Lana Turner' Stories

Drinking became a far more serious problem. She often said she could sip one drink all evening, and while that may have been true in the past, I now watched her develop a serious dependency on vodka. It became an insidious and cumulative problem. Alcohol inevitably brought out the worst aspects of her personality.

When I think of her now I honestly believe that to be the true essence of Lana: the youthful, innocent, exuberant Lana Turner under all the furs and jewels, before she ever set foot in Hollywood

Drunk? That's a different story. Under those circumstances Lana changed into another person altogether—selfish, nasty, sarcastic, manipulative, and totally full of herself. I often wondered if she understood just how self-destructive her behavior had become. When I broached the subject she'd only shrug, as if to say, "So what?" There's no question in my mind she was, and had been for a long time, indulging in guilt-ridden self-punishment and, deep down, I think she knew it.

By the mid-1960s Lana found herself in exactly the same situation. Despite a fabulous million-dollar wardrobe, her work on Love Has Many Faces, shot on location in Acapulco, was nearly unsalvageable

Now forty-five, she'd begun to experience serious doubts about her looks, career, and durability as a femme fatale. Acapulco had always been one of her favorite playgrounds. Married or single, she always had fun in Acapulco, and loved staying in the Lana Turner Bungalow at Teddy Stauffer's Villa Vera.

To this day several of my friends who remember Lana's visits to Acapulco insist that on several occasions the beaches were littered with her indiscretions. Beach boys, bartenders, waiters, and hotel guests were said to have been the recipients of her favors. Another friend and client who is still very well connected in Mexico City recalled similar rumors about Lana that circulated in the country's highest political circles.

Lana's alleged behavior came uncomfortably close to the plot of Love Has Many Faces, in which she played Kit Jordan, one of the world's wealthiest women, who was drowning herself in alcohol and men along the beaches of the Mexican Riviera.

The stories of Lana's experiences in Mexico were by no means isolated exceptions. For years rumors of her sexual proclivities were already legendary within the Hollywood underground. My friend and noted press agent, the late Rupert Allen, once told me a story he swore to be gospel.

During her single days, it seems Lana, who was starring in one of her less demanding potboilers at MGM, decided—or, rather, insisted—that she had to get laid before she could continue with the afternoon's filming. Since hundreds of technicians, actors, and extras would be left standing idle (and on salary), a studio flunky was quickly dispatched to find a stud to service the star.

A short time later, a muscular hunk showed up on the Culver City sound stage and was escorted directly to Lana's dressing room. Rupert laughed when he got to the story's payoff. It seems the stud did his job so well that Lana eventually ended up marrying him! The stud, by the way, was Lex Barker.

Oddly enough, the Jekyll-and-Hyde aspect of Lana's public versus private life was not entirely an act. She truly enjoyed life as a star and genuinely appreciated her admirers, especially her younger masculine fans. Although rocked by a midcareer scandal few stars could have survived, her fans remained loyal. Publicly, at least, she would try not to disappoint them again.

She believed, however, that a small segment of her following had crossed the line and become borderline fanatics. Certain adults, including some members of the press, who spent their time following, photographing, and studying her every move, gave her cause for concern. She'd be outraged if they ran alongside her limousine, tapping on the windows, or tried to hug, kiss, or otherwise touch her in any way. While she may not have minded any of this in her youth, she hated any close contact or gawking as she grew older. She had nothing but contempt for anyone who pursued her in this manner. "Lanatics," she called them.

During the last few years of her life, she became increasingly suspicious of collectors and promoters who traded in Lana memorabilia, which included films, movie posters, signed photos, and fan magazine articles. She felt these people were just like all the other opportunists in Hollywood, making money off her likeness and image. In 1980 she stopped giving autographs altogether, convinced that every time she wrote her name across a poster or photograph she enhanced its value for someone else.

"Why should I sign these things?" she asked me one day when I brought her a poster to inscribe for one of my friends. "So these scavengers can profit? I'm through making money for other people."

It saddened me to see Lana growing bitter over such petty issues, but I understood her frustration. I saw misplaced hostility born out of inactivity. Whether she wanted to work or not, there were no offers.

......Following a poorly attended appearance in New Orleans, we limped into Miami Beach and checked into the Frank Sinatra Suite at the Fontainebleau Hilton Resort and Towers. Frank and Lana were old (some say intimate) friends, and she wouldn't hear of staying anywhere else

" I'm gonna kill that bitch!" The man stood by the shattered window, directing his angry words at Lana, who was cowering with fear in her room at the other end of the hall.

Seventeen floors below us Miami Beach glittered. In the Frank Sinatra Suite vodka flowed freely. Lana and this man played an increasingly dangerous game of cat and mouse, each goading and taunting the other into a high-rise game of chicken.

As the only sober person present (watching the tension mount between these two for half an hour), I faced a tortured individual who threatened to kill our famous employer

What had begun as an exciting personal appearance tour for Lana had suddenly degenerated into a nightmare. Lana's increasingly volatile relationship with her male secretary had reached its end. After years of trying to guide his legendary but undependable star through a series of failed film projects, aborted personal appearances, and late theater curtains, he'd reached the end of his patience.

Unfortunately, both Lana and he were heavy drinkers with a decided flair for the dramatic. It did not help that the secretary had a history of epileptic seizures for which he took medication, a dangerous combination with alcohol.

We returned to the suite from a reasonably well attended Lana Turner tribute. Sparkling lights along the shoreline disappeared into the blackened horizon. Lana, in a good mood and still high from the evening, floated toward the bar.

We were chatting about the evening when we noticed that the secretary seemed to be brooding and becoming more morose by the minute. I sat down to discuss the next day's itinerary with him when he abruptly announced he would be needing several days off. He seemed distraught as he explained to Lana that his daughter had run away from the home of his former wife in Los Angeles, and he must find her. To do so meant leaving the tour and returning to California.

'But you can't go. You wouldn't even know where to start looking" said Lana, concerned for his daughter, but more than a little alarmed at the thought of losing her right-hand man.

"You should definitely stay here with me," she continued firmly. "I'm sure her mother is doing everything she can. There's nothing you can do there. I need you . . . right here . . . right now!" Lana's insistence triggered an explosive mechanism, setting the secretary off on a path from which there would be no return.

She had meant, of course, that she depended on him to help her finish the tour. All too often Lana's reasoning came out sounding calculated and selfish. Had she really expected him to put his allegiance to her above his allegiance to his own flesh and blood? I caught the wild look in his eyes and knew she'd pushed him too far.

After slugging down his fourth or fifth drink in rapid succession, he stood, gave us both a demented go-to-hell look, and staggered up the curving marble stairway leading to the second floor.

A few seconds later we heard the delayed explosion. Suddenly, a blood-curdling animalistic noise came from the upper level; guttural howling and wailing beyond comprehension. We were treated to the sounds of doors slamming and furniture being knocked about, accompanied by insults to Lana and myself, followed by the announcement that he intended to kill himself. I thought the entire hotel must be hearing his tirade.

Lana's first reaction? She was startled but skeptical, as if she thought he was merely staging a scene or throwing a tantrum to get attention. Then I saw the fear in her eyes. Something had gone seriously wrong. Afraid not to take his talk of suicide seriously, I went upstairs to take inventory. Lana followed, hurrying past me to her own room at the opposite end of the hall.

Using some questions about our future plans as a pretense, I cautiously entered his room. He stood by the bedroom window, his back to me and the doorway.

"That fucking bitch doesn't give a shit about anyone but herself!" he said, picking up a large glass ashtray from the nightstand by his bed. Suddenly he flung the ashtray through the plate glass window. The sound of shattering glass pierced the night. Voices shouted out from other rooms to "hold it down."

"I'm gonna kill that bitch!" he screamed.

"What are you doing? Stop it! Get hold of yourself!" I said. I had no idea what he might do next. Then, just as quickly, his mood changed. "I really do feel like jumping," he said solemnly. He tottered beside the half-empty windowsill, grasping the shards of broken glass in his bare, bloodied hands. More blood ran down the wall as he stood there, staring down at the street seventeen floors below. The window, located fairly high on the wall, didn't offer the easiest exit from the room and didn't seem large enough for him to get his body through. Still, in his state of mind I thought he might actually jump, rd never encountered anything so bizarre.

"Why would you want to kill yourself?" I asked cautiously. "What about your daughter? She needs you." I tried to be calm, to reassure him that everything would be okay if he'd just calm down.

"Because I hate my life. I hate Lana Turner! I hate catering to that bitch!" I could see his rage returning, so I backed slowly out the door and headed down the hall to Lana's bedroom.

"Lana, he's crazy," I said, standing in her doorway. "Honey, I know. Get inside." She pulled me into the room. "He'll be coming here next. Close the door and lock it," she said, her voice low and nervous. She slammed the door and locked it herself. Almost immediately he knocked on the door, trying the handle. Then he began pounding. Lana did know him. It wasn't over yet

.....I opened the door and he calmly entered the room, almost in slow motion. His eyes were glazed over. Then Lana saw the blood. His cut and bleeding hands dripped blood over the pale, cream-colored carpet.

"Lana, I have to find my daughter," he began in a conciliatory tone of voice, almost pleading "I told you, I need you here. Let your wife handle it," she said, refusing to waver from her earlier stance. I could see we were going to be in trouble again.

"I don't give a shit what you need!" he screamed.

"You can't go," she insisted. "Who's going to help me finish the tour and take care of the travel arrangements? I certainly can't be expected to do it."

"Fuck 'em!" he shouted, "And fuck you!"

"But you are my employee!" she screamed back, in what seemed like a deliberate challenge.

' yeah. Tm your employee, your secretary, your lover, your stooge. . . ." His voice trailed off in a series of unintelligible words.

"Lana, be careful," I said in an effort to cool down the confrontation just as he lunged toward her, arms outstretched, hands still dripping blood, reaching for her throat. "I'm gonna strangle you, bitch!"

I grabbed the phone and called hotel security. Within seconds two guards used a passkey to enter the suite (I can only assume they'd already been alerted by complaints from other guests). Following the trail of blood along the upstairs hallway, they grabbed the ranting, irrational creature outside Lana's bedroom and attempted to subdue him

The entire hotel knew there were problems in the Frank Sinatra Suite. Everyone, the management, other occupants, bellboys, night maids—knew something terrible had happened, or nearly happened, on the seventeenth floor. The incident had been loud, long, and nasty. With the secretary out of the way, Lana turned to her new problem— the press.

In an effort to avoid undesirable publicity, she deliberately had not called the police or pressed charges. Ever since the Stompanato murder she'd been frightened of another violent incident in which she would play a major role.

Because of the fear of more adverse publicity, Lana did not fire the secretary— not yet. She needed him to complete the tour, which included a very important stop in Atlanta. For the next few days her steps would be dogged by persistent reporters, still trying to dig into the Miami incident. Whenever cornered, Lana deflected questions skillfully.

