B00C4I7LJE EBOK (18 page)

Ken looked at me and I shrugged. As we trooped out to the car he touched my arm and pulled me aside. “I’ll come and get you in a few minutes.”

I shook my head and hoped he couldn’t see that I was blinking back tears. I knew that once again Warde was exercising his right to make decisions and demonstrating his “class.” He didn’t want a mere secretary at the same party as he.

As usual, I slid into the front seat of the limo with the driver, and if it seemed longer to get back to the hotel than it should have, no one seemed to notice. I simply assumed the driver was taking a different route until he pulled up in front of a grand, two-story, colonial-style house set back about half the length of a football field from the street. The front door stood open and we could see people milling around inside. In a flash, the hostess was beside the car.

“Here are the guests of honor!” she cried. “Come in, come in!” She opened my door the same time the chauffeur opened the back for Phyllis and Warde. The hostess took me by the arm and grabbed Phyllis with her other hand.

“Now the party will really get going!” she exclaimed as she propelled us toward the house. Warde trailed behind and I knew he was seething. The delicious idea of Warde throwing one of his temper tantrums flitted across my mind, but I didn’t think he’d had enough to drink that he’d lose his self-control.

As soon as we were inside, a maid reached out to take our wraps.

“You did make it!” Ken was standing in the entrance hall holding a drink.

“Robin can’t stay,” Warde said as he divested himself of his mink. “She has things to do back at the hotel.”

“Oh, surely for just one drink,” the hostess urged. “After all, it is New Year’s Eve.”

But Warde turned his back on her and strutted after Phyllis, who was already being fawned over by excited guests.

“I’d better not,” I said. “But thank you so much for including me. I really do appreciate it.”

She gave me a hug and said, “I’m so sorry.” However, it wasn’t her battle and as long as Phyllis was there, that was the important thing.

I could have stayed but wouldn’t have enjoyed myself knowing there would be a scene later and that Warde would go out of his way to make life miserable for me as long as he could. I waved good-bye to Ken and was relieved to find the limousine still parked in the driveway. I huddled in the back seat and sniffled all the way to the hotel.

Back at the Dallas Fairmont, I followed the bellman and our cart of bags to the room and tipped him outrageously. I considered going back down to the bar and having a drink by myself, but although it had looked quite cheerful when I’d passed, I’d never gone into a bar by myself and just couldn’t bear to start that night.

Feeling utterly miserable, I took off the white-and-gold dress I’d worn for New Year’s and turned on the television.
The King and I
was just beginning. Evidently someone down at the station knew that there would be a few people home alone on New Year’s Eve.

After the movie, I crawled into bed and wondered what I’d have been doing if Karen had been here.
Maybe I should quit, too.

It was not a pleasant feeling on which to begin a new year.

23

T
he schedule for the coming year looked pretty hectic, and more dates were being added all the time. First up was a trip to Harrah’s in Lake Tahoe.

Bill Harrah, who owned Harrah’s Hotel and Casino in both Lake Tahoe and Reno, had a reputation for treating his stars like royalty. We flew from Los Angeles to Lake Tahoe in Bill Harrah’s private jet and were met at the plane by a chocolate-brown Rolls Royce, which took us to the house on the lake where Phyllis and Warde would stay. The house had been stocked with plenty of food and their favorite brands of liquor. No need to bring Phyllis’s kitchen bag or Warde’s red leather “booze bag.”

As the Rolls approached the house, I couldn’t stop staring. It sat at the edge of the lake and the sun sparkled off the snow, which covered the beach. The chauffeur parked under the
porte cochčre
, opened the door, and ushered us inside.

“Wow!” I said, and Phyllis said, “Yeah!” We were standing in the living room, which was nearly all glass and had a huge rock fireplace on one side. Outside were wooden decks that overlooked Lake Tahoe.

While we took it all in, the chauffeur brought in the luggage. “Master bedroom’s in here,” he said as he headed toward the back of the house. I checked to see that the suitcases were actually for the house and not the dressing room, then checked out the kitchen—large enough to hold a party. I went back out with the chauffeur and pointed out the costume bags and wig boxes to be delivered to the dressing room.

