Chapter 12
As Walter Winchell pondered the mystery of Bobby Darin’s parentage, Darin and a few band members were hanging out at his room at Hotel 14. This building was adjacent to the Copa, and it was convenient for entertainers to go down the back stairs, enter the Copa through the kitchen, and make their way to the stage. Since the incident at the Copa box office, Podell had assigned a man to stand guard in the stairwell between Hotel 14 and the nightclub, so that Bobby would not be bothered by his fans. In the musical bullpen were Bobby, Dick Behrke, Ronnie Zito, and Lips. Bobby, wearing dungarees and a striped pajama top, was half sitting up, half lying on a couch. By his side was a small, rather battered guitar. He had been working on a routine to include a bit of guitar playing into act, but he did not think it would go in at the Copa. It would be saved for some future engagement. A coffee table before him was covered with sheet music, magazines and newspapers. The other men were seated opposite from the couch on a collection of mismatched chairs. With them followed their usual wake of soda bottles, crumpled cigarette packs, and endless cups of coffee. Ray Charles was singing softly behind them on a portable record player.
Hotel 14 was certainly a step up from many a firetrap that Darin had lived in while on the road in the past nine months, but it was still a hotel room, formal and impersonal. The color scheme of the suite, gold and pale lavender, was tasteful, but rather cold. The curtains on the windows were the heavy sort that blacked out the room to daylight so that nighttime performers could sleep, but they added not an ounce of charm or warmth to the room. It was by no means the home that Darin hoped to have eventually. The place, though richly appointed with every comfort, was definitely lacking in the feminine touch. Charlie was staying in town to keep an eye on Bobby, as evidenced by his socks, washed in the sink and drying on the window sill. Charlie had brought in enormous sandwiches for the boys all around, then vanished into the kitchen so that they could get down to work. He knew they would soon be speaking very rapidly in music lingo that he simply could not follow, so he would excuse himself to read the papers until Bobby needed him for some errand.
They were meeting in Darin’s rooms because it was less tiring for him than being on the Copa stage during the day. Dick would pass notes on to the other musicians who by now were used to Darin’s moves, his changes in tempo and mood that made the act so fresh and exciting every night.
A copy of the Daily Mirror sat on top of a stack of papers. Winchell’s column was prominent on the first page. Every day that Bobby played at the Copa, it meant that his name would be featured somewhere in the column. This advertisement was beyond anything that money could buy. Winchell’s enthusiasm for Darin’s act seemed limitless. One day, he had been inspired to write some doggerel poetry to the Splish Splash boy, though he himself termed it a “sonnet.” A copy of the verse lay on the table, with comments in the margins from the Paul Shelley Orchestra:
Now you’re wowing the Copa mobs (don’t say mob, Bobby despises them!)
Gals are shrieking and matrons sigh, (they want our Bobby boy!)
You’ve the pick of the choicest jobs; (well, he’s got the pick of gals, anyway!)
Quite a change from the days gone by. (when Bobby had more hair)
Life goes on at a dizzy clip,
Nights are crowded with pals and pards,
Would you care for a little tip? (career advice from Walter, that’s rich!)
Trust in Broadway, but cut the cards!
Gals are fickle, (as you may guess), (not as fickle as Bobby!)
Fortunes change in this whacky town,
On the ladder that’s called $ucce$$, (where’s the ‘S’ on your typewriter, Walter?)
The nicest people go Up & Down.
Now your future is filled with hope,
Now you’re smothered with Kind Regards,
Be my guest for some priceless dope,
Trust in Winchell, but cut the cards!!! (read ‘em and weep, Bard of Broadway!)
Walter Winchell—New York Mirror
Some anonymous wag in the band had borrowed his girlfriend’s lipstick, applied it to his own mouth, and had adorned the bottom of the column with a sloppy red kiss. Bobby had taken the mostly good-natured ribbing from the guys about Winchell’s seeming infatuation with him. They all knew, subconsciously, that the quality that drew people to Darin on the stage also worked in his every day life, with both men and women. People were just naturally drawn to him, they wanted to be close to his action. The teasing had subsided, however, as they now took it for granted that Winchell had his own place in the Darin Universe. After the incident at the Copa box office with the unruly fans, Darin no longer went out on police calls with Winchell. He did, in fact, need his rest after the shows. The band had noticed his sister, Nina, in the back of the Copa, keeping a close watch on Bobby after his illness. After opening night, it was not her usual habit to attend shows. Bobby carried on as always, alternating between clowning with the audience and making love to it, but the rest of them all sat up just a bit straighter on the stage when Nina was watching the show.
