Eighty Is Not Enough: One Actor's Journey Through American Entertainment (23 page)

Deserve it or not, death for Larry Renfrew meant unemployment for me. That was bad enough, but things got even worse. One night while playing poker in my friend Andy Meyerhoffer’s basement in Woodhaven, we were robbed. Andy had one of those finished basements where you had to enter through stairs leading up into the backyard. We used to play poker there pretty often. I mentioned to another actor I’d worked with on
Young Doctor Malone
, Dort Clark, that I played cards every Wednesday night and asked if he wanted to join us. He said he’d love to. That turned out to be a mistake.

That night we were in the middle of the game, and suddenly two guys burst in with guns. They started yelling: “Everybody up against the wall!” We all did what they said—except Dort. He thought it was a gag. He said to me: “Dickie, what is this, a joke? Come on, Dickie, I know you. This is a joke.” And he just wouldn’t get up. In the meantime, I’m standing against the wall, and some thug has a pistol to my head. I still remember it was a big gold-plated gun. My knees were wobbly. It’s the only time in my life I ever felt like that. It was a terrible sensation. For a moment, I thought these guys were going to kill us. They didn’t wear any masks, which made me think they didn’t plan on leaving any witnesses.

They took several thousand dollars off the table, but none of our jewelry. I had a watch and a diamond ring, but they left it and just took the cash. They kept yelling, “Give us the money!” I remember when they went through Dort’s pockets, thinking it was strange when they pulled out a needle. But I later found out he was diabetic.

As quick as they came, they were gone. After recovering our composure, we decided not to call the police. I don’t know whether or not that was a mistake, but my feeling was that if these fellows weren’t afraid to show us their faces, they must be connected to other people we didn’t want to mess around with. Nobody had been hurt, and it was better, we decided, to just let it go. We discontinued the game, and I’m sure poor Dort thought twice before accepting any more invitations to a friendly poker game.

Shortly after the poker robbery, I somehow managed a trip to Florida. I don’t recall exactly why, but I’m sure I was following up some lead for work. Whatever the reason, I did scrape together a few bucks and headed out to the Hialeah Racetrack near Miami. Suddenly, I looked over and saw Rocky Marciano in the next box.

Rocky was one of my biggest heroes. He’d been heavyweight champ in the mid-1950s while I was still working on
Mama
, and I used to love seeing him fight at the Garden. And like so many fans, I was glad when he retired undefeated—still the only heavyweight champion to do so.

After a while someone introduced us. I was in awe of the “Rock” and was even more delighted when his trainer asked me: “Dick, could you drive Rocky back to the Fontainebleau Hotel?” I immediately agreed.

I was ecstatic driving the champ. I put the top down and went cruising along, reminiscing with the great Rocky Marciano about his many fights. For me it didn’t get any better. When we arrived at the Fontainebleau Hotel, I parked the car, got out and walked with Rocky into the lobby.

In the hotel foyer, I noticed a guy shining shoes. I didn’t recognize him at first, but later realized it was Beau Jack, the former two-time lightweight world champion. Rocky must have seen him too. We walked by, and nobody said anything. But as we got closer to the elevator, Marciano turned to me, and he said, “Go give him $100. Tell him it’s from the champ.” I said, “Okay,” figuring Rocky would reimburse me later. Fortunately, I had won that day so I pulled a hundred from my wallet—my last hundred—walked over and gave it to Beau. I told him: “This is from the Champ.” Beau looked up at me, and I still remember his exact words: “Thank you, boss, thank you.”

That shook me up a little. By now I knew who he was, which meant I knew he was no ordinary ex-fighter down on his luck. Beau had been the world champ—two times. One of the most prolific fighters at Madison Square Garden. I’d seen him numerous times and joined with thousands of fans in rooting him on. Beau was one of a trio of great lightweights in the 1940s, along with Bob Montgomery and Ike Williams. Their battles for the title were among the most exciting rivalries in all of sports. All three men are now in the Boxing Hall of Fame.

