Madness Under the Royal Palms (31 page)

To Trump publicity is a kind of currency and you can never have enough money in the bank. To Stan it is something repulsive and garish, an ostentatious display of oneself, unseemly and unnecessary. “Most of the people I know do not want to be in the Shiny Sheet unless it’s something that they feel is very worthwhile,” he said. He was a true amateur athlete and most of his appearances in the papers were when he was in some major competition, playing tennis in an exhibition at the National Doubles Championships in 1951 or golf in the Pebble Beach National Pro-Am in 1986. Other than that, he had no use for publicity. He was only talking to me because of his love of Palm Beach and his hope that I would not get it hopelessly wrong.

“I don’t think Palm Beach has changed that much,” Stan reflected. “I think there have always been people in Palm Beach that don’t fit a gentlemanly mold, or are ostentatious. The population of Palm Beach has not grown, and basically this town is a lot like it was twenty-five years ago. You’ve been here. What do you think?”

“I think it’s changed more in the last fifteen years than in its whole history,” I said. “There’s immense new money coming in here that doesn’t care about the old world of the Everglades and the B&T. Beyond that, nobody wants to talk about it, but the majority of the town is Jewish, and it’s becoming more that way all the time.”

“Well, my world hasn’t changed at all,” Stan replied. “Just let me tell you.”

“Stan, listen to me,” I said. “Fifty years ago the Jews lived in a ghetto in Palm Beach, going from one hotel to one beach club to one country club. Okay? Now you and your fellow WASPs are in a ghetto. You mainly live in the estate section. You travel between the Everglades and the B&T, and you throw private parties at your clubs for three hundred or so people, and that’s everybody in the world that matters.”

Stan did not like what I was saying, and he profoundly disagreed with many of my views. “Well, I’m delighted to have met you,” Stan said at the end of the interview. “I enjoy your conversation. I enjoy your questions. And I think you probably will write a very interesting book. I won’t necessarily agree with some of the aspects of what you write about in Palm Beach. I don’t know those aspects because most of the people that I know steer clear of it.”

Stan and I saw quite a bit of each other in the next few months, and not for more interviews. One evening he and his wife Janna took me to dinner at McCarty’s, a midrange restaurant that is as close to a WASP hangout as there is on the island. Afterward, we attended a Palm Beach Pops concert at the Kravis Center. Stan was cochair of the development committee for the cultural center, and we had the best seats in the house and at intermission took the elevator up to the patron’s lounge for champagne.

Then one day in the mail came an invitation for a dinner party at the Everglades. The invitation did not say so, but it was a celebration of Stan’s eighty-eighth birthday. I was astounded that we were invited. The Everglades and the B&T are so journalistically restricted that the Shiny Sheet does not even cover events at the two clubs.

I had been to numerous dinners, lunches, and private parties at the club, but when I entered the Everglades that evening, I knew that this was an extraordinary moment. There were about fifty people and it was one of those rare events where nobody asks you who you are or what you do. You are there. That says it all.

During the evening Stan told me the party was off the record. I had finally fallen upon the one event that encapsulated the best of the old Palm Beach, and I could not even write about it. Perhaps that is just as well, for I don’t know how well I would have captured the evening. It was not that the conversation was always witty or memorable, but everyone was at such profound ease, and there was such a feeling of warm regard for Stan and the decades of his life. He stood for something, and he was being celebrated as much for that as for his birthday.

T
HERE IS ANOTHER MAN
in Palm Beach who brilliantly exemplifies a certain Palm Beach. That is Jimmy Barker, who because he is gay is rarely mentioned as part of the old elite (and was
not
on the Fanjuls’ 2007 list!). Whether encountered at his gallery or at a party, he has always been a charming, vibrant presence. During the course of my research, I had talked to him and found him a blithe spirit, a joyous, ebullient man who elevated the spirit of anyone who came within his presence. I had talked to him a few times, about his Kentucky childhood, his decades on the island, and his life as a gay man, and as I was finishing my book I wanted to talk to him again.

I was still seeking some answers, and I thought he might have them. A hundred years ago Henry James made this same writer’s journey that I had made. As he looked up at the Royal Poinciana Hotel, he found “it hard to express without some air of extravagance my sense of the beauty.” The hotel is long since gone, but the beauty of the island is manifest in a thousand new ways, and I am a witness to that as much as I am to the lives of Palm Beach.

Like James, I too found that few of the lives have the beauty of the surroundings, or the depths of the artistic vision that inspired this island. Everything is larger here, not only the homes, but the opportunity that money brings. Everything is larger here, the disappointments, the unhappiness. Life opens up each morning on a sunrise full of promise, and few set out on glorious journeys to fulfill that promise. There are some who grasp the joy in each moment. There are some who understand how blessed they are, and I thought of Jimmy as one of those.

