ONE FIFTH AVENUE AND THE STORK CLUB
On Sunday morning I rehearsed my songs with Gene Berton, but then I spent the rest of the day trying to find the perfect dress for dinner. I was really nervous when I reached the Plaza, but was excited when Paul said how lovely I looked.
He introduced me to his friends, Ruloff (Rully) and Sunny Cutten. When Ware, Jean, Betzi, and Fred arrived, we all went down to the Persian Room. After dinner, I danced with Rully, Ware, Fred, and finally Paul.
“I’ve been wanting to dance with you all evening,” Paul whispered as he took me in his arms. “And now the evening is almost over!”
“I know,” I said, thinking the same thing, “but I should go home soon. I’m recording a new song with Gene in the morning, and I want to do my best.”
“I want you to do your best, too, and you will, I’m sure.” Again he held me close, and we danced the last few minutes without speaking. When the music stopped, we walked back to the table. After saying good night to the Cuttens, Ware, and Jean, I left with Betzi and Fred, who dropped me off on their way back to their home in the Village.
Just as I was going to sleep, Betzi called. “Darling,” she said. “I think my friend Paul Getty is completely captivated by you. The entire time we were dancing he talked only about how independent you were, how principled, courageous, stubborn, and talented! What about you, Teddy? How do you feel about him?”
“Oh, Betz,” I sighed, “I don’t know. He seems to see right through me and it scares me. He’s been telling me what I should do to have a more fulfilling career, and I seem to want his approval. I wonder why. It’s strange—from the night you introduced us, I’ve felt a great attraction, but maybe I’m dreaming!”
“If that’s how you feel, Teddy, I’m glad, because he is definitely interested in you, not only as a woman, but as an artist.”
Later I could still hear Betzi’s last words, “Don’t forget Teddy, voice or no voice, you’re someone special—and he knows it!” I smiled, thinking he was someone special, too!
When I hung up the phone, I walked over to the dresser, opened the drawer, and pulled out a lovely French handkerchief embroidered with the phrase “Qui ne risque rien, n’a rien” (“Nothing ventured, nothing gained”). Paul was saying the same thing, telling me what he thought was best for me to do with my career: “Attempt the impossible. Reach out for what you want.” His advice and encouragement made me want to keep trying.
As soon as Gene and I had finished recording, I raced to see Paul at the Plaza, where he was waiting for me. “Come on,” he said, “I have one of those Liberty record players in the apartment. We can listen to your recordings there.”
I watched him as he listened. I didn’t say a word. I just sat and tried not to be noticeably nervous. It seemed to me that he was agreeably surprised. As the first song reached its climax, a smile crossed his face. After the second song, he turned to me. Before he could speak, I muttered, “Was it all right? I mean . . . I can do better.”
“You’ll do even better after you really study, but by God I was right about your voice! The quality is there! I believe you can do anything. Don’t doubt yourself.” He was watching me. “You look sad, Teddy. Are you crying? My God! Those are tears!” He came over and put his arms around me.
“I’m just emotional, Paul, that’s all, and grateful.”
I was so happy to be in the arms of a man who might open a door to a world of music and art that I never dreamt could be mine. So happy that I just leaned up and kissed him. And like a bolt of lightning, that simple kiss erupted into the most passionate desire, a craving to wrap myself around this man and never let him go. I wanted to be as good a singer as he said I could be, to do what he said I should do to further my career . . . but at the moment, none of that mattered. Suddenly his mouth was on mine, and he was kissing me like I had never been kissed before—ravenously, hungrily.
I looked up. He was still holding me, studying my face. Then he smiled and said, “You are an enchanting, unpredictable young lady, Teddy Lynch, but before I fall completely under your spell, let’s go eat.”
It was early, so we dined in the Oak Room of the Plaza. I don’t remember what I ate, but I do remember the way Paul looked at me—as if he knew right then that we were going to become lovers. I felt his desire from across the table, as though he already possessed me. This man had reawakened my longing to try for the best. More importantly, by the way he responded to me, he made me realize what a captivating young lady I really was.
Bailey had taken away my self-esteem. Paul gave it back!
