“The newspaperman’s curse,” Helen Hayes pronounced sympathetically. She looked down at her coffee cup, then glanced fleetingly at my almost-empty beer glass. I’d heard enough stories about Charles MacArthur to know that he had his own demons.
“I’m real careful these days,” I put in quickly. “No more of the hard stuff. None. I limit myself to beer now, and not too much of that, either. A few people have tried to get me to look into this new thing called Alcoholics Anonymous, but I don’t need it. I really have cut way back.”
“That’s good to hear,” she said with conviction. “Do you have a family?”
“I did until two years ago. A wife and a son. I’m divorced. That happened mainly because of the drinking, too.”
“Mmm. And do they live in Chicago?”
“On the Northwest side, Logan Square. Norma works at a bank up there; she’s an assistant to the head cashier, a good job. And my son, Peter, he’s almost twelve, in the sixth grade. I see him weekends, usually Saturday. Except this one. He and Norma are visiting her parents over in Indiana near Fort Wayne, where she comes from. I’ve been telling Norma how I’ve cut back so much on the drinking. I’d like for us to get back together, but she has said no unless I quit totally. She’s one of those who wanted me to try this ‘Anonymous’ thing. The others were an editor at the paper and my parents, who still live in the same building where I grew up. But like I said, I don’t drink much at all anymore. I’m okay.”
She gave me a nod and an understanding look. I talked some more about myself and went into detail about a few of the stories I’d covered, like the big to-do over Sally Rand and her famous fan dance at the Century of Progress World’s Fair in ’33 and the John Dillinger shooting outside the Biograph Theatre on Lincoln Avenue the next year. After Dillinger got gunned down by the G-men, I went up there in a cab and wrote a terrific feature, lots of color and quotes, about the mood around the movie house and how people were coming from all over town just to see the spot, even though Dillinger’s body was long gone to the morgue. I even recited a few sentences from the story to Helen Hayes, who was nice enough to act like she admired the prose.
It was now well past midnight. Henrici’s was almost deserted, and at the opposite end of the big dining room, busboys were putting the chairs upside down on top of the tables and mopping the floors. “I’ve so enjoyed myself, Mr. Malek,” the actress said, reaching across the table and giving my hand a squeeze. “Thank you so much for joining me.”
“I’m the one who should be doing the thanking. I barged in on you, and not only did you welcome me, you let me run off at the mouth.”
That drew another of her pleasant laughs. “Ah, but you made me forget all about The Merchant of Venice for most of an hour, and I can’t even begin to tell you how much that means. Would you be interested in seeing the performance? It may be the only one we ever do! I’ll have two tickets left in your name at the Erlanger box office, but I won’t guarantee the quality of the production.”
“I’d be honored to go. Before I forget it, I was amazed at the way you aged — what was it, fifty years? — as Queen Victoria. How long does it take you to get all the makeup off?”
“Not as long as you’d think. But then, after all this time, I’ve got the routine down pretty well,” she said, calling the waiter over. She asked him to give her my check.
I jumped up. “No, I can’t let you do that. I want...”
“This is my treat, Mr. Malek. I really must insist.”
“Miss Hayes, we have had a wonderful conversation, and you did let me run on about myself, which I appreciate. I feel really good right now, and I want to hold onto that feeling. But I can’t unless I pay for my dinner. Besides, you have already offered me two free tickets, which I plan to use.”
“I won’t try to argue with that logic,” she answered merrily. “And I certainly don’t want to risk losing a potential member of the audience. There may be few enough of you in the theater as it is.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” I answered as we rose to leave. “A dollar says you get great reviews.”
“No bet! I wouldn’t put it past you to bribe your own paper’s critic — Charley Collins, isn’t it — just to win the wager.”
We continued bantering as we got our coats from the girl in the checkroom, who was glad to see us leave. Realizing for the first time how short she was, I helped Helen Hayes with her coat. At that moment, I felt very much the bon vivant. Even Emil eyed me with respect, albeit grudging, I’m sure. “Where are you staying?” I asked her.
“The Palmer House. It’s a nice, short walk, and I need the exercise.”
“Only on the condition that I escort you as far as the lobby,” I insisted. “I will not have a national treasure walking our rough, dark streets along after the witching hour.”
“A handsome speech, sir, but State Street is hardly rough and certainly not dark,” she riposted. “However, I shall welcome the company.”
So it was that I strolled south along State Street with America’s most famous stage actress on my arm. I would have liked to run into someone I knew at that moment, but I had to settle for the beat cop at State and Washington, who touched the brim of his cap when we passed. “Evening, Miss Hayes,” he said, beaming.
“Good evening, Mr. Garrity,” she responded with a mock formality. “Pleasant night for the season, don’t you think?” When we were beyond his hearing range, she turned and winked up at me. “See, I’m perfectly safe. I have friends in high places.”
“I’m impressed.”
“As well you should be. By the way, that hat makes you look very debonair.”
“Thanks, it’s new. I like hats a lot. Almost always wear one. That’s how I got my nickname, ‘Snap,’ as in snap-brim. As I like to say, a man is known for what’s on his head as well as what’s in it.”
“I can’t decide whether that is glib or just plain corny. Probably both,” she concluded.
“Probably,” I agreed. I felt agreeable. “You’ve surely heard this a thousand times, but I thought you were wonderful in A Farewell to Arms. I saw it right here in the Loop, in ’32, I think it was.”
“Mr. Malek, most of us who work in the theater and in films never tire of hearing praise. I know I certainly don’t. I adored making that picture, and I thought it turned out well, never mind that Mr. Hemingway grumbled about the ending. Working with Gary Cooper was grand — especially the love scenes. Oh, my! I truly believe I was envied by the entire female population of Hollywood, and that included Hedda Hopper and Luella Parsons!” We both laughed.
“You know, I have come to enjoy this city so much,” she said, turning to look up and down State, with its department stores looming on both sides, their darkened hulks interrupted by the lights of an occasional bar or restaurant, plus the marquee of the Roosevelt Theatre. “The people are so warm and friendly here; they don’t seem to have a lot of pretensions. But I know it’s got a reputation as a brawling gangster town, or at least it did, to hear Charlie and Ben go on about it. Is that the case now, too?”
“There are still plenty of gangsters around, God knows, and plenty of rackets, too. But these guys today are nowhere near as flamboyant as they were before Prohibition got repealed. Most of them, at least the smart ones, try to avoid notoriety now. We — the press, I mean — still try to make them sound more legendary and colorful than they really are. We even tag them with nicknames, or at least take the names somebody else gave them and make sure we always use them in print. Like Jake ‘Greasy Thumb’ Guzik, Murray ‘The Camel’ Humphries, Hymie ‘Loud Mouth’ Levine. But honestly, most of these guys are lowlifes... nothing more than bums.”