsoneveryone’sstyle in themusicindustry while affecting aneye-catchingstyleofhisown.Little did I know that hewould one day end uprepresenting Liza instead of

me. Still, though it mightsound improbable, I think ofhimfondly.

***

And then in 1972 Liza wonthe Academy Award forCabaret, and she was, for ashowbizmoment, thebiggeststar in Hollywood. She wasstunning in the role of Sally

Bowles. Although the song“Cabaret” is its hugelypopular number—due largelyto Liza’s rendition—it is thesong“Don’tTellMama”(notincluded in the movieversion) that for meepitomizes Liza, for in reallifeshewasthechild-womanwho worried about what hermama thinks. Never for me

was there a song that moreperfectly fitted theplay—andalso thegirl playing the role.Itwas completely true tohercharacter in real life. Liza,masquerading as a grown-up—doing grown-up things,both good and nasty—whilebeneath the facade is littlemore than a lonely little girl,alostsoul.

For this movie, althoughmy contribution in the largersensewasminuscule,IfeelasthoughIcantakealittlebow.By the time Cabaret camealong, I’d been involved inthe negotiation of dozens ofmotion picture contracts andknewthemaswellasIknewmy name. I wouldn’t beallowed solely to do those

negotiations now; wholesquadrons of attorneys arenowinplacetodowhatIdid,but back then, once I hadwormed my way to theinside, negotiating deals wasnotaproblem.Itwasmylongsuit.

I’ve never had anydifficulty practicing lawwithout sanctionof thebar. I

did it for all my clients, andpassed the contracts on tohouse counsel to review. Soon Cabaret I negotiated theimportant star deals, and thefilm’s producer, Cy Feuer,allowedme to coach him onhisdealwiththestudio.Feuerwas basically a Broadwayguy and a good professionalfriend. I’dmadeanumberof

actor deals with him in mytheater-agent days, and Ilovedhisspirit,hissmile,andhis tough-guy attitude. Hewas a little bulldog with arumpled shirt, and he spokestraight. Trust me, thereweren’t many like him,certainlynotinHollywood.

***

Ray Stark, a megaplayer inHollywood, was as unlikeFeuer as oil is unlike water.Ray, the überproducer, wasonly one of many whowanted to do pictures with“ordinary Bob.” I won’t goon about the films Inegotiated for Redford. Heworked in one after another.He worked on the

development of his ownmaterialwithdifferentwriters(The Candidate, JeremiahJohnson,DownhillRacer);hehad a strong sense of whatsuited him—playinginteresting Americans fromdifferent walks of life—andhechosewell.TheonlyfilmIever talkedhimintowasTheGreat Gatsby, and it wasn’t

good. I did all his deals,which saw him jump fromthree-hundred fifty thousandfor Butch to a million forWillie Boy beforeButch wasreleased. Representing himand doing his deals helpedburnish my image, andnobodycarestodaybutme.Idon’t even think about itanymore. It’s more fun and

more revealing of theindustryboththenandnowtotalkaboutthesillythingsthatwent on, and, as you alreadyknow,Ilovesilly.TheWayWeWere, aRay

Stark production,was one ofRedford’sbiggestsuccesses.Iurged Bob not to do itbecausewhenhe had to signhis contract the scriptwasn’t

ready,andhewasupsetaboutit. “If it’s not on the page, itwon’tbeonthestage,”Isaid.Words of wisdom someoneelsewrote,surelyoutofhardexperience. But SydneyPollack, the film’s director,was a good friend of Bob’s,and Bob decided to goforward in spite of anywarningfromme.Thewayit

was on The Way We Werewas that the script wasrewritten nightly before eachday’s shoot.Thiswas at firstunacceptable to Ray Stark,who liked the script he hadpurchasedanddidn’twant toseeitchanged.Buttoexplainwhat happened on The WayWeWere,Ihavetogobacktoa little dustup in my office

that should never havehappened.

***

Stark tried to renege on acheap script-developmentdeal with a young writer,Steve Tesich, he hadcontracted for a mere fifteenthousand dollars. The dealwas for a treatmentbasedon

Steve’s original story idea.The writer delivered thetreatment under the terms ofthecontract, andStarkdidn’tlike what he had written.However,Starkowedhimthemoney. For Ray the amountwas nothing, but it wouldmean food on the table for ayear for the writer’s family.Marian Searchinger, a lovely

woman in my department,came tome in tears, beggingme to intercede on behalf ofthefledgingwriterwhowasaminnow in the pool whereStark was the shark. Starkwas also one of Begelman’sbest friends, and we did lotsof business with him. Toobad! I made Stark pay whathe owed by being terribly

nasty, threatening never toallow the film department inNewYork toworkwith himagain, and he relented, paidthe bill, and never forgaveme.

This happened just asRedford was starting to filmTheWayWeWere.Theotherunrelatedthingthathappenedin thesamemonthwas that I

broke my leg badly in askiing accident. Oddlyenough, my broken leg, theyoung writer, and Bob’sconcern about the script onTheWayallcametogetherina gesture of uncharacteristickindness fromRay,whosentmeadozenyellowroseswithasweetnote.Hehadsuffereda similar skiing accident a

couple of years earlier, andthenotewasyourrun-of-the-mill “from one skier toanother,” wishing me aspeedyrecovery.

IwaspleasedthatRaywaswillingtoputthebadfeelingsaway,andIwroteasimilarlymundane thank-you for theroseshe’dsent.Raythentookmy thank-you note and

scribbledthefollowingonthebottom:“DearSue,wereallyshould have shot her!”(Referencing what one doestoahorsewithabrokenleg.)SueMengers,whohowlivedontheWestCoast,wasalsoagood friend of Ray’s, and itwas she who had persuadedRaytosendmetheflowersinthe interest of burying the

hatchet someplace other thaninmyback.

Unfortunately Ray Stark’sbusy secretary made amistake, and instead ofsending the note with Ray’sscribble on it to Sue, sheaccidentally sent it back tome. Suddenly I’m looking atmy ordinary thank-youbearing Ray’s addendum,

knowinghowRayreallyfelt:that he preferred to kill meflatout.Itookthisawfulnoteand sent it to Redford, whowas busy filming and hatingevery minute of Ray’sinterference on the set. Hewas known to show up withdifferenthookersintowfromtime to time—hookerswhomheputonthemovie’spayroll.

Redford and directorSydney Pollack decided toorder Ray removed from theset—permanently. Ray’sresponse was to send a caseofgoodwine toBob,hopingBobwouldrelentandlethimback in. Bob now took mythank-you note for theflowers (with Ray’s uglyaddendum), and he scribbled

on the very bottom of it,“Dear Stevie, let’s shoot thegift horse instead.” And hehad his secretary send it toRay,alongwiththeunwantedcaseofwine.

***

Godblessproducerswhotalka good game and then don’tpayup.Ireapedthebenefitof

just such a mistake. It aroseout of Bob’s quest forinteresting original material.Bobwasaserialdeveloperofscripts, and early in theseventies he saw a six-pagephoto spread in Life about aman who was single-handedly trying to save thebighorn sheep in themountains of Montana. He

thoughtitwouldmakeagoodmovie. The savior, anenvironmentalist named JimMorgan, was an interestingcharacterandbynomeansanordinary mountain man. Heheldadoctorateinecologicalstudies and, while living inthemountains,wasalsobusyfiling impact statementswiththeEPA inWashington,DC.

Redford askedme to get therights toMorgan’s life story,andoff Iwent inhotpursuit.Not an easy man to find—even using Redford’s nameliberally wherever I called. Ifinally got a callback fromMorgan, who found one ofthe messages I’d left at adinerinIdahoFalls.Whenatlast I heard Morgan’s voice

ontheotherend,Iintroducedmyself and told him thereason I was calling. Butbefore I even got Redford’sname out of my mouth, heinterrupted with: “Are youone of those Hollywoodcocksuckers?”

“Well, yeah! I am.” Hethen told me that he hadalready granted the rights to

another producer whom Ihappened to know, EdgarScherick, and he hadn’tgotten paid. Boy, was heangry! “Why don’t you sendmethecontract?”Isuggested.He took down my addressand then hung up. I wassurprisedwhentheagreementarrived, a one-page, two-paragraph contract,

handwritten in pencil ongrease-stained yellow legal-padpaper,anditwasairtight.I calledEdgar,whoseofficeswere just down the blockfrom the agency, andsuggested forcefully that hesend the check overimmediately:

“Edgar, you dine out onmore than this each week.

You’redeprivingamanthat’strying to save America foryouandyourchildren.Aren’tyou ashamed? Send me acheck for two thousanddollars [the full amount]withinthehour,orI’mgoingto embarrass you by tellingthis story in places you’drather not have your namementioned in the same

sentence as ‘thief.’” Thecheck came within the hour,andIforwardedit toMorganimmediately. He was sograteful he said he wasdetermined to “do somethingwonderful” for me, and I lethim.

He asked me to puttogether a group of myfriends—asmanyasIwished

to invite—andhewouldhosta float trip for us down theSalmon River, otherwiseknown as the River of NoReturn. I collected elevenbuddies—themostfamousofwhomwas a producer on 60Minutes—and on theappointeddayweshowedup,as instructed, in a cornfieldnear Idaho Falls, where we

were picked up by smallplanesbelongingtotheIdahoFish and Game Department.We were then flown at athrillingly low level throughthe magnificent Snake RiverGorge and dropped off inSalmon,where, that night, atdusk, wewere led on horsesto a scenic overview that“breathtaking” doesn’t begin

to describe. It was all aboutthe light; “purple mountainmajesties” is right on thenose.

The next morning werendezvoused with the guysfromIdahoFishandGameattheSalmonput-in,andstartedthe float. They broughteverything.Theentertainmentwas provided by Morris

Morgan, Jim’s older brother,a real mountain man whohunted for his food, built hisown shelter, sewed all hisclothes from animal hides,and had wonderful campfirestories.

The River of No Return:longplacidpoolsandhorrificrapids. Close to the onset offastwater,youcouldhearthe

rapids’ intimidating roar asloud as a jet plane justoverhead. The object of theexercise was to brave it in aMcKenzie, a tiny rowboatwithaflatsurfaceunderneathless than two feet, created sothat it could easily beswiveled into a channel by astrong “river rat” capable ofreading the current in

advance. I’m proud to saythat I went over the SalmonRiver Falls in a McKenzierowed by the head of IdahoFishandGame,andIlivedtotell the tale. This amazingexperience opened up a newworldofriversforme,andinlater years I ran the MiddleFork River, the Upper andLower Rim of the Colorado,

and the Arkansas, RoaringFork, and Animas Rivers.The film about Morgan,incidentally,nevergotmade.

***

Nothing is forever, as weknow. And I knew thatrepresenting two out of thetop five or six stars inAmerica could not go on

forever,butIdidnotexpectittoendthewayitdid.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX

Betrayal

Freddie told me more thanonce that they all move on.Everyclient—every star, andactors not yet stars—allultimatelybelievetheycanbebetter served elsewhere. Nomatter how hard you haveworked, or how well youhave succeeded for yourclients,theyeventuallyfinditdifficulttorefuseallthegood

mealsatgreatrestaurantsthatare accompanied by strongsellingfromthenextagentinline. In a business whereone’s only commodity isone’s own self, selfishnessrules. And when a star isbeingcourtedbycompetitionthat uses flattery andpromises—the great tools ofour trade—it is hard for the

star to resist the overtures.There is some loyalty inshowbiz, but one has to lookhard to find it. I’m stilllooking,andbasically I’manoptimist. Freddie did signmany more clients than helost, and when he lost themhetookitinstride.Ididn’t.

When I lost Redford in1975 I was heartsick. Bob

was straightforward andhonorable about leaving. Hemetwithme and toldme hewanted tomoveon. IknewIcouldn’t hold onwith all therumors flying around—thatis,withSueMengersbitchingand moaning on the phoneevery day that Freddie hadsold the company and soldher out—all long before any

announcement was made. Ialways knew that part ofBob’sattractiontoCMAwasFreddieFields,whowouldnolonger be there. It wasspeculatedthatFreddiewouldhead a studio or make anindependent-producer deal atone.And then therewasalsoanewkidontheblock.MikeOvitz, trailing heat wherever

hewent, was forming a newagency with the top youngagentsatWilliamMorris.Thebuzz was all about Ovitz,whowas seen holding handswith every important star inHollywood.IttookOvitzfourmore years to get Redford,whowent toWilliamMorrisfirst.

I thanked Bob for seven

wonderful years. Truthfully,hiscareeronlygotbetteroncehe was gone because headded another gem to hiscrown. He started directing,andfirst timeouthewon theBest Director Oscar forOrdinary People, which Ithought was brilliant. Idropped the ball by notknowinghewanted todirect,

by not pushing the envelopewithhim.Directingmayhavebeen his idea, but it shouldhave been mine. He wasdoing everything during ourrepresentation of him thatdirectorsdoexceptcallingtheshots. Hewas always on thehunt for good material andgood writers, he worked onthe development of the

movies he starred in, heconferred on casting andlocations—it was clear whatcamenext,andIdidn’tseeit.

I hold myself responsiblefor not coming up with thefirst directing project beforeanyoneelse.Thatmighthavesaved the day. I did notintroducehimtoenoughnewwriters or find source

materialthatwasfresh.Iwason automatic pilot. I wasn’tthinking. I wasn’t one stepaheadof thenextguy,whichis where I needed to be tohold on to an actor asintelligent and thoughtful asBob. And that, after sevenwonderfulyears,was theendof my professionalrelationship with “Ordinary

Bob.”However, Redford gave

me the American West as apresent. I skied a thousandruns, hiked a hundred trails,climbed a number ofColorado’s fourteen-thousand-foot peaks, didhorse-pack camping trips inthe high-country wilderness,fished for trout in uncharted

mountain streams,and fell inlove with the Navajo andHopi cultures because heshowedmethebeautyofthatpart of our country for thefirsttime.Iowehim.Someofmy favorite Redford films—The Natural and Out ofAfrica—weremadesoonafterhe left. And it’s stillheartbreaking.

***

Losing Pacino was lessstraightforward.CMAdidnotlose Al Pacino, only I did.ButIlearnedabiglessonthatwould serve me well: Theblame game is not worthplaying. It’s awaste of time.To start with, Al and I werenotpals likeBobandIwere.We did not speak on the

phone three or four times adaylikeBobandI.I’dalwaysfound Al difficult to talk to,and consequently we nevergrewclose.Alhadabusinessmanager, Martin Bregman,whohandledAl’smoneyandthat of other clients, likeBarbra Streisand, Alan Alda,andLizaMinnelli.Heandhisgood buddy Begelman

worked together on a one-hand-washes-the-other basis.They brought each otherclients, and that enrichedthemboth.

Bregman got involved insome tax shelter/cattlescheme and invested lots ofhis clients’ funds in thedeal.Bregman was attractive andsmart, and I don’t think he

had any evil intent here;however, some deals work,andsomearelosers.Thisoneturned out to be a scam,unbeknownst at the outset toMarty. But while the clientslost lots of money, Martylined his pockets with thecommissions he got forputting his clients into thedeal. “No bloody fair,” I

whined,andpulledLizaawayfromhismanagement. Itwaseasy to do because Liza wasupset at the loss of hermoney.SowasStreisand,andshe, too, left Bregman. InreturnBregmantookAlawayfromme,whichhewaseasilyabletodo.

