April 14, 2008: Snowbirding: Claude Kelly, Frank, & JFK (Concluded)

For the first time Claude seemed to notice that he had interrupted our lunch. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m bothering you. I was just making a joke when I said you looked rich. I was only tryin’ to break the ice.” We both shook our heads to indicate that we were now very happy he had “bothered” us. “I really meant to say that you looked like nice people.” We both smiled back at him.

“And, oh, I’m not just Claude, I’m also Claude Kelly. No relation to Grace. But still Irish, you see. Though I was born here.” He laughed again and without us inviting him or having any objections at all—in fact feeling just the opposite now that we realized who and how interesting he was—he pulled up a chair, lowered himself carefully into it, saying, “It’s those damn strokes.” He slapped at one of his legs, which was jumping around, not under his control.

“But enough about that. Life’s too short to worry about these kinds of things.” With a shrug he pointed at his right foot whose random tapping was finally beginning to subside. He relaxed back into his seat as if to indicate he had a lot he wanted to pass along. “If you’ve got the time, I can tell you about the Kennedys. I knew them from my Palm Beach days. They had a big house up there. Actually a compound of houses. The old man made a lot of dough. We were very close. Especially Jack and me. Do you have a few minutes for a couple of stories?”

We assured him we did. Who cared any more about the pitas? They couldn’t compete with anything he might tell us about JFK. In fact Kimberly, the waitress, had taken our dishes away. She knew Claude. He came to the Friendly Greek quite often, and she winked at us since she knew we were in for a good time.

“Any time he was in Palm Beach he’d drive over to the Breakers. Usually at about 9:00 and usually with Jackie. Sometimes alone. She was something to see. You couldn’t really appreciate her unless you saw her in person. Quite a girl she was.” Again, he looked away as he were peering back in time to conjure up a remembered image of Jackie Kennedy.

“Back in those day even the president could drive his own car. It was a beauty. A Lincoln Continental convertible. I’m not sure that the Secret Service came along with him. Especially when he came in on his own. I assume you know what I mean.” He gestured as if to jab Rona gently in the ribs with his elbow. We nodded, not wanting to interrupt him.

“They liked to dance—Jack and Jackie. He was real smooth on the floor. Just like you saw him on television at those press conferences. Elegant. We’ve lost that, haven’t we? Class, I mean. He had that in spades. Every one who was in the house knew them personally. For the folks who had houses on the beach it was still a small town. Though the old-money folks didn’t like Jack's old man, Joe Senior—called him a bootlegger. And worse. Believe me. Remember I’m Irish so I know what I’m talkin’ about. They were just their neighbors, not the President and First Lady. Nothing like that. Some even called him ‘Jack.’ They let them be themselves. Just like any other couple out on a Saturday night. And when they’d come by I’d play all their favorite tunes. Mostly Cole Porter. I think Jackie’s father knew Cole from Paris days.

“They especially liked “I Get a Kick Out of You” and “Just One of Those Things.” And every time they were about to leave I’d play “What Is This Thing called Love?” Which was sort of their song and I guess in the words it contained a lot of truth. I know what folks say now, but to me it looked like they loved each other. In their own way. And, isn’t it the truth, is there any other way?”

He leaned forward and for the first time lowered his voice as if to take us into his confidence. Up to that point anyone else eating at the Friendly Greek could easily have listened in on his stories. Though his stroke had slowed him down, his voice boomed and could have been heard above the traffic across to the other side of US 1. No one seemed to care though. All were too intent on gulping down the last of their Horiatiki Salads and their Pastitsios.

“It was on those nights when he came alone that things got really interesting. He was a man after all. And a powerful one at that. And every gal was throwing herself at him. Of course, not when Jackie was around. That’s for sure. But when he was alone it was quite a different story. I don’t want to tell any tales out of school, but there was this one night when Ava Gardner was there. With Frank. Frank was still in with the Kennedy’s—before they excommunicated him because of the Mafia thing-- and though they had gotten divorced a few years before, he was still crazy over Ava and on occasion they went around together. I think at the time he was married Mia Farrow. But that didn’t matter. Not to Frank. He was a very bad boy.

“Anyway, they were all there. Frank had too much to drink and sat there all night long looking googly-eyed at Ava. She was something special at that time. And shameless. She ignored Frank the whole time. She had one thing in mind--Jack. She was all over him for God’s sake! Right in front of Frank. And everyone else. And to tell you the truth Jack was just as interested in her. They danced a couple of times. No one even looked at them. I was careful not to play any tune that Jackie liked. I tried to keep those kinds of things separate. In my business you had to know how to do that. Why everyone knew that Frank had a thing going with Jackie. That’s the way things were then. Folks did what they wanted and everyone left them alone. Not like today. That’s for sure. Should anyone have cared about what Bill Clinton was up to? What ever happened to us? We think we’ve made so much progress? Well I can tell you we used to be much more sophisticated.”