I kept calling asking for Jimmy and every time a man answered, “This is Jimmy.” Each time I had to go through this lengthy dialogue to realize the man on the phone was not James Barker, but rather James Heyman, the sixty-five-year-old mildly disabled friend who for the past eighteen years had lived with Barker and his partner, and had breakfast with him each morning. He was a man reminiscent of the movie character Forrest Gump, painfully slow at times, and then capable of the most astounding insight or perception.

It was a pain to figure out which Jimmy I was talking to, but it was curiously affecting that neither man had taken some other derivative of his name, and everyone had simply to figure out which Jimmy was on the phone. I was not quite sure if Jimmy Heyman was passing my messages on to Jimmy Barker, and almost every day I called, each time I was told that Jimmy Barker was out of town.

Barker was indeed out of town in Louisville for the Kentucky Derby on May 3, and the day after my last call, he had flown into Miami and was driving back to the island when he talked to Jimmy Heyman at the house to tell him he was on his way. About a half hour later, he received a phone call saying that his house was on fire.

It was a major blaze, and when Jimmy Barker arrived, firefighters from Palm Beach and West Palm Beach were pouring water on the fire. They had been there for close to an hour, and nobody had gone inside.

Jimmy Heyman was a man of habit. This time of day, he was likely in the upstairs front west bedroom. The Palm Beach firefighters may go a lifetime without a moment like this one where there may be a living person in a flaming house. They say that they acted with the highest professional standards, but the people on the sidewalk wondered why they did not even try to enter the house. The police and at least one onlooker told the firefighters the room in which Jimmy Heyman might well be found; but they did not raise a ladder and break through the wooden shutter with their axes to see if he was there.

Barker did not know if Jimmy Heyman had gotten out. He did not know if the two dogs, Holly Golightly and Annabel Lee, had gotten out. And when he sought to go inside the house, he was told that was impossible, and he should stand with the other onlookers until the fire was fully put out. Jimmy Barker is not a firefighter. Jimmy is an eighty-year-old man. He knew nothing about fires, but he knew about his friend and he knew about his dogs, and he ran around the block and jumped over a six-foot fence and entered the backyard. He pulled open the sliding kitchen door and entered the smoky kitchen and hunted futilely for the two dogs. Water poured down and he was soaked with sooty water. He walked into the dining room and up the stairs. The air was heavy with smoke, but there was no longer any fire in the main rooms, though the attic was still in flames. Climbing over debris, he hunted for his friend. He moved to the front bedroom, where the fire had not entered and there was only smoke damage, and he knew that if his friend was in the house, this was where he would be. The water was so intense that the roof had fallen on top of the twin beds and Jimmy saw nothing. And then one fireman on a ladder saw Jimmy and yelled at him to leave by the back door, and Jimmy yelled back that he would leave, but he would leave the way he wanted to leave.

And so he came down those stairs, and opened the front door and walked out to where scores of people stood watching. And as he walked into the sunlight, the police say he pushed one of them. Two police officers tackled him, knocking out one of his false teeth, and when they had him down they handcuffed him, and took him to the police station. And though a uniformed police officer went into the house and found the dogs, Holly Golightly died soon after, and the firefighters did not find Jimmy Heyman’s body until the next day in the unburned front bedroom.

What is left of Jimmy Barker’s house is like a black cave, with shards of memory everywhere, a melted brass statue, a burned remnant of a painting, a few threads of a curtain. He had no insurance, and everything he had collected in a lifetime is gone, yet Jimmy Barker smiles as he always smiled, and walks with a lilt to his gait. Unlike many people on the island, he had always lived beneath his means, and he is far from impoverished. He owns ten acres of land in Nantucket, and he will sell that now and rebuild his house. He had always transcended the games of money and prestige that consume the lives of so many in flames no less brilliant than those that had destroyed his house. He had always lived for his friends, his dogs, and his art, and he lives for them still. He is one of those characters who once lived often within the world of wealth who rarely any longer walk the streets of Palm Beach.

W
hen Hyperion’s new editor in chief, Will Balliett, said that he would be editing my manuscript, it was as if Bill Gates were coming over to fix my computer. I was honored that I merited such attention but wondered if he would be able to stay long enough to do the job. Not to worry. Will found time at dawn and midnight, and did an extraordinary job. He was joined in this process by executive editor Leslie Wells. Will’s assistant, Bijani Mizell, was a tiger for details, as is her succesor, Nina Shield. As the compelling cover makes obvious, Phil Rose is a creative director where the emphasis is decidedly on the adjective. The new president of Hyperion, Ellen Archer, has been a strong force behind this book. Beth Gebhard, executive director of publicity, proved her acumen immediately by signing on Sally Anne McCartin to work on this book. I also must tuck in a thank-you to Will Schwalbe, the former editor in chief, and Bob Miller, the former president, who brought this project to Hyperion.