The whole mess left mewondering how much Al

knew and how much moneyhelost.Hewasn’tyetashighup in the earning ranks asLiza and Barbra, both ofwhom lost tensof thousands.Had I kept my mouth shutandleftLizawithBregman,Icould have maintained myrepresentationofAl; Iwouldhave been able to continuetalking for him, and looking

formaterialonhisbehalf.Butthere was no integrity in mynot informing Liza. Besides,it went right along with theslimy way Begelman didbusiness, which might havebeentoletMartyfast-talkhisway out of it, promising toget it back in the nextinvestment,andsoon.IowedittoLitospeakup.However,

I believe that, had I thoughtabout it more, I might havefound a betterway to handlethis mess. There was acompromise in theresomewhere. I couldn’t see itthen. Everything was soblack-and-whitetome.Itwasagoodobjectlesson.Movingon!

The rumors about the sale

of the company that yearturnedouttobetrue.Thenewowner, Marvin Josephson,also came from the agencyworld and was verysuccessful, but he wasn’tanyone I knew. I hadfollowed the Fields plan,which was to keep my headdown and not bother aboutwhatotheragentsweredoing.

Meanwhile,allmyassociatesknew Josephson but me. Iwas uncomfortable. I hadgrownupwithF&D.InawayFreddie was my surrogatefather. I didn’t want a newenvironment. I didn’t wanteven to give it a chance.Besides that, having lostRedford andPacino, Iwouldnowhavetoprovemyselfall

overagain,buildanewclientlist, and maybe even take acut in salary.Who knows? Idid a lot of speculating. OfcoursetherewasstillLiza,atthe pinnacle of her career.Liza!Yes!Idecidedonanewlifeplan:LizaandIwouldgointobusinesstogether.

***

In spite of cracks that werenowshowinguponthewell-paved road to Liza’s fame, Ithought everything would beokay.IlookedatmyLiza,thebrilliant and lovely youngwoman who, upon winningthe Oscar for Cabaret,showed up a day later inmyoffice with a basket offlowers three feet high. She

needed help to put the hugearrangementonmydesk,andthen came the best part. Shehanded me a card that said,“Wedidit.”

I truly cared about Liza,and I believed in her.Although I knew that hervoicewasnotasgoodashermother’s or Barbra’s, sheworked hard, very hard, to

win over audiences, and herquirkiness, her please-love-medesperationseduced themwhereverwewent.Shewasagood actress, and a greatentertainer. I had enoughconfidence in her ability andin my own to imagine thattogether we could build asuccessful independentproduction company of our

own. I believed that I knewhowtoturnhergreatsuccessintogreaterprofitability,howto make the deals work forher, how to make it allhappen for the both of us.And if we worked closelytogether, I thought I couldkeepher straight.Boy,was Iwrong!

It would start with a

simple three- or four-picturedealtiedtooneofthestudios.Itwouldgiveherachancetodevelopherownscripts,onesshe could star in and maybeone she could produce forsomeone else. Of course thefilms would have to besuccessful for the escalationsin the contract to work, aswell as for the options to be

picked up. There were dealslike that going all the waybacktoBetteDavis,andthereis no question that this kindofdealwasavailabletoLiza.It was an easy setup forme,andworthtakingachanceon.

I imagined creatingmusicals utilizing the talentsof Li’s buddies Fred Ebb,John Kander, and Marvin

Hamlisch; I imagineddeveloping dramatic vehicleswith good writers anddirectors, scripts that wouldexploit Liza’s specificstrengths.IspoketoLiaboutitwith great enthusiasm.Shegot excited, too, and agreedthatitwasthewaytogo.Andso, after fifteen years, Iresigned from CMA. I told

my new boss, MarvinJosephson, that I would begoneinlessthantwoweeks.Itoldmy lawyer toprepareanagreement with Liza. I hadone foot out the door, and Iwas very excited about thefuture, truly looking forwardtoanewkindofprofessionalindependence. That’s when Igotthecall.

Itwasaphonecallfromaman whose name I had onlyever heard just in passing:Mickey Rudin, a powerfulentertainmentattorney inLosAngeles who was known asFrank Sinatra’s mouthpiece.It was he who answered thequestions about Sinatra’sgambling interests andunderworld acquaintances. In

dispatching me, he wasnothing if not totally direct;brutal is more like it: “Lizawill no longer require yourservices!”Andhehungup.Ittook him fifteen seconds torelieve me of everything ithad takenmefifteenyears tobuild. I started to getnauseous, thought I wouldthrow up, and the hand

holding the phone shook sohard I almost dropped it. Ihadn’t made a singleresponse. He didn’t give metime tomakeone. I sat therestaring for a long time, notmoving—not able to move.My body temperaturedropped, like in the old dayswith Judy. My hands werefreezing. I couldn’t focus. I

couldn’tmakemyselfmove.Ijustsatthere.Iwasinshock.

And where was Liza?Nowheretobefound!Iknewshe was in California. Shehad a new love in her life:Desi Arnaz, Jr. She wasspending a lot of time withhim and his family. I can’trecallevermeetinghim,andIhad had no inkling hewould

havesuchanimpactonme.Ididn’t know how to reachhim. I called Li’s father andall the people we knew incommon; I left word for herall over theWest Coast, buttherewasnoreturncall.Lizaknewhowtodisappearwhenshewanted to, and sheneverdid it better than in the fewmonths following my firing.

DidsheknowthatIwasnowout of work, that I wasjobless, divorced, andsupporting two children?Myphysical shock lasted lessthan an hour. The shock tomypsychelastedmorethanayear.

For days I was toodepressed to move. Mychildren, who were five and

six,hadnopatienceforthat.Ihad to give up self-pity toplay with them. How couldMommy be home and notplay? They wouldn’t allowme to feel sorry for myself.Butthen,self-pityhasn’teverbeenmy trip.When I startedto come around, Iinstinctively knew I couldn’twin a battle with Rudin.

Thinkinglikeanagent,tryingto estimate where I wouldcome out if I took him on, Ifigured I’d be the one withthe short straw, because Iunderstood that Rudin couldnothavemadethatphonecallifLizahadnotgivenhimtheauthority to do so. And, ofcourse, hiding out was Li’susual response to such

circumstances.Banging around in my

brain was what Freddie hadtaughtme years beforewhenhe first instructed me:“Agents, lawyers, andaccountants—they’re onlyjustadvisers.Theclientistheprincipal. The client is theonly one that makes thedecisions.” Rudin was a

wealthy attorney withunlimited resources and areputation for being nasty. Iwould have had to hire legalcounsel, and, at best, mygrounds were questionable. Ihadn’t yet signed a contractwith Liza for the newcompany. I felt Ihadanoralagreement, but then it wasLiza’s word against mine. I

was bleeding. I licked mywoundsandtalkedtonobody.

Worse, once I was gonefrom theagency, itwasokayfor Liza to stay there.Josephson changed the callletters from CMA to ICM,and it continued to beLiza’sprofessional home. Had Icrawledback togetmyself apaycheck, I would have had

to face the humiliation of nolonger representingher.Howcalculating of Rudin! It wasbeyondcruel.

Hardest toacceptwas thatnoneof thiscouldhavegonedownifLizahadn’twanteditto. I kept repeating this tomyself like a mantra: It wasLi’s decision. But while myhead knew thiswas true,my

heartdidn’twantittobe.Wehad won the Triple Crown.And for this I was fired,summarily dismissed, adisgrace in the company?Whatheinouscrimecouldmyassociates imagine I’dcommitted? Had Liza reallyconsidered all theramificationsofherdecision?Did she even know what

happened?Probably not. Shewas as self-absorbed as anyother star. She was busybeing in love again.Somehow Iwas able tokeepmoving,butnotabletoletgoof my denial—that it wasLizawhodidthistomeinthenastiestway.

For a time rumors aboutLiza beat a path tomy door.

Therewasnoavoiding them.Everyone I knew in showbusiness was anxious to tellmewhateverheorsheknew.Mostly I heard how MickeywasgoingtomakeLizarich.She was already rich, butmaybeshewantedalotmore.Hermother,afterall,haddiedbroke. That had to be prettyscary. If that in fact was

Rudin’s promise, he madegood on it. He kept Lizatouringall the time. It’s easyforme tosayheshouldhaveused her success as alaunching pad to further herfilm career. That wasn’t,however, what he wascapable of. He wasn’t aboutto turn his back on hispractice in order to harangue

literary agents to findappropriate material for her.He put Liza in the hands ofinexperienced agents whoweren’tcapableorconnected.They weren’t film packagerstrained by Freddie Fields;they were merely ordertakers. What they could dowasfollowMickey’sbidding,and that was to keep her on

the road. They wanted tokeepMickeyhappy.Afterall,he also represented FrankSinatra and Lucille Ball. Ifthey did a good job for him,might they now get into theSinatrabusiness?

Mickey did package Lizawith Sinatra. Frank and LizainAtlanticCity! Itmade lotsofmoney, but inmyopinion

itwasacrime.Itdidn’tmeana thing for her career. Thelonger she stayed out on theroad,themoretheHollywoodinterest in her diminished.Hermovie life went into thetoilet. It was a giant missedopportunity. Mickey Rudinmadeherricherthanshethenwas while lining his ownpockets in the process. And

while on the road, wherepermissiveness and badbehaviorareascommonplaceas tacky hotel rooms, it wasrumored that most of Liza’searningswere going right uphernose.

It was at least a yearbefore I got a call from her.I’mnotsurewhyitcame,andI didn’t ask. I simply

accepted the invitation sheofferedtolunch.Wespentanempty hour and a half oninconsequential small talk.Though it may be hard tobelieve,hardest of all formeto believe, I still hadn’tcompletely processed whathad happened, hadn’t yetlocated my anger, and Iwasn’t prepared to join any

issues with her. And itwouldn’thavemattered.Lizadoesn’t confront issues. Shehasalwayspassedthebucktosomeone working for her. Iunderstood that. I taught herhow to do this during all theyears when I was pleased tobethe“heavy.”HadIhadthepresence to open a realdiscussion with her, she

might have sent me back toMickey Rudin. But I didn’t,and she didn’t. Instead shetreatedme likeanold friend,hugging me when she sawme,jollyingme.“It’ssogoodtoseeyou.Howareyou?”Itwasbullshit.

Finally at the end of themeal, it havingaccomplishednothing toward personal

redemption,Idecidedtolookat the luncheon as anopportunity to find a softerwayback intoher life. I toldher I wanted to write ascreenplay for her based onone of her songs, a piece ofspecialmaterialFredEbbhadwritten for her entitled “Lizawith a Z” about her name,which was continually

misspelled andmispronounced.Theideajustpopped into my head. Shewas delighted. Maybe shesawitasawayoutofguilt.Ihavenoideaifshehadany.

Iwaswinging it, but as aresult of my ad-lib, I gotmyself a deal at UnitedArtists. In the script Iconceived, the misspelling

leads to all kinds of othercomplications.Thescriptwasa piece of crap, and when Iturned it in, thatwas theendof it. I considered thepayment my severance forfifteen years of work. Nowthatwewere“friends”again,IgotaChristmascardwithasmall gift for the next fiveyears.

***

It was while doing a benefitconcertatRadioCityin1990that something tellinghappened. She phoned frombackstageasshewasabouttogo on to say that her goodfriend Halston had died, andthat she was in terrible pain.Shewassobbingandcouldn’tget herself together. “What

should I do, Stevie? Tellmewhat to do. I’m hurting somuch.Ican’tstandthepain.”I found the nicest possibleway to tell her that the showmust go on, and made somesuggestions for honoring herfriend after. Why me? Whyhad she calledme instead ofall her other powerfulfriends? Because I had been

themost stableperson inherlife.Webothknewthat.

In 1991, when she wasappearing there again with anew act, I arranged a pair oftickets and took my Jenny,nowtwenty-two,totheshow.We went to the greenroomaftertheshow,andwhenLizaentered she gushed over us,ignoring everyone else there,

includingBaryshnikov.Perhaps the continuous

touring, the endless concerts,Halston’s death and,most ofall, her increasing addictionssent her into the tailspin thatprompted thenextcall,abouta year later. Shewas now inthe kind of pain that wasbeyond her endurance. Shesaid she couldn’t get out of

bed for days at a time. Shetold me that she had troubledifferentiating colors.Everything hurt. She was sototally lost that her voicebarelyresonated.

My heart hurt for her. Inever got over feeling sorryfor her, but she neededmorehelpthanIcouldgive.Iurgedher to go to Alcoholics

Anonymous, and encouragedher to make a permanentcommitment to it. She didthat, and was open in thepress about seekingrehabilitation.AtherrequestIevenattendedafewmeetingswith her. But during thisperiodhercareerwentfurtherinto the dumpster. At thispoint we were in totally

different places. She wassuffering, and Iwas back onmy feet.When she got backon her own, perhaps I couldhelp her once more withwork.

I thought the remedy forher careermight be found intelevision. In the eightiesimportant careerswere beingmade on TV. With the

assistanceofJimWatters,theformerentertainmenteditoratLifeandTimemagazines,anda good friend of mine andLiza’s,Idevelopedacomedyseriesideathatwas,atleastinmyopinion,salable.Lizahada wonderful sense of comictiming. If she showed anyinterestintheidea,JimandIwouldsecurethebestwriters,

thebestshowrunner,thebestof everything needed tosupporther.

I went with Jim to LosAngeles to visit Liza, whowas now in recovery andfeelingmorelikeheroldself.ShewasrestingandtryingtofindherHollywoodlandlegsagain. She was sharing ahousewithagoodfriendand

living a healthier lifestyle. Iapproached her with theseries idea tucked under myarm. It was definitely self-serving, but the concept wasstrong, and if I could take ittomarket with Liza starring,itwould put her back on herfeetatatimewhenhercareerwas still salvageable. Bythen, my having produced

successfully on Broadway,mycareerwasthriving,andIthought my success couldserveher.

However, the world shewas living in at thatmomentwasfarfromanyrealitythatIunderstood. She boasted inour meeting that she wasworking on four new filmsand that she was going to

direct themall.Whatnotableprojecthadsheeverdirected?What film existed to displayher work? It was nonsense.But itwasalsoclear that sheunderstood she had missedout on an important filmcareer; however, themomentwhen she still could havegrabbedontoafilmlife,andheld on if she did any good

work, had long since passed.Comebacks in film don’thappen often. Judy was oneof the lucky ones. Herdaughterwasnot.

***

Although it took at least tenyears, my denial of Liza’sbetrayal finally vanished. Ihad to deal with

understanding that I’d beenunceremoniously dumped byanactresswhocouldnothavecared less, by a performerwhomayhavebeen tooself-absorbed to understand, evento realize, that she had onceleft me out in the cold. Intime my anger disappeared,and I realized that Liza wassadly stuck with the choices

she’d made. She owns thosedecisions, and like Judy,she’s made some really badones.Shehashurtherselfandher career more than anyoneelseevercouldhave.

