Dean and Me_ A Love Story - Jerry Lewis [36]
I, being a mere babe in the woods at the time, didn’t fully appreciate this fact. Dean had played Chicago as a single, so he knew the score. (He also came from Steubenville!)
Talk about Chicago and a thousand stories float around my brain. Like the night—it was our second time at the Chez Paree—when a bulky gentleman with a hoarse voice poked his head into our dressing room and invited us to come sit at Joe Fischetti’s table.
Now, for me, the name Fischetti rang no bell—hadn’t I seen it on a bakery somewhere? But as Dean put his arm around my waist and led me very assertively toward the Key Club, he explained that in Chicago, the name meant three brothers—Joe, Rocky, and Charlie—who were forces to be reckoned with.
The brothers were cousins of Al Capone, Dean said. Charlie Fischetti, who had been Capone’s chief lieutenant in the twenties, now ruled Chicago, along with Capone’s old accountant, Jake Guzik, and Tony “Joe Batters” Accardo. Rocky and Joe worked closely with their big brother—they were one big happy Family.
And now they were at their table with almost twenty guests. One of the men stood and introduced himself as Joe Fischetti, then proceeded to introduce everybody else to us. We met Rocky and Charlie, and their wives. Mr. and Mrs. Tony Aiuppa, the Cheech Pitashes, the Johnny Ambrosias, and Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Feldman. (Arnold grabbed my lapel and said, “One of your people, Jerry.”)
“And there in the back,” Joe continued, “are Anthony Verlatti, Jake Cleveland, and”—he smiled—“the notorious Carmine, the cop.”
“Is he really a cop?” I asked Dean. He gave me a nudge that told me I’d better save the Idiot for the act.
We sat. “You two are absolutely terrific,” Joe told us. “We had a ball watching the two of yiz put on your skits.”
Dean and I smiled, and there were murmurs of agreement and raised glasses all around the table.
“Hold on a second,” Joe said. “How rude could this be?” He turned to us. “What will you fellas have to drink?” A waiter materialized instantly.
“Jack Daniel’s rocks for me, and a . . .” He masked his mouth with his hand and lowered his voice, so I listened even harder. “A Shirley Temple for my partner,” Dean said. To the general merriment of the table.
I shot him a look. He shot me one right back: We still had a second show to do. Once, in Los Angeles, I’d had a hard drink before we went on—another social situation—and Dean might as well have been working with Johnny Puleo, the harmonica player. So no more hard drinks.
We sat and made casual conversation. The men all loved Dean, and the women even more—and they looked at me like they wanted to burp me. Not the worst situation, as I was in the process of discovering! It was great for my partner to be unbelievably handsome and charming (and famous), but it wasn’t hurting me one bit to be young and funny (and famous).
It seemed that Carmine was the clown of the group. He told us jokes, and he told them poorly... jokes that we had heard in gym class many years earlier. Dean and I laughed politely, but where the others were concerned, it was quickly apparent that Carmine told the same dirty jokes whenever the group was gathered. The women were rolling their eyes, as if to say, Dear God, not again....
We sat for around forty-five minutes, smiles frozen on our faces, and then we had to excuse ourselves to get ready for the second show. Everyone at the table said they’d be staying to see it.
“You know, we don’t change our material from show one to show two,” Dean said.
Joe Fischetti gave us a look, from heavy-lidded eyes, that would have frozen running water. “You change anything...,” he said in a low, raspy voice. Then