One of Paul’s and my favorite luncheon and pre-theater dining places was 21. Celebrities were never annoyed by the press, and could dine quietly without being stared at. I believe Louis Sobol was just about the only journalist who frequented the place, because the owner, Jack Kriendler, made a point of protecting his clients, who included the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Eddy Duchin, Thomas Dewey, Carrie and Orson Munn, the William Rhinelander Stewarts, and many others. Kriendler was an aficionado of things American West. He displayed his silver saddle under glass in the den-like lobby, hung his great collection of Remington oil paintings there, and was always the most elegant, charming of hosts to Paul and me.
The fact that Paul and I were dating was not unknown around town. Our names appeared in the gossip columns of the day, sparking curiosity among Mother’s friends. Some of whom, women with wagging tongues, would try to find out more. “Louise . . .” they’d whisper, “I see your daughter Teddy is going around with Paul Getty. Why, he’s the catch of the year.”
Mother would nod wisely and smile her beautiful smile. “And Teddy is quite the catch, too, you know,” she’d reply.
I paid no attention to the gossip columns, for I had just signed a contract with Victor Gilbert, manager of the very posh mirrored club room at One Fifth Avenue. It was one of New York’s most envied singing gigs. To get ready, I was working every day with Gene Berton, learning new songs and loving every moment of my life.
In October 1935, I followed Dorothy Lamour into “No. One” after she left for Hollywood. I starting singing twice nightly to a full house accompanied by two great pianists, Joe Lilley and his partner. (Years later, Joe became the head of the music department at RKO.) Gilbert was pleased with me, and asked that I stay on for two more weeks. Paul was in Los Angeles, visiting his mother, so he missed the show.
Sherman Billingsley, owner of the famous Stork Club, came in one night, heard me, and asked that I sing at his club with Nat Brandywine’s orchestra during the coming Easter season. And, boy, did I accept—I was thrilled.
Sherm was as starstruck as the people who came to his club to see the stars. The name “Stork Club” had come from Walter Winchell, whose column announced the forthcoming birth of many celebrities’ children by saying, “The stork was about to visit the So-and-So’s.” And as the Stork Club, it was to become the most famous club of its kind in the world.
When Sherm came out of the Midwest, gave up the drugstore he’d run, and took over the spot at 3 East 53rd Street, he hoped to attract the crowds by making it the place where everyone who was anyone would want to be. Other clubs, including El Morocco and Versailles, made up the nighttime circuit for those on the town, and that included some two hundred nationally recognizable names. The Stork quickly became part of this circle.
Shortly after it opened, Sherm asked a young adman if he would like to pick up a little extra in the way of food and drink, impress his date, and be out every night. That young man was my brother Ware, who immediately answered, “Why, sure, what do I do?”
“You know everyone who is anyone,” Sherm said. “You’re social, and you know the thugs from the top names. Just sit at a table near the entrance within sight of Frank, the maître d’. You may bring a date, but no dancing, all the champagne and food you choose. When a person stands at the door, waiting for a table, Frank will look to you. If you nod, Frank will let him in. If you shake your head just slightly, he’ll say, ‘There is no room.’ ” Ware’s frequent appearance at the Stork Club soon gave him the reputation for being a big spender.
Then he suggested something that came pretty naturally to a man in the advertising business. “Why not put up a rope, Sherm, a red rope? Then, when people arrive, they can’t rush right in. Frank will stand there and, if you want the party inside, okay. If you don’t, it will be easier to hold them back.”
“But sometimes the room is empty,” Sherm said.
“You’ll be using what we call the psychology of scarcity. When something is hard to get, people only want it the more.” Being banned from the Stork Club became a fate worse than death to those who cared, and the red rope was the hangman’s noose to the aspiring who might have offended.
Under the personal direction of Sherman Billingsley, I opened at the Stork Club on March 4, 1936. In the lobby there was a large studio portrait, picturing me in the traditional heavy-lidded look of the day. Preparation included all the publicity Sherm could dream up. Cholly Knickerbocker and Nancy Randolph had announced it in their society columns.