InevertoldLizaanyoftheterrible episodes that IenduredwhenI traveledwithher mother. I would neverhave spoken of these things

then. We had both beenchildren. What did I, attwenty-four,understandaboutself-destruction? I wasanxious to protect her fromall that. And Liza neverdiscussed with me anythingthatwentonbetweenherandher mother. My ownexperience informs me thatbad stuff had to have been

going on, but there was thiscode of silence that servedneitherofus.Igaveituplongago.

I finally heard—twentyyears later—an explanationfor my dismissal that rangtrue. A mutual friend ofLiza’s andmine toldme thatit was Desi’s mother, thegreat Lucille Ball, the

mother-in-law-to-be, whotold Liza to dump me. Shesuggested to Li—firmly, Isuspect—that if Liza wasgoingtobepartofthefamily,using the familyrepresentative, MickeyRudin,wasthewaytogo.If,after all, Rudin was goodenough to call the shots forherandFrankSinatra,hewas

goodenough forLiza.Steviewho? is what I imagine Ms.Ball asked. Perhaps Lizasimply got tongue-tied.Perhaps Liza agreed. ToMs.Ball Iwas nobody.But backthen, I was somebody whocared. Of course most everystory has a footnote: BothLucille Ball and FrankSinatra eventually fired

MickeyRudin.

***

There is a postscript to allthis.In2001Iwastakingcareof my mother’s youngestbrother,whowas at the timeninety-six and failing. I’dmadeasortofassisted-livingarrangement for him with awoman he had a crush on;

she’d been one of hiscaretakers while he was stillable to live independently.(Uncle George was proofpositivethatthemale“thing”isneverover.)Hecontinuallyspied on this woman havingsex with a succession oflovers in her home until thedayhe slippedononeof hersevenshihtzus’dogshit,and

it was all downhill fromthere.

The love nest in WestPalmBeachwasnotfarfroma house Liza was rentingwhile recuperating from about of encephalitis. ShecalledmeinNewYorktosaythat she had to see me.“Please come, please!” Itsounded dire. And I

cautiously told her I wouldcome on my next visit toWest Palm. Would I havecome if she had called fromSeattle? I doubt it. I bundledUncleGeorgeandhiswalkerintomy rentedcaranddroveto Li’s house, where a tall,casual-attired beefcakeushered us into the livingroom, where we all sat

waiting for Li to appear. Heand I stared at each otherwithoutanythingtosay.Ihadno idea if he was theboyfriend,thebodyguard,thefriend,ortheneighbor.

Finally Liza appeared,leaning heavily on her ownwalker.Shedraggedonefoot,and her speech was slurred.Shespokeslowlyandworked

hard to form words. It waseasytoseeshewassuffering.“Look, Stevie, I can walk.And the doctor says I’mgoingtobefine.I’mgoingtogo back on the stage beforeyou know it.” I introducedhertoUncleGeorge.Hesaidhello, but she did not. “Youwill help me, won’t you?”That was all that interested

her.“Li, honestly, honey, I

haven’t represented anyonefor years. Truthfully I don’teven know the buyersanymore.Doyouhaveallthemedicalhelpyouneed?”Shelookedatme.Itwasfinished.The interviewwas over. Shesaid,“Excuseme,Ican’tstayanylonger.”Assheturnedto

leave, I noticed that somedepartment store’s plasticsecuritytagwasstillattachedto the printed chiffon blouseshe wore. On the car rideback, Uncle George—whowas of soundmind—said, “Ican’t believe that was her.”NeithercouldI.

It was Liza who finallytaughtme the lesson Freddie

had tried to teach me yearsearlier. Loyalty in showbusinessdoesn’texist.Iknowpeoplewhowouldprotestthisstatement, andperhaps a fewmight be right. But for mostit’s easy to believe one’spartnersare loyalwhenall isgoingwell.It’swhenthesungoes down that one usuallyfinds oneself standing alone

inthedark.

Part3

Maturity

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

ADifferentKindof

Whorehouse

What makes a comeback?Here’s my theory: Hunger.Not for money but for thechance to show you’ve stillgot what it takes, that youcan’t be kept down, that you

don’t accept defeat.Confidence.Just forgetaboutstartingabusinesswithout it.You must have unwaveringfaithinyourownability.Andeyes. Preferably thosedirectly connected to yourbrain, so you can recognizean opportunity when it’s putin frontofyou. I’vewatcheda lot of people let such a

momentblastrightpastthem.Why don’t they see it? Arethey too comfortable in theirmisery—ortooscaredtograblife by the balls?When JudyopenedthedoortoherflatinLondon in 1960 and sawFreddie standing there, shesaw her chance and grabbedholdof itwithbothhands. Itwas a life lesson for me. It

planted a seed that took rootin a deep place. I saw mychance and threw caution tothewind.

It came by phone: a last-minute invite from Bill andEileen Goldman, goodfriends, to join them at theActors Studio to see amusical in progress beingworkedonbymutualfriends.

They feel sorry for me, andthey’re just being nice, wasmy first thought, which wasprobablycorrect.Unattached,underemployed,unappreciated, and feelinggenerallyunloved,Ihadverylittle desire to go out thatnight, but no reason not to.Because theywere suchkindand caring friends, I got up

offmybutt, gotdressed, andmetthemfordinnerfollowedby a play at the Studio. Ididn’tknowwhatIwasgoingto see and didn’tmuch care.But once the play started,everything changed. By itsend I knew I wanted toproduce it on Broadway. I’dnever produced anythingbefore.

Afterbriefencounterswithsolar energy and socialactivism,theresultsofalittleinterlude I had with aguerrilla architect I’d metthroughRedford’s consumer-advocate wife, Lola, I’dhurried back to showbusiness, where sunshineradiates in the smiles of thefewwinners,andwindpower

is what comes out of themouthsofthosewhodoleoutthe dollars on either coast.Ned Tannen, then presidentof Universal, was willing topay me a small retainer tolook around the company todetermine if I could make acontribution somewhere.What he really wanted wasfor me to utilize my prior

connectionswithbigstarsforthe studio’s benefit. He hadreason tobelieve that Icouldattract Redford into aUniversalfilm.Buthewasn’tquite that blunt. Instead heurged me to evaluate thepossibilitiesformyselfwithinUniversal and then let himknowwhatinterestedme.

I looked first at the

television division. InCalifornia it was a male-dominated bastion with a lotof little fiefdoms, not one ofwhich would I want toinhabit. I saw women sittingatallthesecretarialdesksnotable to domore than answerthe phone and deliver thecoffee.Noone,surelynottheself-important feudal lord of

this boob-tube kingdom,wasgoing to give me anopportunity to show himsquat. It could remain an all-boys’ empire as far as Iwasconcerned.

Ilookednextatthemoviedivision.Movies,mydrugofchoice,were aswonderful tome then as they had beenwhen I was a child, and as

they are now: a wonderlandof escapism, entertainment,and pure joy. But again,everyone inmovieshad theirbutts in a chair at 100Universal City Plaza in LA,and I didn’t think I couldmakepackagingmoviescometofruitionfromNewYork;atleastnoteasily.Gettingactorsintomoviesdidn’tinterestme

nearly as much as puttingmoviestogether.

So,asIhadimagined,mybeing appreciated at thestudio came down todelivering the talent whoseprivate telephone numbers Ipossessed (quite a few!). Iwas at thepointof admittingthat to myself. My retainerafter a yearwas running out,

and soon I would be out thedoor as well. And then theuniverse spoke. What I sawon the stage that night at theActors Studio changedeverything.

***

PeterMastersonwasdirectinghis gorgeous wife, CarlinGlynn (an excellent actress),

inamusicalaboutTexasthatthey had put together withtwo people I didn’t know,Carol Hall (the composer)andLarryL.King(onwhosePlayboyarticle theshowwasbased). Texans all. Itwas anendearing story abouthypocrisy, not aboutprostitution,andwhatwassoterrific about it was its

authenticity. It looked andsounded like Texas. Youcouldsmellthebarbecue.

I’d never seen a musicalabout Texas (Oklahoma wasonestateremoved),andfromthe first delightful song Ithought that this could hit.The book was charming andvery funny. Without myhavingtheslightestassurance

thatTannenwouldstepuptothe plate, I went backstageafterward and offered tooptionitinUniversal’sname.You need two things to dothat:a lotofballsand thenabathroom close by to throwupin.

Imetwiththeauthorsandsoldmyself.(ThatconfidenceI never lacked.) I told them

Universalwouldoption it fortwenty-five thousandimmediately. Although therewere a few other producersinterested, the authorsconferred quickly and wentwithme.Ithinktheybelievedthe show—if a big studiowere to be involved—wouldreallyhappen.They liked theinstant cash, untilmuch later

when the show was a hugesuccess and Universalexercised the option tomakethemovie.

I called Tannen and toldhim I’d finally found what Iwanted to do and describedwhat it was. He took a beat,and Iheldmybreath.“Don’tyouwanttogetBobFosseorGeorgeRoyHilltodoitwith

you?” Ned asked,remembering the importantdirector relationships I had.I’vegotthedeal.Ned’sgoingto do it! I knew it in thatmoment.

“Overkill,” I answered.“These guys are doing justfine,andthey’retheonesthatmademeloveit.”

“Butwhat thehell doyou

knowaboutproducing?”“If you’ll stake me, we’ll

soonfindout.”“Howmuch?”heasked.In

1978Ithoughtwecoulddoitoff-Broadway for about$250,000, and he wasagreeable—but only becausethatwassolittlecomparedtothe telephone numbers hedealtwithonadailybasis.

“Areyou sittingdown?” Iasked him. “The title of theshow is The Best LittleWhorehouse in Texas. Canyou deal with that?” I didn’thave to wait long for hisanswer.

“Ilikeit;we’llgowithit.”It was a title worthmillions,and he knew it right away.Not every big exec I knew

would’ve gone along. Heasked me to send the scriptout to the studio lawyers toread. For the amount hewasspending on it, it wasn’tworth his taking any time toreadithimself.

Before long I got a callfromalawyerinthebusinessaffairs department at thestudio. He asked me the

sixty-four-dollar question.“Are the characters in theplaybasedonlivingpeople?”

“Yes,sir.”“Then please immediately

send along the rightscontracts you’ve got withthem for us to look at.” Mypregnant pause provoked apracticed response from theattorney. “No contracts, no

production!”Withthat,LarryL. King, who was able totrack down the real madamon whom the musical isbased, and I were off toDallas.

I’m not quite sure howLarrywasabletodigupEdnaMilton Davidson, because atthe time she was hiding outfromtheIRS.ButLarry,one

of the “good ol’ boys,” waswell plugged in in the LoneStar State, and when wearrived in Dallas, there shewas,myfirstmadam.Believeme, she was unlike anythinganyonewouldhaveexpected.No makeup, nondescriptwardrobe, and a so-sobody … no one would everpick her out of a crowd. She

was plain. She’d come off adirt farm in “nowheres”Oklahoma,where,asayounggirl, she’d had her feetsteppedonbysomanycattlethatshewalkedfunny.Wesatdown to talk in the lobby ofthehotelwherewemet,andImade her the $37,500 offerthatUniversalhadauthorized.She grabbed it as fast as she

could say the letters IRS. Itwas her bailout; she knew it,andshewasn’tabouttoarguethe amount. I’d brought acontract with me, and shesigned it immediately, noquestions asked, no lawyersneeded.

I told her we would alsoneed such rights from thesheriffandaskedifshecould

possibly help us. “You waitright here,” she said, and Isawhergointoaphoneboothnot far from where we wereseated, while Larry went tothebar.(Oops!)Shewasableto reach “the man,” and shemade an appointment for usat 1:00 p.m. that very day atthe Cottonwood Inn in LaGrange, Texas, not far from

where the Chicken Ranchwhorehousehadoncethrived.I got plane reservations toAustin (the nearest airport toLaGrange), reserveda rentalcar,andwewereonourway—until it started to snow.Snow in Dallas? Not likelyand not often. A half hourlater the groundwas coveredwith the thinnest possible

layer, and the airport closed.Traffic ground to a halt. ButMiss Edna knew somethinggood when she saw it, andshewasn’t about to let it getaway—orasLarryL.Kingsoaptly phrased a similarmoment in themusical: “Shesaw a bird’s nest on theground.”Edna surelywantedalltheeggsinherbasket.“I’ll

just go get my Buick,” shesaid,andbeforelongwewereonourway toAustindespitethe bad conditions, whichseemednot tobotherEdnaatall.

After some idle chatterabout Texas weather, Larrypassed out in the backseat,and I knew he was “in thebag.” As we made our way

throughsloppystreetsleavingDallas, I wondered if I wasgoing tobeworkingwithyetanother alcoholic. Did itreallymatter?

I brushed the questionaside because I now sawmychancetofindouteverythingabout whores andwhorehouses a girl like mejustmightwanttoknow.

“Where did most of thegirls at the Chicken Ranchcomefrom?”IaskedEdna.

“Mainly country gals.They’re the best kind. Theyknow how to listen. I don’tlike those big-city types.” Iwondered if that judgmentincludedme, but itwould beunproductive to explore that,and besides I was extremely

curious about how much thewomengotpaid,soIplungedright ahead and asked. “Thegirls got 60 percent and thehousekept40,”shetoldme.

“Okay, but howmuchdidthey turn tricks for?” I askedher.

“Ten dollars mostly;fifteen for somethingspecial!” I decided I didn’t

really need to have herexplain what “special” in aTexaswhorehousemeant.

“Did they work everynight?”

“Dayandnight,sixdaysaweek.”

“That’salot.”“Well, we were always

very busy, sittin’ in themiddle of so many colleges

like we wus. The girls gottimeoff for theirmonthlies,”she told me, as if to say itwasn’t hard work at all—plenty of time to relax.Meanwhile I did some fastmentalcalculating.

“SoIfigurethattheymadeabout four or five hundred aweek.” I thought my figurewashigh,butEdnalookedat

meas if Iweresomekindofidiot.

“Any girl who couldn’tkeepthreetofourthousandasher share was out of thehouse in a week.” I was sostunnedIkeptmymouthshutforatleasttenmiles.Finally,though, my curiosity keptdriving me nuts, and so Ipressedon:“Ijustdon’tknow

how a girl could earn somuchmoneyinaweekdoingthat.”Ednatookabeatand—without even bothering tolookoverat theninnysittingnexttoherinthefrontseat—said: “Grease and slide, girl.Greaseandslide!”

It was becoming clear wewere going to be not onlylate, but very late. The drive

was turning into a marathonthat looked like itwould lastatleastsixhours.“Thesheriffwillbelonggonebythetimewe get there. I hope youknowhowtoreachhim.”

“Oh, he’ll be there, allright,”sheassuredme.

“Butwe’regonnabemorethanthreehourslate.”

“I can see you know

nothing about men!” Thatshut me up. I knew truthwhenIheardit.

***

IndeedshewasrightaboutT.J. Flournoy. Sheriff “Jim”was waiting at theCottonwood Inn just like shetoldmehewouldbe.Hewasa lot to take in all at once.

