Measure of a Man (19 page)
“Twelve of the thirteen stars you said you would like to meet with have confirmed they will be joining you at the Hillcrest Country Club for brunch,” he said. “The only one who said he can’t make it is Eddie Fisher.” I didn’t like Eddie Fisher anyhow, not after he ditched Debbie Reynolds the previous year for Elizabeth Taylor.
Sam and I put on our sharpest GGG suits. Eddie’s manager sent a limousine to take us to our star-studded brunch at the legendary Hillcrest Country Club, Los Angeles’s premier Jewish country club and a popular hangout for Jewish celebrities. The limo pulled up to the club and let us out. My palms were slick with sweat. Feeling out of my depth, I dashed into the Hillcrest men’s room and stared at myself in the mirror. I didn’t belong and I knew it. I was a Holocaust survivor, not a Hollywood star. Nevertheless, I looked the part. My GGG suit matched or outgunned any the stars would wear that day. My attire would have to make up for what I lacked.
I pushed open the men’s room door, strode straight into the star-packed dining room, and enjoyed one of the most memorable days of my life. Actors I had seen on the silver screen were now shaking my hand and engaging me in friendly conversation.
Edward G. Robinson, who rose to stardom with his classic gangster roles in
Little Caesar
and
Key Largo
, was there. In more than a hundred films over a fifty-year career, Robinson, a Jew, shared the screen with legends of Hollywood’s Golden Age, including Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart, and James Cagney. The American Film Institute included him in its list of American cinema’s twenty-five greatest male actors.
Glenn Ford showed up as well. I had tremendous respect for Ford, who disrupted his acting career to volunteer for the U.S. Marine Corps during World War II. He remained in the Naval Reserve until the 1970s. He played opposite Rita Hayworth in his breakout role in
Gilda
and costarred with Bette Davis in
A Stolen Life
. Ford won a Golden Globe for Best Actor in Frank Capra’s
Pocketful of Miracles
. Later, Ford made waves when he campaigned for Ronald Reagan in 1980 and 1984.
I looked around the room and listened to the Hollywood stars holding conversations with one another, punctuated only by the clatter and clink of fine china and silverware. How America had made it possible for me to be in that room, I could not understand. I did my best to pretend I’d been in this situation before.
“Who’s up for golf?” one of the stars shouted. “Let’s get a group together. How many do we have?”
Robinson nudged me. “You play?” he asked.
“Me? Oh, no. Not golf,” I said bashfully.
“That’s okay,” he said. “You can ride in the golf cart and watch if you like.” The rest of the day, I rode around in a Hillcrest Country Club golf cart while our group of Hollywood actors hit the links.
The next morning, right on time, Eddie Cantor’s manager called with the daily itinerary, followed by a personal call from
Eddie himself. “How was brunch yesterday at the club?” Eddie asked.
“It was the day of a lifetime,” I said. “Thank you so much for making this happen.”
“Good. Glad to hear it. Listen, you let me know if you need or want anything else, okay?”
“Yes, sir. I will. Thank you again.”
“Have fun out there! I think you’re going to like what we have planned for you today.”
Eddie’s hospitality and generosity were all the more amazing because he had lost one of his five daughters, Marjorie, to cancer the year before. Eddie himself had struggled for years with heart problems. In fact, Eddie called me that day from the hospital.
The driver took Sam and me to the movie set of Bob Hope and Lana Turner’s film,
Bachelor in Paradise
. Eddie’s manager told us he would escort us to the studio to watch the production. What he did not tell us was that Bob Hope would stop the entire film production and invite us to walk on set and be introduced to the cast and crew. Eddie had spoken directly to Hope and asked him to give us the extra touch. Hope was the consummate gentleman. He didn’t appear annoyed or burdened by Eddie’s personal request. Instead, he seemed to get a kick out of making us feel important and special.
When he introduced us to the stunning and gracious Lana Turner, I was starstruck. But it was more than that. I was deeply moved by the way accomplished and successful people took time to help someone who could not help them. This uniquely American sensibility of selflessness endeared my adopted homeland to me. I had traveled all over Europe. I’d seen and met all kinds of people.
Americans were different. I had never encountered a people so intent on lifting up individuals. They cared. Best of all, they didn’t think it was such a big deal. As Mr. Goldman once told me, “Giving back is fun. The feeling I get back is bigger than the thing I gave.”
After almost sixty-five years in the hand-tailored menswear business, I’ve dressed hundreds of Hollywood actors, scores of celebrities, pro athletes, and business titans, as well as four U.S. presidents and countless politicians—an incredible journey that began with the Hollywood brunch that Eddie Cantor set up at the Hillcrest Country Club.
Irony of ironies, since 2010, Martin Greenfield Clothiers has dressed the Eddie Cantor character played by Stephen DeRosa on HBO’s award-winning
Boardwalk Empire
. Martin Scorsese, the series’ executive producer, sent his people to my factory to interview me about what it was like to make suits for the real Eddie Cantor. Tod, Jay, and I gave Scorsese’s crew a tour and showed them the area where Eddie used to hop up on the cutting-room table and dance and sing for us. I then showed them the kinds of cloth, cuts, and designs we used for Eddie.
Scorsese’s people explained that the show was going to be a period crime drama set in the Prohibition era and would include mobsters. “Do you recall ever making any suits for wise guys or mobsters while you were at GGG?” a crew member asked.
“Are you kidding? Of course. Mob guys always made the best customers—they paid in cash,” I said.
“Any particular individuals come to mind?” he asked.
“Meyer Lansky,” I said.
“The
real
Meyer Lansky? As in, the mobster after whom the ‘Hyman Roth’ character in
The Godfather II
was patterned?”
