It was Easter Sunday. The temperature, 103 in the shade. I was one of many watching a mixed doubles tennis match at the Racquet Club in Palm Springs, California. Being a guest at the Racquet Club was tantamount to being in Who’s Who in Hollywood. Founded by Charlie Farrell and Ralph Bellamy in the thirties, it attracted the crème de la crème of what was then glamorous Hollywood.
Playing were Pancho Segura and Lew Hoad, two great pros, each partnered with a blonde. The occasion: a celebrity/pro mixed doubles tournament. One lady I knew. Her face was on television every week—Dinah Shore. I had never seen the other lady, but she was a real looker!
Was I having sunstroke? Looking up, I saw a ruggedly handsome man, at least six foot three, walking past me, not in tennis shorts, but wearing a black silk shantung suit, with a starched white shirt and tie. Wiping my eyes, I took a second look as he took a seat nearby. He wasn’t even perspiring. Who was this guy? In all the years I’d gone to Palm Springs, never had I seen anybody dressed this way.
The set now over, the heat so intense, all four players decided to continue the match once the sun went down. It was eerie—all four walked over to the big man as if they were looking for approval. He barely smiled. Then all five walked into the air-conditioned clubhouse. Me, I walked to the reception desk.
“Who’s the big guy, the one in the black suit who just walked in?” I asked the desk clerk.
He stuttered, “S-S-S-S . . . Sidney K-K-K-K . . . Korshak.”
“Who is he? What does he do?”
He turned and rushed into the back room. Obviously, it wasn’t any of my business. Obviously, I wanted to find out. It didn’t take long.
He was known as the Myth, from the Racquet Club to the “21” Club in New York. Many said they knew him; few actually did. One thing was for sure, he was one powerful motherfucker.
Incident brought the Myth and me together; from the moment we met in the early fifties until 1980 we were as close as two friends could be. What did he do? He was a lawyer living in California, without an office. Who were his clients? Well, let’s just say a nod from Korshak, and the Teamsters change management. A nod from Korshak, and Santa Anita closes. A nod from Korshak, and Madison Square Garden stays open. A nod from Korshak, and Vegas shuts down. A nod from Korshak, and the Dodgers suddenly can play night baseball. Am I exaggerating? Quite the contrary. In the spirit of confidentiality, it’s an underplay.
Born in Chicago, Korshak, by the age of twenty-one, was one of Al Capone’s top consiglieres. By the early fifties, he represented more than twenty companies on the New York Stock Exchange. Was he a mobster? No, he was a lawyer. Was he crooked? Not only was he not, I doubt whether he has ever been charged with a misdemeanor. Was he a myth? Yes, with a capital M.
In his midthirties, Sidney married a beautiful blonde from the Ice Capades named Bernice. Arriving back from their honeymoon, many a message was awaiting the big man. His new bride began reading them off.
“George Washington called, everything is status quo. Thomas Jefferson called, urgent, please call ASAP. Abraham Lincoln, must speak with you, important. Theodore Roosevelt called three times, must connect with you before Monday.”
She began laughing. “Your friends sure have a strange sense of humor. Who are they?”
“Exactly who they said they were. Any other questions?”
Fifty years later, Bernice has never asked another question. Nor, for that matter, has she ever asked him where he’s been—even when he goes out for a shave and comes back three weeks later.
Being one of the fortunate ones invited to celebrate their fiftieth anniversary together, I suggested Bernice should bottle her secret potion. After all, how many couples have been married for fifty years and look forward to their fifty-first?
Till 1980, when a specific incident cooled our relationship, not a day passed without Sidney and I spending at least an hour alone together. When separated by geography, our time alone was spent by phone. His affection unconditional. His legal wisdom and time unbilled. Was there reciprocity? Yes, but the scale tipped way to his side. What memories we shared.
For openers, it was 1958. The Sun Also Rises had opened and me, I was the next Valentino. Sidney invited me to join he and Bernice for dinner at Le Pavillon in New York, which at the time was the finest and most elite French restaurant in the city. (The restaurant’s proprietor, Henry Soulé, had barred Jackie Kennedy from entering for lunch. Why? She was wearing pants.) Naturally, I accepted.
Korshak was a different story. Soulé was like a buck private standing before his drill sergeant. Quickly I was ushered to his table. Sitting beside Sidney and Bernice was a couple I had never met. The guy made John Gotti look like a fruit. The girl was a different story. A knockout. Blond hair, blue eyes, great smile, and fetching with a capital F. I’m seated between Miss Fetching and the big man. During the first course and into the second, Miss Fetching couldn’t take her eyes off me—giggling, questioning me about The Sun Also Rise, being a bullfighter, a Latin lover.
Suddenly, a shot to the shins almost took my leg off.
“Bobby, you’re late.” Looking at his watch, Sidney said, “The script—you were supposed to pick it up twenty minutes ago.”
“What script?”
With that, my other leg gets it—a kick that made the first feel like a kiss. If I wanted to get up, I couldn’t. Then I got the look, the Korshak look. Did I leave? Hardly able to walk, Houdini couldn’t have disappeared quicker. The morning after, the big man called.
“Schmuck, if you’d stayed one more minute, you’d have gotten it to the stomach. Not a punch—lead.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“It’s none of your fuckin’ business. His broad’s got one tough road ahead. Been married a week and the doorman don’t even say hello to her—that’s how tough the guy is. And you, schmuck, you’re coming on to her. Tony was gettin’ hot—I could see it. You’re lucky your eyes are open.”
Was Korshak right? Ms. Fetching and Mr. Nice stayed married for a few years. He divorced her, married someone else, had two children. She continued to live in her hometown, Chicago. There was one problem. Not even a vagrant would take her out. Frustrating? It’s just the beginning. Being colder than the weather, she decided Chicago was not for her. She moved to Los Angeles. Strange, but not one guy in L.A. would take her out either. Mind you, this is a great-looking chick. Hawaii. Ah, that’s the place to live. It’s a different world, different people. Who would know her there? Nobody! Till this day, Miss Fetching is still dateless.
But me, I was coming on to her when she was still on her honeymoon.