This ample man stood anintimidatingsevenfeet tall inhis bare feet, and seven feettwo with his boots on. Addthecowboyhat,andhewasamountain. He had a redbulbous nose as large as myentire face, and it boreevidence of having enjoyedmuchgood liquor everynowand then—probably more

thenthannow.He,likeher,wasnospring

chicken. He was still,however,abigbadguywithabig bad reputation. Lookingathim,noonewouldwanttomesswithhim.Larrytoldmehewasreputedtohavekilledhisownbrother.Icouldonlyimagine the Texas-sizecircumstances (Iwas quickly

beginning to understand thateverything in Texas wasoutsized) in which thatincident took place. The taleabout the “brother” may beapocryphal,nomorethanpartof the Flournoy legend, butthe story upon which themusical is based is absolutetruth.

WhenMarvinZindler, the

well-known TV consumeradvocatefromHouston,cameto La Grange to shut downthe whorehouse, Flournoypickedhimupby the seat ofhispantsandputhimthroughtheplateglasswindowofthedepartment store he’d beenbroadcasting in front of. Thecrash sent Zindler to thehospital for weeks. While it

wouldhavebeengreatfuntoexplore these memories withFlournoy, that’s not what Iwastheretodo.Ihadtomakethe deal, and so I cut off thesmalltalk.ThelittleIlearnedabout TJ that afternoon,however,cameasadelightfulsurprise.

Notwithstanding howintimidating he appeared, he

was as sweet and polite as awell-mannered child, and hewasclearlyhappytoseeMissEdna. When he said he’dwaited lunch—given that itwasnowpastfive—Irealizedfor certain that she knew awhole lot more about menthanIdid.

Weallsatdownforamealof the house favorite; a

fattening feast of chicken-fried steak. It had enoughthick white gravy coveringeachpieceofmeattowadeinuptotheankles.FortunatelyIwas talking somuch I didn’thave to get the whole mealdown. After explaining theplotof themusical,andhow,as the sheriff, he functionedin it, I got around tomaking

him the offer. He looked atme as if I had just fallen outof a tree. “Are you talkingabout givin’ that kind ofmoneytome?”heasked.

“Sure,” I said. “We thinkthat’safairamountforusinga character based on yourlife.” To begin with hecouldn’t believe anyone likehim was going to be in a

musical show. From hismodest conversation I couldtell he did not think he wasinteresting,regardlessofwhatanyoneelsethought.Inoticedthat one of his hands mostlyremained under the table. Itcould’ve been in his lap, butit wasn’t hard for me toimagine it in Miss Edna’sinstead. (Both of her hands

wereaboveboard.)Helookeda bit twitchy, and reflectinghe was uncomfortable withacceptingmoney,Iofferedtogiveit tohisfavoritecharity.Afterthinkingforaminuteortwo, he looked directly intomy baby greens and said,“Well, ma’am, I just cain’tpossibly take that money.Y’all should give it to this

little lady sittin’ right herenexttome.”Isatstock-still.Ineeded to make sure I heardright.

“Are you sayin’ [I wasnow talking like him] thatyou want me to give theentireamounttoEdna?”

“You heard me right.”And that was that. For Ednathis was more than just the

bird’snest.Thewholeaviaryhad just landed at her feet.She had made seventy-fivethousand thatday.Betterpaythanthewhorehouse.

“Okay,wehaveadeal,” Isaid. Flournoy and I shookhands on it.My long fingersgotlostinhisbaseball-glove-sizemitt.

I did in fact send him a

script, and he sent back aletterapproving it, tellingmethat was contract enough forhim. He didn’t need to talkwith an attorney. Edna hadendorsed the project, and hewaswilling to go alongwithanythingshewanted.Alsoheforesaw no political troubleforacceptingacontractualfeefortherightstohislifestory.

That had nothing to do withhisrefusaltotakethemoney.The sheriff simplywanted togive a wonderful gift to thewoman he had loved. Thishad been speculated in theplayscript.Hisgestureendedall speculationaboutwhetheror not there trulywas a lovestory between them: Thishappily married man loved

herstill.After lunch, Edna took us

to theLaGrangehospital, ofall places. There, on a brassplaque,was her name, aboveall the others. In the fundingof a new hospital for thetown, she had been thebiggest contributor. Thewhorehousehadalsopaidforthe Little League uniforms

and contributed to all theworthy causes in LaGrange.Edna was shrewd, and shehad been anxious to be thetown’s best neighbor. Shedidn’twantanytroublewhenher girls came to town for amanicure or a meal in arestaurant.Howmany of hercontributions amounted tobribery, andhowmanycame

from the deepest and mostcharitable place in her heart?Wecanguess,butwe’llneverknowforsure.

***

In real life, at the end, theconsumer pest MarvinZindlerwon,andtheChickenRanchwasclosed,muchofitdestroyed.Butontherideup

to La Grange, Edna told methat there was still a smallpartleftstanding.AslongasIwas already there, and thewhorehouse was near, Iwanted to see it, stand in it,and try to imagine what thegirls felt when they werestanding there. Edna pickedup her head housekeeper sothat we could all go over to

the place together. Thewoman lived in a once-thriving black communitythat had sprung up on theoutskirts of town to providethe support personnel thewhorehouse needed. TheChicken Ranch had been acottage industry responsibleforlotsofgood-payingjobs.

The diminutive woman

Edna collectedwas every bitasdelighted to seeheras thesheriffhadbeen.Shegotintothe car, and within fiveminuteswewereat theplacewhere so many famouslawyers, doctors, statesenators, and politicos of allstripes had come forrelaxationandentertainment.

The housekeeper took me

into the only remainingbedroom.Ithadadoublebedwith a chenille coverlet.Therewasanightstandbythebedwith a cheap lampon it,withoneofthosefrillyshadestied with a thin red velvetribbon.Andtherewasasink.“The girlswouldwash everycustomer beforehand,” shetold me. “We wus very

healthy about the place,” shesaidwithpride.Sheopenedadrawer in the nightstand,from which she took a thin,scrawny-looking cotton rug.“Look at this, look howbeautiful. This rug set righthere by the bed.” And shemade me hold it so that Icouldsavoritandunderstandits luxury as she did. I was

touched. Then we sat in thekitchen (the only other roomleft standing) reading Edna’srules of the house, whichwerestillpostedonthewall.Iinclude them here for youramusement, and because Ilovethem:

1.Absolutely no narcoticsare permitted on these

premises—if any are found,the Law will be calledImmediately.

2. Drinking is notpermitted during visitinghours, and anyone doing sowill be asked or ordered toleave. In short, DOPE-HEADS, PILL-HEADS andDRUNKS are not permittedto live here, regardless of

whotheyare.3.Thieves,liarsorrobbers

are not wanted or neededhere.

4. Beds are not to bewallowed in. That’s whathogsdo.

5. I don’t want anyBoarder to receivemore thanone phone call per day—andthat is from home. Three (3)

minutes is sufficient time foranyone to talk concerningtheir family business.MONEY is not to bediscussedonthephoneatanytime.

6.AsIhavesaidthisisnota“whiteslaveryplace”anditnever will be, as long as Ihave anything to do with it.Therefore I will not have a

Boarder inmyhousewithanexcessamountofbruisesandalotoftattoosontheirbody.Cattle are branded foridentification, tattoos aremuch the same as brands. Ican remember my namewithoutthem.Canyou?????

7. Boarders are permittedto see their lover or pimponlyonenightaweek.Phone

calls are subject to beMonitored. Remember—don’t let your mouthsoverloadyourcapabilities.

8. Long, sad faces looklike hell to me, and I don’tlike them in my parlor. Asmile doesn’t cost anythingbut it could prove expensivenottosmile.

9. When you go to town

dresses worn should not beshorterthantwoinchesabovethe knees. Pants or shortsprohibitedintown.

10. Filthy talk can waitforever.

I rescued a red oil lampsittingonthekitchentable tobring home. I would havestayed longer simply soaking

itallin,hadnotEdnawarnedusthatitwasgettinglateandwe still had a distance todrivetogetbacktoAustin.

We decided to stay inAustin for the night and flydirectly out of there to NewYork in the morning. Weoffered to put Edna upbecause it was a long drivebacktoDallasontheendless

unlit Texas roads. Edna saidshe had to check with herhusbandtosee if thatwasallright with him. When shecame back she told us shewas leaving right away. Iimagined then, and I believetothisday,thatshewentbackto La Grange to thank theman she had once loved fortheverygenerousgifthehad

givenherthatday.

***

Somewhere in the process ofputting the show together, Idecided that it would be apublicity bonanza if Ednacame to New York to do awalk-on in the show. She’donlyeverbeen inTexas(andOklahoma, where she was

born), and she said yes rightaway. Every newspaper wasanxious to have its chancewith her, and if she didn’tturn out to be quite thescintillating madam of theirimaginations,shedidmanageto satisfy each interviewer’scuriosity.Whatwasprintablegot as much space as itdeserved. Unfortunately it

wasn’t long before shethought she could play theleadinglady’srole,anditwaseasier to send her home thantotalkheroutofit.

Therewasn’tathingaboutZindler that hadn’t alreadyappeared in the press, so hewas considered publicdomain by the legal eagles,and accordingly wouldn’t be

entitled to any payment forlife-story rights. I spent anhour with him, just for thehellofit,andIwaspersuadedof two things; one: He wastheworld’sgreatest authorityon every subject and, two: asizable portion of his ampleearnings had gone to somebadcosmeticsurgeons.

CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT

BroadwayGetsa

Whorehouse

“You better hire a goodgeneralmanager,”mytheaterfriends said, “because youdon’t know what you’redoing.”SoIhiredJoeHarris.They all toldme hewas one

of thebest. I toldhimwhat Iwanted to do, and he said,“Youdon’tknowwhatyou’redoing.”So I firedhim.Moreballs thanbrains,butlisten—he wanted to go theconventional tryout route,Boston or Philly, and Iwanted to open in a big oldmoviehouseoff-Broadway. Ithoughtitwouldsavemoney.

If itworked,wewouldmoveuptownquicklywithsetsandcostumes alreadymade to fitaBroadwaystage.

Well,itworked.Wesaveda million dollars. I’d like tothink it worked exclusivelybecause it was a great show,butitwasdefinitelyhelpedtosuccess because JacquelineKennedy Onassis showed up

on the third night.When ourpressagent,JeffreyRichards,received a call that she wascoming, he arranged to havecameramen there. “Don’tbotherher,”ItoldJeff,buthewassmarter.Wegotashotofher under the theatermarquee,whichofcoursehadtheword “whorehouse” in it,and it was a press bonanza.

After that we were golden.The carriage trade, rank-and-file theatergoers, and anyonewho was anyone wanted tosee the show. If you wishedto be up on your cocktailconversation,youhadtohaveseenTBLWIT.Wewereahit.

***

Many producers put up their

own money and come toopening night with theirfriends.Havingdonenothingbutprovidefinancialbacking,theyallrushuptothestagetocollect their TonyAwards inJune. They’re known ascheckbooks. I want to be acreative intelligence, a voicein all the choices that aremade in production, casting,

script changes, and so on. Ilike to negotiate all my owndealswitheveryone involvedinashow,andI’mwillingtohang in with the dry cleanerweek after week. Trust me,there’smore than one reasonhe’s called “dry,” but he andtheotherswhoserviceashoware a good part of whatproducing is all about—

watching the expenses,making sure the set floor ismopped, keeping the crewhappy.Bottom line:TBLWITpaid back in three months.Thatmaybearecord.I’mnotacheckbook.

***

Tommy Tune is terriffic—brilliant and smart and

charming and fun. He’s agreat entertainer, and heknows how to make thingsentertaining.IlovedhisworkfromthefirstmomentIsawitin Buffalo in a show calledSunset. So I met him forlunchwithhisagentand toldhimIwouldmakehimarichman.Iwasmovedtosaythatwhen I saw he was wearing

pants held at the waist withan oversize safety pin. Ididn’t know if it was afashion statement or simplythat he couldn’t afford pantsthat fithis six-feet-six frame.The show needed bettermusical staging than PeteMasterson, a fine actors’director, had offered at theActors Studio, and, for me,

TT was the answer. I hiredhimfirst,andtoldMasterson,King, and Hall after. Thatwas doing things backward,and they could have refusedbut they didn’t. It wasTommy’s first directing jobon Broadway, and he sharedthecreditwithPete,whowasasgraciousaboutitasanyonecouldbe.Tommy,whogota

percentage of the box office,didgetrich.Theyalldid.

It was my first timecasting—and it was somuchfun.Inthelateseventiestherewere no reality shows likeAmerican Idol and all itsimitators, and so the processof talent elimination seemedunique to me. Hundreds oftalented actors read the ad in

Backstage,anditseemedlikethousands showedup to struttheir stuff. From the masseswe would cull a chorus ofeight men and eight women.The creative team and Iauditioned them forty at atime. First they danced. Thatusually eliminated at leastthirty out of the forty. Theremaining ones sang. That

usually got rid of anotherfive.Anyoneleftgottoread.

Whencastingwasoverwehad“whores”whowereeachindividual, and guys wholooked like college footballplayers.

Casting stories are legend.Here’s my favorite: After arun of a few years, everyshow develops a revolving

door. Actors move on, andour showwasnodifferent. Itseemed like we were alwaysadvertisingfornew“whores.”Many of the womenwe sawfeltobliged todoastripteasefor us. Thiswas never askedfor. One of the girls,however, found a way to gobeyondeventhat:Aftershe’dtaken off all her clothes, she

tookoutherteeth.Rehearsals can be hell. I

would sit in the orchestrawatching the musical takeshape, there only to givemysupport and encouragement,and to keep the lines ofcommunicationopenbetweenmyauthors,who foughtwitheach other over everything,starting with “Good

morning,” which was nevergood when they werehungover.

Once you decide on yourcreativeteam,youhavetoletthemdo their thing.Butas itturned out, I didn’t alwayslike their thing. Tommy andthe three authors devised abigproductionnumbercalled“Two Blocks from the

Capital.” The underlyingmessage was that around thecorner from our seat ofgovernment anyone can buywhatever diversion orperversion he wants. Thepointwasvalid,itwasagoodsong; the lyrics were funnyand right on the money, andthe cast member performingit was terrific. But in my

opinion the staging was waytoo edgy. Chorus girlsfeigning sex onstage withanimals and tickling eachother’s asses with feathersjust didn’t work for me. Icouldn’t imagine inviting theUniversal top brass to see itwithout total embarrassment,without risking my future. Ithad to go.My creative team

wasmostunhappy,especiallyTommy Tune, whosebrainchild this had been.They stood together againstme, but I would not bemoved. I called an end torehearsalsuntiltheyagreedtodumpthesong.“Gohome,”Itold them.“Rehearsal isoveruntilthenumberisgone.”Noone was willing to risk the

entire production. Thenumber was gone. I feltvindicated.

***

Okay, unions. I think they’rebothimportantandnecessary,but—and here comesmy bigbutt—they caused meproblems,expensiveones.