Many will remember the famous War Bonds Fight at the Garden. Both Beau and Bob Montgomery had been privates in the U.S. Army, and they each refused to take any money for the fight. Tickets were only given to those who purchased war bonds. In fact, there were many wealthy people who bought the bonds and then left the tickets for servicemen. The War Bonds Fight was a great way to raise money to support the troops. In the end, they took in $35 million—the biggest gate in boxing history! I always thought of Beau Jack and Bob Montgomery as great patriots.

But when I reflect on Beau Jack shining shoes at the Fontainebleau, it’s impossible not to be struck by the great irony—the tragic irony—of a man who started and ended his life shining shoes for tips, but somehow along the way rose to great heights; rose to the very pinnacle of his profession and enjoyed all the acclaim, advantages and adulation of a world champion.

Not everyone was aware of Beau’s amazing journey to success. As a teenager in the 1920s, he shone shoes at the Augusta National Golf Club where the Master’s is played. I later learned that he picked up money on the side through a truly diabolical practice called “Battle Royales.” This was a perverse tournament run for the amusement of wealthy white men who arranged boxing matches by putting six blindfolded black men in a small arena where they fought until there was only one standing. Beau later described these macabre spectacles, noting that, at the time, participating in the bloodbaths was the only way to put food on the table.

Beau’s situation—and talent—came to the attention of a particular Augusta Club member, Bobby Jones. Jones was already an American legend, like Ruth was to Baseball or Dempsey to Boxing. Bobby Jones raised a collection for Beau at Augusta and sent him north to New York City where he would not just learn how to fight, but would electrify the boxing world and be elected to the Boxing Hall of Fame.

So how does a man like that end up back where he started, shining shoes? It was troubling to see, and I certainly didn’t have any answers. I’ve always known how easy it is to lose money—even large sums. God knows I’ve lost my share. But this was different. Beau was the world champ. Someone must have taken it out from under him. My greatest hero, Joe Louis, lost it all. He also ended up at a hotel, but at least he was reasonably compensated. I was friends with the great actor, George Raft, who was close with Joe Louis, and George told me they paid Joe $750 a week plus room and board at Caesar’s Palace in Vegas, just to greet people as they arrived. That’s nothing compared to what he used to make. But Beau Jack was shining shoes.

I went back over to Rocky. He was by the elevator, still holding court. I didn’t ask him for the money, but I waited, assuming he was going to reimburse me. He never did. He just said good-bye and that was that. I’ve since heard that Rocky was a little tight; that he didn’t trust banks and always insisted on being paid in cash, which he kept in his house. He grew up in a poor family and those old fears die hard.

Later I was happy to hear that Beau Jack’s situation had improved. Eventually he started lobbying for a pension plan for boxers so they could avoid ending up like him at the Fontainebleau. I was a little annoyed at Rocky at the time, but in retrospect I’m glad he didn’t pay me back. It was my best-spent hundred dollars that day—or any other day.

There soon came a point in the early 1960s when there simply wasn’t enough money coming in to pay the bills. I came to the reluctant realization that I had to do something about it. I couldn’t just watch my family living from hand to mouth, especially knowing that our predicament had been partly brought about by my gambling problem.

For the first time in my life, I decided to look for a job outside the entertainment world. This was the toughest decision of my life. I’d been working steadily since I was three years old in modeling, theater, radio and television, and now I had to accept that, at least for a time, that old life was being put on hold.

I settled on real estate. I’m not sure why. It may have been nothing more than the fact that I had liked Murray Adams, the fellow who sold me my own home in Bellerose. So I swallowed my pride and walked down to his office on Jamaica Avenue in Queens and told him I wanted to work for him.

He was receptive and explained to me about the test to get a real estate agent’s license. He never once made me feel uncomfortable for needing the job. Murray lent me a bunch of books, and for the first time in my life, I studied hard for several weeks. Soon I took the test and passed, receiving a New York City real estate agent’s license. I brought the license home to show Pat. Later she told my nephew, Casey, that she was never so proud of me. She understood how tough it was for me to do this. I had to swallow my pride to keep the family going, but nothing was more important to me than that.