My opening night was a smashing success. The red rope was up. The three hatcheck girls were ready, and so was I. From backstage, I watched the incoming crowd as they proceeded down the long walk past the bar. Their faces were eager, almost apprehensive. Would they get a ringside table or be sent to a far corner and have their evening ruined? Would they be included among the “in” crowd, comprised not only of the well-to-do, but also of the flashy? Would they be seated among the glamorous society drifters—debs, actors, heads of state, bogus gamblers—who made the columns?
The club was full, and then some. Sherm packed them in as if he expected they would eat with one arm, sit sideways at their tables, and only breathe occasionally. Soon the throbbing music would begin, and the oh-so-elegant would rush, push, and elbow their way to the floor to grab a few inches of dance space. I would step up to the microphones in front of the band and sing my first number.
“Just One of Those Things” was a favorite of mine. Determined to be heard, I gave it all I had. Then, as Nat began the strains of my next song, “Begin the Beguine,” something happened that had never before happened at the Stork. People stopped dancing. They actually stopped moving. They stopped clinging to one another, looked up at me, listened, and then started to applaud. From that night on, I was no longer just a vocalist with a band. I was a full-fledged attraction.
Paul had taken a large table—among his guests were Barbara Hutton, her husband Count Reventlow, the Ruloff Cuttens, Prince David Mdivani, Virginia Sinclair, Cornelius Vanderbilt, the Orson Munns, and Daniel Sickles and his wife. After my set, Paul proudly came to escort me back to join the others. (Entry in my diary: I opened at The Stork. Paul there! Home at four! Will read reviews tomorrow . . . Entry the next day: Reviews the best . . . thank you, Nancy and Cholly. Lunch with Paul at the Plaza. Be on time.)
And so I sang my heart out every night at the Stork for the next six weeks at a salary of $350 per week. Then to my surprise, Sherman sent me a note asking whether I’d consider renewing my contract to sing there for another six weeks. I didn’t know how to answer. His note-sending across the room was typical. He would be two tables away from someone and, rather than stand and go to them or interrupt their conversation, he’d send a waiter with his scribbled message.
It so happened that Paul was with me when I got the note, and I asked him what I should do. “I think it’s about time you got a raise, Teddy. Ask for more money. I’ll make a bet with you. If Sherman doesn’t give you twice what you’re making now, then I will.”
“No, you won’t, Paul,” I said.
“He won’t hesitate,” Paul replied. “You are worth it.”
“He’s been so nice,” I hedged.
“And you’ve been so nice to him, too. Look at the quality of the people that you’ve brought into the club, and look at the business! Put a value on yourself. Do it.”
I took out a purple pen with purple ink. In my heavy strokes with great flourishes, many exclamation points, and several underlinings, I wrote, Sherm . . . Thanks. I’d love to sing for you for another six weeks. You’ve been so kind . . . but from now on it’s got to be DOUBLE . . . OR NOTHING!! O.K. Love, Teddy. My heart raced.
We waited. I sipped my drink. Paul reached for my hand and we watched as Sherm took my note from the shuttling waiter, glanced briefly at it, and wrote something on it.
The waiter returned, carrying a bottle of champagne and my note. “On Mr. Billingsley,” he said, “with his compliments.” Then I read Sherm’s scrawling YES across the face of my demand, and I sang there for another six weeks at twice the money.
About a month later, as I walked into the Algonquin one afternoon, a jubilant Betzi was in the lobby. Without even saying hello she said, “I’ve got something to show you.” And with that, she opened a copy of the Journal American to Cholly Knickerbocker’s society column. I read, agog. “You see?” Betzi said.
“Wow,” I said. “Me?”
“Yes, you, Teddy. There it is in black and white. Paul and you being together all the time hasn’t passed unnoticed. The gossip and society columnists keep on top of those in the spotlight . . . and that means you two.”
A year ago, Paul Getty first came to the attention of Gotham Society, unimpressive and modest looking, and there was nothing about the youngish man with hair slightly reminiscent of a lion’s mane to think here was a real oil multimillionaire out of the West. And to his credit, let it be said, Paul Getty made no attempt to help “Cafe Society” discover his all too solvent condition. But when Teddy Lynch, who possesses a superb voice, started chanting hot numbers and torch songs at Sherman Billingsley’s “Stork Club,” it looked like L*O*V*E, and the matchmakers are predicting wedding bells.