Dean and Me_ A Love Story - Jerry Lewis [89]
We’re served drinks and sandwiches, and Dean is on a roll. We win the first eight hands, and he starts pressing (increasing) the bets. And all of a sudden—miracle of miracles—the house limit has vanished. By the end of an hour, we’ve lost all the morning’s winnings—as well as the $26,000. Plus Dean took a marker for $10,000.
Not all at once, of course. The house wouldn’t give ten grand all at once. It’s called Dribs and Drabs . . . or, in gambling parlance, Grind Him Down... Burn Him Out... Chill the Sucker....
As we’re attempting to leave and check into the nearest ICU, the head pit boss cordially invites us to sit down in his office. Call him Mr. Cashman.
“Coffee, fellas?” Cashman says. “Any refreshment?”
He looks at each of us. When speech isn’t immediately forthcoming, he smiles. “So,” he says. “How do you fellas plan on paying off your marker for the total sum of ten thousand big ones?”
Dean’s voice is practically a whisper. “Well, we haven’t exactly come to terms with that issue just yet,” he says. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there like Edgar Bergen left Charlie McCarthy alone on a stool.
Mr. Cashman shrugs. “No big deal,” he says. “When do you guys close at the 500 Club?”
Since I’m the heavy-duty businessman, I pipe up: “Whenever we close, that’s it!”
Cashman frowns. “This isn’t the time for funny, kid. I mean, you can’t play off your marker working in two places at the same time.”
“You mean you want us to play here?” Dean asks. This is, I think, his first clue that we are actually heading into the big time. The Turf Club is upscale, heavyweight.
“Unless you have a better idea,” Cashman says. “Like giving us the cash!”
“No, no,” Dean says quickly. “We appreciate the chance to pay it off.”
Cashman smiles. He has a scary smile. “Play it off,” he says. “We’ll give you guys five thousand a night for a Saturday and a Sunday night at two shows a night, and we’ll be clean.”
Dean and I look at each other, realizing that’s twenty-five hundred fuckin’ bucks a show. Christ, we’re only making $750 a week apiece at the 500 Club—a total of $1,500 between us, and we’re doing twenty-one shows a week, which comes to about $74 a show. This man has just offered us $2,500 a show!
Cut to: Skinny D’Amato’s office at the 500 Club. Same day.
Skinny listens while turning in his leather chair behind the desk he only sits at when there’s trouble. “According to the contract you guys signed, I got you exclusive for any work in and around Atlantic City for the next three years!”
The silence is deafening. Skinny sees our pain. Skinny is our friend, and now he proves it. “I’ll tell you what,” he says. “You can play their gig, but just this once. I know these people, and I wouldn’t want them angry at either one of you—or me.”
So we’re broke again, but we have a car, and we’re thrilled to think that we’re going to headline at the Turf Club. Skinny was such a good friend that he allowed us to close on the Friday night of the weekend we promised Mr. Cashman.
And so comes the fateful Saturday. We rehearse all day, thrilled to learn that the Turf Club’s orchestra is eleven men. A band of eleven musicians—as opposed to the 500’s four. Fortunately, the leader of the Turf Club’s orchestra is a great guy, and he writes us some charts that same day, so we’re in good shape....
Until that night.
The joint is loaded with the cream of Atlantic City, all those people who have heard about Martin and Lewis but wouldn’t go to Missouri Avenue to see them. This is an audience that waits until you come to them, and nothing has changed over all the years. The venue doesn’t matter; these people lurk around show business because it’s the thing to do. Not to enjoy themselves, but to see and be seen. It’s like owning a twenty-carat diamond ring and hating the weight of it, but loving people to look.
Well, we had them all that night. They’re so stiff, they have to be propped up in their seats. The average age is deceased.... (That’s where the joke comes from—either