China Dolls (46 page)

Yes, even after all we’d been through, I still wanted to outshine Grace.

Lee gulped. “You gals have been in Miami long enough,” he managed to get out. “You’re ready for New York, and New York is ready for you. Tom here is opening a club called the China Doll. We’re down here to lure you up there.”

I sat up in my chair. Return to New York? Finally!

“We want to build the whole show around the two of you,” Tom added in a voice that grated like a cement mixer. “We’re calling it Slant-Eyed Scandals. It’s going to be the biggest, costliest, most elaborate Oriental floor show seen anywhere, and it will stand up to any all-white show on Broadway. We open in eight weeks.”

Grace signaled to a waiter, whispered in his ear, and then slid her chair closer to Tom. “Who else do you have?”

“We’ve got Keye Luke, Charlie Chan’s Number One Son, to emcee.”

Grace and I arched our eyebrows.
Charlie Chan’s Number One Son? So trite. So stereotypical
.

“He’s a terrific singer, for your information,” Tom said. “I’m getting the best of the best.” He was also negotiating with the Lim Sisters, the Merry Mahjongs, Bernice Chow, George Louie, and Ming and Ling.

“We’ve played with all those folks,” Grace said with a shrug. “You make it sound like just another Oriental follies.”

She could be quite the smart aleck, and she peppered him with questions, but I could see she wanted this as much as I did. Her delay tactics were explained when she announced, “Ah, here’s Helen, our road manager. Let’s see what she has to say.”

Helen assessed the situation and explained that she would handle logistical details that couldn’t be left to Sam Bernstein. Her first question was where would Grace and I reside.

“Wait a minute! You’re coming too,” I blurted.

“I can’t go,” Helen said. “Eddie and I are putting our act back together.”

I turned to the men. “You can’t have an Oriental theme without the Chinese Dancing Sweethearts.”

“Haven’t heard of them,” Tom growled.

“Then call Charlie Low at the Forbidden City,” Grace said.

But Tom, bullheaded, took a hard line. “We’ve already got a father-son comedy duo,” he said. “I don’t want another family team. It’s a nightclub. People go to nightclubs for fantasy, not to see husbands and wives.”

“They don’t dance like a husband and wife,” I assured them.

“He’s been off the stage for too long,” Lee objected.

“He was in the war!” Grace exclaimed. “Where’s your patriotism?”

“Lee, Tom, sweet ones, let me give this to you straight,” I declared. “Grace and I won’t go to New York unless you hire Helen and Eddie too.”

The two men exchanged glances. Could we really be such prima donnas? YES!

“All right,” Tom sighed. “We’ll check them out with Charlie. If everything’s on the up-and-up, then we’ll call Sam to work out the financial details.”

Sam negotiated $1,000 a week each for Princess Tai and the Oriental Danseuse. The Chinese Dancing Sweethearts would earn $750 a week. We’d be rolling in dough. Oh, and no George Louie. Grace still held a blood grudge against him and didn’t want him around. That was fine by me. I’d purposely locked away from my mind what had happened to me—the internment camp and who might have turned me in—and I’d continue to do it. No questions, no bitter accusations, no arguments; a thousand bucks a week, New York, stardom. Brighter stars ahead.

W
E ARRIVED IN
New York City on February 11, seven weeks before the China Doll’s grand opening. We settled into a three-bedroom suite with a small living room at the Hotel Victoria at Fifty-First and Seventh. Lee Mortimer swept Grace and me on a champagne-bubble tour of the Stork Club, Copacabana, Leon and Eddie’s, and the Rainbow Room. We met Clark Gable, Noël Coward, Hedy Lamarr, Lena Horne, Betty Grable, and Gene Kelly. We listened to bands play “Brazil,” “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To,” “That Old Black Magic,” and “Avalon.” We saw Milton Berle (who we heard made ten thousand dollars a night), Danny Thomas (the nicest guy), and Jimmy Durante (a hoot and a half). We danced purely for fun and showed those big-city folks what was what.

