I opened at Al Howard’s Embassy Club, way over on the East Side, exactly two weeks after Fools Rush In closed, and sang with Henry King’s orchestra. It was the dead of winter, 1935. The crowd there was mixed, with tables of Broadway celebrities next to tables of foreigners, and an occasional society foursome looking very out of place.
One night Al asked me to sit with friends of his. At the table, the waiter held out my chair. “Champagne?” he whispered in my ear.
“Coke,” I replied.
When Al promptly kicked me under the table, I realized that was the wrong answer. I turned to the man next to me and said, “I’ve changed my mind. May I have champagne?” At once a bottle of Dom Pérignon appeared. The man edged closer to me and proceeded to tell me all about himself. I guess he assumed I’d be spending the rest of the evening with him. I was saved by the orchestra, which had just started to play my number, “Stormy Weather.” “I’ll be right back,” I said as I dashed to safety on the bandstand, never to return.
I was taking a risk. Any young girl who defied the rules of those who owned clubs like the Embassy could get herself into big trouble by refusing to go out with an important customer—especially if he was a backer.
I can still see Al sitting at a table each night, way at the back of the restaurant, surrounded by a group of men in tuxedos, who were rumored to be gangsters, and only smiled when the floor show began and Alice Faye appeared. She was blond and beautiful. I thought she had a great voice. Rudy Vallee thought so, too. He was mad for her!
I remember the night Alice stopped me after I finished performing. “Teddy, dear,” she began, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Al has asked me to let you know that you are through as of Saturday night.”
I was stunned! I knew I was singing well. Henry had even spoken to me about doing some recordings with him. I must have looked forlorn, because Alice patted my hand. “Teddy,” she said, “it’s awful and I’m so sorry. It’s not because you aren’t good. You’re great, kid. But it seems Al has been pressured by one of the backers to let his girlfriend sing with the band, and he can’t say no, the bastard!” With that, she ran to meet Rudy.
I stood there, hardly able to stop the tears. But by the time I reached the apartment, I decided it didn’t matter. I was not going to spend another minute feeling sorry for myself or angry with whomever it was who got me fired. I just had to get another job, and fast.
After about two weeks with no luck, I began to get scared.
My brother Ware, determined to help keep my spirits up, suggested we go out on the town for fun. Off we went, stopping first for a drink at the then famous bar at the Weylin Hotel at 40 East 54th Street, where cabaret artist Guy Rennie was appearing. When I told him what had happened to me, Guy grabbed my hand and pulled me hurriedly through the lobby of the hotel to the new Caprice Room, which hadn’t even opened yet—it was soon to be one of New York’s most prestigious supper clubs. There, rehearsing a number, was a dance team, with Latin bandleader Enrique Madriguera at the piano.
“Rico!” Guy called out, at the same time pushing me into the room. “Heard you’re looking for a singer. This is Teddy, Teddy Lynch, one of those debutante singers. She was in New Faces, and she’d love to sing for you.”
Well, that’s how it happened. Enrique needed a singer. I needed a job. I auditioned, and in a New York minute I was engaged by him at $100 a week to sing with his orchestra. But more than that, I was to be part of the floor show. When the lights dimmed and the orchestra started to play, I stood under a baby pink spotlight and sang the chorus of “Two Cigarettes in the Dark,” while the dancers, their cigarettes aglow, whirled about the room, interpreting the song.
I got a call from Betzi Beaton, who was about to open in the Ziegfeld Follies. She wanted me to meet her for lunch at the Algonquin before she had to dash to the costumer’s for a fitting. We hadn’t seen each other since Fools Rush In. Anna Della joined us, and we three hardly ate. There was so much catching up to do!
Betzi was now living in a one-room apartment in the hotel, and suggested I move in, too, since Ware and I had lost our lease. She told me that Frank Case, who owned the Algonquin, was a family friend, and would make a special price for her and I if we took an apartment together.
I thought it was a great idea, and within a month we were ensconced in a neat first-floor apartment, right over the main entrance on 44th Street. Our strategic location gave us an uninterrupted view of everyone coming and going. Friday at noon was the best time to see celebrities. If we saw someone special come in, we’d check our makeup, dash down the first-floor stairway to the lobby, and hastily walk to the Oak Room, where our friend Raoul, the headwaiter, would seat us at the table to the left of the doorway, so we could see and be seen.
The Algonquin was far more than it appeared to be from the outside. Entering through those creaking revolving doors, one half-expected to find a second-rate hotel. Instead there was an inviting lobby, with comfy chairs and huge leather couches. To the left of the front desk were the famous Algonquin dining rooms. To the right, behind a curtain, was a humming switchboard, where operators took messages for the famous. And there were always famous people in residence—John Barrymore and the great contralto Marian Anderson were on our floor. Frank Case gave her a piano, and from time to time we could hear her vocalize, very softly. Then there was the famous Round Table, where Alex Woollcott, Heywood Broun, Robert Benchley, Franklin P. Adams, Alfred Lunt, Charles MacArthur, George Kaufman, Moss Hart, and Dorothy Parker would meet.
Of course, there was the cat and the lobby was her home. And who can forget the funny old elevator that seemed to crawl up and down the floors behind gilded latticework, and the grandfather clock, which stood right in front of where Miss Bush sat. Miss Bush was a fixture at the Algonquin. She sat behind the curtain, hair piled high, perched atop a throne like a queen, overseeing the busiest switchboard in the city. From her command post she handled John Barrymore’s calls to the West Coast, made sure that Marian Anderson got her tea with honey, and saw to it that Damon Runyon reached Rose Bingham, Walter Winchell’s girl Friday, for an important charity show appearance. A one-woman Central Intelligence Agency, Miss Bush pretty much ran the Algonquin. She oversaw incoming and outgoing everything, including love, money, and the inside scoop on what was really going on in the hotel—with staff and guests alike. It was not unusual for Betzi and me to come dashing in breathless to get our latest calls from her. Miss Bush would also happily take care of calls from men we didn’t want to speak to, redirecting them out into infinity.