Taken Somehow By Surprise

ii. The Chicago Cowboy

103 It was 1947. Jack heard he’d be getting a call. After all these Windy City years, it was surely his time to go West and he was thinking Los Angeles, maybe Vegas. He was thinking he was that important: finally they’d let him have his own piece of some sophisticated action. When the word came down he’d be heading to Dallas, Jack couldn’t believe someone had him all wrong. His talents would be wasted in a nowhere town like that. The Chicago Boys smelled Texas oil, and they were looking to control the wide-open gambling scene. They thought of Jack as a man who could handle the chump change, and would he please be good enough to dole it out as needed, making fast friends with the Dallas police? They promised he’d feel bigger down there, and Jack had to admit he liked the sound of that, even if down there was some kind of joke. He’d suck it in. He’d zip it up. He’d be their Chicago Cowboy, as long as he got his. He’d ask them to spring for a little velvet, something jazzy in a white snap-brim hat. He could show them good, but they shouldn’t count on Jack anymore to be that good for nothing. II. The Chicago Cowboy I have read from stories of personalities that are notorious. That is the extent of my involvement in any criminal activity. —Ruby, to Earl Warren (1964) We could not establish a significant link between Ruby and organized crime. —The Warren Commission Report 104 Sixteen years later there’s not much left for Jack to think about: the Carousel Club, 1312½ Commerce. The half’s because he’s one flight up, where rent’s a little lower. The stenciled message on the stairway wall, A FEW STEPS CLOSER TO HEAVEN, wasn’t Jack’s idea. The single rectangular room wasn’t quite the place he’d hoped for, either. He’d dreamed of a sumptuous club-in-the-round, slowly revolving on the top floor of a tower, where some kind of breathtaking view was just a reservation away. Still, by his peculiar standards, he’s made the most of it: jet-black booths, dark red carpeting, gold mesh curtains. Over the bar, a squadron of gold crowns hanging from the ceiling—Jack liked the idea of working around those. From the moment he first walked in and took over the operation, he could see it wasn’t called the Sovereign for nothing. And one enormous black-velvet painting of a well-hung stallion in gold. Jack guaranteed the bartender who helped him nail it to the wall: The 3-D effect is what makes it real class. His favorite word, class, is all he wants to be known for. This wouldn’t be a joint, but a nightclub. And his girls would be dancers, hostesses, entertainers. Truly a man ahead of his euphemistic time, this Sultan of Schmooze, this Kibitzer King, with his homespun sense of nobility. And this is his low-rent kingdom. Welcome to the house that Jack built: If they complain about the two-dollar cover, tell them it’s worth it just for an eyeful of the décor. We’re fucking class on top of class in here. 105 Before making a go of the Carousel: the Silver Spur. The Ranch House. Hernando’s Hideaway. Then enough of the Texas motifs. Let’s try the Vegas. And, of course, the Sovereign. Jack had a rapid succession of dreams that didn’t stick. But this is the one he can’t seem to shake: the Carousel, sandwiched between the Weinstein brothers’ Colony Club and the Theatre Lounge—where every night is Amateur Night and the Weinsteins have got Jack fuming. He’s the one paying for professional talent, trying to keep up some thin veneer of class. He’s been known to travel out of town just to recruit it. He’s still trying to live up to the good name he’s made for himself. Jacob Rubenstein’s no proper name for a night-spot operator. The reporters and cops come here to hang with Jack Ruby, club owner, producer, dispenser of small favors: free drinks any time. 106 If you ask Jack, he just can’t help thinking of Dallas as one gigantic Amateur Night. In...