And, man, were we
dressed
. We shopped like maniacs, throwing out our tropical prints and exchanging them for sophisticated city dresses. When Lee asked us, “How much do you need to buy new shoes?” and we answered, “Three dollars,” he laughed. “You can’t buy a pair of shoes in New York for three dollars.” He opened his wallet and gave us each fifty bucks. We bought black satin ankle-strap sandals and black suede platform pumps. He gave us even more money to buy frocks with hemlines that covered our calves.

“You’ve got the look, baby,” Lee told Grace. “You’re a perfect piece of cheesecake in the city that invented cheesecake.” He encouraged Grace to drop her neckline to showcase the cleavage that had once embarrassed her. He gave us the skinny on what to do with our handbags. “Dames who carry their purses while dancing demonstrate that they’re more at home in a dance hall than a nightclub.” He taught us the ropes: don’t go to a dressy place wearing day clothes; don’t go to a dump in evening togs; don’t complain about the bill, because you were a sucker to go there in the first place. He showed us how to spot and then steer clear of out-of-towners.

When he took us to Sardi’s, he suggested we speak loudly, so other patrons could eavesdrop on us. Dorothy Kilgallen, the gossip columnist, wrote: “What two lovely denizens of the night are building reputations for their biting repartee and devastating treatment of 52nd Street wolves? Lee Mortimer calls the enchanting Princess Tai his ‘little minx.’ ” Then, on to Grace: “Never one to pick a single bloom when she can have a bouquet, the Oriental Danseuse is known to attend many First Nights on the arms of different lucky gents. Those swells better watch out for her nails, though. Meow!” As a result of that squib, Grace’s nails became so famous that Sam got her a contract with a cosmetics company as the first Chinese nail model in the country. I said I was happy for her, but it was a bitter pill to gag down.

Of course, I cut my usual wide swath. I spent time with Xaviar Cugat, who was between wives, before moving on to Louis Prima, who was married. Under the headline
ROMANCE
, Walter Winchell scribed: “What unfortunate bandleaders have had their hearts broken by a girl who should change her name to Jezebel?” When I read that, I laughed and laughed.

Where were Helen, Eddie, and Tommy while we were tearing up the town? Either in our hotel, where Eddie could avoid the grinding gears and honking horns of prewar taxis, or at the studio space they’d rented to work on their act. Grace and I stopped in one evening to see the new routine Eddie had choreographed to “It’s Been a Long, Long
Time.” It was typical Eddie—beautiful, intricate, and graceful. He still suffered from sweats and nightmares, but I was convinced he’d knock the socks off those New Yorkers once they saw him onstage.

I
N MID
-M
ARCH, AND
completely out of the blue, I received a phone call from my mother. I hadn’t spoken to her in ten years. She skipped the “I missed yous” and “how have you beens,” and got right to it. My parents had been released from Leupp and had decided to go back to Japan immediately. “You can’t do that,” I told her in Japanese when I saw Grace listening. “We haven’t even seen each other yet.”

“We will have a long voyage together—”

“I’m not going to Japan.”

My mother balked at that. “Have you forgotten who you are?” she asked. “Have you forgotten that the Americans killed Hideo, and Yori is dead because he fought for them?”

“Yori was in the most highly decorated regiment in the history of the armed forces,” I told her. “He earned the Medal of Honor. You should be proud of him.”

She said, “Your father and I and the others in the camp celebrated the emperor’s birthday. We ate our eggs sunny-side up, because they looked like the flag of Japan. When we were told the war was over, your father asked why the Japanese flag wasn’t flying over the camp.”

By the time I hung up, I was sobbing. Grace put her arms around me.

“Do you want to go to San Francisco and see them off?” she asked.

“No,” I replied with a sharp shake of my head. “I can’t get it out of my mind that they might actually have been spies.”

“But you can’t be sure about that—”

“They never got a trial, but I’m no closer to the truth about them.”

“Other people were sent to camps, including you,” she pointed out, trying to comfort me, “and it was terrible. Maybe they’re going home because they’re fed up. Maybe they’re going home because they
always
wanted to go home. You told me that the first day we met.”

