Behind the Candelabra: My Life With Liberace (12 page)

We redid those empty rooms together, shopping with a vengeance. Lee loved to spend money; the more he spent, the better he seemed to feel about himself. Roaming through stores with him, knowing we could buy anything that took our fancy no matter how foolish that fancy might be, was a blast—the ultimate ego trip. That shopping spree would be just the first of many. For Lee and me, they soon became a way of life. In the future, I would develop a taste for flamboyance, for the good life, that rivaled Lee’s. Like him, I would come to believe that “too much of a good thing is wonderful.” It would come close to ruining me for life.

When Jerry’s rooms were redone Lee decided to visit his other homes. We drove to the Cloisters in Palm Springs first. It was even bigger and more luxurious than the Vegas house. The Cloisters had been built in 1925 as a thirty-two-room hotel. When Lee first saw it, fifty years of hard use had transformed it from a resort into a flop joint. He was terribly proud of having seen value and worth in a structure other people wanted to tear down. Lee liked to think of himself as someone who saved things no one else wanted: buildings, stray dogs, even people like me. However, little of the original hotel structure, other than the bell tower, remained after Lee finished what he called “remodeling.” He loved the rebuilt Cloisters, all fifteen thousand square feet. Its most notable features were two small chapels; one in the garden had stained-glass windows and the other, adjacent to the master bedroom, contained a large sculpture of St. Anthony. While at the Cloisters Lee occasionally invited gay priests to say a private mass.

He liked to boast what a bargain his two chapels had been. His statue of St. Anthony had been covered with several layers of dirt and paint when he found it—and he bought it cheap. Restorers discovered a valuable sixteenth-century wood carving under the layers of grime. The stained-glass windows in the outdoor chapel came from churches that were being torn down. Lee purchased them for little more than the cost of carting them away. He loved a bargain, the feeling of having bested a seller, even more than he loved walking into an expensive store and flaunting his personal wealth.

The Cloisters, although less formal than Lee’s other homes, was just as much a jumble of flash and trash as the house on Shirley Street. A priceless bronze sat alongside furniture Lee found in Watts. Cement garden sculptures from Mexico stood next to authentic marbles from Italy. Lee laughingly described as “homey” a dining table that seated forty, which he’d bought from the estate of William Randolph Hearst. Lee loved the clutter and waxed poetic as he told how he acquired each individual piece. The history of those inanimate objects was as dear to him as incidents in the lives of children are to their parents.

Of all his homes, the Cloisters was my favorite. It had an Olympic pool where I swam laps. Lee, of course, never joined me. But he’d sit in the Jacuzzi smoking and having cocktails by the hour. The caretaker family—Hermine, Joe, and their son—watched over the Cloisters in Lee’s absence and waited on him when he was there.

Lee’s mother lived in her own house behind the Cloisters and I met her for the first time on that trip. Lee didn’t talk about his family very much. He’d been visibly uncomfortable during our brief visit with George in Tahoe. I’d learned that George and his current wife, Dora, lived in Sacramento and that Lee had never visited them there in their home. Sister Angie lived in California too and, again, Lee told me he rarely had time to go and see her. But Mama Liberace was another story. Lee felt a strong sense of obligation toward his aging mother.

She struck me as a bright-eyed, warmhearted, lively woman, obviously devoted to and very proud of her son. We no sooner were in her home than she began to complain about how seldom she saw Lee. He gave her what I presumed was his standard excuse—he was working hard, always on the road. But, Lee added, he never forgot her in his prayers. He worked hard at looking and sounding like a dutiful son but he seemed very uncomfortable in the role. He embraced his mother as though she were all sharp edges instead of a plump, matronly woman, just made for hugging; and his eyes always slid away from hers when she looked at him with parental love and concern. In my opinion, she made him nervous.

I never did figure out what Frances Liberace made of me and my presence in Lee’s life on that visit because we soon left for Hollywood, where Lee owned a mansion high in the hills on Herold Way. It was the first truly opulent residence he’d purchased and he had a special fondness for it. The house, originally built by Rudy Vallee, perched on a two-acre ridge crest. Like Lee’s other homes, this one was filled with pianos, including one that had reputedly belonged to Chopin. Lee never played any of them. I was learning that he performed only for money, not for pleasure. Once or twice, at special parties, he played briefly for his guests. The rest of the time those pianos just took up space. They were part of his image but not of his life. Lee told me he’d spent enough time practicing as a kid to last a lifetime.

