What Happened When Show Business Married the Mafia

By Larry Spellman

Larry Spellman was a top Personal Appearance agent at the most famous Talent Agency in the world, the WIlliam Morris Agency. Larry was responsible for booking almost every classy and charismatic night club around the country. Most of these clubs were backed by the mafia, or a guy who knew a guy, and Larry had to deal with them all. When Larry married the daughter of one of the most famous Italian Men in New York City, things went from interesting to legendary. This compelling narrative takes you from the landmark borough of The Bronx in a neighborhood  "protected" by Dutch Schultz, to performing music by the age of 11 in the Catskill Mountain resorts. After receiving music scholarships and attending the prestigious Performing Arts High School and NYU, Larry went on to become the man that discoverd Rodney Dangerfield, the reason Al Martino was "allowed" to star in the motion picture "The Godfather" and much more. This is "Madmen meets "The Godfather", a love story, show business and Mafia tales all in one. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Spellman
• Release date: Feb 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215267127

Book preview

Prologue

I WAS AT THE MARDI Gras Club in Baltimore on business for William Morris when the owner, Vince Bonalis, asked me to do him a favor. Since he was barred from ever entering Pimlico Racetrack, he gave me $2,000 to go to the track and just bet the number two horse in the fifth race . . . obviously the fix was in!

Having time to kill until the race, I treated myself to a shave at the track’s barbershop. The shop was filled with guys studying racing forms and shooting the breeze with horseflesh odds and statistics. My turn came and I got in the chair.

Are you from around here? my barber asked. And how’s the track? Been good to you so far?

I’m from New York, I said, and I’m only here to bet just one horse in the fifth race.

You had to see how all the other guys got up from their chairs to turn and look at me – a picture worth all the money Vince Bonalis was about to score!

That’s a sample of the life I was living. But it wasn’t even the least of it. What do I mean by that?

Well, let me explain. . .  

CHAPTER ONE

Mailroom 1959

THAT MONDAY MORNING never felt so good. It was early November 1959. . .

I was riding the New York subway, the Independent Line that ran from my home in the Bronx down into midtown Manhattan. I knew this line well, had ridden it many times. I knew its smells on hot damp days and on days when it was pouring rain. In those days there was no air conditioning to moderate the temperature extremes of the New York seasons. The heat and the damp and the closeness of the other riders let you know who was next to you. To say we were packed in like sardines would be an understatement. We were the great American melting pot, now fused together into one compact mass. That’s why the lyrics to the song Sinatra made famous are so true, if you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere.

Those words in Sinatra’s song were especially true for me this day in November, 1959. At that time, New York City was the geographic center of the world’s media. Although the Golden Age of Hollywood had already faded into a Technicolor sunset, network television production had still not shifted its center of gravity to the West Coast. It was still here in New York where many television shows were created and broadcast. Supporting the television productions was the whole advertising industry, most of it ranged out along Madison Avenue. Then there were the great Broadway theatres, charged with the electric tension of mid-century literary genius. This was the era of Inge and Miller. It was a time when writers knew how to write and actors knew how to act. And it was the age of great entertainers who had earned their Ph.D.’s in the school of hard knocks, performing on the boards of countless vaudeville and nightclub stages.

It was into this incredible city of talent, ability, know-how, and opportunity that I now hurtled on the subway. I was going to my first day of a new job in Manhattan, and, despite the huddled masses hurtling along with me, my mind was racing so fast thinking about what lay ahead that I didn’t even notice that there was anybody riding on that train with me. It was just me barreling into New York, a town so exciting that, even if you’re standing still, you’re doing it at 22 miles an hour.

When the train stopped at the 57th Street station I pushed past all the people and stepped through the train’s doors. It was like coming up from inside a geyser under pressure. Everybody around me was pushing their way out too. We all streamed on to the platform and then rapidly overflowed the stairs to the street level above. Then we were on the street, no longer subway passengers going to New York, but now New Yorkers ourselves, rushing forth as the tide of a single river. I suddenly cut through this flow, making my own path. I knew where I was going.

I was headed for the Mutual of New York building on Broadway between 56th and 55th Streets. In this building on three of its floors were located the offices of the William Morris Agency, the greatest theatrical agency in the world. It was here at William Morris where I had landed my job. Everything I had ever done in my life up to this moment had prepared me for this, my great opportunity.