1. When we moved fromoff-Broadwaytothebigtime,Ihad topay for theset tobe“repainted.” This involvesneither paint nor brush. Theunion (International Allianceof Theatrical StageEmployees) simply stampsthe set “approved.” IATSE’sseal of approval cost us$400,000.

2. The show happily ranoff-Broadway for six weekswith four stagehands. Whenwe transferred uptown, weneeded fifteenmen to run it.Sameshow,sameset,nothinghadchanged.Thegoodnewsis that the union guys werenever again short a hand forthebackstagepokergame.

3. We had a nine-piece

band onstage. On Broadway,however, we paid the AFMfor twenty-five musicians,andwepaiditforalmostfiveyears. Some of the guys wepaidwereretiredandlivinginArizona, and some wereplaying their trombones inheaven. We never once laideyes on them. But that wasthe agreement the union had

with the Forty-sixth StreetTheater,andIhadtobegoodwith it until we moved to asmaller house, the EugeneO’Neill, where its contractcalled for only fifteenmusicians. The unionmuscled me, saying, You’llpay what you always paid.Big mistake. I fought themandwon.Butitgotnasty.Not

one other producer stood atmysideinthegrimbattle,sowhen I was not able to turnmyvictoryintoaprecedenttobenefitallof them,Ishednotears.

We couldn’t use the word“whorehouse” in newspapersor on TV.Noway couldwepersuade the venerable New

YorkTimestotakeouradsforimportant preopeningpublicity, and we neededthosebadly.What todo?Wedid the only thing we could:We went topless: No mediamarquee. It was a first, andthe press we got out of thestorymadeup for the lossofour“good”name.FortheTVmarket we showed a big

production number with lotsof boots, cowboy hats,dancing,andsinging;andthemessage was, Y’all comedown and have a foot-stompin’goodtime!

TheTimesfinallyrelented,andsodidtheothermediainNewYork,butthenamewasalwaysan issuewherever theshow traveled. My favorite

moment came when Isubmitted a list of potentialads to the agency thatmakestheadbuyfortheMTAbusesthat span the city. From along list of possibilities—allrejected—they finally agreedtoputbannersalongthesidesofthebusesthatread:“Cometo the Whorehouse.”Whoopee! The hierarchy of

St. Patrick’s Cathedral thathad just annihilatedus in thepresshadtostandoutsidethechurch watching the busespassby.

We had a first nationaltouring company, a secondnational touring company, abus-and-truck company—allthe accruals of success. Ourbrandwasknownnationwide.

We were a megahit.Universal had no problemdeciding to make the film,and spared no expenseattendant upon doing so.They exercised their cheapoption, and we were inpreproduction. That’s whatI’dgiven the studio in returnfor immediate financing.Back then the authors were

jubilant that theycouldgo towork on the showimmediately, and theywouldnot have been able to do sowithout our giving Universalthe option. But now theywerestuckwith it,andIwasstuck with their change inattitude. Therewas a chill intheair.Theyweren’tgoingtoearn the millions the authors

of A Chorus Line had. Ofcourse they did not have thecredentialstheauthorsofthatshow enjoyed. They feltcheated and angry. But Imake no apologies. I hadfought hard for our deal andhadgottenthemasmuchasIcould, probably a little morethan the usual because I’dbeen an agent who’d made

these kinds of deals in thepast. So I knew what wasdoable and always practicedwhat that mighty TexanLyndon Johnson, quotingOtto von Bismarck, called“theartofthepossible.”

Best of all, I was able totie everyone, includingTommyTuneasdirectorandmyself as producer, to the

movie—unheard of then atstudios, which almost neverever encumber themselveswith a show’s talent. Thecreators of the show thennegotiatedtheirowndealsforworking on the movie, andthey were all paid extremelywell. I was busycongratulating myself whilethe creative team was busy

sticking pins in my doll. Itdidn’t matter. I loved theauthors,andIlovedtheshow.Nothing and no one couldstopme frommoving ahead,exceptUniversal.Theydid.

CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE

HollywoodGetsAnother

Whorehouse

Tommy Tune started castingthe movie. We placed an adfor singingcowboys tocomeaudition at the Forty-sixthStreetTheater.Therewasoneproviso: Every guy had to

haveaminimumheightofsixfeet two inches. Fourthousandactorsshoweduponthe appointed day, causingthepolicetoshutdowntrafficonForty-sixthStreetbetweenBroadway and EighthAvenue.Tommysawthemenin massive lineups on thestage, and we remarked toeach other that looking only

at their heads presented ajagged skyline. Some guysweresix feet five,andothersno more than five feet four.AndeachtimeTommywouldask a five-footer his height,theactorwouldanswer,“I’msixfoottwo.”

***

My first job as the film’s

producer was to find alocation I liked where wecould shoot the film. Icouldn’t wait to get started.NedTannen,whosegamblingspirit had made the showpossible, told me we wouldfilm it entirely in California.What? I cheerfully offeredthatIdidn’tthinkanypartofCalifornia looked likeTexas.

Ned got a little annoyed.“Tell theaudienceit’sTexas,and they’ll think it is,” hesaid. Given that Hawaii hasbeen a stand-in for Vietnam,and so on, I decided to shutup and smile. Tomollifymeand prove he was right, hesuggested Ihaveahelicoptertake me around the state. Ishe really putting a helicopter

at my disposal? My oh my!The chopper landedeverywhere, north to south,easttowest—andwhereveritlanded we could seemountainsinthebackground.Worse, we could see theocean.Theopenrangedottedwith grazing longhorns? Notthere. The flatlands coveredwithoilrigs?Notthere.Well,

we could limit ourselves totwo-shots and head shots.“We’ll film it tight,” Isuggested to the pilot. Webothlaughedindisbelief.Butwhen I told Ned about theocean that existed alongsidehis home state, the funnythingishedidn’tlaughatall.Movingon.

***

Universal could not be soldon Carlin Glynn andHenderson Forsythe, whoseamazing performances hadearned them both TonyAwards. This was hardlyunusual. Many other hitshows had been remade asmovies, and rarely with theactorswhomadethemhitson

Broadway. Universaldemanded big marqueenames, and so ifwecouldn’thave the castwewanted,wemight as well have thebiggest names in LA.Unfortunately sometimesone’swishescometrue.

Although Burt Reynoldswas not our first choice, hewasonthestudio’sshortlist,

and he wanted to do it. Hewanted especially to meetTommyTune,andadatewassetwhenTommy,Pete,andIwouldvisithimonlocationofSmokey and the Bandit II insomesleepytowndeepintheSouth.Burt, partly undressedfor thepart,greetedusathisdoor naked to the waist andwearing high-heeled cowboy

boots. His pose included ashirt rakishlydrapedoverhisshoulder. Insteadofhello,hepushedaglassofwhitewineatme,saying:“Isn’tthiswhatyou ladies drink?” “Youladies”? Is he for real? Ialmostrolledmyeyes.

After a few minutes ofchat, Burt wanted to spendsome time alone with

Tommy, and they went intoanother room to talkprivately. Pete and I satquietly in the living trying tofigureoutwhatwasgoingonin the other room, but wewould never find out, forwhen Tommy returned hedidn’tdiscussit.Ourmeetingwas over. We politely saidourgood-byesandleft.

Tommy was fired a fewdays later in the New YorkTimes. Neither he nor I gotthe courtesy of a phone callfirst. His firing was publicand mean-spirited, and itfilledmewithresentment,butleft me with no cards in myhand.

***

Burt Reynolds turned out tobe the worst thing thathappenedtothefilm.Becausehewas tasteless—witnesshisgreeting at the door—hemade changes to the scriptand the casting that turned afunnyandsomewhattouchingshowintoasadlysecond-ratemovie. Do I sound like I’mwhining? I mourned for the

show for a week and thencried all theway to thebankto deposit my heftyproducer’s fee. Lest anyonehaveanydoubt,bigstars runbigstudios.InthiscaseBurt,whowashotatthetime,wasthe eight-hundred-poundgorilla.ButI’mgettingaheadof myself. Ned Tannenmanaged to create one last

memorable moment for mebefore this imbroglio wasover. I now started to shineup my old agent armor thatwas rusting in my mentalcloset as I prepared for ameeting with Ned to discussdirectorreplacements.

By the time the meetingtook place, we had also castDollyParton,whoseemed to

me to be every bit as lovelyastheimagesheprojectedontelevision. I liked herimmediately.Clearlyshewasgood casting and was alsochosen because she hadrecently done a successfulfilm, Nine to Five. It wasdirectedbyanAustraliansheliked, Colin Higgins, whobecame Tannen’s first and

seemingly only choice toreplaceTT.Ifit’struethatinHollywood you’re only asgood as your lastwork, thenColin’s recent success withDollywasenoughforTannento love him. Colin Higgins,however, had never done amusical, had never been inTexas(notarequirement,buthelpful), and wasn’t even an

American. Of course I toldNedthatIwouldbedelightedto meet him, and so a littleget-together was quicklyarranged.

TheColinImetwasakindman. He was sensitive andintelligent, and by the timewe were introduced heseemed to know already thatthefilmwashis.SoIdecided

to leap intocreative territory.Iaskedhimwhathismusicalconcept for the film wouldbe. He didn’t have a cluewhat amusical concept was.Infactheknewsolittleaboutmusic and Broadwaymusicals that I left themeeting thinking that thismancouldn’t findhisway toa piano if it were the only

pieceoffurnitureinawell-litgymnasium.

Iwastotallydiscouraged.Inowknewthathishavingthejob had nothing to do withany choice I had in thematter, and, worse (puttingasidemyegoandmylackofcontrol), Colin’s having nomusical qualifications couldnot possibly benefit the

movie we were about tomake.

ThenextmeetinginNed’soffice for the purpose ofdiscussing the creativeconcept was the beauty part.EventhoughIknewitwouldbeuseless,ItoldNedstraightout that I didn’t think Colin,likable as he was, was therightmanfor thejob.Picture

Ned, emblematic of studioheads—dyspeptic andprobably suffering from highblood pressure, upset by hisday before I even set foot inhis office—now listening totheexactoppositeofwhathewanted to hear. I might aswell have just doused himwith gasoline and lit thematch, considering how he

exploded. It was cosmic. Heturned bright red, the veinspopping in his neck as hescreamed the following: “Idon’t give a fuck aboutwhatyouthinkorafuckabout thefucking whorehouse. All Icare about is seeing fuckingBurt Reynolds fuck DollyParton’s brains out for twofuckinghoursforthefucking

fifteen-year-olds!”“Uh-huh!” David

Begelman’sadviceonhowtoanswerwhenyoudon’tknowhowtoanswerwascominginhandy yet again. I told NedI’dliketogohomeandthinkabout what he’d said. Whatnow? It was clear I couldn’tholdontothemovie.

Itwasn’tlongbeforeIgot

aphonecallinmyNewYorkoffice from the businessaffairs department ofUniversal with an offer tonegotiate my leaving. Twovery successful televisionproducers by the names ofTom Miller and Bob Boyettwere“willing”toreplaceme,butIhadthecontractualrightto be the “named” producer.

If Universal, however, coulddeliver to these verysuccessful chaps a majorHollywood movie with theirnames on the screen insteadof mine, then maybe theywould deliver a successfulTVseries toUniversal.Whata great bargaining chip—soHollywood.Itremainsaplacewhere everyone has an ax to

grind, a place whererelationships are everything.Nothing ever changes aboutthat.

Calculatingwhat Iwantedformy departurewas easy. Idonned my agent’s cap andprepared to negotiate.Universal turned its businessaffairs department loose onme. A studio insider warned

me that they were gettingreadytomakehashofme,butI knew full well thatUniversal never fullyunderstood the financialpotential of a hit Broadwayshow back then, in spite ofthefactthattheyweregettingthe box-office checks.Perhaps the lawyers andbookkeepersneverconversed.

I took advantage of that gapintheirknowledgeandtradedmy film salary and producercredit for additional points:2.5 percent of gross in theBroadway and touringcompanies.Isettledonafilmcredit of “executiveproducer,” and I managed toretain part of my profitposition in the film. I was

delightedwiththecontractualresult;IknewIhadthebetterbargain. I thanked theuniverseformytrainingasanagent.

As it turned out, I neversaw a penny of profits fromthe profitable film (hardlyunusualinHollywood,whereprofits are ephemeral andone’ssalaryisusuallyallone

ever sees), but the additionalpoints that I bargained hardfor in the show set me upfinancially for the rest ofmylife. It only takes one hit.How I would love to haveanother!

***

The film of The Best LittleWhorehouse in Texas turned

outaboutthewayIthoughtitwould. The studio was kindenough to give me a privatescreening,andseeingitmademewanttotakemynameoffthe final credits. And I did.What bothered me was themissed potential. Thehilarious truths in the Texashumorweregone,aswasthesweet sadness in the original

stories of the girls in thehouse. But there was stillenough good stuff there tomake it a moderatelysuccessful film—mostlybased on the title and itssuccess onBroadway—and Iwas delighted that Universalhad had a profitableexperience. It bodedwell fortheircontinuingintheater.

Hollywood’s lack ofknowledge about Broadwayhas changed totally in recentyears. They now understandeverything. Universal hasbeen blessed with its hitWicked,andtheyknowdowntothepennyexactlywhatit’sworth. And nobody knowsbetter than Disney thatBroadway can be an

enormousprofitcenter.Littledid I imagine that everystudio would start taking oldBmoviesoff their shelves toremake them as Broadwaymusicals!

***

WhatcameafterWhorehouseformeweresomestinkersofmy own, four to be exact:

Wild Life,Open Admissions,Nuts, and The Best LittleWhorehouse Goes Public. Iloved every one of them inspiteof theirfailure.Thelastwas a disaster that costUniversal nine milliondollars. They took it on thechin. Lew Wasserman andSidSheinbergcouldnothavebeen more understanding.

They, like me, loved themusical. All of these showshad writers I loved, actors Iloved, designerswhoseworkI loved, and crews that Iloved working with. Theywere all good experiences,and theater can be a fine,creative arena in which toplay ball—or to play withyour balls, as the case may

be. I can think of nothingmore exciting than standinghidden in a theater andwatching audience membersenjoy themselves as they’retransported by a show thatyou’ve been a part ofcreating. It had been nodifferent with Judy—alwaysthrilling to watch whathappened to the audience

whenshewasinthespotlight,but thatwas all her. To be acreativeintelligenceonwordsandmusic thathaveashotatmaking a little piece oftheater history: That’s beenmine; it’s been hugelyrewarding.

I’m excited aboutproducing my next musical.Tommy Tune once told me

that music already on theplanet,howeverwonderful,isnot as exciting to present asnew music. One takes a bigfinancialrisktodoanoriginalmusical these days, but it’swellworthitinmyopinion.

***

Judywas responsible formyfalling in love with

entertainment, but there wasone particular filmresponsibleformywantingtohelp a show. Itwas seeing ablack-and-white moviereleased in 1941, Sullivan’sTravels, directed by one ofour greatest film directors,Preston Sturges, and starringthe hugely underratedVeronica Lake and Joel

McCrea as Sullivan. I saw itin the late seventies; I wasforty-two and just starting toproduce.