Gladys Luckie, a delightful black woman, cared for the Hollywood house. Compared to some of the other servants, Gladys was a breath of fresh air. During our brief visit, we thrived under her care. Gladys confided that she’d been stranded in that beached whale of a house for months on end. Lee rarely came to stay anymore and, as far as Lee and the faithful Gladys were concerned, it was the old story of “out of sight, out of mind.” She’d been left alone on that lonely hilltop with a broken-down station wagon for transportation, consigned to a lonely existence. I felt very sorry for her and very conscious of the difficulties of her position.

Gladys and I seemed to be on the same wavelength. I made up my mind to get her to Vegas if I could. That meant dismissing Carlucci but, after getting Jerry to move, anything seemed possible. Lee agreed with my plans in principle but left implementing them to me. I talked to Gladys about coming to work for us in Vegas and she agreed, reluctantly. I think she was tired of being taken for granted. When we returned to Las Vegas I used my position as Lee’s favorite to discharge Carlucci.

Lee’s people soon realized I intended to be more than a boy-toy. Evidently, I intimidated some and made others jealous. Angie began to call me to find out what her brother was doing. But when I reported her calls to Lee, he said, “Don’t tell her a damn thing. My life is none of her business!”

Seymour Heller and I continued to have a somewhat adversarial relationship. Whether true or not, I even heard he had the police run a check on me. Accountant Lucille Cunningham’s reaction was typical of Lee’s straight employees’ reactions to me. I dropped by her office one day to discuss the payment of some bills—a subject she regarded as her exclusive territory—and she turned on me in a fury.

“You really think you’re something, don’t you?” she said. “Well, let me tell you, Mr. High and Mighty, Lee’s had a string of boys like you. Has he told you about Bobby or Hans or the male stripper who used to live with him? We called that one ‘the country boy’ because he was such an ignorant hick! I’ve seen them come and I’ve seen them go. You won’t be any different. One of these days Lee will tell Seymour Heller to get rid of you and then you’ll be out on your ear too!”

If Lucille had been a man I’d have taken great pleasure in decking her on the spot. I knew I wasn’t the first man in Lee’s life, but he’d said I would be the last. Occasionally one of our gay friends would allude to someone from Lee’s past, but Lee would scowl and the subject would be dropped immediately.

“How dare you talk to me like that?” I said to Lucille. “What Lee does in his private life is none of your business!” I stormed out of her office full of righteous anger. But driving home, I couldn’t help wondering if I was living in a fool’s paradise.

Life with Lee would never be completely normal, but it did normalize to some extent once Gladys Luckie took over the Vegas house. I unwittingly became her favorite when, on learning she’d gone without a raise for years, I insisted Lee double her paycheck. Although my concern surprised him, he agreed at once. Gladys had been deeply hurt by her virtual exile in the Hollywood Hills, but she was too loyal and devoted an employee ever to broach the subject of salary herself. And Lee never worried about the nuts and bolts of daily life, especially details as mundane as someone else’s salary. In all honesty, he didn’t have time.

When Lee worked Vegas he gave two two-hour shows, seven nights a week. He wasn’t a kid and performing took all his energy. By necessity our lives revolved around his needs, his schedule. He’d get up between two and four in the afternoon, shower, shave, and dress for the day, often in one of his favored jumpsuits. A late afternoon breakfast was usually followed by a shopping trip. Lee craved shopping the way an addict craves a fix. He felt the day was incomplete if he didn’t purchase something. Buying his own groceries and browsing in supermarkets would do if nothing more seductive and costly loomed on the horizon. He could wax ecstatic over imported cheese, fresh vegetables, prime beef. “Oooh, fabulous!” he’d say in his benevolent whine when something pleased him.

By seven we’d be at the Hilton, getting ready for the first show. Lee liked to get there early because he did his own makeup, in part to protect the secret of his baldness. He didn’t want some talkative makeup artist telling the world that Liberace’s luxuriant locks were phony.