My walk from the train station to the Mutual of New York building was the fastest I ever made. In a city where everyone walks fast, I cut past person after person. I strode on to Broadway, making sprinters look like turtles. The city opened before me, folding aside as I moved forward. Traffic sounds seemed a hailing signal. The buildings and the streets and the people seemed more alive to me than on any other day of my life. Suddenly the door of the Mutual building was before me, and I went through it in a flash.

In the lobby I slowed my pace, crossing the floor with assurance, and entered the open door of an elevator. I punched the button for the 32nd floor and started moving up into the building.

When the elevator doors opened on the 32nd floor, I moved toward a space in which floated the huge WMA logo. An instant later I realized that the logo was attached to the wall behind the reception desk. My glance moved over the logo and a tingle shot up my spine. This was what I had been dreaming about my entire four years at NYU.

Yes?

The voice was female, cool, and poised, ready to drip with contempt. I looked over and saw that the voice belonged to the receptionist, a blonde with ice-blue eyes.

I’m Larry Spellman, I said, smiling into all her ice, here to start my first day on the job.

What job? she asked flatly.

In the mailroom, I said.

Oh, she said, still cool, as if my information barely qualified as information. It’s down the hall there. See Sherman Tankel.

Tankel? I asked.

She barely nodded once. I guessed that’s how they did it in the northern climes.

Thanks, I said.

All that ice didn’t even blink.

Having made my Big Impression, I went down the hall, not waiting for any further expressions of admiration from the receptionist. I figured she was just a little slow from all those long days up there by the Arctic Circle.

I made my way down the hallway, which was laid out in a kind of horseshoe configuration. I was soon sure that I had the right place because of the clue on the wall by an entryway, a sign that read Mailroom. I stepped through the entryway and looked about inside.

It was a not very big room containing tables stacked with boxes of mail, metal canisters of film, and a few city directories and telephone books. In the center of the room was a table with an upright box sitting on it. The box had a series of little slots in which to place mail. Next to the postal box was a Pitney-Bowes postal meter machine. Off to one side, sitting on a table, was another machine, a mimeograph. Directly facing me was a glass caged office with a desk and telephone inside; this was a place where the head of the mailroom could talk on the phone in quiet, and talk to trainees a bit louder. Off to my left, as I came into the room, a guy sat at a semi-circular desk, talking on the telephone. I later learned that he was the dispatcher. Sitting at the tables were several guys dressed in suits just like I was. They were looking through pieces of mail and putting them into some kind of stacked order on the tables.

Nobody looked up from their work, so I just said, I’m Larry Spellman here to see Sherman Tankel.

A heavy-set, jowly guy about 24 years old suddenly looked up at me. Below his chin were two more chins. This was the kind of guy who probably looked old when he was in kindergarten.

Spellman? the heavy-set guy asked. Been expecting you. I’m Sherman Tankel.

Sherman Tankel stood up and looked at his watch.

You’re on time, he said, but around here we start as early as we can. You’ll see. Come on in here.

Sherman Tankel led me in to the glass caged office and indicated a chair. I sat down in it, and he went and sat behind the desk.

Spellman, Larry, he read from a sheet of paper on the desk. I see you here. When did you interview?

Last Thursday, Mr. Tankel, I replied.

Sherman, he said. Call me Sherman. I’m not the head of the mailroom. I’m just a trainee like you, filling in until they get someone permanent. So here it is. The job is from nine to five some days and other days eleven to seven and Saturday mornings once a month. I’ll give you the schedule later today. The salary is fifty a week. I guess they already told you that.

Oh, yes, I said.

I know, Sherman said. That salary level is a little hard to swallow. Lucky if you can swallow anything on fifty a week. Everybody here has outside income, weekend jobs or they live at home with their parents or, the lucky ones, the trust babies. How about you?

Weekend job, I said.

Figured you for a weekend job, Sherman said. Doing what?

I’m a musician, I said.

Really, Sherman said. What’s your instrument?

Saxophone, I said.

And they pay you to play? Sherman asked.

Dances, weddings, bar mitzvahs, I said, nodding. I can clear a hundred a week.

Dollars? Sherman asked.

And then I book a few bands, I said.

And on this you make money too? Sherman asked.

I take my ten percent, I said. I do all right.

You think you can do all that and work here full time? Sherman asked.

Sure, I said. Why not?

Most of us here are not so . . . uh . . . preoccupied, Sherman said. "But, okay, so you’ve got your outside job. Now I’ll show you your job here."

Sherman stood up and so did I.

Sorting mail, I said.

Uh, not just yet, Sherman said. "You’re the new man, so right now you’re low man on the totem pole. That means you have a very . . . uh . . . special . . . job."