Atlanta, our final stop, was the last straw. Fortified with vodka and prescription drugs, the secretary remained moody and belligerent. Lana asked him to stop drinking, making no reference whatsoever to her own problems with alcohol. Once again she pushed the wrong button. He blew up.

This time he became physically abusive, pushing her down onto the floor. Lana shoved her knee into his groin, got up from the floor, and ran into her bedroom. She locked the door, then telephoned my room. I got there as fast as I could, bringing with me Lia Belli and Phil Sinclair, the tour producer.

In our presence Lana demanded the secretary return her credit cards, airline tickets, and the key to her house. His embarrassment and anger at being dressed down in front of us was all too obvious. I expected the worst.

Instead, he reached into his briefcase and produced several envelopes and a ring of keys. Perhaps he'd decided to be reasonable. 'Take them, bitch!' He threw the keys at Lana, barely missing her face

That's it! Get out. You're fired!" she shouted. But he had already turned away, walking out of her life forever

Love you, OP!

The strained relationship between Lana and her daughter grew more distant, literally and symbolically, when Cheryl and Josh moved to Honolulu, followed shortly thereafter by Lana's mother, Mildred. Lana made an effort to keep in touch with her tiny family through frequent trips to Honolulu.

In the early eighties she leased an apartment there. I usually didn't accompany her on these trips, partly because they were family visits. Also, I had my salon business to maintain and had recently started giving beauty lectures around the country.

Judging by Lana's despondent or angry moods when she came back from the islands, the visits were not always pleasant encounters. On one occasion she phoned from Los Angeles International Airport, having just arrived on a flight from Honolulu.

"Darling, I've got to tell you something before you see me. I need to prepare you." She had difficulty controlling her emotions.

"What are you talking about? Lana, are you all right?"

"I think so," she stammered. "There are ... some bruises on my face. I'm a little black and blue."

"What bruises? What happened to you, Lana?" Had she had a bad encounter with some strange man? I couldn't imagine what could have happened.

"I'm okay. Just call it a minor confrontation." Her voice contained a touch of irony.

"Confrontation? With whom?" I asked, my concern growing. There had to be more to this. But Lana, ever the actress, couldn't help but build to a dramatic conclusion.

"With Cheryl," she finally whispered, as though someone might be listening to our conversation. "You know my daughter can be a little rough sometimes. She still holds certain things against me."

[quote]smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, swore like a sailor, and made love with indiscriminate abandon

I'd love that on my tombstone.

As she spoke those words I remembered her many references to Cheryl's "horrible, stubborn nature" and "ability to do me in good."

In her autobiography, The Legend, the Lady, the Truth, Lana elaborated on her daughter's rebellious nature, saying, "Her defiance had a tough edge making her impossible to control."

If she sometimes "got rough" as Lana claimed, she could easily overcome her mother. Cheryl had the advantage of being considerably larger than her mother, both in height and weight.

I arrived at Lana's apartment a few hours later. The woman who answered the door had a long, dark bruise along her jawline near the chin. She apologized, adding, "There are bruises on my body that I don't want you to see."

"What the hell did she do to you?" I demanded.

"Everything seemed okay. We'd had dinner, the three of us, and had several drinks afterward. We had a minor argument, Cheryl and I, and then ..."

Lana neglected to mention who started the ruckus that followed. Apparently mother and daughter began tossing verbal barbs at each other. The verbal abuse, according to Lana, intensified to the point where Cheryl and Lana actually began slapping each other.

"You know, Eric," Lana continued, "what hurt the worst wasn't what she did to me. Josh held me down while Cheryl beat me. Repeatedly! That hurt!

Lana, with dark sunglasses in place and a double coat of makeup on her bruised face, had sneaked through VIP channels at the Honolulu Airport, unrecognizable behind the glasses and a scarf that covered most of her face. Her story infuriated me. Lana had a tendency to embellish the telling of a story, but she'd always been basically honest with me throughout our relationship. I could think of no reason for her to lie to me now. And she had the bruises to validate her story.

'I'm going to call Cheryl and let her know how I feel about this. Doesn't she know you're not well?" I said in haste.

"No, Eric, leave it alone," she insisted. "Thank you for being concerned, my darling brother, but this is between Cheryl and me. There are some things I must handle in my own way."

What a load of crap.

.....Lana improved so much that she accepted an invitation as a guest of honor at the Deauville Film Festival ...Inside the hotel lobby we encountered a second crush of press, French dignitaries and diplomats, fans and celebrities—among them, Leslie Caron and the king of pop art, Andy Warhol. After a proper period of meeting and being met, Lana suggested we go up to our rooms. In the elevator Andy Warhol leaned over and asked Lana if he could do a painting of her. She may have been vaguely aware of his prized "one of a kind" portraits of Elizabeth Taylor, Liza Minnelli, and so many others.

She certainly knew of his Campbeirs Soup Can artwork, and considered them slightly less than art and outrageously priced. But she pretended to be flattered and gave her approval.

Lana thought of Warhol as a strange and grotesque apparition whose appearance bordered on ghoulish. Several months later he sent her the completed portrait as a gift, an original one and only Lana Turner silkscreen on canvas by Warhol.

I thought it was outstanding, a unique version of the "later" Lana, done in the master's famed primary colors and out-of-register style. Lana hated it. "It makes me look too severe and hard."

On the evening of the Deauville reception, the grand ballroom overflowed with lavish floral arrangements and hundreds of dignitaries from the international film community.

Leslie Caron, whom Lana had known at MGM, and Yves Montand were seated with us. A charming Montand kissed Lana's hand and complimented her gown. He captivated her immediately. She loved gallantry and manners. I sat to Lana's left and Leslie Caron sat to my left.

Sean Connery, on Lana's right, had costarred with her in one of his earliest films. Another Time, Another Place. Lana reportedly picked the relatively unknown Connery to be her leading man over nine more qualified contenders.

In her book, Cheryl, Lana's daughter, suggested that the crew working on the film with Lana and Sean were pretty sure the two were having an affair until Johnny Stompanato arrived in England to break it up. When Stompanato confronted Connery on the set and threatened him, Sean promptly decked Lana's gigolo

Less than a year later Sean Connery attended the Academy Awards in Hollywood and sat at Lana's table the night she lost the Best Actress award nomination for Peyton Place to Joanne Woodward, who won for The Three Faces of Eve. Stompanato threw a fit because Lana had refused his services as an escort to the awards ceremony. She never appeared at another public event with him and a few days later, on Good Friday, Johnny's blood-splattered body was found decorating Lana's bedroom, thus launching one of the greatest scandals in show business history.

So, twenty-three years later, Lana and Sean were once again sharing the same table at an awards ceremony. This time a decidedly chilly air crossed between the two. Cold cordiality was the best the Englishman offered the legendary movie queen. Lana gave back what she got.

Placing a napkin over her mouth, Lana whispered to me, "Who put a bug up his ass?"

I shrugged. Personally I thought the actor could have shown some respect to the woman who had given him a career boost back in 1957.

I later found myself in the men's room, two urinals away from Connery. I introduced myself. 'How do you do, Mr. Connery. I'm with—"

"Call me Sean," he interrupted. "Yes, I know. You're here with Lana Turner."

"I understand, Mr. Connery . . . Sean . . . your first big break came in Lana's picture. Another Time, Another Place."

"Wrong!" he declared, showing some irritation. "It was my first part in an American film. I'd worked in many English pictures."

"But I understand," I continued, "that Lana chose you over better known American actors who were up for the part."

"So?" he replied, indignant. I knew there was nothing else to say.

A few minutes later, back at our table, Connery's expression resembled that of a baby's rash. I related my earlier conversation with him to Lana.

Anger clouded her face. "I don't know what his problem is other than the fact he's such an asshole," she said softly, disguising her anger by feigning a smile.

"He's another one with an enormous ego and a rotten temper"—I immediately thought of her experience with Richard Burton—"but we're going to have a fabulous evening, aren't we? And forget Mr. Connery."

She meant it, and we did. To the delight of the Fourth Estate, we stepped out onto the floor and danced the night away

Lana's vanity nearly caused a tragedy. She'd decided to have some cosmetic surgery done on her face. That frightened me, and I warned her to be careful.

"All I want done, darling, is a little tuck around the eyes," she explained, referring to her upper lids and the bags under her eyes. "It's no big deal."

"Then do me a favor. Don't just run your fingers through the Yellow Pages looking for a surgeon."

"Oh no, darling. Don't worry about that. I've already chosen someone. He's been recommended by a friend."

When I learned the doctor's name, I knew I'd heard it before and his reputation hadn't been presented as sterling. "Lana, get at least three consultations before you have this work done. Remember, dear, this is your face we're talking about."

She ignored my advice. "Eric, you worry too much. Why should I have to see three doctors when one is all it takes?" Lana always preferred someone recommended from "the inside." She abhorred any scrutiny by "total strangers."

On the appointed day for the operation I picked her up at her condo, delivered her to the doctor's office on Sunset Boulevard, and came back afterward to drive her home. Within a few weeks Lana's eye job looked to me like a disaster in the making. Even she had to see the unsatisfactory results.

In removing the lower bags, the doctor had created a severe downward crease just below the inner comer of her right eye. It was painfully noticeable, and it would remain so. Many frustrating hours in the makeup chair would be required later to properly camouflage the highly visible flaw.

Furious over what she considered serious damage to her famous face, Lana called the doctor a butcher and threatened a lawsuit. She later decided not to pursue the matter because of possible public embarrassment

Despite her cosmetic problems, work on "Falcon Crest" progressed rapidly. She professed liking the speed of television, as she could no longer physically deal with the long and demanding hours on the set.

Lana became a night owl, often watching television until four in the morning. In order to make it to the set for her six o'clock call, she had to stay up all night and would arrive exhausted from lack of sleep, then have to wait around for hours in her dressing room, fully made up, until needed. Her close-ups were often not filmed until after nine in the evening. After waiting ten to twelve hours, she knew she wouldn't look her best and it outraged her that the production company gave so little consideration to her needs. When she was finally called to the set, she deliberately kept everyone waiting by insisting on redoing her makeup one final time. I could do nothing to smooth over the situation.

All was forgiven when Lana's first appearance on "Falcon Crest" turned out to be a major success, with ratings for her episode among the highest the show had ever received. Soon the producers were calling and asking her to return for six more episodes next season.

Lana was thrilled. Her successful guest appearance boosted her confidence, and she felt she had accomplished another step in her "comeback."