In themovieSullivan is asuccessful director ofpointless comedies. Heenjoys all the perks of theHollywood rich: wine,women, and song. But heisn’t happy. He thinks his

work lacks social relevance.Sadly,he’snotsurewhatthatis.Sohesetsouttofindit.Heputs on tramp’s clothing,stows a little mad money inhis shoe, and sets off on therailroads.Firstnightout,he’srelieved of his shoes, and helegitimately joins thedowntrodden poor. His lifesteadily deteriorates as the

train carries him across theUnited States until one dayhe’s arrested and put on achain gang in some hellishswamp in Georgia. TheprisonersaretakenforalittleR&R on Saturday night to ablackchurch,whereafilmisshown after the sermon.(Sturges’s blatant socialstatement here: Poor blacks

are the only ones willing togive charity to those beneaththem.) The movie screen isfinally drawn down, and upcomes a cartoon. Sullivanlooks around and everyone,even he in his misery, islaughing hysterically.Sullivan now learns that hismindlesscomediesareagoodthing. Sullivan understands

that in a life where shithappens, making peoplelaugh is a noble pursuit.Sullivan’s last line is one ofmy all-time favorites: “Boy,there’s a lot to be said formaking people laugh. That’sall some people have in thiscockeyedcaravan.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY

MyLastMarriage

I fell deeply in love withDave Grusin. The feelings Ihad for him helped meunderstand that I had neverbeeninlovebefore.ImethimafterWhorehousewasupandrunning. From my offices atUniversal inNewYorkCity,I oversaw the daily businessof the musical and thesubsequent touring

companies. In the process Igot to know many of theexecsontheWestCoast.Oneof them gave me somematerial that had never goneforwardas a film to evaluateas a book for a potentialBroadwaymusical. I thoughtthe writing was good, thestory viable, and I set aboutfinding a composer,

somebody new andinteresting.

I suddenly thought of thissuccessful and immenselytalented pianist, orchestrator,arranger, and composer ofmany celebrated film scoreswho had never worked onBroadway. I loved Grusin’swork.Hewasanoriginalandhis work was amazing. I

called him and he told meimmediately he had nointerest in doing theater. Hewas enjoying a lot ofrecognition for his superbwork in recordings, personalappearances, and, of course,film, and that’s where hewishedtoremain.Hemadeitclear, however, that he wasinterested inme, and said he

wantedtomeetme.David called me on his

next visit to New York. Imade a date with himthinking it would be myopportunity to talk him intocomposing this show for thestudio,inspiteofthefactthathe had definitively rejectedthe idea. Either I wasn’tlistening, or it was again a

caseofrefusingtotakenoforananswertooeasily.

Oncewemet,Ifoundhimvery appealing. He appearedto have a soft-spokenvulnerability that made youwant to take care of him.Therewas no question that Iwanted to see him again—andagain—andthisnolongerhad anything to do with

Universal.Ourrelationshipdeveloped

quickly. Deepened evenfaster,andinthefallof1979we became inseparable. Iloved climbing into bedwiththis man. Didn’t want to getout of it. He was the mostexperienced lover I’d everhad. It was great. We wererelishing each other’s

company. As I got to knowhisfriends,Idiscoveredtherewere lots of other womenwhofoundhimappealingandtheyalsowanted to takecareof him.Theywere thewivesof his friends. Happily thiswas all platonic. I liked hisfriends. They were talentedand recognized. Most werebig-time Hollywood players

whoseworkIadmired,anditimpressed me that theyadmired him. He introducedme to a starry Hollywoodscene, different from myown.

Davidcourtedmeonbothcoasts, generously andcharmingly, and I wasenjoying him immensely.Hemoved intomy apartment on

Fifth Avenue after twomonths, and then, after onlyfive months, he askedme tomarry him. I was extremelyflattered,butI thought itwastoo soon. Although I likedwhat I knew, I didn’t yetknownearlyenough.Webothcarriedbaggage.Hewouldbemy third. I would be hisfourth. I hadn’t yet met his

family. I already knew fromexperience thatone learnedalotfromfamilies.

I resisted his proposal; Itoldhimthatweneededmoretime together, but he insistedthat he didn’t want a longengagement.Hethreatenedtowalk if I didn’t marry himright away. An amberwarninglightstartedtoflash.

Though I saw it, I lookedaway from it in spite of avoice inside me crying out,trying hard to get myattention.ButIdidn’twanttolosehim. I thoughtaboutmychildren, and how wonderfulitwouldbe for them tohaveanother father figure betterthan their own. But had ItakenthetimetolearnwhatI

neededtoknowabouthispastasa father, Iwouldhave runforthehills!

Iputtheweddingtogetherquickly, within a matter ofweeks. We married onFebruary23,1980, inAspen,in a beautiful home on thefamousskimountainloomingover the town. Aspen was aplacewebothenjoyed.David

wasborninColorado,andasayoungmusicianhadpickedup gigs playing piano in theresort when it wasn’t muchmore than a frontier town.He’dboughtsomerealestateback then on the residentialmountain where we wouldbuildasecondhometogether—more than merely avacation home, although it

would never replace NewYork.

I’d been skiing in Aspenformorethantenyearsatthatpoint and I owned a littlecondo.By1980thetownhadgrown into a world-class skiresort with lavishmegahomes, not unlike theone we rented for ourwedding day and night. And

now, at four in the afternoonon our wedding day, theinteriorofthegorgeouschaletwas filled with glamorouspeople, many of whom hadflowninfrombothcoastsandsomewhohadskiedinafterabeautifuldayontheslopes.

The ceremony took placein front of the big stonefireplacewith the perfect log

fire, and against a backdropof gently falling, perfectsnow. It was as if a setdecorator had done his bestwork for Town & Countrymagazine. My children werethere, of course, ten andeleven at the time. I recallhow beautiful Jenny lookedin her little red and whitepolka-dotgown,herhair tied

up with red ribbons. Theywere excited and so sweet toeveryone. Two of David’sthree children did not come,and although I found thatstrange, he convinced me itmeant nothing and I wouldmeet themlater. I let itgo inspite of knowing that hisyoungest lived only a fewshortblocksaway.Therewas

nothing to do about it in theeleventh hour. I took thevows from the localmagistrate, and I gave thismanmyheart.

In the first room weinhabitedtogetherasmanandwife, there were two doors.One was the entrance; theother was a closet. If youknow what a movie prop

closetis,youknowthatwhenone opens it, suddenly all itsoverstuffed contents comeexploding out. It’s generallygood for a laugh. Well, thecloset in our room wasstuffed to the max withskeletons,andwhenIcrackedthedoortheyalltumbledontothe floor,makingahugeandfrightening pile of horror

stories. I started pickingthroughthebonesandlearnedthings that were no laughingmatteratall.Iwoulddescribemyprocessasaduediligencethat I should have donebefore we married. Myeducation about my newhusband began on ourhoneymoon.

As the first few months

wore on, I discovered theproblems were even moresevere than I first suspected.Theyhadaccruedovermanyyears.AndI,whohadalwayswantedabigextendedfamily,thought that I could solvethem all. That, then,was thebeginning of the end of themarriage. How did my newhusbandreacttomyreaching

out?Badly!Ibelievetheguiltwas too much for him tohandle. I’d opened up a canofworms.

No longer my hero, heseemed embarrassed andangry by what I hadunraveled, and the wholegestaltofuglybehaviors thatwent with his personalitywere manifest. He became

silent and morose, a veryunhappyman.Nevertheless Icontinued to dig in withenergy and enthusiasmbecause Iwaspersuaded thatlove and affection for hisfamilycoupledwithtreatmentwould make a difference. Iwillnotdiscuss thenatureofthe problems because it willonlycausemorepaintosome

people about whom I oncecared deeply, and a few ofwhom I still do. It is enoughto say thatwhat I saw brokemyheartandIcriedariver.

The more involved I got,themoreittookatollonme.Ibecameclinicallydepressed.I couldn’t function. And themore depressed I grew, thefarther away my husband

drew.While I wasmaking adifference for his family, Iwas wrecking everything forus. As things got betteroutside our apartment, theyfell apartwithin. I am totallyto blame for this, I toldmyself. Finally, I no longerknew how to make Davidhappy. Everything I did waswrong. Look at all the good

work I’m doing, I toldmyself,but ithadthereverseeffect.Ifaultedmyselfforthewreck the marriage hadbecome, and as I continuedalong that path, I lost allmyconfidence and self-esteemuntil I was nothing but ashadow of the woman I hadonce been. At the verybottom of my ride into

despair, I became a suicidalcodependent.

He didn’t exactly tell mehe was leaving. I found outwhen I went to the airport,uninvited,topickhimupandwatched him come off theplane, arm in arm with hisnewlover.

Looking in the rearviewmirror, I realize how utterly

stupidIwas.Imanagedtodothe same dumb thing I’dalreadydonetoomanytimes:taking an action withoutbeing informed. I wascarelesswithmyfatherwhenI signed over my mother’sestate, and again with mysecond husband when Isigned fraudulent tax returns.Marrying this time was no

differentexceptforthesizeoftheconsequences.

There was never anyexcuse in my case for notbeing informed. Ever. Andyet I married a man withoutknowingnearlyenoughabouthim. How stupid is stupid?You don’t need reminding,but I need to remind myselfday in and day out of

Einstein’s definition ofinsanity:doingthesamethingover and over again andexpecting different results.The results of my earliermistakeswere grisly enough,but this last one wasdevastating. This dumbmistake nearly cost me mylife.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

ThePieces

Ididn’twakeuponemorninganddecideDavidwasafirst-classprick,butthat’swhereIended up. And it didn’t takepicking through the bones ofall the skeletons inhis closettoconvinceme.ItwashowIfound him—an angry,disconsolate man. I think helooked in the mirror anddidn’t like what he saw. He

wassometimesvocalaboutit.Or he was quiet anddespairing. There was littlecheer in his life. There hadbeen little cheer in the homehe came from. Doesn’teverything finally go back toone’sparents?

One day I heard thetwisted tale of his childhood.No need to go into it, nor

could I if I wanted to. I canonlyreportwhatIwastoldbyDavid, which is that hismother had an affair withanothermanwhilemarriedtohis father. They did notdivorce; they simply movedto different floors in thehouse and never spoke toeachotheragain.Foras longas the boys remained at

home,Davidandhisbrother,Don, carried messagesbetweenthem.That’senoughto make any child angry. Itput both young men in thepositionof having to choose.From the few conversationsthat went down betweenDavid and me about hisparents, it was clear to mewhomhechose.Hespokeof

hisfather,neverhismother.One of David’s favorite

things to do was to go troutfishing. He loved to fish. Ioftenthought that ifhecouldhavemadealivingfromtroutinstead of from music, hewouldhavedone it.Asakidhe had often fished with hisfather, and from time to timehe would reminisce. Those

were happy times. Heassociated no happy timeswith his mother. During thefive years we were married,as we stood in variousstreams, I often thought hewas there to keep that happytimeinhislifealive.

I also thought he had lefthomenotlikingwomen.Thisismyamateuranalysis,andI

told him what I thoughtseveraltimesoveraperiodofthree years as the marriagewasdisintegrating.Hetriedtorefute it, alluding to the factthat he’d dealt with this intherapy before we even met.Well, doesn’t that meansomeone might havementionedtheproblembeforeme—like one of his three

former wives, or perhaps allof them? I felt as though hedidn’t like me from the daywemarried.

***

Not long after we wed,TBLWIT started to winddown. I had been making afortune during its run. Withmultiple companies,

thousands of dollars a weekbecame tens of thousands aweek. And then it was over.Suddenly I was earningnothing. The next show Iproduced was a flop. (NofailuresonBroadway,wecallthemflops.)Mymarriagedidnot respond well to mychangeof status.Davidgrewsilent. However, I saw an

opportunity to try somethingI’dwantedtodoforawhile:Ialways thought Icouldwrite,andthiswasmychance.

It’suncannyhowsmarttheuniverseis.Alittlevoicehadbeennaggingatmeforalongtime to learn more aboutaddiction.SomehowIknewIhadn’t yet learned enoughabout this awful disease.

Indeed, what I’d gonethroughwithJudy,withLiza,and more recently onWhorehouse made me wanttoknowmore.GiventhatI’ddecided to write, I waslooking around for a subject,andIthoughtaddictionmeatymaterial. I asked a rehab inAspeniftheywouldallowmeto audit sessions there, and

the manager of the clinic,after canvassing the patients,saidIcouldsitinaslongasIwasmute.After the first twotwenty-eight-day sessions, Iwas,however,allowedtoaskquestions. What an eye-opener! I totally recognizedmy dismal marriage in thosesessions.

I’d started early in our

marriage to believe that myhusband was an alcoholic. Itwashisbehavior that gotmestarted. It wasn’t that hedranksomuch,and itwasn’tthat he was ever drunk. Hewas functioning at a veryhigh level. I’m talking aboutamanwhoreceivedGrammyAwards and countlessnominations for his

wonderful work during thetimeweweremarried.

Therewas a time, he toldme, when he’d smoked fourto five packs of cigarettes aday.Hewasaworkaholic.Hehad interchangeableaddictions. When we dinedouthelikedtodrink.Nothingunusual about that, exceptthat I felt that he couldn’t

enjoythemealwithoutafewdrinks, some wine, and agood brandy after. He askedme if I thought he was analcoholic, and I toldhim thatI didn’t think so, that Ithought he simply enjoyeddrinking socially. I’ve sinceconcluded thatwasdenialonmypart,plusIdidn’twanttooffendhim.Ihadyettolearn

thatalcoholismisnotamatterof how much liquid fire onepoursdownhisorhergullet;it’samatterofhowmuchonedepends on it in order to getthrough work, or the day,dinner,or just life ingeneral.I believe he had dependenceissues. And actually, inretrospect, I don’t think thatanybody asks the question

“Am I?” unless they alreadyknowtheanswer.

***

AsIlistenedtothepatientsinrehab week after week, theywere describing conduct thatseemed to define myhusband.Theydiscussed,andtheir counselor discussed, awhole gestalt of alcoholic

behaviors that destroy:depression, impatience,anger, rage, narcissism,control, and manipulation.These patients epitomizedsuch behavior, and Iimmediatelyconcluded Iwasliving with someone exactlylikethem.Iwaslivingwithaman I felt I couldn’t makehappy no matter what I did,

who couldn’t be happy nomatterwhat he did.He oftencame home in a quietcontrolled rage. The studiowas too hot or too cold; theengineerwasn’tanygood;thedirector was demanding; theproducer was stupid. Hedidn’t need an excuse to beunhappy.Hisfacewouldturninto amask of anger, and he

wouldn’t talk.We had silentdinners in which I becamedepressed, and that angeredhim even more. We went tobed angry, and I sensed heknewIwassilentlycrying.

Perhaps he thought I wasupsetaboutmycareer,butthetruth is that I was far lessupset about it than he. Iworried and wondered about

restoring it in order to makehim happy, but I had nosolution, and in my state ofmindat thatmomentin time,Icouldnothavefoundone.