A cloud passed overhead, blocking the sun; and it was as if that changed and darkened Claude’s mood. “Then of course Jack got shot.” At the memory of that he seemed to be gulping for air. Rona slid her glass of water over to him and Claude took it up and drank down most of what remained. “His mother [‘Rose,’ I said]. Yes Rose. She was never the same after that. I also knew her very well. Sometimes they’d have a party over at the house on the beach and she’d ask me to bring four or five fellas with me to play for them. That was about as good as it ever got.” He looked up the road toward Palm Beach.

“She had had her problems to be sure. What with Joe Junior getting shot down and killed and having one retarded daughter. And her husband wasn’t that much of a comfort to her. Or much of a husband either for that matter. So she turned to people like me. She could talk to us. I don’t know if you noticed but I’ve never been interested in women. In that way.” I had thought so but didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to interrupt or distract him. I was eager to hear more about the Kennedys.

“I could listen to her, to Mrs. Kennedy, and not be interested in any of that funny stuff. So after he was killed she would call me to come over and we’d sit and talk for hours. I mean she’d talk and I’d listen. I do a lot of talking as you can see, but I’d rather keep the things we talked about to myself. If that’s OK with you.” In truth I would have loved to have heard what he could tell; but with some effort indicated I respected his and Rose Kennedy’s privacy.

“Though they have me on tape, and what I had to say about those times and what Rose told me is I think in Jack’s library up in Massachusetts. Some day, when the family allows it, if you’re around, and I’m sure you will be,” he glanced in Rona’s direction, “you’ll hear the rest of my stories.”

“I hope we will,” Rona said, remembering to include me. “That would be wonderful. Our having met you would make it even more interesting.”

“You see, I was right. You are nice!” He clearly meant that for Rona since he sensed I would rather have had him break his vow to Rose Kennedy right then and there and told all.

“There is one more thing I can tell you. You remember that I said about Jack’s car? And how he drove himself around in it? Well Rose let me have that car.”

“She did?” I couldn’t contain myself. To learn this was at least some compensation for not hearing more about his private times with JFK’s mother.

“Well, she let me buy it. She was a Kennedy after all. She said Jack would have wanted me to have it. But she did charge me for it. Not what it was worth. I don’t mean to a collector but to a used car dealer. Not that they would have sold Jack’s car to a used car dealer.” The very thought of this tickled him and, chuckling to himself, returned to his more familiar ebullient self. “She sold it to me at less than market value is what I mean. For a token amount. I forget—maybe two, three thousand dollars.”

“And do you still have it?” I asked. “It must be worth a fortune by now. When they auction off a JFK cigar lighter it goes for tens of thousands.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I only kept it six or seven years. Living here right by the ocean, it began to get rust spots so I sold it to a guy from upstate New York. For $28,000. I felt a little guilty making a profit off of it, but I was a little hard up at the time. He has a collection of cars of that kind. The guy I sold it to. Even one of Hitler’s cars. You can go see it. Jack’s I mean. It’s somewhere up there. I forgot just where. But he taped me too. So I’m told if you go to the museum and stand next to that old Lincoln you can here what I had to say.

“At my age, I can’t remember what it was that I told him. I should go there myself to see it again and to listen to myself. To see if I told the truth.” This made him laugh again. And it caused me to wonder if he had been telling me and Rona the truth.

As if reading my mind, he said, “But since I like the two of you. You too,” he said looking directly at me, “Everything I told you is the God’s-honest truth. I didn’t even stretch anything." I chose to believe him.

“If you have the time,” he said, painfully raising himself from the chair. I jumped up to help him. He was shaky and very fragile feeling. “Watch those hands of yours, big fella,” he chortled. On of my hands had slipped to his hip. “If you come by again before you leave you’ll likely find me here. That is if I don’t drop dead ‘tween now and then. But I’ll be back. I love this place. I can’t get enough of George’s Mousaka. And maybe if I see you again I’ll spill some more beans. Maybe even some about Onassis. I knew him too. After he married Jackie.” He winked as he shuffled inside.

We had only ten days left before we had to head north but agreed we’d be certain to get back to the Friendly Greek before then. With Claude one could not be sure he'd be at his usual table come next December, and I was still hoping to hear a little more about what Rose had told him.