“Yes. He wore a 40 short. He was so cautious about security that I never met him face to face. I just made up the suits the way he liked them, and we shipped them to the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach, Florida.”
Scorsese’s team liked what they saw and heard so much that we have dressed the
Boardwalk Empire
cast for all five seasons—over six hundred made-to-measure custom jobs, crafted by hand just the way I used to make them for the real Eddie Cantor.
In 2014, I paid a visit to the
Boardwalk Empire
set. They were shooting an episode from the show’s final season at the historic Players Club building here in New York. My dear friend Steve Buscemi, who plays the lead character Enoch “Nucky” Thompson on the show, was in the middle of shooting a scene. Watching all the characters shuffle around the period set in our suits thrust me back in time. No matter how many television or movie wardrobes we do, I never tire of seeing my custom creations come to life and dance across the screen. The set and clothes were period perfect.
Ever since Steve appeared in his breakout role in Quentin Tarantino’s cult classic
Reservoir Dogs
as the character Mr. Pink, I’d enjoyed watching his career blossom. We always shared a special bond. He’s a Brooklyn boy, too. Steve’s wife, Jo, often brings their son to the factory, and we have a big time. A man who understands the sacredness of family is one I respect.
Steve’s also got a beautiful heart. Before his acting career, he served as a New York firefighter with FDNY Engine 55. When the terrorists attacked America on September 11, 2001, Steve quietly put his acting gigs on hold and drove down to his old fire station to help his brother firefighters pull bodies out of the rubble. When
reporters called to ask if the rumors were true, he declined to comment. That’s the kind of guy Steve is.
On set, Steve finished his scene and pulled me aside. Unlike some method actors who remain in character in and out of scenes, when Steve’s done, he’s done; I was talking to Steve, not Nucky.
“How do I look, Martin?” he asked.
I smoothed his lapels and gave him the once-over.
“Beautiful,” I said. “Couldn’t fit or look better.”
“You know the only time I ever heard anyone call me ‘handsome’ was when I wore your suits,” he joked, referencing his trademark quirky look. “Seriously, 90 percent of this role is the clothes. Any time I’m practicing and feeling unsure about a line or scene, I look in the mirror and realize you’ve already made Nucky. I just have to mouth the words. The suits do the rest.”
H
ollywood forced me to think and dream bigger.
Hanging out with celebrities boosted my confidence. Stars were just people—nice people, even. Moreover, the menswear conference confirmed that I was on my way to being a master tailor. The industry professionals I met were competent but not superior. My competitive nature let me know I could play with the best—and even beat them. My ego-boosting trip proved timely. As it turned out, Mr. Goldman had bigger plans for my future than I could have ever dreamed.
“We’re headed to London, Martino,” he said. “Pack your suitcase and bring Arlene.”
Mr. Goldman traveled in style and comfort. He never carried money on him save for a single silver dollar. Standing in the hotel lobby, I asked him why he didn’t carry cash.
“I don’t need to. You don’t either,” he said. “I just sign for it. If you have any expenses, don’t pay for anything. Just tell them you’re with Mr. Goldman.”
“I don’t have to pay them?”
“No. You’re with me. That’s all you need.” Mr. Goldman noticed my confusion. “Let me show you,” he said. “Go to that desk clerk and tell him to give you one thousand pounds.”
“What? I’m not telling him that. You tell him.”
“No, I want you to. Just say Mr. Goldman is your boss.”
The experiment made me feel like a stickup artist. When I asked the clerk for the money, not surprisingly, he refused. I then did as Mr. Goldman instructed and told them he was my boss.
“Do you have a check or something?” the clerk asked.
“No, my boss is Mr. Goldman.”
“I’m sorry. We don’t do business like this in England,” he said in an annoyed tone.
Mr. Goldman stepped in. “I’m Mr. Goldman. What’s the problem?”
“Sir, I cannot just advance your colleague here
one thousand pounds
.”
“Why not? You know Mr. Collette, the famous businessman, don’t you?”
“Of course, sir.”
“He’s my cousin. Call him.”
The clerk shot us a skeptical but slightly worried look. While speaking to Mr. Collette on the phone, his expression changed to extreme embarrassment and mortified regret.
“Mr. Goldman, sir, I am so terribly sorry for my mistake. . . . I . . . I . . . I apologize for the misunderstanding, sir.”
“Give Martino here the money he requested,” said Mr. Goldman.
“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. Right away.”
Mr. Collette gave us his Rolls-Royce and a driver for the entire week.
Mr. Goldman understood the importance of appearances. He was a master at projecting power and panache. We were suit men. Our business was all about flair and perceived authority. Dress important and you become important. A man who signed for things made an unspoken statement of credit and wealth. Showing up in a Rolls-Royce signaled to prospects they, too, could join the ranks of the elite—or at least look the part—by wearing Mr. Goldman’s clothes. Our Rolls took us from haberdashery to haberdashery. Mr. Goldman pitched. I measured. He closed. I learned.
No lesson was too small for Mr. Goldman to impart. When he found out I didn’t drink alcohol, Mr. Goldman took it upon himself to set me straight. “If you’re going to be in this business, Martino, you have to learn to drink Scotch,” he said. He took me to a bar and taught me how to knock back and hold my liquor. I hated the stuff but loved that he took the time to teach me.
Still, even with all Mr. Goldman’s one-on-one mentoring, I doubted whether I had it in me to ever become a “front man” in our trade. Mr. Goldman made it look effortless. But he didn’t have
a foreign accent. Moreover, he had a fancy education and formal sales and rhetorical training. I didn’t. I decided it was best to run my measuring tape, not my mouth.