From the day Lana signed to do the series, rumors of a feud between Lana and Jane Wyman began to circulate. They were not entirely unfounded. Wyman, an Academy Award-winning actress from the old school, had a reputation for professionalism, for being on time, for never holding up production. She also enjoyed being the highest salaried woman on television. Never considered a 'glamour girl,' she found it difficult to put up with the pampered treatment Lana expected.

[quote[Privately, Lana Turner smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, swore like a sailor, and made love with indiscriminate abandon.

You say this like it's a bad thing.

all i want to know is - did frank sinatra catch her in bed with ava gardner?

One day between setups I left Lana, who was fussing with her makeup, and wandered over to Jane Wyman's trailer. We chatted for a few minutes and I soon found myself styling and combing one of her wigs. "Nobody can do this wig like you," she said

"Thank you." I drank in the compliment. "But Jane, these bangs make you look like Mamie Eisenhower." We both started to laugh. "Then do something about it," she replied.

I knew I had to be careful because hairdressers on the show were part of a very strong union and didn't cotton much to outsiders. Lana had to obtain special permission to have me on the set as her personal stylist; still, a union hairdresser got screen credit. Lana could easily have gotten me into the union but chose not to. I don't think she wanted me to achieve that kind of recognition within the industry. It might take me away from her.

I stopped fiddling with Jane's wig and told her I would have to return to Lana because she might need me at any moment. "So what?" she said. "Jane, she's been my friend for many years."

On my return to Lana's dressing room I made the mistake of mentioning Jane Wyman's interest in having me do her wigs. She blew sky-high.

"That bitch! How dare she try to use you? She has her own hairdresser to fluff those damned wigs! You are my hairdresser, exclusively/' she ranted, pointing her finger directly in my face, 'and don't you ever forget it!"

Because of her tardiness and temperamental demands, Lana did not endear herself to the "Falcon Crest" crew. Her six guest appearances scheduled for the following season were reduced to four.

During the season finale, a major character on the show went berserk and started shooting a pistol in all directions. Lana and most of the series' regulars were in the line of fire. After this shocking "cliff-hanger" the public would have to wait until the next season to find out who lived or died. Even the writers were unsure at this point.

Jane Wyman had the last word. In a meeting with the Lorimar brass, she had input in discussions about the story line for the upcoming season. When it came time to discuss whether Lana's character should return, the question became Jane's to answer.

Without anger or lengthy explanations, she reportedly had only one word to say: no. So, Lana "died!"

I don't think Lana ever recovered from her association with the death of Johnny Stompanato. She always believed that "one day his Chicago friends will come after me." We might be dining out or enjoying an evening nightclubbing when, without any warning, Lana would grab my wrist and squeeze it tightly. Her face would become pale and I'd see stark terror in her eyes.

"What is it, Lana?" "Don't look now, but two tables behind you there's some Mafia guys." "Are you sure?" "Yes. I know the type. I think they're after me." "Lana," I'd try to assure her, "there's no reason anybody would want to harm you." "Yes, there is. They're staring at me. Let's get out of here."

I'd known fear and I recognized it in Lana, so we'd excuse ourselves as politely as possible and with feigned poise and calm we'd quickly exit the scene. Whether or not these "Mafia types" were interested in Lana for any other reason than her celebrity and beauty is unknown to me, but the idea of such a threat became a real source of paranoia in Lana's life

I remember one incident in New York City. We were en route to Macy's. Lana had spent part of the day doing radio and television interviews. On each show she plugged her book autographing schedule. She still wore her TV makeup and one of her trademark suits.

Once inside, the signing went smoothly. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, were lined up throughout the store, down the block, and around the block. I thought to myself. New York loves Lana.

Suddenly, a piercing male voice rang out above the noisy crowd. "You murderer" I caught a brief glimpse of the long-haired man who had shouted the accusation as three policemen tackled the fellow to the ground and took him away.

Lana's panic-stricken expression is frozen forever in my memory. She slowly put down her pen, turned toward me and the store detectives behind her, and said, "That's it. We're outta here!"

The incident so disarmed Lana that she canceled most of the remaining dates of the tour and made preparations to come home to California. "I tell you, Eric, they're going to get me one of these days. I know it!" she said firmly

Lana lived in a beautiful penthouse in the Edge-water Towers, a luxury high-rise located where Sunset Boulevard meets the ocean in Pacific Palisades, One couldn't help noticing something else besides the ocean-fresh breeze from the terrace. Lana's perfume clung .I couldn't easily forget the fragrance. I'm still haunted by it

It's called Tuber Rose by Mary Chess," she said, when I asked her later. "I'm nearly down to the last drop and 1 can't find it in the stores around here."

"Let me see what I can do," I said.

The following day I contacted the perfume department at Macy's in New York. "Sorry," the department manager said, "but we're temporarily out of stock."

When I gave them Lana's name and "business number" (actually her apartment), things happened. After confirming that my call referred to the "real" Lana Turner, Macy's located their supply. Within a week ten large bottles of Tuber Rose were sitting in Lana's boudoir, air-expressed at no charge from the Mary Chess Company.

Lana preferred that no one else, not even her daughter, Cheryl, wear perfume or cologne in her home. She didn't want any other essence commingling with her own. She thought it might "break the spell." The only men's fragrance she ever cared for—in small doses only, mind you—was Old Spice, the cologne worn by her great love, Tyrone Power,

She would sometimes meet me at the door and give me the "sniff" test. "What m the hell is that god-awful stuff you have on?" she shrieked at me one afternoon. "Get out of here. You can't stay . . . it's dreadful."

Then she insisted I take a shower. As commanded, I obediently traipsed through her pastel boudoir to her private bath to cleanse myself of the offending odor.

"Give me your clothes," she yelled through the door, "and I'll have Carmen wash and dry them."

I handed her my jeans and shirt. I emerged a few minutes later, wearing a terry cloth robe. She hugged me and said, "That's better. You smell so clean. What was that horrible stuff, anyway?"

"Lana," I said softly, 'that was Tuber Rose by Mary Chess!"

"I don't believe you," she said, sniffing the air.

"I guess the same scent can smell differently on different people, Lana."

She ignored my explanation. "No one wears that around here but me. Got it?" I got it

"She's a selfish bitch!" Lana said, slamming down a stack of papers and rising from her desk.

"Who?" I asked, setting down my bags. It was a warm afternoon in 1982. I'd just arrived, so she caught me completely off guard—no greeting, no pleasantries, just red-in-the-face fury.

"Cheryl!" she shouted. "She's done it again!" Oh, I thought. Nothing new. These two were always at it about something. "What's the problem now?"

"She refused to sign the damned release!"

Ah, the release. Here we go again. Warner Bros, had just optioned Lana's autobiography for a television Movie of the Week. I've attended numerous meetings with Lana and Warner Bros, executives who were trying to find a screenwriter acceptable to Lana for the project. Without Cheryrl' permission to use her name in the film, there was little chance that the proposed picture would ever be made, and Cheryl refused to grant it.

"Unbelievable," Lana said.

I'd grown to know Cheryl somewhat and, despite Lana's bitterness and present anger, I thought I understood Cheryl's reluctance to accommodate her mother. She probably didn't feel like having the Johnny Stompanato murder and her role in it dredged up for a vehicle that could only glorify her famous mother.

I also knew Lana. Any movie based on her own book would paint her as the caring mother who stood by her guilty daughter during a time of crisis. Lana would make sure of that. I believed Cheryl saw through all of the hype and simply didn't want any part of it.

"She's an ungrateful bitch!" Lana continued

"Lana' 1 said, attempting to soothe her feelings, "how can you say that? She's your own flesh and blood."

"Bullshit! That's not my blood. My blood is warm. She's a cold-blooded bitch!" I could see an ugly scene in the offing.

"What do you mean, not your blood?" I asked. It had never occurred to me that Cheryl might be adopted. Had she been?

Lana surely saw the confusion in my face. "I mean," she said, "it's not my blood. Therefore she is not my daughter."

"I don't follow."

"They removed all of my blood from her at the hospital," she explained, referring to her difficulties giving birth to Cheryl, who entered the world with the dread Rh factor, requiring numerous blood transfusions. "My blood," Lana continued, "had to be all drained out of her and replaced with someone else's—totally."

She reached for her glass of vodka and cranberry juice, sipped and paused as if probing for a reason to justify her declaration. "God only knows whose blood is in her veins, but it sure as hell isn't mine!"

I listened, stunned into silence, scarcely believing her words, wondering how a mother could say such things about her own flesh and blood. Lana seemed poised at the threshold of some personal hell, battling unknown demons.

Finally I found my voice. "But Lana," I argued, "you carried her inside your body. She's part of you. She'll always be a part of you."

Lana made a sort of "hmmph" sound as if to dismiss a technicality. I sensed her rage subsiding.

"Maybe she'll change her mind," I said calmly, hoping to diffuse her anger. Her half-closed eyelids told me the discussion had ended. She would repeat the tirade about "the blood" many times during our years together, especially whenever Cheryl annoyed or openly defied her.

Hours later, after she calmed down, she broached the subject in a more sane and rational tone of voice. "I've thought about what you said. Of course she's my daughter by birth. Maybe you're right. Maybe she will change her mind. We'll have to wait and see, won't we?"

The storm had passed—for the moment. Cheryl, indeed her mother's daughter, with Lana's iron will, never did sign that release. The issue would remain a bone of contention throughout the rest of Lana's life.

Prior to my 1972 arrival in California and being seduced into the private world of Lana Turner, I'd read numerous magazine articles extolling the wonderful and harmonious relationship between Lana and Cheryl following their involvement in "Hollywood's Greatest Scandal." Lana had only recently been quoted as saying, "All is warm and wonderful between my daughter and myself."

Whenever I find myself wondering how the public can be so gullible about real life compared to the "reel" world of motion pictures, I expect to find Lana and Cheryl embroiled in nothing more than normal mother-and-daughter differences, enjoying a world of perfection that only money could afford. I often recall my own naivete in coming to Hollywood.

Lana's Pacific Palisades penthouse, overlooking the beach in Santa Monica, created the perfect setting for rich, luxurious, carefree living. God knows Lana had the wardrobe and jewelry. The missing element? The empty chair at the table belonged to an absent Cheryl. Mother and daughter were not enjoying an idyllic relationship. They rarely spoke.

I've come to believe, as many of Lana's friends and business associates so often suggested, that Lana never should have become a mother. She had no time for the true meaning of 'home life," always too preoccupied with the larger-than-life image of her screen persona, created by the legendary Louis B. Mayer.

I can't say she didn't love Cheryl. She did, as much as Lana could love anyone beyond herself. I think she carried on a love/hate relationship with her own ego because of her inability to exhibit emotional love—except on the screen. Lana didn't know how to handle a nurturing, compassionate relationship with her daughter, nor did she with any of her husbands.