“True, but I can’t honestly say if my parents are innocent, can I? I want to believe they are.” I dabbed my eyes with a handkerchief. “You and Helen are all the family I have left.”

I went to bed and wept for hours. But the next morning … New York!

What else could I do? I needed to survive.

GRACE

Woo Woo of the Week

Two weeks before the China Doll opened, all the headliners met for blocking and dress rehearsals. The club was just a half block from our hotel. Where the Forbidden City played up an imperial China décor with plenty of red, gold, and clutter, the China Doll, a few steps below street level, was sleek, modern, and first-class all the way. The walls were pale blue with simple Chinese scenes painted in white. Dark blue lanterns hung from the ceilings.

The ponies and showgirls shared one dressing room; as headliners, Ruby, Helen, and I each had our own dressing room. Settling in, I heard a familiar voice at my door: “Hi, Grace. What’s cooking?” It was Bessie, the eldest of the Lim Sisters. Ella and Dolores stood on either side of her, and one foot back, just as they did when they performed. Soon, others arrived: the Merry Mahjongs with their whirling acrobatics, Bernice Chow with her big voice, Ming and Ling with their hillbilly act. It was great to see them all.

We met the director, Donn Arden—gayer than a sweet potato and famous for mounting extravaganzas with snazzy costumes. Ruby was given a new bubble and fans made from ostrich feathers. The fabric for Helen’s gown was dyed in tea until the color matched her skin, then seamstresses covered the dress in rhinestones. My costumes were the most glamorous and expensive of my career, including one made from fifteen yards of monkey fur imported from Hong Kong. Real
diamonds were sewn onto the tips of my shoes, so my feet would sparkle when I danced.

The China Doll was to be a regular United Nations. Mr. Ball, an Irishman through and through, hired Jewish choreographers, composers, and writers to come up with good—fresh—material. We had two bands: one to play the show and a Latin band to pack the joint for dancing on weekends. A young guy named Lenny Bruce would do a comedy routine after the last show. Mr. Ball found Chinese cooks, a Jewish maître d’, and Puerto Rican waiters, dishwashers, cigarette girls, and hatcheck girls, who would all pretend to be Chinese. The ponies? It was just as hard as, if not harder than, it had been in San Francisco to find local Chinese girls willing to work in a club. More Chinese lived in the area, but that also meant the community was more conservative, so Mr. Arden and Mr. Ball poached a bunch of gals from Charlie and other club owners out west. Although Charlie had once labeled his glamour girls “Chinese” to protect them, all the entertainers at the China Doll were labeled “Chinese” so no one would be reminded about the dropping of the atomic bombs.

On opening night, the place was packed with Broadway and Hollywood celebrities, critics and press agents, and Manhattanites and suburbanites. Our first show was clicking. Ming and Ling clowned and crooned. “Lee Mortimer’s China Dolls”—as the ponies came to be called—were sharp. Backstage, Eddie—slick as a cat’s whiskers in his evening dress—listened warily as Helen reassured him. He truly was one of the most handsome men ever to walk the earth, but I could see he was nervous.

I recited the usual good wishes. “Break a leg!”

As their music started, my heart was full.
Kiss me once, and kiss me twice, and kiss me once again …
Was there anyone in the audience who didn’t respond to that postwar ballad—so romantic it made you want to cry every time you heard it? Helen floated onstage, her gown flowing, her arms extended. Eddie was supposed to be right behind her. Instead, he stared out at her, slack-jawed, his body shaking.
Helen completed the circle that would bring her and Eddie face-to-face with the audience. When she realized she was alone, her smile wavered.

“Eddie,” I urged in a whisper, “you’ve got to get out there.”

He shook his head.

“Come on, Eddie,” I prodded. “Helen’s alone.”

But he was paralyzed. He’d survived the war, but he wasn’t the same. Shell-shocked. He’d done well during rehearsals, but now he was crippled by stage fright. Onstage, Helen kept dancing—Ginger minus her Fred. I remembered back to my final audition at the Forbidden City, when I froze and Eddie helped me.

“We’ll do our old routine,” I whispered. “Two girls and one man. Hear it? The tempo is a little slower, but we can do it.”