I asked, “You told this to Fruge?”
“Yeah, him and a bunch of other troopers. I played to smaller audiences in my time. Fruge said he was going to report what I said to the Dallas cops and the FBI, too, but neither of those ever questioned me. I run into Fruge a couple months later, and he said he called the FBI but they wasn’t interested in the Cubans ’cause they already had their man.”
Meaning (the late) Oswald.
“And,” Rose continued, “Fruge said he called some cop named Fritz on the Dallas PD, and told him the story, too, and this Fritz guy said he wasn’t interested, neither.”
“That would be Captain Will Fritz,” Flo said, with a glance in my direction. “He was in charge of the assassination investigation.”
“Well, whoever or whatever he was,” Rose said pleasantly, smiling as she lit up another Parliament, “he didn’t bother talking to me. Sometimes it pays to be an unreliable junkie... oh, but I’m straight now. Don’t get the wrong idea.”
“We won’t, Rose,” I said.
She shrugged, sighing smoke. “That’s all I know about the Kennedy thing. If there’s nothin’ else, I could use the bread we agreed on... Bus trip from Waco ain’t free, you know.”
This was directed at Flo, who had arranged to pay Rose two hundred for her expenses. This wasn’t strictly journalistically kosher, but I thought Flo got off cheap, even if the Waco bus trip had cost maybe fifteen bucks.
“One other thing,” I said to Rose, who was about to slide out of the booth. “You used to go out with a guy named Mac Wallace, right?”
“Yeah. Few times. Maybe... two years ago. When I was dancing at the Carousel. I cut that shit off fast.”
“What kind of guy was he?”
“Well, he’s a big good-looking guy, but kind of a creep. Very smart, but broody, like Brando. I’ll tell you one thing, he’s a bully when he’s drunk. Likes to knock a girl around. Likes to kind of... well, rape you, when it isn’t even necessary. Who needs that crap? Why? What does he have to do with the Kennedy assassination?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Probably unrelated.”
Probably.
“I’m a regular here at the Colony Club,” the fresh-looking young blonde said, then raised a cautionary finger. “Not a stripper. I’m a singer. Strictly a singer.”
“Really, Bev?” Janet said with a smile. Aka Jada had, at our final guest’s invitation, joined us in the booth for the interview, sitting next to the petite brown-eyed blonde, whose pixie-cut ratted platinum hairdo emphasized her vague resemblance to Connie Stevens. She was wearing a red-and-green plaid bandana-ish blouse, gray shorts, and minimal makeup. Almost pretty, definitely cute.
“Well,” Beverly Oliver said to her friend, giggling (she seemed barely out of her teens), “I guess you caught me, honey. I used to come up on the bus from Garland, it’s about a forty-minute ride, and enter the amateur night at the Theater Club — Abe’s brother Barney runs that. And then later here, at the Colony. But I only went down to a bikini.”
“You’d have made a mint stripping, doll,” Janet said, making her red ponytail swing with a shake of her head, grinning at her little protégée.
“Nope. I’m a singer, Sunday, Monday, and always. And an old-fashioned one. You didn’t see me here last week, Mr. Heller, ’cause I sometimes do a week at the Embers in Houston.”
I said, “Bill Peck and His Peckers back you up here?”
“No! Joe Garcia’s little orchestra. Don’t look for any Beatles or Herman’s Hermits from this girl — maybe some Pet Clark. But I’m a Joni James, Kay Starr kinda thrush. You want to hear ‘Blues in the Night’ or ‘Bill Bailey,’ you’ve come to the right chile.”
In any case, she was a natural performer, and the tape recorder didn’t faze her — she liked talking in front of it.
“‘Bill Bailey,’ huh?” I said. “Billy Daniels or Bobby Darin style?”
“Okay, you caught me, too, Mr. Heller. I’m enough of a teenager to like Bobby better. I’m only eighteen.”
Flo, surprised, asked, “How old were you when you stripped at those amateur nights?”
“Fourteen,” she said with a shrug. “Fifteen.”
I said, “Janet gave me the impression you worked at the Carousel.”
“Well, yes and no,” Bev said. “I never sang there and certainly didn’t strip, though Jack had amateur nights himself, just trying to compete.”
“Jack Ruby,” Flo said.
“Yes, we were friends. He was never really my boss. I worked for him, but in a limited way. Like, I hosted some of his after-hours parties — I’d mix drinks, sit around and visit, that kind of thing.”
Janet said, “Jack said Bev had more class than his regular waitresses, and any dancers at those parties were busy rubbing against the guests, if you know what I mean.”
Bev said, “I spent a lot of time in the Carousel. Jack liked me. Liked to be seen with me. I thought he had a crush on me or something, but he never made a play. I took a couple trips with him where I sat by the pool in a bikini, and it was more like he was showing me off than really had any interest.”
I asked, “And you didn’t have any interest him in?”
“Heck no! I mean he was nice, but not nice-looking, everybody knows that by now. But a big heart, good to his girls, always loaning them money. He would bring down-and-outers in and give them food and so on. That side of him, nobody knows.”
The side everybody knew was the kill-Lee-Harvey-Oswald-in-the-basement-of-the-Dallas-police-station one.
Janet prompted, “Tell them about Oswald.”
“Well, honey, you were there,” she said to her pal. For the first time a topic seemed to give her pause. “You go ahead and tell them.”
Janet, seeming like the mother to this little girl, ordered her: “No. I already talked to these nice people. It’s your turn.”
Bev shrugged and her well-sprayed pile of platinum hair bounced like the single object it was. “There wasn’t much to it. I saw Oswald in the Carousel only twice. The first time, he and Jack were really friendly. Janet was sitting with them, and Jack called me over, and he said, ‘Beverly, this is my friend Lee Oswald. He’s with the CIA.’ I said hello, but I guess it was clear I wasn’t impressed. This friend of Jack’s was just sitting there kind of sullen, not friendly at all. Kind of giving Jack a dirty look. Jack said, ‘Do you know what the CIA is?’ And I said no, and almost added, ‘And I don’t care.’ And Jack says, ‘He’s a spy like James Bond.’ I think Jack was a little tipsy, but he always liked to boast, so maybe not.”
I said, “What was the other time?”
“Well, that was strange. Oswald was in the audience and he started heckling the comic, Wally Weston, who I think was doing some kind of political skit. Oswald yelled out that Wally was a filthy Commie, and Wally — he was a World War Two veteran — boy, was he PO’ed! He jumped into the audience and smacked Oswald in the puss. Then Jack came over and dragged his ‘friend’ out and tossed him down the stairs. Which was something he did a lot to unruly types. Amazing he didn’t kill anybody.”
Well, he did actually, but not by throwing Oswald down the stairs.
Flo asked, “Were there ever prominent people in the club. Politicians? How about policemen?”
“Oh, yeah,” the little blonde said, nodding. “Policemen particularly. They were sort of touted to come into the club with free coffee and Cokes and pizza and so on. They provided free security — Jack never had to hire more than one bouncer. There were politicians, too, and some very rich people. Oilmen. Surprising when you think about it, because really, the Carousel was rather sleazy.”
Janet said, “That’s why I was one of the few headline performers Ruby ever managed to book into that shithole. Agents said his club didn’t meet the high standards that dancers like me expect.”