Cheryl wanted more from her mother than Lana was capable of giving. Lana could not give up being the "Love Goddess" to the world in order to be a loving wife and mother. She'd been programmed otherwise by the moguls of money-making

Cheryl had not been a deprived child, however. She'd never lacked for comfort or luxury (or surrogate mothers and a catalog of "father" figures). As Lana saw it, she'd taken much "valuable time" away from her demanding career (and social life) to be with "my little girl." She had that in common with Joan Crawford, whose daughter, Christina, like Cheryl, would write books to show her "ingratitude."

The valuable time Lana bemoaned usually benefited her more than Cheryl. It often involved taking Cheryl on visits and afternoon adventures that were nothing more than photo sessions for fan magazines to build Lana's image as a "good mother."

By the mid-1970s that superficial closeness between mother and daughter ceased to exist. There were no more photo sessions, no more loving quotes. Their relationship had, in fact, deteriorated into an occasional, carefully worded press release.

I can't recall Cheryl ever being present during the dozens of trips I made to Lana's Pacific Palisades apartment, nor did I ever see her at Lana's Ivory Tower in Century City. She became conspicuous, to me, by her absence.

One afternoon Cheryl phoned her mother while we were watching some inane soap opera. Their conversation was brief and ended with, "I'm having my hair done. I don't have time to talk."

I asked Lana why Cheryl never came around and she said, "We talk on the phone."

"Don't you see each other?"

She looked up into the mirror at my reflection. "Infrequently," she said, closing the subject.

There'd been a chasm between them for a long time. I didn't know if the Stompanato matter had anything to do with it, but I did know that Lana had some problems with Cheryl's lifestyle.

Before I heard it from anyone else, Lana sat me down one day and candidly told me about Cheryrl lesbian relationship with Joyce "Josh" LeRoy.

The irritation in her voice let me know she disapproved of Cheryl's lifestyle. Only later did I come to realize that Lana's distaste had nothing to do with Cheryrl lesbianism. Her main concern, I learned, had to do with adverse publicity, both for Cheryl and for herself.

After a career filled with tawdry headlines, I believe she feared her daughter's alternative lifestyle would again show Lana up to the world as a bad mother.

I did see Cheryl at Lana's apartment once—or rather, I almost saw her. It happened on Mother's Day, and for the life of me I can't recall the year. My sister, Harriet, and I were in the kitchen stuffing cabbage when the doorbell rang.

We could hear Lana and someone having a conversation that soon escalated into a screaming match between Lana and another female voice. "Get the hell out and don't come back—ever!" Lana's voice screeched, and then I heard the loud slamming of her door.

I left the kitchen to see if Lana needed anything. She was standing in the living room, looking out through her picture window toward the ocean. "Are you all right?" I asked. "Damn her!" she said. I waited.

'The only time she comes around is when she wants something." "Who, Lana?" I asked. "Who else? My ingrate daughter. It's Mother's Day. Did she bring a gift or flowers, or a card? She wanted me to give her something. Can you believe it? On Mother's Day she asks me for money."

Shrugging, I uttered something like, "Kids . .."

"Well," she bit down on her words, "she'll not get a penny from me. Not one red cent!"

I believe I first met Cheryl when she and Josh had a place in Calabasas, on the western end of the San Fernando Valley. A friend and I drove out to see them once without Lana. We seemed to hit it off. I found both women to be bright, attractive, and sophisticated. I liked them. I believe Lana's mother, Mildred, Cheryl's beloved "Gran," lived with them at the time.

No matter what my first impressions were, I can now see that Cheryl and I had no chance of becoming close friends. Lana wouldn't have tolerated it. I belonged to Lana and she didn't share her "belongings." Not even with her daughter. I would belong to Lana first, last, and always. Lana preferred that Cheryl and I not be friends.

However, in fairness to Lana, she did make an effort to establish some kind of relationship with Cheryl during this particular phase of her life.

Lana would drive out to Calabasas to visit her mother with hopes of seeing Cheryl as well, only to return home disappointed. "She knew I was coming and she purposely left before I arrived. Why does she hurt me this way?' Lana would say.

On other visits to her mother, Lana would return home and I could see that look of hurt and disappointment and the tears trickling down her face

"Eric,' she'd say, "I know Cheryl was there. I could hear noises in the back of the house. She avoids me." Her mood following such visits would be mercurial, ranging from tears to anger to self-pity. I felt so sorry for her, but theirs was a relationship cemented in past events. It would never change.

What really hurt Lana the most, I believe, is that all of those bad feelings came during a period in her life when she actually had time to make an effort to be a mother. Her movie career had become practically nonexistent, along with her fabled love life. With few outside distractions, she developed an inclination to get to know her daughter. She meant well. I knew that, because I knew Lana Turner.

The problem? In attempting to make up for lost time, to be a real mother, she became overly demanding and controlling. She tried to take Cheryl back to her teen years when a mother should have been there to guide and counsel her. Lana's efforts came too late. Cheryl, now a grown woman, did not need Lana's advice. She'd already learned what she needed to know the hard way.

During Lana's waning years there were more hostilities and, yes, moments of truce and periods of reconciliation between Lana and Cheryl. But the die had been cast; the volatile chemistry between the two women did not allow room for friendship. The roots of their love/hate relationship ran deep. It couldn't have been merely Cheryl' lesbianism. Lana numbered thousands of gays among her fans, and had numerous gay friends.

Could it be, as so many suspected, the specter of Johnny Stompanato?

In addition to my society friends in Chicago, New York, and Palm Beach, my clientele has included both famous women and famous men: Mae West, Bette Davis, Rhonda Fleming, Patricia Neal, Cary Grant, Morgana King, Johnny Ray, Richard Burton, Rutger Hauer, Beverly Sassoon, and Marilu Henner. But Lana always came first.

Years after Lana's romance with Tyrone Power,and long after his death, actress Linda Christian briefly became a client of mine. I honestly didn't know she had stolen Ty from Lana and then married him. When I casually mentioned to Lana that I was on my way to do Linda's hair, she went ballistic.

"If you do that bitch's hair, you're out of my life for good!" Her voice dripped with icy, chilling finality.

"Come on, Lana. Calm down. If you don't want me to do it—I won't."

I regrettably had to call Linda and excuse myself from doing her hair in the future. We still see each other socially. Linda never took it personally. She's an actress. She understood

It was 1982, and Lana's rejuvenated popularity was soaring as a result of her book and television appearances. So was her ego. But not her generosity...., considering her lavish lifestyle and lucrative income during my time with her, I saw no excuse for her penny-pinching.

I offer this as a realistic observation. Numerous are the people who would readily agree. During our many years together she never once offered me a raise or even a tip. While my salon prices increased constantly with the cost of living, Lana expected me to charge her the same amount as I had the first time I ever did her hair.

In her lofty world of self-importance, she believed the 'perks' from my taking her out in public— limousine service, lavish parties, media attention, and hobnobbing with superstars—more than made up for her reluctance to open up her checkbook. Friendship and her checkbook had nothing in common. Only in love and marriage did she close her eyes to money matters.

... Of the several musicals running on Broadway at the time, Lana most wanted to see Evita. I knew little of Eva Peron except that she'd been a peasant girl who'd risen to power as the wife of Argentina's dictator, Juan Peron, and succeeded him after his death.

Lana was clearly fascinated by the classic rags-to-riches story. In fact, she herself had a little-known connection to the real Evita Peron, as I would soon find out.

We both loved Evita and went backstage afterward to congratulate its dynamic star, Patti LuPone, who was thrilled to meet Lana and suggested we join her for a late supper. Over drinks and a light meal, we were soon chatting like old friends when Lana related an experience she'd had with the real Eva Peron many years ago.

In the 1940s, as one of the world's most beautiful blonds, Lana's films and publicity photographs were widely circulated throughout the Latin countries. South Americans adored her. During her reign as First Lady of Argentina, Evita Peron patterned herself after Lana. In particular, she copied Lana's hairstyles, makeup, and tailored suits, which Lana popularized on the screen.

Lana had occasion to meet Evita Peron briefly at a party when she toured South America in 1946. She described the meeting as brief, eerie, and uncomfortable. She felt as if she'd been microscopically scrutinized by Madame Peron. And indeed, she had.

Lana had a kicker to her story, Sometime after she'd returned to MGM from Argentina, the MGM hairdressing department received a panicky phone call from Madame Peron's secretary. Argentina's First Lady had instructed her personal hairdresser to bleach her hair the same shade of blond as Lana Turner's. He botched the job. Evita's hair became a bright orange, just days before she would be addressing an important political assembly.

In the interest of international diplomacy— and not in the least, a lucrative South American market—MGM came to the rescue, instructing Helen Young, Lana's personal hairdresser at the studio, to wire her secret hair color formula to Eva Peron. She included one important stipulation: Lana's natural auburn hair was much lighter than Eva's black tresses, so the amount of bleach would need to be increased. Presumably it worked.

Evita, throughout her political career, continued to sport her Lana Turner look until her early death at age thirty-three.

Patti LuPone listened intently, excited at gaining these new insights into the background of the famous character she portrayed nightly.

You'll recall that Lana hated the Andy Warhol painting of her. For several years she relegated it to an unimportant spot in her cluttered office, always planning to get rid of it. I knew an art dealer in New York and told Lana I'd have her make some discreet inquiries as to its value. The dealer quickly responded with an offer of $25,000.

I cautioned Lana. 'If they're that anxious, I think you can get a lot more for it. Why don't you wait a while?" . Lana thought that to be a lot of money for such painting and instructed me to accept the deal immediately. Today, with Lana and Andy Warhol both deceased, you can imagine the value of such a painting. The last known asking price was in the vicinity of $350,000.

For some time Lana left her financial matters totally in the hands of a business manager whom she eventually grew to distrust. She ignored friends who urged her to fire him. Lana, a business conservative, often stayed too long with old business associates simply to avoid having to look for someone new.

When she finally parted company with the manager, she discovered he'd sold all her shares in Taco Bell without her knowledge or approval, just before the company's merger with PepsiCo. The stock went up considerably in value.

When it came to negotiating a deal for a property in which she took personal interest, like the film rights to her autobiography, Lana could be tough-as-nails and unflinching in her demands— sometimes to her detriment.

One day I rearranged a particularly hectic afternoon so I could drive her out to Warner Bros. The studio had optioned her book for a television movie and meetings had been scheduled to find a suitable screenwriter for the project. She pointedly arrived on time for these appointments. Perfectly made up and smartly dressed, she turned heads as we walked into the executive suite. She was selling Lana Turner, and she must rule over these proceedings with authority.