I’m ready for anything, I said. Tell me all about it.

Oh, Sherman said, "I’m going to show it to you. Come on."

Sherman led me out of the glass caged office and through the door of the mailroom. He took me down the hall, talking all the while to me in a low, even, carefully modulated voice. Every time someone approached in the hall, Sherman would stop speaking until they passed.

He began, Every second you’re in these halls you have to be on your best behavior. I saw on the paper that you’ve been in the army, so you know what I’m talking about. This is like the army, only more. You have to look your best at all times, hair combed, tie straight, pants pressed. See how straight the part is in my hair? One of the top agents combs his hair like this. Found out the name of his barber and now I go to the same place. It’s expensive, but worth it. See how things go and maybe I’ll tell you the barber’s name. Now keep your eyes about you at all times. Speak only if spoken to and then it’s, ‘Yes, Mr. So-and-so. Right away, Mr. So-and-so.’ Sh!

A very nicely dressed older man approached us in the hall, looking down at some papers in his hand. In a moment he passed us and was out of sight.

Who was that? I asked.

Who was that? Sherman repeated. You don’t know?

No, I said.

That was Nat Kalcheim, Sherman said.

I stopped and looked back up the hall where the man had disappeared around a corner.

"That was him?" I asked.

"That was him, Sherman said solemnly. One of the founding fathers of the William Morris Agency. Sort of like walking past George Washington, huh?"

Yeah, I said, only better.

You see what I mean about how it is in these halls? Sherman asked.

I see what you mean, I said.

We started along the hall again. Sherman resumed his orientation lecture, So, don’t chat with anybody. Don’t loaf around the water cooler. Don’t try to make time with the receptionists. Don’t put your hands in your pockets.

I took my hands out of my pockets. Sherman stopped in the hall and looked at me.

You’re ready for anything, Sherman said. Welcome to anything.

Sherman pushed a door open and we went through it and stepped into the men’s room.

Oh, I said, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I’ll just wait for you outside.

Come back here, Sherman said. I didn’t come in here to pee. This is where you’ll be working from now on.

I stopped on the threshold, holding the door open.

What? I asked.

I hadn’t understood what Sherman had just said. It wouldn’t fit into my brain.

The men’s room, Sherman said. This is your new job.

I slowly stepped into the men’s room, closing the door behind me.

You’re kidding, I said. You’ve got to be kidding.

And where on my face are you seeing the smile? Sherman asked. Everybody starts out right here, in Flushing, New York. Everybody.

Sherman, I said, I have a Bachelor of Science degree from NYU.

Yes, I know, Sherman said. Very impressive. Saw that on your application. But let me inform you, everybody here has a university degree. And we all started out right here in the men’s room, doing paperwork.

Paperwork? I asked.

Sherman went to a cabinet and opened its door. Inside were stacks of toilet paper rolls. He removed one of the rolls and carried it to a toilet stall.

Paperwork, Sherman said. No job is finished until the paperwork is done. And I see here that the last guy didn’t finish his paperwork. We’ll do it for him and keep his name out of it. He’s lucky we found it and not someone else.

I looked into where Sherman stood in the stall. He was removing an empty cardboard tube from the spring-loaded toilet paper bar and replacing it with the new roll of toilet paper. He got the new roll on the bar and snapped it back into place.

The tissue rolls from the top down, not the bottom under, Sherman observed. Remember that. This is your new job from now on.

You’re serious, I said.

Top down, Larry, Sherman said. That’s the way everything is done around here, from the top down. Got it?

Got it, I said.

Toilet paper is very important around here, Sherman said.

Around anywhere, I said, shrugging.

Sherman grimaced at me.

An agent came in here one time, Sherman said, and there was no toilet paper in the stall. Guess what happened to the trainee who was assigned to the men’s room?

He got fired? I guessed.

Fired? Sherman repeated. He was never seen or heard from again.

From anybody? I asked.

Not in show business, Sherman said. Maybe his mother heard something.

Sherman flushed the toilet.

You can go down quick around here, Larry, if you don’t do your paperwork, Sherman said. Understand?

I understand, I said.

Now this assignment is not just the toilet paper, Sherman said.

I didn’t think it would be, I said.

It’s the paper towels and the soap dispenser as well, Sherman said. "You’ve got to keep us in soap. Soap . . . soap gives hope. That is, it gives you hope that you’ll keep your job."

What about the floors? I asked. Am I going to have to make a consultation with Mr. Clean?