The truth is my life story was not a rags to riches tale. I never really knew what it was like to be without money. Even as a child throughout the Great Depression, I was working steadily as a model and actor. That kind of steady work and hectic schedule did impress on me a very strong work ethic. I’ve always juggled multiple jobs, and I seemed to always have the energy needed to keep at it. Even today, at eighty years of age, I’m not happy unless I’m working.

Still, I never knew what it was like to be desperate. There was always another job or a show waiting around the bend. I’ve known many celebrities who remember a time in their youth, often their entire youth, when they were dirt poor, but a fire burned inside them driving their pursuit of success and pushing them to rise up out of impoverishment. Often, these people suffered indignities along the way, but they managed to persevere. That’s what makes their success so compelling.

But I never felt like that. For the first time in my life, I had to look myself square in the mirror and really feel the overwhelming pressure of being without money—having little prospects, but great responsibilities. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as I imagined, but I certainly felt a great weight on my shoulders the day I first walked down the street to the Adams Realty Agency. It was a moment of truth for me. Swallowing my pride and taking a job as a real estate agent was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. Pat knew that and, perhaps, that’s why she felt proud of me at that moment.

Ironically, I ended up enjoying my new job. I found a way to channel the same energy I possessed as an actor into my work as a real estate agent. Quickly, I was selling houses to everyone in Queens. I discovered I had the same enthusiasm for selling a home that I had found for so many other things in my life. Pat still recalls me waking up in the middle of the night practically yelling out: “I’ve just thought of the perfect house for so and so!” I loved to try and figure out what people wanted and then match their wishes to a home. I’ve always been a good listener, and I listened carefully to the dreams of the people who came in to buy a house. I found myself obsessing over their dreams, just as I had obsessed over a racehorse or learning a script.

There was, of course, an occasional indignity. I remember one time at Jones Beach some guy made a snide comment to Pat about my fall from star status in the entertainment world. But that was the exception. All in all, those were wonderful years, and I was lucky to have had the support of a wife who made it all possible. Most of all, and much to my surprise, I was happy.

*  *  *

A great part of that happiness, no doubt, resulted from the fact that it was during those real estate years that Pat and I raised our three children. Growing up in Bellerose, Queens, they didn’t think of their father as a radio, theater or television star. For them, Dad worked with Mr. Adams at the realty office, and they never had, or expected, any of the privileges that sometimes spoil the children of celebrities. We had enough money to enjoy a good middle-class lifestyle, but nothing more.

I also think I was free to spend more time with the kids than would have been possible if I had stayed in Hollywood. Those years in real estate allowed me to have more of the family life that my own father had wanted, the absence of which may have prompted his moving out and looking for it elsewhere.

While I’ve played parts in family shows my whole life, most notably as a father of eight children, the truth is I had no idea whatsoever of the joys—and responsibilities—of fatherhood until having my own family. During the run of
Mama
, Pat and I had three beautiful boys beginning in 1955. We named the first child “Nels,” after my character on
Mama
who had brought us such good fortune. A year later, Jimmy, came along and a year after that, Vincent.

Around the same time, we also took in Joyce’s three-year-old son, Casey, while she was filming on location in Europe. As it happened, Casey was staying at a very nice boarding house, and Pat and I would take him with us on the weekends. One Sunday afternoon as we were driving him back, he began crying and saying he didn’t want to leave. After we dropped him off and were pulling away, Pat and I looked at each other, stopped the car, turned around and went back for him. We ended up holding on to Casey through a good deal of his youth, and I’ve always thought of him as a fourth son.

I think most parents will agree there is nothing to compare with the experience of watching your children grow. Along the way, you also learn a great deal about yourself—and your spouse. I didn’t marry Pat because I thought she would be a good mother, but I sure did get lucky on that score. I could tell from the very first time I saw her holding our first baby that he was in good hands. She was a natural. As for myself, I also discovered the joys of fatherhood. I probably haven’t expressed it as much as I should, but I’ll never forget that feeling of awe and wonder with the birth of each of my children. I also immediately understood the meaning of unconditional love. Sometimes we hear on the news about a parent standing by a child who has committed some horrible, even unspeakable crime. The whole world is understandably enraged at that person, and yet the parent stands there for him, often all alone. That’s unconditional love; it begins at birth and it never ends.