"I'm selling you my story with the understanding that 1 have complete artistic control—screenplay, casting approval, the works," she told them. They listened

Inside the same Warner Bros, executive offices, Lana read a few treatments and portions of a completed script for The Legend, the Lady, the Truth. She rattled off a long list of criticisms. "The Stompanato incident should be much more dramatic, and make the scenes between me and Lex Barker really hot and sexy. He was Tarzan, for God's sake, and a tiger! As for the producers, you can make them as evil as possible. The same for some of my costars."

She read more of the material, listened to one writer trying to explain his slant on her story, and suddenly, without warning, jumped up and said, "Eric, let's go!"

"But we're not through yet' said the shaken wrriter.

'Oh yes, we are," she snapped. "I've heard enough. You're not going to trash my story."

I thought that was an odd remark since she had suggested making it more sensational in many places. The writer certainly must have pushed a sensitive button. Again, I wondered: Did it have to do with Johnny Stompanato?

She straightened her spine and headed for the door. I had difficulty keeping up with her. I glanced back at the men in the conference room, their mouths hanging open in shock.

One of the men followed us to the outer office and asked, "Miss Turner, what should we do about the project?"

In a moment I can compare only with Joan Crawford's "Don't fuck with me, boys!" line to the board of directors at PepsiCo, Lana looked back and gave them her final comment 'Shelve it!"

When Lana drank, she enjoyed telling stories about the men in her life: her husbands (seven) and her lovers (countless). She claimed to have lost her virginity to a young, handsome Beverly Hills celebrity attorney, Greg Bautzer, whose name is legendary in the bedrooms of Hollywood as well as in the divorce courts of Los Angeles County

She stole her first husband, bandleader Artie Shaw, from two of her best girlfriends, Judy Garland and Betty Grable, both of whom were mad about the handsome clarinetist. Within the space of a year cracks began to appear in their marriage and divorce papers were filed. Between her divorce from Artie Shaw and her marriage to former actor Stephen Crane, Lana dated big-band leader Tommy Dorsey, singer Tony Martin, Dorsey's drummer Buddy Rich, and actor Victor Mature (purloined from Betty Grable who, in all fairness, gladly gave Lana his phone number).

She rarely discussed Stephen Crane with me except to say that, as with Artie Shaw, nothing between them seemed to be in sync. Lana and Stephen married on July 17,1942 after which the two found out that his Juarez divorce from his wife had no validity in the United States. Now pregnant with her daughter, Cheryl, Lana's news sent Louis B. Mayer and the front-office executives in the "lion's den" at MGM into cardiac arrest.

Lana, one of the studio's major stars, could ill afford to be involved in a scandal. Studios also had to contend with the censoring Hays Office and the morals clause i mentioned earlier.

Consequently, Mayer pulled the proper strings, had the marriage annulled, got the Mexican divorce sanctioned, and arranged a quickie remarriage to protect, first and foremost, the good name of MGM, followed by that of Lana Turner, and last (and probably least with Mayer), the unborn child.

Lana's name became frequently linked in the press to handsome men about town—Rory Calhoun, Ricardo Montalban, Howard Hughes, and numerous others. Lana maintained she never entertained a serious interest in Howard Hughes, although she once told me that she found him likable. She considered his idiosyncracies quite odd, but his position of power helped her overcome some of her reservations.

Lana also resented his appearance. Howard had already adopted a sloppy dress pattern, wearing the same dark gray slacks, a white shirt with missing buttons, and white tennis shoes sans socks. "At least," she assured me, "he bathed in those days."

Nevertheless, it did not thrill her when he showed up for a date unshaven, resembling more of a beach bum than one of the country's richest and most eligible bachelors. While she maintained she and Hughes were never intimate, they were obviously closer than casual acquaintances.

One Hollywood rumor had it that they were briefly engaged for eight hours—an engagement that began on a coast-to-coast flight at takeoff and was called off before landing.

She never said anything to me about that trip or confirmed any engagement to Hughes. I know that she did fly with him because she confided to me, often gleefully, that Hughes enjoyed making sexual overtures in flight. Whether they ever played sexual games in the clouds, only the birds know for sure.

I do recall, though, that she couldn't bring up his name without discussing his passion for oral sex, "individually or both ways."

"You mean the sixty-nine position, Lana?" I queried.

"I think so."

Then there was the love of her life, the one she never denied: Tyrone Power, a man who used women to promote his own career. Yet it didn't prevent powerful leading ladies, who could have had their choice of handsome hunks, from losing their heads over him. Sonja Henie and Alice Faye quickly-come to mind. Lana, no exception, kept his flame alive in her heart, which may be the reason she never quite made a success of her seven marriages.

"I loved him, Eric, in a way I never loved anyone else— ever Both spiritually and emotionally, we had the ultimate connection. There was a lightning rod between us."

The most physical of her relationships, it was also the most intense. In those days the major studios controlled the lives of their stars. Louis B. Mayer boasted that there were more stars at MGM than there were in the heavens. He personally could take the credit for arranging more marriages and divorces than anyone else in the motion picture industry. He was a dictator to his contract players.

Mayer and 20th Century Fox's Darryl F. Zanuck, who had Power under contract, panicked over any romance between their two biggest moneymakers. Fans did not like their idols to be tied up in matrimony. Stars often kept their marriages secret from the public. Having children, especially for female stars, indicated growing older—a big taboo at the time.

Consequently, Luis B. Mayer kept Lana busy while Darryl Zanuck sent Tyrone on a European tour. A short time later, Lana, crestfallen, aborted their love child because, as she told me, 'that's what Tyrone asked me to do." Power soon busied himself with sampling the European cuisine.

With Tyrone Power temporarily out of sight (at least to her thinking), Lana began dating Frank Sinatra with the sole purpose of making Tyrone jealous, hoping to lure him back into her arms. He didn't bite

It should also be noted that following World War II, Lana enjoyed a love affair with the handsome, exotic Turkish actor Turhan Bey.

I met Turhan Bey in 1994 near my home in Soboba Springs, California, adjacent to the San Jacinto mountains. I mentioned Lana and he recalled her with fondness. He was still devastatingly handsome. I couldn't wait to tell Lana, who had once told me she couldn't enjoy sex with him because his moustache distracted her.

"Lana," I asked, "why didn't you stay with him?"

"He was sought after by too many other women. Many beautiful starlets chased after him."

"He loved you," I said. "You were engaged, weren't you? Why didn't you get married? He would have married you in a minute."

Lana sighed. "It wouldn't have worked out. Like I said, he had his eyes on every woman in town."

"Would you like to see him again?" She thought for a moment, sighed heavily and said, "Hmmm, sounds interesting," but her voice just trailed off. My mother called Lana later and said, "I just met Turhan Bey. My son showed me some photos of him from the forties. God, but he's still so handsome. He's my age—seventy-three." Lana surely winced when Mother gave his age. It was about that time Lana was diagnosed with throat cancer. I could see she had made up her mind

She was basically a gay man in a gorgeous woman's body. All she ever cared about in men was that they were well-built, handsome, and hung, and in that order. She also loved it if they were dangerous, which created tremendous problems with her relationships with Lex Barker and johnny Stompanato.

She was extremely insecure her whole life: she knew she wasn't much of an actress, and that she was a huge star only because of her beauty, her body, and her glamour. She didn't have a happy life.

But she was a terrible mother to Cheryl--if Cheryl did touch her frequently for money, she absolutely deserved the money; and I could almost forgive Cheryl for beating her too given how much Cheryl had to suffer for her mother's horrible mistakes. Lex Barker used to rape Cheryl when she was a pre-teen, and it took quite a while for Lana to figure it out and throw him out, and that Cheryl had to take the rap and go to reform school because of killing Stompanato was Lana's fault--Lana had no business bringing that guy into the house where her daughter lived knowing full well how dangerous and how evil he was. And of course most people who remember his death believe what my mother always used to say: that Lana was almost certainly the one who actually stabbed him, and she had Cheryl take the blame because it wouldn't be as likely to destroy Lana's career and she knew Cheryl would get off with a lighter sentence. But the time in reform school really scarred Cheryl.

During one of our many conversations in her twilight years, she told me that "Lex Barker was physically the best lover I ever had. Not simply because he was well hung, which, my darling, he was, but because he was incredible at oral sex.' that came as no surprise to me.

Throughout the many years of our relationship she'd told me many times that she preferred the oral route to conventional sex, "because," she would intimately whisper, "I was always too tight."

Lana absolutely detested Richard Burton, her leading man in the remake of her old flame Tyrone Power's big hit. The Rains Came, retitled The Rains of Ranchipur.

I recall that she'd once said something about Burton standing her up while they were making the picture. "He's nothing more than a whore master," she added. "Why do you call him that?" I asked. "Never mind. Just take my word for it."

Some years later Richard Burton gave me his story, thanks to the auspices of Valerie Douglas, Richard's adopted mother, agent-manager, and dearest friend, and also my dear friend and client for many years. I met Richard at Valerie's house, and while cutting his hair one day, I asked, "What really happened between you and Lana?'

He chuckled and, in that richest of all male voices, began the tale. "I arranged a dinner date with Lana after shooting one day and came to pick her up at the appointed time. Still in her dressing room, I assumed, getting ready. So I waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . . and no Lana.

"Finally, I spied a young lady still working on the set and asked her if she would be kind enough to ask if Miss Turner would soon be coming out. She knocked several times on Lana's dressing-room door, but received no answer.

" 'Well, I told her, I'Ve been waiting for forty-five minutes. You're my witness. I'm only going to wait another fifteen minutes. If she doesn't come out, I'm leaving.' " And he did.

Ten minutes after Burton departed, Lana stepped out of her dressing room, a vision of loveliness. "Where's Mr. Burton?" she asked the young woman.

"Miss Turner, Mr. Burton waited one hour and then he left." "You mean to tell me he stood me up?" "Miss Turner, he did not stand you up. He just decided to go." "Bullshit! Fuck him! Tell the unit manager I'm not showing up on the set tomorrow."

The next morning one of the newspapers carried a picture of Burton out nightclubbing with a lovely young starlet. Lana immediately called one of the film's producers and said she didn't want to work with Burton

In a fatherly manner the producer said, "Lana, you can't jeopardize the picture and your career over a personal clash of egos."

Burton continued the story "The producer called me and presented his dilemma and asked if there wasn't some way we could iron things out. I acceded to his request. I am a professional. But relations between us were limited thereafter to lines of dialogue in the script."

When he finished, I reiterated Lana's brief response when I queried her. "She told me you stood her up."

Richard threw back his head and bellowed. "Fuck her! She can take her story to the grave. I didn't stand her up. It's not true. You just heard the truth!"

Valerie often asked me, "Eric, why do you put up with Lana? Why don't you stay away from that bitch?"

"I can't. She's not like that all of the time. Only when she's upset about something or been drinking does she take it out on me. Besides, she needs me.