On top of this I wasministering to his childrenwiththeirproblems.Ithinkitwas appalling andembarrassing to him, nevermind depressing the hell out

of me. I was convinced hehated me for helping themand hated that they neededhelp. As if it was all areflectiononhim.Ifellapart.Howcouldhedothistome?Iblamed him, and that mademe feel worse. I didn’t yetknowIwasaskingthewrongquestion. The right questionwas,Howdid I allow this to

happen?I couldn’t seem to do

anything right.And themorehe seemed to hate me, themoreinsecureIbecame,untilI was but a pale, needy,helplessresemblanceofme.Iboughthisfavoritefoods,butthat didn’t matter because Icouldn’t cook. I madeengagements with wonderful

people, but he never feltcomfortable with them.WhateverItookhimtoseeintheater, he didn’t like. Icouldn’t do anything toplease him no matter how Itried. Like air from a rubbertube with a hole in it,confidence seeped out ofmeevery day until it was gone.My self-esteem vanished. I

looked in themirrorandwasdisgusted by the personstaring back at me. If Icouldn’tloveher,whocould?Nobody, and never again!Thatwasmyanswer.

This once strong,independent, tough, andintelligent person now feltgone.SometimesIwouldcurluponthefloorinacornerof

the living room and wonderwhat would happen if Ijumpedoutoftheeighteenth-floor apartment window.Would I die froma coronaryocclusion on the way down?Or would it take hitting theground to kill me? I wassuicidal.Tough, take-no-shit-from-anyoneme!

No matter! I didn’t have

thecouragetojump.Mytwobeautiful children dependedon me. I had to continue tofunction,butallIcoulddoalldaywascry.Andthat’swhatIdid—spentalldaycrying. Ididn’t have time to write. IknewIwashavinganervousbreakdown;thatIwasuselessto myself and that I neededhelp.ButIwasnotyetready

toadmitanyofthatoutloud.Icouldn’tdo itwhilehewasstill in the house, and oddlyenough I felt I had tomaintain a false front for hischildren, who called oftenfrom LA, Minnesota, andAspen. I felt they dependedonmeemotionally.

***

Andthenhewasgone.HadIbeenof soundmind, Iwouldhave celebrated. In my fewrational moments I knewthere was nothing about himto love.Butnowmy rationalmoments were few and farbetween. Mostly I mourned,continuing to believe I hadlost the one true love of mylife, and everything was my

fault. I was the oneresponsible for the affair hewas having with anotherwoman.Ifoundit impossibleto blame him for anything.Yet I knew something waswrong with my reasoning.Why? Why did I blamemyself for everything? Thequestion grew bigger as theweeks wore on. Finally I

heard a little voice say, it’sbecauseyou’recodependent!

It was a word I’d oftenheard at the rehab.“Codependent.” I started tothink about that. I identifiedmyselfwiththepatientsintherehab, but most of all Iidentified with Judy to theextent that love and the lossof itwaswhatmatteredmost

to her. She was needy anddependent, and now I wasalso.Andnotonlyneedyanddependent,Iwasinsecureandtotally lacking in enoughconfidencetoget throughtheday.IthoughtIwasoffensiveto everyone. I was scared togo out for fear I would dosomething wrong. I wantedtheworldtogoawayandtake

mewithit.Iwantedtobeleftalone.And I’d gotten to thismost awful place withoutdrugs or liquor. I had neverbeen interested in either, andmy despair did not drive meto the well-stocked liquorcabinet in the living room.However, even though Ididn’tpopasinglepillortakea drink, I now began to

realize I had become anaddict. I would learn in myrecovery that I had becomeaddicted to pain. I was arampagingcodependent.

***

And now, finally, Iunderstoodwhathappened toJudy. She too was in pain—probably caused early by

family matters, and thenexacerbated by Louis B.Mayer, whom she absolutelyhated.Shedrankanddruggedto deaden that pain, andbecame addicted to doingthat.TrulyIbelieveasIwritethisthatheraddictiontopaincausedheraddictiontodrugsand liquor.Although I didn’tunderstandallofthatwhenit

was happening to me, I didknow one thing: Whathappened to Judy was notgoingtohappentome.

The children would oftencome home from school andfind me wearing the samebathrobe I’d been in whenthey’d left in the morning.How sad it was when myJenny would come into the

bedroom to tell me thatsmoking was bad for me.Thinking about it now isenough to bring tears to myeyes.BackthenIbawledlikeababy.

But I was paralyzed, andeven their sweet voicesurging me to come backdidn’t matter. I was toodepressed, but too sane to

want a pill. Pills fordepressioninthelateeightieswere starting to be a hipthing. Just another fad, Ithought, and anything thathad to do with pills was atotal turnoff. Because ofJudy? More than likely, butthenI’dneverfoundthedrugculture anything butdisgusting.

However, I neededsomething to ease the pain. Iwas so sick. I had a recordplayer in my head, and itplayedandreplayedthesametapesoverandoverandoveragain. What he said, what Isaid, what I didn’t say. Andnoneof itmattered anymore.The tapes were making menauseous,andevenifIdidn’t

eat, I stillhad thedryheavesand couldn’t stop them. Thetapes were the worst part. Icouldn’t turn the fuckingtapesoff.Ismoked,Icried,Ithrewup,andIlostweight.

And one day I looked atmyself in the mirror, reallylooked,andIwashorrified.Ithinkmorethananythingelsethat it was my vanity that

tookhold.IgotsoscaredthatIgotdressedandwent tomyfirst meeting at Al-Anon.What did I have to lose? Iremembered from thesessions I’d audited at theAspen rehab that Al-Anonwas a place to get help, andI’d heard it was a familyplace, for the relatives andfriendsofalcoholicsanddrug

addicts.Iknewimmediately,inthe

very first half hour, that thiswas where I belonged. Ilistened to so many peoplewith problems that wereeerilyfamiliar.Theytookmymind off my own. It helped.If one meeting was good, Ireasonedfiveadaywouldbebetter. I ran all over the city

attendingmeetings.Meetingsbecame my narcotic. I wasgrateful to be in New Yorkwheremeetings takeplace indifferent neighborhoodsalmost around the clock, andI never had to leaveManhattan.

Finally, after a week, Ibacked off and went to onlyoneadayforamonth.Every

time I left a meeting I leftbelievingIbelongedthere.Atthe end of the first month, Iwas feeling better enough toseekanaddictiondoctor,andit was she who led me littleby little to the understandingthat I was addicted to pain.She never said those words,although she completelyunderstood where I was.

After all, pain—mine andeveryone else’s—had been aconstant companion in mylife for a long time, and Iministered to all of it. I waspain’shandmaiden. It’snotasurprisetomethatIstartedtoneedit.

One day, however, whilein my doctor’s office, andaftermonths of repeating the

samesickphrasesof feeling-sorry-for-myself garbage, Ifinally heard, actually heard,whatIwassayingasifforthefirst time. With the experthelp I was getting, I wascompelledtolistentomyself,to really hear the maudlincrap that was coming out ofmy mouth, and it appalledme. The words were

ridiculous, and I wasdisgusted and embarrassed. Istoppedtalking.Isatsilently.The shrink sat watching me.And then, all at once, I wasable to find the right wordsmyself: “I am addicted topain. Iwant it.”ThemomentI was able to say that outloud,Iturnedacorner.Itwasthe most wonderful moment.

Iwasakid.IwassoexcitedIjumped up and down likesomekindofnut.SomekindofnutiswhatIhadbeen.

Itwasgoingtobedifferentgoing forward. Perhaps notovernight. But I was comingback. In that wonderfulmoment I knew that. It hadtakenmeayeartogettothatpreciousmoment.During the

following year, I nevernoticed my pain wasdisappearing,Ifeltmyenergyreturning instead. I stayed atAl-Anon,attendingameetingaweek,forfiveyears.

***

Let me start here with thedictionary definition ofcodependency. It suited my

condition so perfectly that Iamusemyselfbyimaginingitwastailoredtomepersonally,but then I do recognize fromtimetotimethatIamnotthecenter of the universe.Codependency is defined as“apsychologicalconditionora relationship in which aperson is controlled ormanipulated by another who

isaffectedwithapathologicalcondition (as an addiction toalcohol.…)” (I seemed tospecialize in these.)“Codependency ofteninvolves placing a lowerpriority on one’s own needs,while being excessivelypreoccupiedwiththeneedsofothers.” (That describes myconcern for and care of

David’s children.)“Codependency can occur inany type of relationship,including family… and alsoromantic relationships.Codependency may also becharacterized by denial, lowself-esteem, and excessivecompliance or controlpatterns.” This definitionsummed me up perfectly.

Narcissists (again,oneofmyspecialties) are considered tobe natural magnets for thecodependent.

I can joke about thisdictionary definition beingwrittenwithme inmind, buttrustme,italsofiteveryoneImet at Al-Anon. They weremothers and fathers, sistersand brothers, aunts and

uncles, husbands and wives,and thegrownchildrenofalltheaforementioned.Ilistenedto all their stories andrecognized me in many oftheir problems. I was nolongeralone.

It was remarkable to me(and for a long timesurprising) how I continuedto find exactly the

nonjudgmentalhelpIneeded.It’s said that you take awayfrom those rooms what youneed and leave behind whatyoudon’t.Listeningtoothersdiscuss their relationships athome, I learned a great dealaboutmyownhome,notjusttheoneIwasin,buttheoneIgrew up in. I heard otherstalking about behavior like

my father’s, and the distressthat his kind of behaviorwreaks in all kinds offamilies. When theconversation shifted to thewives of such fathers, Ithought they were talkingaboutmymother.

Once Iwas able to acceptthatmyfamilyproblemswerehardlyunique,Iwasalsoable

to find me—the child whohad been introduced to JudyGarland. That child was nodifferent from somany otherlonelychildrenIheardabout.Ilearnedhowtoacknowledgethatchild, to loveher,and toforgive Judy even though Imight never learn to loveJudy. And, having arrived inthose rooms suffering a deep

depression(althoughneverasdeep as Judy’s, whosecondition fitted the classicdefinition of manic-depressive), I could finallyidentify, at least somewhat,with how Judy felt as shevaliantly tried to go forwardeveryday.

The meetings reinforcedmy understanding that self-

mutilation has nothing to dowithlove,andthatJudyneverneeded an excuse to hurtherself. Sometimes Iimagined Judysittingnext tomeinthoserooms.Ofcoursethat would have beenimpossible because of hercelebrity,butI’dliketothinkshe would have learned asmuchasIdid.

I finally managed to saygood-bye to the damage I’dallowed Liza’s betrayal tocause in me. Letting go is alearned behavior, and it washardwork,but itwasagreatrelief not to be carrying allthat Liza baggage aroundanymore. I felt way lighterand more able to enjoy myformer successes. There has

always remained, however, aresidue—a great sadness forLi,whose career startedonadownhill slide after weparted.Lizawas(andperhapsremains) every bit thecodependent I was—and forgoodreason.

Someone in one of thoserooms said, “There are twodays of the week you don’t

have to worry about. One ofthemisyesterday,theotheristomorrow!” How right isthat?!I’vebeenmakingtodaycountforalongtimebecauseofthatlesson.Nottheleastofwhat I learned was to keepmy mouth shut whensomeone else was talking.I’m forever grateful for theday a young man in those

rooms said: “If Iwould onlyjusttakethecottonoutofmyears and stuff it into mymouth, I’d be a whole lotbetter off.” Oh, what a gift!An agent hardly ever shutsup. I finally discovered howmuchmoreIcouldfindoutifI keptmymouth closed.Mylasthusbandactually toldmeeverything I had needed to

know before I married him.He didn’t use words like“controlling,”“manipulative,” and“narcissistic,” but themessages were all clearlythere. I didn’t hear thembecause I wasn’t reallylistening.

***

Sharingmy own experiencesin those roomsstartedmeonthe road to recovery.Finally,by the late eighties, aftertaking a good look at thetotality of my marriedexperiences, Iwasable to letall the anger and depressiongo,andIwasthenreadytogoto court, which is where thelegal hassling ultimately led

David and me. It was nastystuff, and the details areboring, but the finale wasbetter thananyeleventh-hourfinishonBroadway.

To start with, I looked atmy soon-to-be-ex-husbandsitting there, and I feltnothing. I wondered how Ihad allowed myself to makesuch a poor judgment. My

firstinstinct,whichwastogetto know this man betterbefore wemarried, had beenthe right one. And now Iwouldpay formymistake incourt. I was disgusted withmyself.

Theprimlittle(andImeantiny) judge, who revved uphis machismo by arrivingclad in black leather on a

huge Harley Hog, sat as tallas he was able to as helistened to my husband’slawyerstellhimthatitwouldbe a shame to give meanything in the divorce.“Take it all away from her,”myhusband’slawyerboomedout in a stentorian tone.“Don’t let her suck on thehindtitofwealth.Youwillbe

destroying her. Take it allaway,” he said. “Then, likecream rising to the top, shewill do what she has to inordertosucceedonceagain.”Icouldn’tbelievemyears.

Thejudge,however,foundthis argument verycompelling, and that’s justwhat he did.He gave all theinvestments, bought with a

greatamountofmyearnings,toDavid.Myattorneyshardlyspoke at all. I didn’tunderstand it, and at thatpoint there was nothing Icould do about it. I mighthave done something later,but Iwasanxious tobedonewith it and tomoveon.Thatthejudgegavethehomewe’dbuilt in Aspen to David was

only right because he’downed the land before, andhe’dinvestedthelion’sshareoftheconstructioncosts.

I was awarded a lousycash settlement,whichdidn’tcome anywhere close to themoney I’d invested in ourdifferent real estate venturesin Colorado. It was a sickjoke. Like cream, I curdled

justlisteningtothejudge.Butitwasfinallyover,andhere’sthebottomline:WhenIcameoutof thisdark tunnel, Iwasso much stronger. I don’tthink I knowmany as strongasI.

***

Iamdeeplygratefultoallthepeople who inhabited those

rooms. I share a silent bondwith them that will never bebroken because I live thelessons I learned in thoseroomseverydayoftheweek.I can no longer be testedwithout my thoughtsimmediately flying back tosome meeting that informedme how to react withunderstandingandwithgrace.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWO

TGIF(ThankGodIt’s

Finished)!

I still find it interesting, inretrospect,tolookathowmycareer functioned in mymarriages. It was the thirdperson in bed. In both mysuccessandmyfailure!

InmyfirstmarriageIusedmy ambition like asteamroller to mow myhusband down. I was youngand stupid, thoughtless andunkind.AndwhenIachieveda certain level of success, Idumpedhim.Hedeservedfarbetter. I’mgrateful tomyselfforapologizingtohim.

Inmysecondmarriagemy

success made it difficult formy husband to stand on hisown two feet once he’d losthisbusiness.Butthatwashisowndoing,sowhocaresthathe was never again able tomeasureup!

My last husband (and Ilove being able to say that)married a success. He wasgood with that. During our

marriageitwasmycareerthistime that went south. Thehuge earnings and all theattendant glitter disappeared.Hewasnotsookaywiththat.One of my opening-nightflops that my husband and afriend drank their waythrough stands out as aparticularly low moment forme—butjustoneofmany.