“That’s Miss Diller’s car for her to use,” he said, nodding to a sleek, black Chrysler. He handed me the keys. “The Rolls will come pick them up whenever they call for it.”

Once we got all the bags in the house, I told Phyllis I’d go check into my room and gave her the keys for the Chrysler. Perry was coming up for a couple of days to go skiing, and Phyllis was delighted. When she was away so much, she really didn’t have time to spend with her family. That pleased me, too, because it meant Phyllis would be occupied and I’d have more time to myself.

For some reason there was no hotel room for me—perhaps the Harrah’s people thought I would be staying at the house. I ended up at the motel next door to Harrah’s. It meant a walk across the dark, snow-covered parking lot in the freezing cold late at night, but I still preferred that to staying at the house with the family.

Phyllis had not yet replaced Karen and considered doing away with a dresser entirely. While she thought it over, I inherited some of Karen’s duties. One of them was the hand warmer Phyllis used at the end of her stand-up routine before she sat down to play the piano. Roy had convinced Phyllis to play the piano at the end of her act. After all, he reasoned, she had practiced for the symphonies, and it was something different that people would not be expecting. She agreed to give it a try.

The hand warmer consisted of a small metal case that had porous, nonflammable material inside and was filled with lighter fluid. Once it was lit and the lid back on, I’d slip the little case into a flannel drawstring bag. It was a cute little gizmo, and I supposed skiers and hikers would use it outdoors in snow country.

It was my first experience with the thing. Karen had always filled the hand warmer just before each performance and set it on the edge of the piano, along with a glass of water and a small box of tissues. The first few nights went smoothly enough, and I congratulated myself on getting into the routine. Until one night when I got into real trouble.

Phyllis was in the inner dressing room, Warde was out in the hallway, and I was sitting at a little coffee table filling the hand warmer. I always had to remember to buy lighter fluid for the pesky thing—we seemed to go through it so fast. I’d overestimated the amount of fluid and before I knew it, the hand warmer overflowed. Lighter fluid dribbled down the sides and ran onto the table.

What a mess!

I grabbed a nearby towel and mopped it up, surprised to find how much I’d spilled. One end of the towel was damp. I dropped it on the floor as I got up to wash my hands at the wet bar. While there, I got the glass of ice water ready. I used plenty of ice because it would sit on the piano under the hot lights. By the time Phyllis was ready for it at the end of her monologue, the ice would have melted, leaving her a glass of cool water.

On my way back to the couch, I stopped by the big, red bowl of potato chips on the bar. I broke a few chips in half, as I’d seen Karen do. Phyllis never felt as guilty if she just ate the broken ones. Karen always made sure that there were some for her to find. We joked that the calories escaped when the chips were broken.

My last chore before we trooped upstairs to the stage was to light the hand warmer. It burned for forty-five minutes, and if I lit it too soon, or hadn’t filled it quite full, it would go out by the time Phyllis reached for it.

I set the glass of ice water on the edge of the coffee table and picked up the book of matches. As soon as I touched the match to the material inside the hand warmer, flames leapt up and ran down the side where the fluid had spilled. Instinctively, I dropped it and watched in horror as the fluid ran out and little blue flames flashed over the table top.

“Warde!” I screamed. “Warde! Help! FIRE!” I desperately groped for something to put out the fire. The towel, my first thought, was damp with flammable liquid, which I mercifully realized before I tried to use it to smother the flames. My pulse started to race as I watched flames cover the entire table top.

No one had come in response to my scream—the band upstairs was in full swing and the downstairs speakers were turned all the way up. It was almost impossible to carry on a normal conversation and obviously no one had heard me. I was terribly frightened and had visions of the flames spreading onto the rug and catching the entire dressing room on fire with Phyllis and me trapped inside.

Some instinct made me reach behind and grab one of the sofa cushions. I emptied the glass of water onto it and fighting the urge to run, pressed the cushion on the table top. When I picked it up, the flames had lessened. I repeated that several times and suddenly it was all over. The little blue tongues of flame were gone; the sofa cushion was soggy and warm.

