The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,24

the Mercury—I can envision lawsuits, and—”

“Ah, Housey,” Welles said, “don’t be a little girl!”

Houseman looked daggers across the desk. “Orson, you need to take more care. Or one day your comeuppance will come, and it will not be a pleasant thing to behold.”

Welles waved that off. “It’s the medium of radio that needs the comeuppance, that needs to get the starch taken out of it. It’s the voice of authority, nowadays—too much so. And maybe we’ll just give a little kick to the seat of the voice of authority’s pants. Anyway, what’s your alternative—any of you? To go on the air with this boring hour of hokum?”

Leaning forward, as if taking everyone into his confidence, which he was, Welles said, “My little hoax notion will save this show...but in case you’re right, Housey, and things do get a little out of hand, like in England that time—let’s just keep this to ourselves. After all, it’s like a magic trick—a prank only works if the pranksters don’t let anybody else in on the joke....”

SATURDAY

OCTOBER 29, 1938

BROADWAY BEGAN AS A COWPATH, only to be transformed by neon—chiefly red with dabs of yellow—into the blazing nighttime main stem of the world’s largest frontier town. But as garish as it was by night, Broadway by day was drab and even dreary. Around Times Square, a score of dance halls thrived (ten cents per “beautiful hostess”), and all along the Great White Way, sidewalk spielers offered health soap, hand-painted ties, reducing belts, hot buttery ears of corn, and Get Rich Quick real-estate booklets. Good-looking gals shilled bus rides to Chinatown, and a haberdashery shouted “Going Out of Business Sale” (in its tenth year). Bus terminals, with their foul-smelling, lumbering coaches, offered cheaper fare than the train, and adventurous tourists and locals alike were invited to partake of an array of theaters, movie palaces, hotels and cafes—also flea circuses, chop-suey parlors, burlesque houses, sideshows and clip joints. Millionaires mingled with panhandlers, youthful new stage stars brushed shoulders with aging burlesque comics, and current heavyweight champs bumped into derelicts who’d once been contenders or even champs themselves.

The current shabby state of Broadway could be traced to Prohibition—later aided and abetted by the Depression—when “nightclubs” first came into vogue. From the turn of the century, upper- and middle-class Americans had sought European-style amusement in the form of exhibitions and expositions, rooftop gardens and crystal palaces, while the working class sought out the sawdust-under-foot fun provided by beer halls and carnivals. But Prohibition had sent American nightlife down its own quirky, particular path....

A “nightclub” sought to circumvent the liquor laws by presenting itself as private, with members who dropped by for fine food, top entertainment, good conversation and, of course, their favorite soft drinks. That anyone who knocked three times might enter, and that the drinks were invariably hard, was the reality behind a fantasy kept alive by a casually law-breaking populace and their on-the-take law enforcement agencies.

By the time Prohibition was winding down, with the Depression kicking in, nightclub life was an American social tradition like baseball, circuses and the picture show. But the glittery clubs of the speakeasy era were an endangered species, saved from extinction by, as Fortune magazine put it, the “recent success of what is commonly known as the big Broadway joint, the gaudy bargain offer of fifty hot babies and a five-course dinner for $1.50 and no cover charge.”

Take the French Casino, a swooping, curving art-moderne exercise in scarlet and silver, their terraced rows of tables comfortably seating fifteen hundred. The same number of patrons could be welcomed by the International Casino (not a casino at all), in the heart of Times Square, a red and gold wonder with “curtains” that were mirrors riding on electric tracks, and a flooded, frozen stage accommodating the Ice Frolics. Billy Rose’s Casino de Paree—the remodeled New Yorker Theater on Broadway—offered a five-buck meal, gorgeous chorus girls, headliner Gypsy Rose Lee (America’s most famous striptease artiste) and the Benny Goodman orchestra.

An impressive new arrival—perched on the top floor of a building at Broadway and 48th Street—was actually an old standby, a relocated Cotton Club, the famed Harlem landmark that had (in 1936) found its white clientele increasingly reluctant to travel to a Depression-ravaged ghetto for their entertainment.

The Cotton Club began in the fall of 1923 in an old theater on 142nd Street and Lenox Avenue, its primary owner one Owney Madden, who’d come from Liverpool as a child to New York’s fabled Hell’s Kitchen, where he developed