So my career broughtaboutbehaviorbothgoodandbad from me and thoseclosest to me. Had ourrelationships been solidenough, had the men Imarried had a stronger senseof self, had I been moreconfident and tolerant,perhaps my career wouldhavemattered less. For sure,

my career wasn’t the onlyfactor that determined thesuccess or failure of thoseunions. It would be a grossoversimplification for me tolay the demise of eachmarriage at the feet of myprofession.

However,havingmadeallthe above disclaimers, as adedicated careerwomanwho

defines herself byher career,I need to repeat my feelingthat having it all is notpossible. Had I made goodchoices formyself instead ofbadones,IthinkIstillwouldhavehadtomakemanymorecompromises than I waswilling to make because Iknowwhatacareerdemands.Iwouldhavehadtoletgoof

a Hallmark-card version oflife, a picture-perfectexistence, and instead letthings happen as they do inlife without sweating it. Icouldn’t. I always wanted ittobeperfect.Itwasfarfrom.Some aspect of my life orsomeoneIlovedalwaysdrewthe short straw.Sometimes itwas one of my beautiful

children, or both of them: atother times it was myhusband, and very often itwas me. And I dealt with itbadly.

Sincemylastdivorce,I’veenjoyed affairs andrelationships, but I’m nolonger interested in findingthe same slippers under mybed twoweeks in a row, nor

doIwanttobabysitanyone’senlarged prostate. I want tobeneitheranursenorapurse.(Ilovethatexpression.)

***

There is one life lesson I’veadopted that is the mostimportant of all. It countswithmemore than listening,andmore thanbeingpresent,

more than living in themoment. It is that I neverneed to be 100 percent righteveragain.JustrecentlyIwasreminiscingwithmydaughterabout a silly event that tookplace one morning manyyears ago. She rememberedthe incident one way, Ianother.Mymemorywas sovivid;apparentlysowashers,

and our recollections weretotally different. It was asetup for an argument. (As itproves there’s no such thingas objective reality!) Thatlong-ago morning was aseminal moment for me,because I realized exactlythen that my third marriagewasover.Davidhadbeenoutthe night before with the

woman who would becomewife number four. We hadvisited friends in Santa Fe,and now we were leaving;and I was leaving mymarriage behind although Iwould stubbornly cling inneedyfashionabitlonger.

Thosefewawfulhoursareas crystal clear tome as if itwere yesterday. I was fine

with Jenny’s memory of themoment. I didn’t need toconvinceherthatIwasright,nor do I ever need to do itwithanyoneelse.Beingrightissimplyawaytoperpetuatean argument. I can alloweveryone else in my life—those I know, and strangerswho are just passing through—toberight.Itdoesn’tmean

I’mwrong;itmeanswedon’targue. Idon’t loseargumentsanymore;Isimplydon’thavethem.Ilovethat.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-THREE

ClimbingtheMountain

Fast-forward. I am on safariin Africa, at TarangireNational Park in Tanzania tobe exact. PaulOliver, one ofthe greatest safari guides inEast Africa, says, “Let’s dosomething daring. I’ve nevertried this with a client.”Okay! “Let’s take somebedrolls and leave camp.We’ll sleep out in the wild

tonight.” I had alreadywalked twenty miles acrossthe savanna with Paul, whocarried a rifle he wouldn’tuse, and Osidai, a Masaiwhosemachetewas a simpleextension of his arm goingback to the time he was achild.I’dwantedtogetarealfeel for the country, and Icould think of no better way

than to walk. We weresometimes in elephant grassover our heads, inhabited bypoisonous snakes and everyotherdangeroustinycreature.Inthisnewadventurewe’dbeoutside the park in the darkwith the elephants crashingaround, and with whateverlionswereprowlingthenight.Sleeping out sounded fully

scary enough to beinteresting.

We stretched out ourbedrolls on a high rockbecause, as I had learned inPaul’s camp—whereelephants cruised constantly—thatifyouhadtorunfroman elephant, running up arock could save your life.Elephants don’t climb rocks.

Our rock that night wastwenty feet high. Next to uswas a rock that was at leastfiveorsixstorieshigh.That’swhere the baboons went toget away from the lions thatfed at night. They climbedtheir rock at precisely 6:00p.m.everysinglenightoftheyear, at the exactmoment inequatorial Africa when the

sun goes down. Paul knewthathecould treatme to thisamazing sight: hundreds ofbaboons,somewithbabiesontheir stomachs or on theirbacks, scaling this tower atbreakneckspeedtotheirnestsabove.

That night’s episode wasnothingshortoffabulous.Webroughtagoodbottleofwine

and a battery-operated discplayersothatwecouldlistento Beethoven and Mozart aswe watched forest firesburningindifferentplacesonthe wall of the Great RiftValley. Paul, a little moreworried about the lions thanhe was willing to admit,didn’t get much sleep, but Ihad no trouble, and when I

awoke in the morning, I putthe Barbra Streisand concertalbum on the CD player. Iloved that album, and so didthebigbaboons!At6:00a.m.on the dot, the sun came up,and thebaboons camedown.Just aswewere preparing toleave, at least a hundred ofthem (those with good taste)sat at complete attention in a

long line stretched out infrontofus,theirpawsintheirlaps, until the last song wasplayed. Not one so much ascoughed.We stared at them,and they stared back, and itwas clear they loved Barbraasmuch as I. I thought longandhard about callingher tosay, “I’ve seen big baboonsline up to hear you sing.” I

feared she might notunderstand.(Iamabigfanofhers; I think she is a greatlady.)

IfellsoinlovewithAfricaon the first trip, I decided Iwanted to celebrate mysixtieth birthday by climbingMt. Kilimanjaro. There wasnothing to keep me fromdoingit,andnoreasonwhyI

shouldn’t treat myself. Ialready enjoyed hiking inAspen,where I still owned acondo,andIthoughtIwasasstrong at sixty as I had beenatthirty.(Nottrue.)Idevotedthe summer just prior to mybirthday to getting in bettershape.IdidthisinandaroundAspen, where just aboutevery week my friend

Barbara Eisberg and Iclimbed a fourteen-thousand-foot peak. (Colorado boastsfifty-four of the monsters.)We also hiked to twelve andthirteen thousand feet theother days, and I regularlytook my copy of the NewYork Times to the top ofIndependence Pass (12,095feet) so that I could improve

mylungcapacityat thesametimeasIimprovedmymind.

Finally,onabright,sunnySeptember 6, 1996, I flewbacktoNewYorktodropoffunnecessary luggage, quicklygo through themail, pick upmy passport, and go for it.TheplanwastobeinNairobiontheseventh,Arushaontheeighth, and be climbing on

the ninth, lest Barbara and Ilose even an iota of thevaluable acclimatizationgained on the roof ofColorado.

Thenightbeforetheclimbstartedwestayedatamodesthotel not far from the accessroute. Our chief guide,Capanya, visited us tointroduce himself, go over

details, tell us what not topack, what we could expect,and what he expected fromus. Our excitement wastempered by trepidation, andneitherofusslept.

The next morning wejoined the men who wouldtake us up. They were allMasai: two guides, Capanyaand Sekeyan (who both

turned out to be incrediblycapable), a cook, Manasee(who climbed carrying fourlargeeggcartonsinhishandsso that we could havesauces), and ten fabulousporters.Itlookedlikeasmalltribe supporting us: That’swhatwewanted and thoughtwe needed, and that’s whatwepaidfor—firstclass.

The climb would takeseven days: five going up,two coming down. We werestarting out at ninety degreesFahrenheit and ending attwenty below zero the nightbeforesummiting.Thismeantcarrying a lot of food andclothing. Beyond fourteenthousandfeet,therewouldbeno firewood; therefore itwas

mandatoryfor theoutfitter tosupplystovesandfuel.Therewere two two-man sleepingtents: one for us and one forour guides, a dining tent, alavatory enclosure, and acook tent that would alsoserve as a dormitory for theporters.Someoutfittersallowtheir porters to fend forthemselves in the elements,

but not our classy outfitter.Going first cabin meant thatthe guys who carried eightypounds each for us all daywould at least enjoy warmthand shelter all night. Godknowstheydeservedit.

The two guides spokeexcellent English, the cookcould make himselfunderstood,andtherestknew

aboutfivewordseach.Thosewords were “Bruce Willis,”“Arnold Schwarzenegger,”and “Nike.” This, however,did nothing to stop us fromcommunicating. Iwould takemy face creams and lotionsinto their tent eachnight andtalk about everything fromface-liftstoAmericanpolitics—all of which they loved

hearing about—and then,invariably, they wouldquestion me about theirbiggest concern:AIDS.Theywanted—needed, really—toknowhow theycouldhave arelationshipwithawoman—awoman they might one daymarry—and not get sick. Itold them how, and theynever had any trouble

understanding me. But I’mgettingaheadofmyself.

When they first caughtsight of Barbara and me, Icould see slight smiles ontheir faces, not smiles ofgreeting but smiles ofgratitude. Theywere lookingat two old ladies who weregoing to give them theweekend off with full pay.

They figured—and this wasconfirmed to me later—thatwe would have a nice strollfor three days through theuniquevegetationoftheShiraPlateau, andwhenwe got to“the rock” it would be allover,asin“Downwego.”

On the third night wemadecampatthefootof“therock,”thelastenormous,very

steep side we would have toclimb to reach the top.Capanyagaveusapeptalkatourfirst-classdinner,andgotup from the table todemonstrate how he wantedus towalk the nextmorning.“Step, breath, step, breath,”he said, emphasizing the restafter each footfall. We hadbreakfastat5:00a.m.,packed

our gear, and hit the rockwalking. And I mean justthat. We were putting onefoot in front of the otherwithout a breath in between.(GodblessColorado!)IheardCapanya issue new orders atthe lunch break that resultedinchangedexpressionsandagreat deal of chatter. Swahiliis a language inwhichmany

syllablesarerepeated,(tutuanana=“Seeyouagain”),andattopspeeditsoundslikethelanguage a child mightinvent,whimsicalandlyrical.“Whatdidyousaytothem?”I asked Capanya, although Ithought I knew exactly whathe’d said. Still, I wanted tohearhimsayit.

“I told them, ‘Pack

everythingtight.We’regoingtothetop!’”

Yes!Yes!Yes! Itwas themoment of greatest victoryfor me, even greater thanbeingatUhuruPeak,theroofofAfrica—notthat therewasanything wrong with that.“We’re going to the top!”That’s what it’s always beenabout for me: taking risks,

stepping off a cliff,attempting to get to the top,andhavingfundoing it.AndIfiguredifIcouldclimbKiliat sixty, there was nothing Icouldn’tdo.Iamhappy.Iamhealthy. I have a beautifulfamily,andIdoitall!

***

I remember closing my eyes

and resting my head on theplane cushion as the 737 leftNairobi on the way toFrankfurtandthenontoNewYork. I thought about thefrightened girl who stood inthe middle of a room in thePlaza Hotel and put out asmallfireallthoseyearsago.I also thought about theyoung woman who stood in

themiddleofJudy’slifeforawhile and put out grass firesall over the place. Theexperience changed her. Shewas braver; she riskedmore.The grown woman now hadthe courage to fight fireswherevershefoundthem,andputting themout allowed herto see the world around hermore clearly, though she

sometimesgotburned.The old woman’s own

ragingfireshavenowcooled,and she no longer bears anyill will toward anyone. Sheowes Judy something for thechanges. Gratitude? I’m notsure that’s the right word.Whatever it is, itwouldhavebeen a much lesser lifewithouther.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Inclement weather almostkeptmefromapartywhereIenjoyed a serendipitousmeeting with SallyRichardson, who bought this

book shortly thereafter.Thankyou,Sally.Inowthinkofthatcold,wetwinternightas a sunny day. And thankyou, Michael Flamini, myeditor at St. Martin’s, whoframedeverysuggestionwithsuch kind consideration. Iwant to include inmy thankstheentireteamatSt.Martin’sfor their wonderful support.

I’m grateful to my amazingagent,AlZuckerman, for hiscaring and expertise, and Ialso owe a great deal of mygood fortune to RichardMarek, without whose earlyattentionthisbookwouldnotexist. Finally, there is myclose friend Albert Poland,organizer of the first JudyGarlandfanclub,whichisno

more than a coincidence inourfriendship…orperhapsasign of the universe atwork.His understanding andappreciation for thegift JudyGarland gave theworld gaveme the encouragement Ineeded tokeep the importantthingsinfocus.

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

STEVIE PHILLIPS beganhercareertravelingwithJudyGarland and became head of

the theater and the motionpicture departments of CMA(now International CreativeManagement) in New York.As an agent, she representedfilm stars, directors, andmusicians of the first order,and was involved withmultiple award-winningtheater productions—amongthem, Doonesbury, Loose

Ends, The Best LittleWhorehouse in Texas, Nuts,and Open Admissions—andfilmproductions.ShelivesinNewYorkCity.Youcansignupforemailupdateshere.

ThankyouforbuyingthisSt.Martin’sPressebook.

Toreceivespecialoffers,

bonuscontent,andinfoonnewreleasesand

othergreatreads,signupforournewsletters.

Orvisitusonlineatus.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

Foremailupdatesonthe

author,clickhere.

CONTENTS

TitlePageCopyrightNoticeDedication

Introduction

Part1•Beginnings1.WhotheHellIsStevie

Phillips?

2.WhatDoYouDowithaJewishPrincess?

3.GirlontheBottom4.CanITellYouAbout

“Menial”?

5.TheNewKidsontheBlock

6.HowGoodIsReal?7.HaveYouHeardof

Haddonfield?

8.Boston9.RealityChecks10.Love—orSomething

LikeIt

11.Vegas12.BackinNewYork13.AVacation14.OneKindofHusband15.Endings,Beginnings,

andEndings

16.AVerySadDay17.Sometimes

Part2•Success18.TheLizaStart-up19.FlyingSolo20.StarringLiza21.WhatIsanAgent?

22.MovingOn

23.Crazy24.FunintheSun25.TheSuccessEffect

26.Betrayal

Part3•Maturity27.ADifferentKindof

Whorehouse

28.BroadwayGetsaWhorehouse

29.HollywoodGetsAnotherWhorehouse

30.MyLastMarriage

31.ThePieces32.TGIF(ThankGodIt’s

Finished)!

33.ClimbingtheMountain

AcknowledgmentsAbouttheAuthorCopyright

JUDY & LIZA & ROBERT & FREDDIE &DAVID&SUE&ME…Copyright©2015by Stevie Phillips. All rights reserved.For information, address St. Martin’sPress, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York,N.Y.10010.

www.stmartins.com

Cover design by David BaldeosinghRotstein

Cover photograph of Judy Garland ©UCLA Charles E. Young ResearchLibrary Department of SpecialCollections, Los Angeles TimesPhotographicArchives

eBooksmaybepurchased forbusinessorpromotionaluse.For informationonbulk purchases, please contactMacmillan Corporate and PremiumSales Department by writing toMacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

TheLibraryofCongressCataloging-in-

Publication Data is available uponrequest.

ISBN978-1-250-06577-3(hardcover)ISBN978-1-4668-7277-6(e-book)

e-ISBN9781466872776

FirstEdition:June2015