DUFFY/Dussol Nobody could say working for him was monotonous or boring. We never knew what to expect next. One Saturday afternoon while we were working on an overtime job, we heard fire sirens shrieking and screeching, and gathered at the window in time to see the engines careening around the Third Avenue El pillars as they writhed around the corner and charged up 45th Street. The clanging stopped in front of our building and we thought perhaps there was a fire across the way in 205 the Mirror Building. They'd been having some trouble with their presses and we figured maybe some of the machinery had become overheated. But, no; the hook-and-ladders were rising up directly below us and didn't stop until they were at our very windows. A false alarm. Once they'd gone, we all expressed the same thought. Where was Duffy? Sure enough, within twenty minutes the phone rang, and it was Duffy's voice I heard. "I'm down here in Callahan's Steak House on 10th Avenue in case Bill Pemberton calls. I was supposed to meet him here but he hasn't showed up yet. Say, heh, heh, heh, how'd you like my little surprise, heh, heh, heh?" I'd say he'd been at Callahan's for about an hour. "That was a good one, Mr. Duffy. Plenty of excitement." "Yeah, heh, heh, heh. I thought you'd like a little break. Everybody still there?" "Yes, all except Skoyles. He just left. The rest of us will be here for a couple of hours yet. Shall I tell the men they can eat downstairs, or just have some sandwiches sent up?" "No, tell them they can eat downstairs. We should be about paid up down there now; aren't we?" "Yes, Mr. Duffy. It's okay as far as our bill's concerned." "Good. I have to hang up now, Sweetie Pie. Give me a buzz if you run into trouble on that job. You know where to reach me now, don't you?" "Yes, Mr. Duffy, I know." A lot of help you'll be in another hour, I thought. He'd succeeded in amusing us, all right; but in surprising us? Never! We'd learned to expect anything from that man! Duffy knew well enough to acknowledge to himself, at least that he couldn't handle money, especially when he was "in his cups"; nor could he rely on himself to write coherently at such times. This could cause trouble at the bank. Moreover he knew his brother Ben would peruse all his cancelled checks and could detect any wavering in his signature. This would be a signal to Ben to threaten to refuse to co-sign any more of John's checks, and thus force Duffy Studios out of business. For this reason John had me practice writing his name until I became quite an accomplished forger. He used to call me now and then from wherever he was and ask me to sign a check and take it to him. One night around ten thirty when he knew we were working, he asked me to sign one and take a cab up to a 52nd Street nightclub one of those places that only a few years previously had been a speakeasy. 20 "They'll let you in; I'll tell them I'm expecting you," he said over the phone. 'They'll tell you where I am. Just come over and sit down and pass the check to me under the table. I'm here with a couple of cuties and I'm short of cash." "All right, Mr. Duffy, I'll be right up," I said, and made a mental note to not let my mother know about it. "That's a good girl," he said. "Tomorrow, take some petty cash and treat yourself to a double ice cream soda at Schrafft's. When I arrived at the renovated brown-stone someone led me through the smokey dusk to Duffy's table. I could hear a garble of conversations, laughter and tinkling glass, and fruity, alcoholic fumes invaded my nostrils. I caught glimpses of bare shoulders, cigarette holders and be-jeweled hair and a fascinating array of mysterious concoctions in glasses of all shapes and sizes. John Duffy's world. I recognized one of the girls at his table as one who had posed for an ad in the studio about a week before. The other one I'd never seen. Duffy wanted me to have a lemonade but I said I didn't have time. I felt uneasy and very wicked, and was relieved when his eye questioned me and I knew he had remembered why I was there. My hands were in my lap, so it was easy for me to reach into my glove for the check and pass it to him. He gave me a long, whimsical wink as he squeezed my fingertips. Then he had that same waiter, or whoever he was, see me to a cab. My eyes smarted and the air felt good. I decided to go home instead of back to the studio, and told the driver to let me off at 42nd and Lexington where I could get the subway to Brooklyn. But that's the way Duffy was. He'd have the audacity to meet some model or models and take her or them out for entertainment or dinner knowing full well he couldn't pay the bill, but ignoring such a triviality. He seemed to do everything with his fingers crossed. For him that was part of the fun of living. And it was fun for me, too. I thoroughly enjoyed working for John Duffy. The last thing in the world he wanted was trouble with his brother Ben. Not because he was concerned about the business, per se, but because Duffy Studios provided him with a background, an excuse, a release for his gregarious personality. It gave him respectability, and John was not without pride. This was one of the reasons he always introduced me to his associates as, "This is my niece isn't she sweet? I'm letting her work at the studio to give her some business experience." He would accompany the introduction with a fond uncle's hug for me. It just didn't set right with his pride to admit to his associates that a sixteen-year-old slip of a girl was handling his affairs. Playing the role of a big-hearted family benefactor changed the situation and made it more palatable for him. Duffy never lacked for female companionship, and photographers' models were naturally a big part of his life. John was good company, and a good looking bachelor at that. With his polished black hair and dimpled Irish face he was what might be described as a shorter and stockier version of Tyrone Power only not somber or serious looking. He had the zest for life in cobalt blue eyes, and his thick, black lashes were the envy of the models who used to have to paste on their artificial ones. John always had a clean, barber-fresh fragrance about him. His dissipation was well camouflaged by his mother's good care and hearty meals. Poor Mrs. Duffy worried her mother's heart out over her John. Many's the time I'd have to spend most of the morning checking the whereabouts of her errant son. Invariably on such "mornings after" he'd stop in at the studio and arrange for a local barber to come up and work on him before he'd go home to his mother. Then I'd have to get Mrs. Duffy on the phone before he left the studio. "Mr. Duffy just brought in a pile of jobs for the studio," I'd say. "He's been awfully busy since last night. He asked me to call to tell you to have one of your good breakfasts for him. He's on his way home." "Ah, the poor lad," she'd say. And then, as if on second thought, she'd add, "Is he all right?" "All right? Why, he's just fine, Mrs. Duffy," I'd assure her, with a why-shouldn't-he-be inflection. "I was just wonderin' dear... Well, I'll be puttin' his coffee on now." (continued on next page) 21