Cute, Sherman said. The janitors do the floors. You’re not the janitor.

Oh, no, I said. I’m the men’s room attendant, college entry level.

Say that with pride, Lare, Sherman said. But if somebody makes a mess and you can’t locate the janitor right away, guess who gets an opportunity to prove his executive potential?

Little ol’ me, I said.

Bingo, Sherman said.

And all I have to do is this and I pile up fifty smackers a week? I asked.

Oh, Sherman said, this just starts your day off with a sparkle. You take care of this first, fast as you can, and then beat it back to the mailroom. Come on. I have a job for you right now.

Oh, boy! I exclaimed. Paperwork!

Not paperwork, Sherman said. Come on.

Sherman took me back to the mailroom. When we got there, he stopped in front of the table with the stacks of film canisters.

These are kinescopes, Sherman said, motion picture footage made with a camera set up in front of a television screen. These are all films of shows made by our clients. I want you to schlep these two cans over to this advertising agency on Madison Avenue.

Sherman handed me the agency’s business card.

Here’s two dollars for cab fare, Sherman said. Sign for the money.

I signed a receipt, and then took the two bills that Sherman held out in his hand.

We usually walk and pocket the two dollars, Sherman said.

At fifty a week, I’ll walk, I said.

I should tell you, though, Sherman said, these cans can get heavy.

I picked up the two cans of film by their handles, one in each of my hands.

These things? I asked. They’re light as a feather.

Well, then, Sherman said, you ought to be able to fly over there.

Cute, I said. I went to the door, carrying the cans in each of my hands.

Look fellas, Sherman said, he just floated across the room! You’re going to need some ballast, Larry!

Yeah, I said, but from the looks of your belt size, I can see you won’t.

The other trainees burst out laughing.

See ya, Lare, Sherman said.

See ya, Sherman, I said.

Then Sherman grinned. He could dish it out and take it, too. And he could see that I could do the same.

I started out the door of the mailroom carrying the film cans by their handles. When I got to the elevators, I stopped and looked over to the receptionist who I had spoken to earlier, the one with the ice-blue eyes. I smiled and held up the film canisters. Still, she didn’t even blink. The elevator doors opened and I went through them, hoping for some warmer air.

Down below on the sidewalks of Broadway I looked up at the sky. I hadn’t noticed it before on my way to the WMA offices. The sky was gray and darker than when I had first arrived in Manhattan that morning. I started down Broadway on foot, carrying a film canister in each hand, grasping them by their handles. I was only wearing my suit without a top coat. As I walked, I noticed a sprinkling of rain on the sidewalk.

By the time I made it to Fifth Avenue, the sprinkles had turned to a downpour and my suit and hair were beginning to get soaked. I looked for a cab, but saw not a one in all the snarl of traffic before me. The way the cars were creeping along right then I wondered if two dollars would even cover the fare to Madison Avenue anyway. I kept to my course on foot. The film cans were now getting heavy. If they were feathers, they were feathers made of lead. By the time I got to Madison Avenue I thought my arms would fall off. I kept walking. I was getting drenched, and the wind had raked my hair askew. I no longer looked my best.

What am I doing here, I wondered? I thought about that trainee Sherman had mentioned who had botched his men’s room assignment and was never heard from again. What if I made a slight mistake and got fired and was never heard from again either? Then all of this menial drudgery would have amounted to nothing, a total loss.

My feet kept walking in a straight line, but my mind kept going back over the same ground. What am I doing here? How did I ever get into this? How did it all start? I kept coming up with the same answer. It all started when I started. It all started with . . . my very first memory.

CHAPTER TWO

The Law Is Formed

IT WAS A BRIGHT RED RING.

That was my very first memory. Let me explain.

When I was three years old, my mother would go over to Eighth and Bathgate Avenues in the Bronx and shop in the outdoor stalls. Mr. Moscowitz sold pants and knickers there. I remember that he used to measure things not with a yardstick or ruler, but with a rope knotted at intervals along its length. In another stall, Molly the Chicken Lady sold chickens with their legs always bound together by a ring, and not just any old ordinary ring, either. The rings were always a bright color: red, yellow, blue, green. We kids loved them. We would take the rings and put them on our fingers, real treasure. And that was my very first memory: one of the Chicken Lady’s rings on my finger, a bright red one.

I had my hand held up in the air, the fingers of my hand spread out, with that red ring on my third finger. Over the top of the red ring I could see my mother’s head, sticking out