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from Jack Ruby's America
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)
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
Jack believes in what he insists on calling his orchestra:
four sorry tuxedos sitting at the back of an otherwise naked stage.
Ever since the night a musician bit off the tip of Jack's finger,
there's been no love lost between Jack and the music. Still, he wants
to do it up right. He's always looking for any cut above.
More clothes are coming off to the sound of rock 'n' roll records
all over town. But where Jack's the master of ceremonies,
he wants everything live.
He's making his uneasy way through the crowd
with a microphone in his hand, when bang, out of nowhere:
the drummer's rim-shot. And good evening, he's our host, Jack Ruby,
and we're not going to believe what he's got planned for us this time.
* * *
Jack steps off the elevator at midnight, and cockeyed luck is with him:
he's being swept along through the crowded hall to the Dallas PD's
basement assembly room where Oswald's about to be put on display
so the rumors that this prisoner's been in any way manhandled
can be laid to rest. In this blur of wingtip shoes that's passing
for history's forward momentum, no one's about to stop Jack Ruby.
In his dark suit and customary snap-brim, Jack could almost be
a plainclothes detective. He's standing on a table in the back,
craning his neck, making notes like a reporter. He could be mistaken
for either one, and for the moment he's having it both ways:
the time of his imaginary life. He's correcting the district attorney
who's just mentioned Oswald and Castro and a "Free Cuba Committee" —
that's Fair Play for Cuba Committee. Don't these guys ever listen
at least to the news? And now comes his first good look at Oswald
himself: he seems so small, so lost in this crowd, as if
he'd be a lot happier right now giving a souped-up Chevy the gas
and gunning down Main Street until there's nothing but the day ahead.
Even his matter-of-fact I'm a patsy is all but swallowed up
in this ricochet of questions, the crossfire of self-congratulation.
And no matter where he finds himself, this is Jack's time of night.
A few more minutes, and Oswald's gone. Show's over, but Jack
is in no big hurry to leave. He likes being awake at this hour
with his usual roll of cash and loaded snub-nose in his pocket.
And this evening's no exception. Yes, he should be considered armed
but not real dangerous tonight. He's pressing the flesh
with the out-of-town reporters, handing out his "Jack Ruby, Your Host
at the Carousel" calling cards, and they should try to stick around
a few days, he can make it worth their time. The drinks are on him
when the club reopens, when all the Dallas hoopla finally dies down
and Jack can make it his business again to give folks a little
something they can't get at home: a taste of pizzazz and a shot
of hubba-hubba. And when the reporters ask can they quote him on that,
he says of course, he does it all the time himself.
* * *
Jack's too wound-up to sleep. His heart is thumping to a tune
he can't begin to carry. Especially not here at 4 AM, but at least
Friday's over in America. Officially, it's a new day that finds Jack
in the main office of the Dallas Times Herald, showing off
his latest sure-fire get-rich-quick scheme — the Twist-Erciser,
a five-dollar exercise gimmick based on what's left of the dance craze:
a platform the size of a bathroom scale, set on seventy ball bearings.
Jack steps up, and he swivels. He shimmies. He's turning in every
direction at once, a squat 180 pounds of wobbling, centrifugal force.
He's trying to get dibs on its national distribution,
so are there any questions he can answer, how many are they good for.
He's in a crowded, smoke-filled room again, but this time Jack
is the only reason. These people need some kind of relief about now.
A few of them are laughing until they hurt, until it only looks like
crying. They never knew what this guy was going to think of next.
And Jack's laughing too, like there's no tomorrow. He needs buyers
right now for whatever he's selling. He can't keep spinning this way
forever. Another night's taking a sharp turn into the next morning
in the middle of his life, and Jack's still going.
He's hanging on. He's trying not to lose his balance.
David Clewell
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