He used the hour and a half between the eight o’clock supper show and the midnight cocktail show to rebuild his energy. It was our private time—and heaven help anyone who made the mistake of intruding. We’d have a light meal and afterward Lee would take a catnap, leaving instructions to be wakened fifteen minutes before he was scheduled to go onstage. Once he nodded off I’d slip out and wander through the casino, gambling or just having a quiet drink by myself. It was the only time in any given twenty-four hours while I shared my life with Lee that I could count on being alone.

My first visit to Lee’s dressing room with Bob Black had been a rare exception to Lee’s hard and fast rule of no visitors between acts. In the years since, I’ve often wondered why he permitted two strangers like Black and myself to come backstage. Was he hoping that someone like me would come along? I’ll never know. Inviting us to the house the next day was even more out of character for Lee.

He saw people in his dressing room after the last show, friends from out of town, visiting celebrities, people he couldn’t avoid seeing. He preferred playing host in his dressing room to inviting guests to his home. Describing him as an intensely private man doesn’t seem adequate. Once he left the theater he didn’t want anyone around him other than his lover. A “cross at your own risk” line divided his public from his private life. Even close associates like Arnett knew better than to drop in on Lee unannounced. If anyone called, fishing for an invitation, Lee made it instantly clear that they wouldn’t be welcome. He had a standard routine when Heller, who was Jewish, telephoned unexpectedly.

“You can’t come over tonight, Seymour,” Lee would say with ill-concealed glee. “I’m cooking pork for dinner.”

We usually got home between three or four in the morning. It might have been the crack of dawn to most people but for Lee the workday had just ended. We’d have a snack, watch movies, play with the dogs, or sit in the Jacuzzi smoking and having drinks until he unwound enough to go to sleep, usually about seven in the morning. The routine had been established long before I arrived on the scene and, although I often felt isolated and missed having other people around, Lee refused to alter his restrictive and reclusive life-style.

Despite the crazy hours we led a very sedentary life. That came as an unpleasant surprise to me. I’d been expecting a private life that in some way matched the glitter and excitement of Lee’s onstage performances. But nothing could have been further from the truth. Lee had no hobbies, played no sports. He lived for his hours onstage and his lover at home. The routine was perhaps well suited to a man in his late fifties—but it soon bored the hell out of me. I cared for Lee deeply, but no single person can satisfy another’s every need. I craved other conversation, other viewpoints, the company of people my age. But if I voiced those desires, Lee would either call me a kvetch or accuse me of not loving him enough. Since he insisted I be with him every minute, I sometimes felt like a prisoner in paradise.

True to his word, Lee made me part of the act when Jerry left. Even though I would participate in the show hundreds of times, seeing the house lights dim always got my adrenaline flowing. The stage would be completely dark when Ray Arnett, standing unseen in the wings, said, “And now ladies and gentlemen, the star of the show, Mr. Showmanship, Liberace, the man who is famous throughout the world for his candelabra . . .” At that moment a spotlight would illuminate a single golden candelabra that seemed to float, disembodied, in velvet darkness. After a meaningful pause Ray’s voice continued,
“And his piano . . .
” Then another spot would reveal a piano, not your everyday concert grand either. Lee’s stage pianos always glittered with gold leaf, mirrors, or rhinestones.

The full orchestra would begin to play, a rose-colored spot would play over the wings, and I’d drive Lee onstage in his mirrored $250,000 Rolls-Royce. I wore a white chauffeur’s uniform liberally sprinkled with rhinestones, a white peaked cap, knee-length white boots, and full stage makeup. Lee loved the outfit. “You look like an Adonis,” he said the first time I wore it. “My own blond Adonis.”

Lee would continue to sit in the car after his entrance, his demeanor as regal as a king’s, until I opened the door and helped him out. His most outrageous costumes were reserved for his entrances. They generally included floor-length coats or capes with long trains, many of them adorned with priceless furs. Lee spent half a million or more each year on his costumes, in part because he had to rotate them and could never wear at any engagement what he’d worn the previous year. He also owned the many cars he used in the act and most of the stage props. Set pieces, the least costly part of the production, could usually be rented.