Madness Under the Royal Palms
has my name on the cover, but it could not have been written without the assistance of many people. A number of my sources asked that their contributions remain anonymous, and I also want to thank them. Some of those mentioned may have sat for several interviews, and to those whose names do not appear in the main text, I offer my apologies and sincere appreciation. Others mentioned below were not interviewed, but provided other sorts of assistance. I would like publicly to thank: Abe Gosman, Agnes Ash, Alexander De Bouthri, Allan Reyes, Allen Maines, Anneli Ganger, Arianna Comstock, Arnold Scaasi, Ashley Swain, Barbara Cohn, Barbara Wainscott, Beatrice Cayzer, Bennett Cohn, Bill Toulouse, Bob Andrews, Bob Keifer, Bob Moore, Brian Bohlander, Brigitte Keil, Bruce Bent, Bruce Sutka, Bruce Zeidel, Cathleen McFarlane Ross, Celia Lipton-Ferris, Chief of Police Michael S. Reiter, Chris Ruddy, Clifford Klenk, Craig Bachove, Cynthia Friedman, Dale Coudert, Dagmar Lowe, Dan Ponton, Dan Swanson, Dennis Gallo, Deputy Fire Rescue Chief Brodie Atwater, Detective Peter Hardiman, Diana Stanley, Dick Cowell, Dick Nernberg, Dimick Reese, Don Earhardt, Dorothy Sullivan, Dr. Frank Vaccaro, Dr. Gregory Boyajian, Dr. Stephen Alexander, Dr. G. Heath King, Eddy Louis, Eles Gillet, Eric Purcell, Etonella Christlieb, Evalena Holgren, Frances Fisher, Frank Carruth, Fred Keller, George Kerr, Gunilla von Post, Harvey Oyer III, Henry Mehlman, Herb Gray, Hillie Mahoney, James Barker, James Fadiman, James Sheeran, Jan West, Jasmine Horowitz, Jean Tailer, Jeffrey A. Cloninger, Jeff Diamond, Jeffrey Fadiman, Jesse Newman, Jim Anderson, Jim McCann, Joe Idy, John Blades, John Herring, John Hendrickson, John Sullivan, Jonathan Berger, Judy Schrafft, Kate Ford, Kelly Layman, Ken Thompson, Kyle Zimmer, Larry Gold, Larry Keller, Leslie Keller, Leslie Spero, Lydia Crozier, Mae Bell Lin, Marilyn Riseman, Mark Brentlinger, Mark Kupic, Martin Haines, Marylou Gray, Marylou Whitney, Mildred McLean, Mimi Landau, Mort Kaye, Mrs. John Volk, Nanci Hewitt, Natalie Kalinka Paavola, Parker Ladd, Pat Cook, Pat Kocak, Patrick Flynn, Patrick Park, Patti Spero, Patty Myura, Paul Rampell, Paula Roth, Pauline Pitt, Pene Latham, Peter Rock, Pierre David, Renee Fadiman, Robert Ganger, Robert Montgomery, Rose Sachs, Sally Roche Higgins, Shannon Donnelly, Sharon Keller, Sheila Johnson, Sherman Adler, Steve Ross, Stan Rumbough, Stephen Richardson, Steven Stolman, Sumner Kay, Susan Markin, Susan Nernberg, Terri Vaccaro, Tony Legett, Tony Senecal, Tyler Buchanan, Vicki Bagley, Walter Ross, Warrington Gillet III, and Wolfgang Keil.

I would especially like to thank several of my fellow authors who read parts of the manuscript: Kai Bird, Nigel Hamilton, Burton Hersh, Dr. G. Heath King, and my brother Edward Leamer. Several other friends also read parts of the manuscript, including my daughter Daniela Mantilla, and Kristina Rebelo Anderson. My wife, Vesna, not only read the manuscript at every stage, offering her own unique insights, but took care of all sorts of matters that allowed me to focus on writing this book. My agent, Joy Harris, watched over the project with the detailed concern that is her trademark.

I must also thank Susan Swiatosz, the archivist at the Flagler Museum, and her equally dedicated colleagues, Kae Jonsons and Debi Murray at the Historical Society of Palm Beach County. The Palm Beach County Library was highly helpful, as was the Library of Congress. I also would like to acknowledge a few people in Palm Beach who had nothing to do with this book but in various ways have helped me: Alice Hodach, Jorge Quezada, Paula Lannoti, Rose Carnicelli, Mary Flynn, Linda McDonald, and the late Theresa Tacoma.

And then there is the late James Jennings Sheeran, publisher of
Palm Beach Society.
During most of my research, we had lunch once a week and he was immeasurably helpful to me. Nobody knew Palm Beach as well as he did or loved it so deeply. I am dedicating
Madness Under the Royal Palms
to his memory.