Once Darin had returned to the Copa stage after the chase up East 60th, Ronnie Zito had a chance to ask him, “So, what did you see with Winchell going around in the squad car?”
Bobby’s brown eyes had shined with excitement. “Well, the cops got calls about two dead bodies in one night! One was a prostitute who had committed suicide. The other was a guy who got knifed in a card game. He didn’t want his wife to know he was gambling, so he wouldn’t let his buddies take him to hospital, and he bled to death.”
“Really? Wow! What happened next?”
“Winchell and I talked it over, whether we would, you know, take a look at the bodies.” Bobby then paused.
Ronnie Zito had finally punched him on the shoulder to bring forth a reply. “So, what happened? What did you do?’
Bobby had said, “We decided not to look.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Then Winchell took me to Spinrad’s, where you can get a shave and a haircut at 2 a.m.”
Ronnie Zito was disappointed. Bobby was his personal hero, and he didn’t like to consider that his hero might be afraid of anything, even of looking at a dead body. After some silent consideration, he had said, “Yeah, I guess I wouldn’t look either.”
Now at Hotel 14, as Bobby was turning over the newspaper on his lap, Behrke asked, “Any poems to you in the paper today?”
The other musicians laughed as Bobby shook his head and said, “No, guys, that was strictly a one-time deal. But, I still get a good notice from Winchell most every day, as we have here.” Bobby got up from the couch to read aloud from the newspaper in a stunning imitation of Winchell’s rat-a-tat-tat radio delivery voice, “Bobby Darin’s premiere at the Copa went down in the Copacabana history book as one of the standouts ….” He strode up and down the small living room, continuing his narration above the whistles and catcalls of the musicians. Undaunted, he carried on, smiling slyly at his friends as he read aloud, “But the passionate patrons did not completely see the Bobby Darin talent this column has been gushing about … Because the audience flowed over almost into the violins and saxophones, this new comet did not have enough room in which to make like a meteor … Anybody can sing a song (even a Bobby Darin), but not everybody is blessed with style, charm and class ….” This delivery of the daily Bobby Darin bulletin was finally brought to a halt when the musicians began pelting Bobby with their napkins and bread crusts from where they sat.
“Hey,” Bobby said, dodging to one side, “watch it! Who threw that fork?”
The other men clamored as one, “Okay, cut it out, enough with the praise already, you are your own fan club.” Bobby had moved over to a small dinette table as he sat down and continued reading the next item in Winchell’s column to himself. His expression changed. He put the paper down on the table and called into the kitchen. “Charlie! I need you to drive me someplace!”
Charlie’s head appeared from the kitchen. He saw Bobby moving to a chest of drawers as he pulled the pajama top over his head and reached for a clean shirt. “Dick,” he said, “I’ve got to go over to the Daily Mirror right away.”
Dick, Ronnie and Lips all leapt up from their chairs at once. “What’s wrong, Bobby?” Dick asked.
Bobby was running around the room, looking for his shoes and his wallet and jacket. Speaking almost to himself, he said, “That crazy old man is going to ruin everything! Charlie! Are you ready to go?”
“You bet,” Charlie said, car keys in hand. “Let’s go, my boy.” And the two of them were out the door. They were gone. The room was silent. The three musicians were stunned. What had they just witnessed? Dick Behrke went to the dinette table and picked up the newspaper from which Darin had been reading. He read aloud the next item in Winchell’s column: “Girls, stop wasting your time, he will eventually wed singer Jo Ann Campbell, a pretty thing from Flushing, Long Island.” Behrke gave a low whistle and let the paper drop back onto the table. Dick and Ronnie exchanged a look that left Lips out in the cold.
“What’s eating him?” Lips the trumpet player finally demanded to know. He wondered, and not for the first time, if Bobby might be a little crazy.
Behrke looked after Bobby, wondering if he should follow him, then thought better of it. He said, “He and the Campbell girl are breaking up. Their publicists haven’t decided yet who’s leaving who.” Lips looked questioningly at Dick who explained, “It just depends on which version will sell more records.”
They were all silent for a moment. The charged atmosphere in the room was settling down as Darin got further away from it. Ronnie settled back down into his chair, thought for a moment, then asked, “So, where is La Campell now?”
Dick Behrke reached over to the table next to the ashtray for a pocket calendar he kept of Bobby’s schedule. He flipped open to the second week of June and read out, “She’s touring in Illinois right now, with, um, Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers.”
Ronnie nodded. Behrke seated himself and picked up the newspaper to look at the baseball scores. Lips picked up the horn that was always at his side and began to blow along with the Ray Charles record still playing behind them.
Continued in the next chapter
© Copyright 2008 Gisele (UN: gisele at Writing.Com).
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