Valerie's final comment on the subject was, "I wouldn't put up with it or stay with her if she paid me a million dollars." No one seemed to understand. She needed me, and I loved her

One evening in the mid-1980s, Lana and I were lying on her bed watching television. Quite unexpectedly we drifted into lovemaking as though it was just the natural thing to do. Lana, soft and loving, and I, somewhat tentative and tender. We explored each other like teenagers experimenting with first love.

The next morning when I got up I found this note pinned to my pillow: "Dear Eric—Good morning! What a sweet, crazy, funny night—God will watch over us—as he always does!!! My love always, L."

.........Lana clearly preferred the company of men. She personified the old adage that "women do not like or trust other women' With the exception of her mother and daughter, she had few female friends.

During her early years at MGM, however, she ran with a group of young contract actresses that included Ann Rutherford, Betty Grable, Linda Darnell, and Virginia Grey. Virginia was one of the few women with whom Lana maintained a long-lasting, warm friendship. Eventually that friendship, too, would dissolve.

And there were others, not necessarily in her close circle, whom she genuinely admired. Of her costar in the 1941 production Ziegfeld Girl, Hedy Lamarr, Lana said, "She was the most beautiful creature i'd ever seen."

Judy Garland and Lana were friends from the time they first met at MGM in 1938, and remained close well into the fifties, although there were long lapses between contacts. Garland never pretended to be a raving beauty and found it humorous that anyone compared her with those gorgeous MGM women. Smart enough to know she couldn't compete with them in glamour, she didn't try. It is a tribute to her professionalism, humility, and talent that she never held personal grudges against the actresses themselves. Lana selected Judy to be her matron of honor when she married Stephen Crane

Lana loved singer-actress Lena Horne, another MGM contract player. In 1975 Lana and I were in Chicago for her opening in The Pleasure of His Company at the Shubert Theater following Lena's one-woman show.

Lana recalled a particular incident that took place when she and Lena were on an MGM promotional junket from Hollywood to New York on the Southern Pacific Railroad's Super Chief. Because of wartime restrictions and troop movements, sleeping accommodations were hard to come by. So these two megastars shared a compartment with separate beds. Lana was very careful that no one ever accused her of sleeping in the same bed with another woman.

Years later, her daughter Cheryl and Josh gave an interview to a lesbian magazine in which the writer alleges, "Before she passed away. Turner shared all kinds of stories with the couple, even explaining that she, too, was a lesbian."

Now it's my turn to say "Bullshit!" Lana Turner was the most woman I ever met. She loved men. She married seven of them

Then there was Ava Gardner, also brought up at MGM and a longtime pal of Lana's. One of the most legendary stories out of Hollywood involved Ava, Lana, and Frank Sinatra. Everyone read the Confidential Magazine story about Sinatra busting in on Ava and Lana at Frank's place in Palm Springs. You can take your choice of the various versions of what happened. I know what Lana told me.

"Frank offered me and my manager, Ben Cole, the use of his Palm Springs home for a week. He and Ava were going through one of their many separations. Everyone knew Frank and Ava. Apart this week, together next week. We accepted them as they were.

"Ben and I were having a drink at Frank's bar when Ava and her sister unexpectedly arrived. The four of us were chatting comfortably and getting ready to have a bite to eat when, a short time later, Frank charged into the house like a raging bull and accused us of cutting him up. I bet you two broads have been getting off at my expense!' he said.

"Ava ignored him and went into the bedroom. Frank kept pace right behind her. I heard a lot of yelling, mostly foul language, and the sounds of breaking furniture and broken glass. Ben and I left without finishing our drinks."

Ava Gardner had a slightly different story to tell

After an earlier argument with Frank in Hollywood, Frank told Ava, "I'm leaving, and if you want to know where I am, I'll be in Palm Springs fucking Lana Turner."

As he slammed the door on his way out, Ava called after him, "Fuck Minnie Mouse! See if I care!"

Ava, however, was never one to take such comments lightly. After having a couple of drinks to fortify herself, she picked up her sister, Bappie, around midnight and drove to Palm Springs, arriving at Frank's house sometime after two in the morning. Ava and Bappie sneaked around the house, peeping into windows and trying to see what was going on. When Lana and Ben discovered them, Lana called out, "Don't stand outside. You might catch something. Come on in."

They were all hungry and the four were about to sit down and eat some fried chicken. Before any of them took even one bite, Frank bounced into the house like a cyclone, filled with rage. From that point on Ava's story parallels Lana's. There are other versions, too. Among them, the most popular were:

(1) Frank caught Lana and Ava in bed together.

(2) Ava caught Frank and Lana in bed together.

(3) Frank caught Lana and Ava sharing his bed with another man.

The commotion brought out the Palm Springs police, along with flashing cameras and articles—like you read in the Confidential Magazine version— accompanied by pictures, contrived or otherwise.

Lana swore to me that after she and Ben fled to find lodgings elsewhere, Ava's sister brought Ava to join them. Lana never wavered from the innocent scene of four people just having a good time. Just another Hollywood evening at home, 'blown all out of proportion by those rags."

I know from Lana's irritation over Cheryl's public declaration of her lesbianism that she hated having private affairs smeared across the front pages of tabloids. As a star, she knew that no matter what happened to Cheryl, if it was something bad, it would be Lana Turner's name that would carry the story. Although she tried, she was unable to suppress anything so "juicy" as the Sinatra caper. I believe Lana told the truth.

Still, the rumors persisted. The most notorious was an underground story that had Ava Gardner, MGM's "raven-haired beauty," and Lana Turner, the studio's "most ravishing blond," picking up a gas jockey named Don and sharing his manly gifts when Sinatra came upon the scene. When reprimanded by a member of the MGM brass, Ava reportedly cooed in her sultriest whisper, "Don't worry, honey, who'd believe it?"

Lana and Ava were personal friends and kept in touch frequently, but there is no hard-core proof of anything lurid between them. I was with Lana one day when she picked up the phone and put in a call to Ava at her London flat. Ava told Lana, "I just saw your picture in the paper. You look fantastic. Your hair looks incredible.' "Here' Lana said with a flicker of pure mischief in her eyes, "talk to the creator."

She handed me the receiver and I was stuck, for one of the few times in my life, without words. Not for long, however. Who could resist the glamorous, sultry-voiced Southern siren from MGM?

In 1990, when a friend called me and said he'd read in the papers that Ava was quite ill and probably dying, I immediately relayed the news to Lana. Lana again dialed Ava's London number directly and was told by someone in attendance that "Miss Gardner is unavailable. Miss Turner."

Lana left a brief message and her telephone number. Ava never returned the call. Three to four months later the headlines heralded her glamorous life and death. Lana became quite depressed. Another MGM legend had passed into history. Who would be next? It never occurred to Lana that she was even on the list

Lana liked Elizabeth Taylor, whom she'd known as a child, but always refused invitations to holiday functions or dinner parties at Elizabeth's house once she became the wife of Richard Burton. Her loathing of Burton was absolute.

She enjoyed Debbie Reynolds but considered her to be too hyper and frantic. She respected Debbie's efforts to involve her in the Thalians and other Hollywood causes.

Lana well understood and respected Bette Davis's place in the Hollywood firmament. Just as there was only one Lana Turner, she knew there sure as hell was no other Bette Davis. Lana never lacked savvy when it came to stardom.

In 1989 she and Davis spoke on the phone. Lana liked Elizabeth Taylor, whom she'd known as a child, but always refused invitations to holiday functions or dinner parties at Elizabeth's house once she became the wife of Richard Burton. Her loathing of Burton was absolute.

She enjoyed Debbie Reynolds but considered her to be too hyper and frantic. She respected Debbie's efforts to involve her in the Thalians and other Hollywood causes.

Lana well understood and respected Bette Davis's place in the Hollywood firmament. Just as there was only one Lana Turner, she knew there sure as hell was no other Bette Davis. Lana never lacked savvy when it came to stardom.

Marilyn Monroe grew up a fan of Lana Turner. In a strong way, she loved Lana. She considered Lana to be a "goddess." I know this from both Lana and Dorothy Davis, one of Marilyn's best friends, who came to Hollywood with Betty Grable, and who is now my dear friend.

I have two very precious, rare photos that Marilyn sent Lana with the message, "Please, please sign these for me and send them to me. Your signature will be immortalized in my heart." Lana never did. Instead, she said, "I will talk to you on the phone. We will meet and I will teach you how to walk, how to act, what to say, and what not to say."

When they got together, Lana, tough and businesslike, cut right to the chase. "You've got to change your makeup. You've got to get rid of some of those bulges you have. Everything must change."

When Marilyn's career became an established fact, Lana didn't hear from her so often. Once, when Lana was in the process of moving and we were going through things to keep and things to get rid of, I ran into a couple of photographs. Holding the pictures up, I asked, "Who is this?"

Lana glanced at them and said, 'Oh, darling, please, don't give me that who-is-this shit." "Lana," I said, looking straight into her face, "Baby, I'm not playing around. Who is this? She's beautiful."

"That's Marilyn Monroe." I remembered the story she'd told me before. "What are you doing with these pictures?" She shrugged.

When she sent the photographs to Lana to autograph, she sent along a letter saying, "I just had my hair bleached and I'm not sure if I like it. My hair is kind of damaged. Do you like it?"

Lana said, "Eric, this woman's whole personality changed when she changed the color of her hair to blond." She turned and asked, "Do you want these photos, darling?"

We were sitting in our suite at The Plaza Hotel watching a television documentary on Hollywood scandals. Actually, we really weren't paying that much attention. Suddenly images of Lana, Johnny Stompanato, and Cheryl flashed across the screen.

"Lana, do you want me to shut it off?" I asked.

"No," she said. She watched intently until the narrator went on to somebody else's scandal, then clicked the remote. The screen went black. She became extremely agitated and angry. Neither of us spoke for what seemed like a long time.

Finally she blurted it out. "I killed the son-of-a-bitch and rd do it again!"

"What!" I exclaimed, shocked.

"Scratch that," she said, making a waving gesture

I wasn't sure I caught the enormity of what she said, but I immediately got the connection. Johnny Stompanato and the sensational murder at 730 North Bedford Drive on Good Friday in 1958. I thought the subject to be closed.

A couple of hours later she said, "How I'm suffering because of this."

"Because of what?" I asked.

"Cheryl. I owe her so much. I've done so many things wrong in my life I've had to live with but, darling, if I die before my daughter, you should tell the truth so I can rest in peace. Don't let my baby take the rap all her life for my mistake. I'll tell you something else, Eric. I do trust you. I'm sorry I blanked out earlier about the Stompanato thing on television. You know, I was so angry when Harold Robbins wrote Where Love Has Gone."

"Why? It was only a novel."

"Because I didn't want to face the truth. I blocked it out of my mind. You know I do that whenever I don't want to think about something that troubles me. The wall goes up and that's it. Nothing gets through. You've seen it all too many times. But now you know. I've spoken to you and said things I've never told anyone else, until tonight."

