or not so private, and not be pilloried for scandalous behavior.)
When the familiar Reo appeared, people would note that Babe was on hand to watch the track. Her driver and general factotum these days was the middleweight ex-prizefighter Sluggo McGurk, who’d been punched so hard so many times that his head sloshed, but when Sluggo was on tap no one messed with Babe, not if he was smart. Unless, of course, he happened to be one of Bugsy Siegel’s lieutenants, that duke by the name of Al “Vegas” da Prima, of whom Babe was rumored to be currently enamored. She and Al were known to have shacked up at the Hotel Del Coronado near San Diego on several occasions, and when his yacht, the Black Star , was anchored in Catalina harbor, a pair of binoculars could discern at the rail a figure that certainly resembled Babe Austrian; though no one could actually prove it was she, it was reported that way in the press.
Penned Louella:
What in the world are things coming to around here, anyway? What famous film blonde has lately been seen aboard the yacht of what friend of what well known gangland figure and real estate investor? Naughty, double naughty, little miss, you ought to have your bottom spanked!
Ironically, there wasn’t much truth in these rumors, since at that time Babe hadn’t ever been aboard a gangster’s yacht. The truth was, the woman on the Black Star was another person altogether.
Back in her old New York days Babe had a close friend with whom she’d appeared in a couple of shows. The friend’s name was Patsy Doyle, and the two girls were not dissimilar in looks. Men occasionally mistook Patsy for Babe, or vice versa, and once Babe even dispatched Patsy on a date in her place. When her movie career took off, Babe sent for Patsy to be her stand-in. Patsy jumped at the chance, and soon there were two Hollywood blondes riding side by side in the back of the Reo, one the star, the other not.
Patsy Doyle was a good-time girl all the way. She was made for Hollywood; maybe not stardom Hollywood, but girls like Patsy always helped fill out the fringes of the place. She was without ambition, caring nothing for the art of the cinema, though she was apparently well versed in other, less esoteric arts.
Eventually she married a high-roller type they called Snake-Hips, who wore a white fedora and took all her money for gambling. Given Patsy’s deliberate aping of Babe’s peroxided hair and flamboyant dress, it was understandable how the two women might be confused in the public eye, and Babe didn’t care enough about what people thought to clear the matter up. To hell with Louella and all her tribe!
This is how I reencountered Babe Austrian: in the spring of 1952, she returned to Broadway, an event that proved to be a triumph. The revival of Lola Magee was her own idea, though her career was still being masterminded by Frank. I was brand new in New York at the time, having graduated from college and playing a small part in my first Broadway show. My days of pinching movie sex symbols were long behind me, though the intervening years had done little or nothing to dull the memory of those pretty feet, those baby-blues, that shapely shape, as exhibited in the car of the Mayor of Hartford, Connecticut. (Actually, I’d encountered her one other time, on a moving train. But more of that anon.)
Over the years I’d followed her glittering career with interest, she then being the only star of magnitude with whom I had ever scraped acquaintance. I’d seen her Lola at a Sunday-night Actors’ Fund Benefit, a raucous evening if ever there was one, and a performance that served only to rub up a keener appreciation on my part for her comedic talents. With due respect to both Fanny Brice and Barbra Streisand, I thought she was one funny lady.
Months later I was working with Tallulah Bankhead in a revival, and when I came offstage one night early in the run there were some people waiting in my dressing room. One of them was Max
When the familiar Reo appeared, people would note that Babe was on hand to watch the track. Her driver and general factotum these days was the middleweight ex-prizefighter Sluggo McGurk, who’d been punched so hard so many times that his head sloshed, but when Sluggo was on tap no one messed with Babe, not if he was smart. Unless, of course, he happened to be one of Bugsy Siegel’s lieutenants, that duke by the name of Al “Vegas” da Prima, of whom Babe was rumored to be currently enamored. She and Al were known to have shacked up at the Hotel Del Coronado near San Diego on several occasions, and when his yacht, the Black Star , was anchored in Catalina harbor, a pair of binoculars could discern at the rail a figure that certainly resembled Babe Austrian; though no one could actually prove it was she, it was reported that way in the press.
Penned Louella:
What in the world are things coming to around here, anyway? What famous film blonde has lately been seen aboard the yacht of what friend of what well known gangland figure and real estate investor? Naughty, double naughty, little miss, you ought to have your bottom spanked!
Ironically, there wasn’t much truth in these rumors, since at that time Babe hadn’t ever been aboard a gangster’s yacht. The truth was, the woman on the Black Star was another person altogether.
Back in her old New York days Babe had a close friend with whom she’d appeared in a couple of shows. The friend’s name was Patsy Doyle, and the two girls were not dissimilar in looks. Men occasionally mistook Patsy for Babe, or vice versa, and once Babe even dispatched Patsy on a date in her place. When her movie career took off, Babe sent for Patsy to be her stand-in. Patsy jumped at the chance, and soon there were two Hollywood blondes riding side by side in the back of the Reo, one the star, the other not.
Patsy Doyle was a good-time girl all the way. She was made for Hollywood; maybe not stardom Hollywood, but girls like Patsy always helped fill out the fringes of the place. She was without ambition, caring nothing for the art of the cinema, though she was apparently well versed in other, less esoteric arts.
Eventually she married a high-roller type they called Snake-Hips, who wore a white fedora and took all her money for gambling. Given Patsy’s deliberate aping of Babe’s peroxided hair and flamboyant dress, it was understandable how the two women might be confused in the public eye, and Babe didn’t care enough about what people thought to clear the matter up. To hell with Louella and all her tribe!
This is how I reencountered Babe Austrian: in the spring of 1952, she returned to Broadway, an event that proved to be a triumph. The revival of Lola Magee was her own idea, though her career was still being masterminded by Frank. I was brand new in New York at the time, having graduated from college and playing a small part in my first Broadway show. My days of pinching movie sex symbols were long behind me, though the intervening years had done little or nothing to dull the memory of those pretty feet, those baby-blues, that shapely shape, as exhibited in the car of the Mayor of Hartford, Connecticut. (Actually, I’d encountered her one other time, on a moving train. But more of that anon.)
Over the years I’d followed her glittering career with interest, she then being the only star of magnitude with whom I had ever scraped acquaintance. I’d seen her Lola at a Sunday-night Actors’ Fund Benefit, a raucous evening if ever there was one, and a performance that served only to rub up a keener appreciation on my part for her comedic talents. With due respect to both Fanny Brice and Barbra Streisand, I thought she was one funny lady.
Months later I was working with Tallulah Bankhead in a revival, and when I came offstage one night early in the run there were some people waiting in my dressing room. One of them was Max
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