Free Behind the Candelabra: My Life With Liberace by Scott Thorson, Alex Thorleifson Page B

debauched he looked.
    Lee welcomed us warmly, apologizing for his informal attire, and we followed him into the living room. It was huge and even more ornately decorated than the entry. A mirrored concert grand with a Lucite top, Lucite music stand, and Lucite piano bench took up one end of the room. It would be a couple of years before I knew enough about interior decorating to recognize the incongruities of Lee’s decor. But a cheap pillow, looking out of place on the piano bench, captured my attention. Overstuffed sofas covered in tufted raw silk flanked a marble-mantled fireplace. Crystal chandeliers, ornate gilded furniture, urns on pedestals, priceless porcelains, cluttered the room. Crocheted pillows were a strange contrast to the decorator sofas, inexpensive paintings clashed with walls covered by French silk moiré, blown-glass souvenirs cheapened priceless commodes. Years later I would know that the theme was palatial kitsch.
    I’ll be damned, I thought. Liberace not only looks like a queen, he lives like one.
    Lee led the way to the sofas and sat down, still holding the one dog while the others sniffed at our heels.
    “To the ovens,” Arnett said, flinging his arms wide and gesturing down at the animals. Lee grinned in response. Obviously the dogs were an old sore point between the two of them, one that had eroded enough to become a standing joke.
    “They’re my family,” Lee said, noticing my interest in his pets. “And this,” he added, indicating the one in his lap, “is Babyboy.” His nasal tone softened as he stroked the ancient poodle. “Babyboy is very old. He’s blind and deaf. I’m his seeing-eye person.” By the time Lee finished, his voice had risen an octave and he was using baby talk. But at least I knew we had something in common—we both loved animals.
    I studied the old poodle, noticing that its eyes were opaque and running badly. “I think I can get you something that might help him,” I said, explaining I was a veterinarian’s assistant. “Dr. Tully sees a lot of poodles with problem eyes. He can usually make them more comfortable.”
    Lee beamed. “That would be wonderful!” he said. “Nobody’s been able to help my poor Baby and I hate to see him suffer.”
    Our conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a man Lee introduced as “Carlucci, my houseboy.” Carlucci, a small man, looked nothing like my idea of a houseboy. He wore conspicuously tight jeans, a shirt open to the navel, and a thick gold chain around his neck. He had a narrow face, a beaked nose, dark olive skin, and eyes that darted about with lively curiosity. I later learned that he’d been a maître d’ before being discovered by Lee and becoming a member of Lee’s household.
    Carlucci placed a tray of hors d’oeuvres and a large pitcher of Bloody Marys on the mirrored cocktail table. I expected him to leave at once, like any well-trained household help, but he lingered long enough to look me over very carefully. Between his perusal and the way Lee had studied me the night before, I was beginning to feel like a yearling at a thoroughbred auction. Black and Arnett had been talking about show business and I escaped the uncomfortable once-over I was getting by turning my attention to what they were saying.
    Arnett was one of the friendliest men I’d ever met. Short, slightly overweight, with sparkling eyes and a quick smile, he oozed good humor. I liked him immediately. Like Bob Black, Arnett had been a Broadway hoofer, a show-business gypsy in his youth. He was one of Lee’s old guard, an associate from the early days before Lee developed his glitzy stage show. Arnett explained that he’d started as a dancer and choreographer for Lee’s shows and worked his way up to production manager.
    While the other men talked I could feel Lee studying me again. Each time I caught him looking at me during the cocktail hour and the brunch that followed, he’d glance away quickly, as if he didn’t want to