I saw and felt Lana's pain. I stopped her. "Lana, I don't want you to say another word. Stop it. It hurts me too much to see you in pain."

'All right" she said, "we won't talk about it. But remember, you're the only one who can set the record straight. Tell it. Someday, when I'm gone—tell it all."

It was three in the morning. I didn't sleep until almost daybreak, my mind and heart heavy for Lana, for her sense of guilt.

In the months and years ahead, Lana would let slip fragments of that awful night, and I began to put the pieces together. For instance, she told me that Cheryl did not go down to the kitchen and take a knife out of the drawer before "supposedly" murdering Johnny. "I kept that knife in the nightstand. The one by my bed."

Testimony at the inquest indicated that Johnny's body fell just inside Lana's bedroom, by the door where the police found him. Yet Lana's conversations with me on several occasions revealed that he was actually stabbed in her bed. None of this made any sense, because some of the parts were missing. She mentioned the verbal threats and physical abuse at the hands of Johnny Stompanato. She had even caught him in bed with another woman.

I had read about Cheryl and her rebellious activities immediately following the Stompanato killing: her temporary incarceration in Juvenile Hall, running away from the El Retiro Reform School, and the eventual awarding of her custody to her grandmother, Mildred.

If Lana had told me the truth, then it became much easier to understand Cheryl's incredible behavior, post-Stompanato.

Stompanato had a reputation for bilking and beating women. He was a punk—not a big-time gangster. He preyed on weak, lonesome, desperate, wealthy women, and some wealthy men. He used the alias "Johnny Steele" in his "business" dealings.

Under the respectable cover of a gift shop in Westwood, he had his fingers into a lot of pots, mostly illegal in nature. A known pimp and hustler, some insiders fingered him as the "hit man" when John "the Enforcer" Whalen went down one evening in a San Fernando Valley Restaurant in the 1950s.

The police knew Stompanato and kept an eye on him. As a matter of fact, Freddie Otash, the famous Hollywood private eye, once a member of the L.A.P.D. gangster squad before he left the department and hung out a shingle, often reported Johnny's mischief to Mickey Cohen, who, in turn, gave Freddie information on his rivals in criminal circles.

Stompanato had been twice married and divorced; once to actress Helene Stanley, whose face and figure were copied by artists at the Walt Disney studios to create Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. Although the names of many celebrity women were found in Stompanato's little black book, Lana emerged as his most important prey.

Lana, an astute judge of her public image, deplored bad press. Even as she found herself entangled in this mobster's web, she knew enough never to be seen with him at any career function

During the weeks preceding his death, they had many arguments, some physically abusive, because she repeatedly refused to allow him to escort her to the Academy Awards, having been nominated for Best Actress in Peyton Place.

Stompanato, forced to relinquish what he considered to be his right, seethed. Lana's mother and daughter accompanied her to the Oscars and they sat at a table with Sean Connery, Johnny's longtime nemesis.

Karen Kondazian, an award-winning actress who has had a notable career performing Tennessee Williams's plays as well as those of other playwrights, became a good friend of mine some fifteen years ago. It wasn't until 1995 that Karen informed me she and Lex Barker had been seriously involved at the time of his death in 1973. Karen had some quite specific feelings about Lex and what he related to her about Lana and Stompanato and that whole mess

Cheryl claimed in her book. Detour, that Lex Barker repeatedly abused her sexually long before she finished junior high school. Knowing Lex as she did, Karen said that could never have been the case. She said that Lex, ever the perfect gentleman (and nearly thirty years older than Karen), was terribly self-conscious about the opinions of others regarding the age difference between them. "He was kind and gentle in every aspect of our relationship. Never did he force or insinuate himself in any improper way. He treated me with respect. He had grown children older than I, and even at his mature age, still so attractive. Lex never had to force himself on anyone. He did say Cheryl was always a problem, so jealous of her mother and desirous of gaining her mother's attention that she would flaunt her body before him. Lex repeatedly told Lana that Cheryl was going to cause her a lot of trouble someday."

Cheryl's account states that she finally confronted her mother, at age thirteen, with her allegations against Lex, at which point Lana reputedly showed Lex the door. Their divorce followed soon after. Nonetheless, Lana and Lex remained friends.

Years later Lana told me, "When Cheryl made her allegations against Lex, I had no choice but to believe her. I couldn't take the chance. Had it been true, and found out, my career would have been finished for allowing him to stay under the same roof. But more importantly, Cheryl deserved my protection. Truthfully, I always had doubts about Cheryl's accusations."

Karen Kondazian revealed to me that Lex spoke to Lana in the days immediately following Stompanato's murder. Lana admitted to him that in the panic and hysteria of saving her career, she allowed Cheryl to take the blame for own misdeed. But she indicated strongly to Lex that Cheryl was not without blame. This confirmed Lex's earlier warnings that Cheryl would bring serious trouble to her mother

"How dare she!"

Lana spat the words across the living room of her condo.'Who the fuck does she think she is? How could she do this to me? My own daughter!"

She was referring, of course, to Cheryl's autobiography, Detour, whose publication she had dreaded since Cheryl first dropped the bombshell in her lap. "Mother, I'm writing my version of my life," Cheryl had said.

For months Lana had hoped the blow would not be too severe. She never prepared for the devastating impact her daughter's printed words would have on her. Although Cheryl may have tried to be fair and objective in her perspective, what emerged depicted Lana in the most unflattering portrait of a movie star since Christina Crawford raked her mother, Joan, across the coals in her book Mommie Dearest,

Cheryl never accused her mother of physical abuse or any of the other obvious comparisons to Miss Crawford; she only pictured her as the most vain, selfish, self-absorbed mother since Marlene Dietrich.

The publication of Detour devastated Lana so severely that she literally took to her bed for six months, the onset period of six years in seclusion.

Lana felt if you dignified something you hated with a response, you attracted public attention. When Cheryl started hitting the talk show circuit and sales of the book skyrocketed, Lana pretended the book didn't exist. Throughout the firestorm surrounding Cheryl's revelations, Lana made only one public statement. In a carefully worded press release, she said, 'I think it took guts to write it.

One of the things in the book that disturbed Lana most was Cheryl's open admission of her lesbian lifestyle with her lover, Josh. She didn't want to be confronted again with the old bugaboo of being a "bad mother."

It puzzled her that Cheryl would dig up the Lex Barker incident, too. She saw no reason for that. People had forgotten him. "It's just another way of getting back at me. Why," she asked, "is she doing this to me?"

Despite Lana's refusal to participate, Alan Carr and Cheryl resurrected their plans to make the movie. Cheryl went on record as saying she thought Madonna would be an excellent choice to play Lana who, upon hearing this, shrieked in my presence, "Over my dead body!"

Lana loathed Madonna's sexual theatrics. We wrere watching one of Madonna's music videos on MTV when Lana said, "She does have some talent and musical ability, but why does she have to cheapen herself with all the sex and lust and porno mentality?"

The furor over Detour ended any warmth or respect that might have been rekindled between Lana and Cheryl. She never forgave being branded in print by her own daughter as the vain and selfish woman she was, in fact, capable of being. Lana continued to have me join her when she occasionally had dinner with Cheryl and Josh. Although she never forgave Cheryl, she still saw her daughter from time to time.

In late 1990 Cheryl prepared a beautiful dinner for us at the home she shared with Josh on Doheny Drive, above Sunset, once the heart of youthful Hollywood. Excited, she told her mother that she had been asked to write a real estate column for the Los Angeles Times.

"What is this?' Lana asked. "Why would you want to do that? Do you have to have a column in order to drop the names of your celebrity clients?" "Mother, I'm doing it because I'm in real estate and it would be good for business." "Oh, Cheryl, grow up. Why demean yourself? You're above this."

The last time I took Lana to Cheryl and Josh's house for dinner, Lily Tomlin and Jane Wagner were the only other invited guests. It was Thanksgiving 1991. I tried not to show the hurt I felt when Lana told me later that Cheryl had said, "Mother, do you have to bring Eric? We just don't think he'll fit in with this evening."

Lana said she had been as direct as possible with Cheryl, saying, "Darling, if you don't want Eric, you don't want me, and I would just as soon not come at all." Remembering those words gives me a special feeling of pride—that she stood up for me to her own daughter. I felt like family. I truly was her brother that night. We had a great time.

The last argument I recall between Cheryl and Lana occurred during yet another evening when Cheryl begged her mother, who no longer signed autographs, to please endorse a photograph for Madonna. Lana said, "No. I don't sign autographs."

"Mother, please. She asked me if you would do this." She'd recently met Madonna at a party. Madonna owned a rare photo of Lana in a funky 1940s get-up, so stunning it almost seemed contemporary.

"Please, mother. Please. Lana finally gave in. "Oh, all right, give it to me."

She signed the picture, to the best of my recollection, "From one gutsy broad to another."

For the next several weeks she showed her disgust for having broken her rule by signing the picture. "Why," she asked me, "did you let me do it? You know how I feel about Madonna. Why did I do it?" Nor were matters improved when, a few days later, Lana received a personally inscribed photo from Madonna. She looked at me and rolled her eyes and said, "Did I ask for this?"

In any event, Lana had been correct when she'd referred to Madonna as "one gutsy broad."

Although my sister, Harriet, did Lana's nails for almost ten years, she found it increasingly difficult to put up with Lana's crude behavior when she drank. More and more, drinking seemed to fill the emptiness in Lana's life.

Harriet desperately tried to get to Lana's apartment before the drinking began. She genuinely liked a sober Lana, who could be kind, loving, and thoughtful. A drunk Lana, on the other hand, could be difficult, opinionated, and nasty. Lana knew Harriet—a born-again Christian—had been trying to get me closer to the Lord. Salting the wound, Lana would sometimes deliberately bait Harriet with her metaphysical beliefs. I found her behavior offensive.

One time Harriet arrived to find Lana and her secretary glued to Lana's big-screen television, watching Shirley MacLaine. The two women greeted Shirley's every word with "oohs' and 'ahhhs."

After a few moments Lana turned to Harriet and said, "You really don't believe in this, do you?" "No." "I can tell, because you're not saying anything." "It's against God," Harriet finally said. "Man is appointed once to die, then the judgment. He's not supposed to come back and come back and come back. It's in the Bible."

"Well, I don't believe in the Bible," Lana said, deliberately trying to arouse Harriet's ire. "Shirley MacLaine is a god!" "Oh? And who appointed Shirley MacLaine a god?" my sister asked. "We're all gods," Lana said. "There's only one God. God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." "The Bible was written by man," Lorry Sherwood, Lana's secretary, chimed in. Harriet, ready for her, said, "Shirley MacLaine's book was written by Shirley MacLaine."

