Another Life_ A Memoir of Other People - Michael Korda [148]
Jackie was not to be contradicted, however. “It fits fine,” she said, bunching the material up behind my back. “It looks great on you, doll. Maybe you should get the sleeves shortened a bit, but it’ll do fine for tonight.” I protested that I couldn’t take it from Irving. “He wants you to have it,” Jackie said firmly. And poor Irving, tears in his eyes, recognizing defeat, said, this time sadly, without the chuckle, “Isn’t she great?”
DANNY’S HIDEAWAY was one of those quintessentially dark New York steak boîtes that cater to celebrities. By the time we sat down to dinner, our party consisted of Jackie, Irving, Abby Hirsch, myself, Myron Cohen (the borscht belt/Las Vegas comedian), Peter Lawford, and Lawford’s date, a stunningly beautiful young woman whose eyes were thickly glazed, like homemade pottery. Lawford himself was drunk and seemed to have been captured by the Mansfields without knowing who they were. At times, he slept, noisily, his face on the table. At other times, he was rude and hostile. He alternated between quarreling with his girl and sticking his hand under her dress or his tongue in her ear, while she tried feebly to fend him off. “I could use a piece of that,” Cohen said wistfully—he too seemed to be unsure what he was doing at the table, but like most comedians he wasn’t about to refuse a free meal.
By now it was late, at any rate for me—well past ten o’clock—and I was starving. Every time the maître d’ came over, bearing vast, gold-tasseled red velvet menus the size of doors, Jackie shooed him away and ordered another round of drinks. I had consumed the entire basket of breadsticks and rolls and was feeling queasy before Jackie finally allowed us to have menus. I didn’t even look at mine. I ordered a steak and a baked potato and prayed for its swift arrival. In the meantime, Irving Mansfield had been regaling us with the story of his shoes: He had gone to his shoemaker in Beverly Hills and ordered a pair of slip-on loafers in alligator hide, the most expensive shoes he had ever owned. How much had they cost? Cohen asked. Two hundred and fifty bucks, Irving replied. Cohen shook his head. He had a pair of shoes that cost more than that, made for him in Vegas in baby Cuban caiman hide. He took one of them off and passed it to Irving, who examined it with envy, then passed it around the table so each of us could examine it in turn. When it got to Lawford, Lawford glanced at it with contempt, took off one of his shoes and banged it down in the center of the table. “Unborn baby turtle,” he said. Five hundred dollars a pair and worth every penny. You didn’t even know you had shoes on, they were so comfortable. Myron Cohen and Irving Mansfield looked as wistfully at Lawford’s shoe as they had at his girl. Each of them carefully wrote down the name of Lawford’s shoemaker as the food was served.
I was reminded of the Mad Hatter’s tea party, but my hunger was so great that I didn’t care. I picked up my knife and fork and prepared to eat my steak, but Jackie, noticing what I had ordered, was upset. I could get a steak any fucking where, she said. Danny’s was famous for its lobster Fra Diavolo, which she had ordered, or its calf’s liver Veneziana, which Irving was having. I could not eat at Danny’s without giving them a try. She took a big spoonful of her lobster and dumped it on top of my steak, then put some of Irving’s calf’s liver on top of that. I glanced sadly at the mess on my plate, while Irving said, cheerfully again this time, “Isn’t she great?”
I decided to go home and raid the refrigerator. I made my good-byes, pleading work to be done, my wife’s health, a sick child, a headache. Luckily, by this time, neither Jackie nor Irving tried to stop me.
As I was collecting my briefcase from the hatcheck girl, the maître d’ came running after me, anxiety written large on his face. I was afraid that Jackie was demanding my return. Instead, he