My pulse continued to race and my knees shook so badly that I collapsed onto the couch. Gingerly, I reached out to touch the hand warmer and jerked my hand away. It was blistering hot. Using a fresh towel, I managed to fit the top on and maneuvered it into the drawstring bag.

Just then Warde came strolling in.

“What do I smell?” he asked.

“Lighter fluid.” I nodded toward the hand warmer.

“Oh. Is Madam ready?”

Phyllis emerged from the inner dressing room.

“Are we all ready?” she chirped.

I nodded dumbly. With the immediate crisis over, shock began to set in. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to move.

“What’s this towel doing on the floor?” Warde asked as he almost tripped over it.

“Have you got everything?” Phyllis asked as she headed for the door.

“I need to get your water,” I said and picked up the empty glass.

“Well, hurry up,” Phyllis said. “You should have had that all ready.” Apparently she hadn’t smelled the lighter fluid.

My hands were shaking as I dropped the ice cubes in. Warde and Phyllis were already on their way upstairs by the time I closed the door and followed them. As I walked down the hall, I noticed the fire extinguisher on the wall. Never again would I be so foolish as to not note their locations when we checked into a hotel or settled into a dressing room.

24

P
hyllis’s next engagement was in Las Vegas, once again at the Riviera. John Davidson’s contract had expired and Phyllis would have a new opening act. Roy suggested a singer by the name of Barbara McNair. At that time, she was appearing at the Coconut Grove in Los Angeles. Back in the ’30s, the Coconut Grove had been the “in” place in L.A.—a large, elegant nightclub set in the acres of lush grounds of the Ambassador Hotel, surrounded by graceful palm trees and semitropical plants. Sammy Davis Jr. had recently purchased it, renamed it “The Now Grove,” and was trying to make it the “in” place once again.

“Would you like to go to The Grove with us?” Phyllis asked one afternoon. “Roy has a singer he wants me to consider as my opening act.”

“Sure. Sounds like fun.” I had memories of the Coconut Grove from my high school prom. I wondered how it would be a dozen years later. I found it every bit as elegant as it had been then, and I hoped it would get the patronage it deserved.

My gosh. Barbara McNair was gorgeous! She reminded me a bit of Diahann Carroll. Her voice was powerful but sweet. After the performance, we adjourned to the dressing room with a lot of other people. Outside of Phyllis and Warde, there were Roy and Phyllis’s William Morris agent, Mr. Moch, along with Barbara McNair’s agent, Barbara’s boyfriend, and two other men who were never introduced.

If Barbara was gorgeous onstage, up close she was stunning. She wore a silky robe and very little makeup and was still beautiful. I suddenly realized I was staring and managed to drag my eyes away.
They’re going to think I’m queer for her if I don’t stop staring,
I told myself, and I wondered if anyone else was as struck by her beauty as I was.

Whatever they felt, everyone agreed that Barbara would be Phyllis’s opening act at the Riviera in Las Vegas, scheduled for the first two weeks in February.

February in Las Vegas is too cold to sit by the pool, so I had little to do except handle correspondence. Phyllis and Warde stayed at their house, and I had a room at the hotel. I was free during the day and only met them backstage just before show time. Phyllis and I spent the break between shows going over correspondence. I spent a lot of my day typing letters and even went so far as to write replies to fan letters for her. As a rule, fan letters received a stock reply, if any at all, but I enjoyed doing something different, and Phyllis appreciated her fans. Having a personal reply from her would make someone’s day. I would give them to Phyllis backstage, and she’d sign them for me to mail.

Phyllis changed her show somewhat. At the end, instead of doing her piano number, she invited Barbara to come onstage and they sang a song together. In fact, the song they sang was titled
Together
. It was a fascinating contrast: Barbara was tall, black and willowy, wearing an elegant, black sheath of utter simplicity. Phyllis was shorter, covered in glittering sequins, and had hair that looked like she had just stuck her finger in an electric socket.

At rehearsals everything went well and the two women established a rapport that added sparkle to their performance. Barbara’s pianist and road manager, Perk, had an easy way of keeping things moving with a light touch and sense of humor. It would be a great combination. He kidded with Phyllis and Barbara and made everything seem fun while he showed them how to work together.