Lana, unable to make a response for the moment, used the expression she always used when she failed to win her point. "Please, let's not get into this."

A few months later, the movie Postcards From the Edge came out, based on the book by Debbie Reynolds's daughter, Came Fisher. In the film, Shirley MacLaine's character makes a very derogatory and insulting remark about Lana Turner.

I took Lana to see the film. It infuriated her. 'But, Lana,' I said, "it's only a movie. It's dialogue she's supposed to say. It's not real." "I don't care. She made me look like a tramp. She didn't have to say that. If Debbie were truly my friend, she would never have said that about me."

The next time Harriet visited Lana, knowing of the Postcards incident, she asked, "Well, what do you think of your God now?" Later Harriet brought Lana a copy of a Christian parody of one of Shirley's books called Out on a Broken Limb.

My sister was quite startled to hear Lana's views on reincarnation after Lana and I returned from our Egypt trip. Lana insisted she was the reincarnation of none other than the Queen of Egypt, Cleopatra herself.

"Isn't it amazing," Harriet said to Lana, "that there are so many Cleopatras walking around today? No one ever comes back after being a slave or handmaiden. By the way, Lana, how do you know you were once Cleopatra?"

Lana stared directly into her eyes and calmly said, "Because I am Lana Turner."

Harriet looked across Lana's crystal coffee table laden with pyramids, unicorns, flying saucers, and other symbols of a mystical nature. She understood Lana's bad health and, looking at these symbols, she asked, "Are these working for you, Lana?'

Lana never looked up. 'Not yet."

"And they never will. These are crystal and glass objects. You're worshiping the creation, Lana, not the Creator."

Lana forgave Harriet their differences of opinion regarding religion because Harriet gave her nails the most beautiful manicure she had ever received. Her vanity allowed room for God. Whether or not she'd admit it, Lana had more faith than she wanted anyone to know about. At least I hope she did.

As Lana grew more and more reclusive, telephones and television became her major conduits to the outside world. She watched TV incessantly. Her favorite programs were, not surprisingly, glossy melodramas and soap operas like "Dallas' and 'Dynasty'—reminders of the kinds of films she used to make. She also enjoyed "Murder She Wrote," which often featured stars of her era, if not her caliber.

During the last weeks I was with her, Lana spent much of her time watching the O.J. Simpson double murder trial unfold on the giant TV screen in her living room. Ever since the infamous low-speed Bronco chase she'd been engrossed in every detail. On more than one occasion news reports had referred to the crime as the most sensational celebrity murder case since the Lana Turner-Johnny Stompanato scandal. She smirked at these comparisons but remained glued to the continuing coverage

Lana's take on the situation was quite different from that of the average viewer. After all, this was the world-renowned celebrity who, in 1958, had hired her own "dream team" to exonerate her from a killing that had shocked the world. Lana had been a bigger star then than O.J. Simpson was now, and attorney Jerry Geisler was easily the Johnnie Cochran of his day.

During one of our last phone conversations, shortly before the Simpson trial was set to begin, I asked Lana what she thought of his chances for acquittal.

"He's got the best defense money can buy," she said. "He'll get off."

And who should know better?

Lana withdrew from public life, her health began to fail again. Her consumption of alcohol increased. She kept three one-gallon jugs of Chardon-nay in her refrigerator at all times. She had her first glass for breakfast when she arose around three in the afternoon, and the last before retiring as the sun crept over the horizon.

She no longer had a career, only she didn't know it. There would always be, she said, a cameo, a television show. She believed that. Reality spoke otherwise.

She still received huge royalty checks from her profit participation in Imitation of Life. I remember one particular day when she received two separate checks, for the video and foreign distribution, respectively.

At this juncture, despite her drinking, failing health, and inactivity, Lana decided to make a "career switch."

Laurino Scaffone, an artist friend of mine since my boyhood days in Detroit, had become an accomplished artist, painting beautiful historical landscapes on thin slabs of marble. When Lana saw photographs of his work she became philanthropic for the first time in her life. She gave him $23,000 to assist in the continuation of his work and prepare enough pieces for a show. She now considered herself a patron of the arts.

We prepared several portfolios featuring beautiful color photographs of his art, prefaced with letters of introduction from Lana herself. I personally presented these to all the major galleries in Los Angeles. Lana planned to host his exclusive Los Angeles showing at the Tamara Bane Gallery.

Several other Beverly Hills art galleries expressed similar interest. Lana decided to make use of her extensive show business connections by sending handwritten invitations to celebrity friends such as Frank Sinatra, Elizabeth Taylor, and others. She was calling in her markers. She'd never done that before. She even designed the dress she would wear to the opening.

Sincerely excited, she spoke to the artist on the phone late at night after a day of drinking. She told him that she believed, although she had never met him in this life, that the two of them had once been lovers in another lifetime, inhabiting the landscapes he now painted

Unfortunately, before Lana could make final arrangements for his introduction into Los Angeles art circles, she was diagnosed with throat cancer. Her own plans permanently shelved, she continued to encourage him, although the funding gradually ceased. She blamed her daughter. "Cheryl will kill me if she finds out I am sending him any more money."

She kept three of his pieces in her home until the day she died

Carmen related Lana's passing to me on the telephone. Lana had been in her bedroom watching television, as always. From the kitchen Carmen heard Lana calling her name weakly and quickly rushed to her side.

"What is it?" she said.

Her response was weak and faint. "I don't feel well."

"What is wrong?" Carmen asked, concerned. Lana did not respond. Only one eye remained open. The color was gone from her once-classic face.

"Lanita, what is wrong?" Carmen made the sign of the cross as she repeated her question several times. She reached down and touched Lana's forehead. Lana took a very deep breath and her head slumped, both eyes now closed for eternity.

Carmen held Lana in her arms, tears of anguish now flowing freely, but she would never hear another sweet word from the tiny figure she held, like a mother, to her breast.

"But, Carmen,' I interrupted, "wasn't Cheryl there with her mother, like the papers said? Who took care of things?"

"No. Cheryl not here. Me, I did."

I thanked God in my heart that she did not die alone. Knowing Lana's fierce determination to protect her privacy and vanity. Carmen hesitated before calling for help. Then she dialed building security. The security officer responded quickly and summoned the paramedics.

Cheryl, who lived but three miles from her mother's penthouse, was then notified. When medical help arrived some ten minutes later, Lana Turner was officially pronounced dead.

This book gets terrible reviews on amazon--several reviewers say this guy made up most of this stuff.

Fantasy. Has he said he was inspiration for Warren Beatty's hairdresser in Shampoo yet? They all do. Like every woman who was friendly with Truman Capote....

Thank OP!

Lana and the author

.........

I don't think it's all made up. I believe most of it is True. The Amazon reviews are negative because the book paints Lana in a negative light.

[quote]Lana knew I hated her constant swearing and use of vulgarity. In later years, especially when she'd been drinking heavily, she would slip up, often shocking those within earshot who didn't know her. I beseeched her to tone down the language, especially when it came to uttering the phrase, "Goddamn it!" Later, when we were more spiritually in tune, she made a conscious effort to stop taking the Lord's name in vain

Holy cow, who is the delicate queen who wrote this?

Eric Root reads the book on the audible version.

He claims in the book that Lucille Ball and Ginger Rogers, distant cousins, hated each other.

I remember back in the 1980s the joke was Lana Turner's constant companion was her gay hairdresser.

Interesting read. Thanks OP.

R14

Never found Lana turner to be beautiful!

I hate when people denounce something as lies or fake just because they don't like what they read.

Lana with Frank Sinatra before he became the chairman of the board

Thanx OP for your always entertaining efforts!

r71 Only a gay man would put up with the sort of shit she (Lana) was handing out to be part of a movie star's life.

Yeah r78 and only a gay man would fuck an old hag R44 to stay in her good graces.

Not long before she died, Lana released a press release proclaiming Mickey Rooney a liar after he appeared on Regis & Kathie Lee to promote his book and stated that he and Lana had once fucked.

Lana Turner fucked everybody back then.

R62 The book got negative reviews because the few remaining old hags who love Lana Turner didn't want to believe what they read.

I hate when people accept something as true just because they want to believe it.

Ignore-dar reveals r67, r75, and r82 are of course OP.

R46

Ava Gardner said in "The secret conversation" said that Lana Turner loved Real gangsters.

Before I read these threads I had some amount of respect and even admiration for Lana Turner, but now I see her for what she really was: a cheap, vain, and selfish drunken slut.

My mother has said for years it was Lana not Cheryl that stabbed Stompanato, and this thread has convinced me that she (Lana) did kill him.

Thank you OP. The Los Angeles Library has several copies of this book and each one has been vandalized by ardent fans who have torn out the pages they did not like.

I liked her. GREEN DOLPHIN STREET, PEYTON PLACE and IMITATION OF LIFE are on my list of favorite films.

I love this interview on Donahue. She seemed to enjoy answering the ladies' questions with brutal honesty.

bump

She did it, but it was prolly self-defense.

I find Lana fascinating as a historical figure, less so as an actress.

But perhaps precisely because she was a major studio era star and not much of an actress, she's largely forgotten by younger generations, even the budding cineastes among them. They may have seen and liked IMITATION OF LIFE or THE POSTMAN ALWAYS RINGS TWICE, but Lana's not quite in their roster of ladies like Davis, Dietrich, Stanwyck, Garland, or a handful of others. At least, based on my interactions with these kids.

Well, Lana did have great hair. I believe the dude. When Judy Garland was asked if Lana Turner was a nymphomaniac, she responded "Only when you can calm her down."

OP, can you post more Lana Turner stories?

Thanks.

Pretty when young but quickly turned hard and blowsy looking to me, like a gun moll. Never really got her rep as some alluring siren.

[quote]Before I read these threads I had some amount of respect and even admiration for Lana Turner, but now I see her for what she really was: a cheap, vain, and selfish drunken slut.

Well, that makes me like her even more. I loved the story about her being unable to continue filming until she got a nice big dick up her wazoo, and the studio rushing to fill Miss Turner's request.

One of my favorite Hollywood photos, by Ruth Orkin

[quote]To this day several of my friends who remember Lana's visits to Acapulco insist that on several occasions the beaches were littered with her indiscretions. Beach boys, bartenders, waiters, and hotel guests were said to have been the recipients of her favors.

Lana Turner: Honorary Datalounger

If he was the one doing that hard, blinding, shellacked hair, he should have been thrown off of her balcony.

You always knew that if you followed that bullet bra of hers, you'd find trouble.

Omg, R99!

To me, Lana was the ultimate glamorous movie star.

R14 I don't think Warhol's portrait of Lana was all that good. I never even saw it until I read about it on this thread.

writing is total crap.

should end up a best-seller.