Beverly Hills Diary: Close Encounters with the Stars

By Luis F Rios

Beverly Hills Diary: Close Encounters with the Stars is a fast-paced intimate account of meetings with luminaries and legendary individuals in the 1970s who shaped and influenced the history of the arts, film, literature and culture on a national and global

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luis Rios Consulting
• Release date: Jul 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088042380

Book preview

Introduction

People sometimes tell me that they envy the opportunities I had to meet celebrities, stars, and famous people, sometimes briefly, and at other times for longer elbow-rubbing closeness.

In the 1970s I drove a limousine out of the Beverly Hills Hotel, kept my eyes open, listened, and kept a logbook/diary. That led to this documentary of some of the events and people who helped shape the ethos of an era in America.

It was a time of great energy and creativity, when legendary men and women of charisma and distinct presence savored more than the 15 minutes of fame as observed by the American artist, Andy Warhol. Some I knew even then were of national or international renown, and with others I was unaware of their significance at the time of our meetings. One common thread that recurs in the telling is the lust for life that was exuded by many of the magical people with whom I had the privilege to spend time.

Where I could, I have sought to let you in on the vicarious experience of meeting those people, in as visceral a way as possible. This is my way of sharing something wonderful that I enjoyed at the time and look back at with wonder.

I hope that you will enjoy passing time with me on a guided tour on a journey through the 1970s .

Chapter One: A Fellow Named Jack

People crowded closely around me as I stood at the front of a waiting crowd at the gate, watching the rush of people deplaning at the United Airlines terminal of the Los Angeles International Airport.

Then I saw that famous quirky smile of Jack Nicholson as he came striding out of the jetway with his jaunty and somewhat cocky gait. In those days he was thinner and had a more angular face and was sporting black rimmed rectangular sunglasses.

It was the summer of 1975. While attending classes at USC, I was also driving a limousine for my old friend James Gibby Gibson Smith III, who was a limousine owner/operator for Carey Limousine, based out of the Beverly Hills Hotel. I got a kick out of driving his 1973 black Cadillac Fleetwood limousine with people gawking at the back seat to see what celebrity was inside. They were sure going to get an eyeful when they spotted Jack Nicholson back there.

I waved to him and Jack and came toward me. I introduced myself and offered to accompany him to the baggage claim area. He said that wouldn’t be necessary, and that I should retrieve the limousine from the parking area and meet him outside where the incessantly monotonous recording blared: The white zone is for immediate loading and unloading of passengers only. No Parking.

Upon climbing into the vehicle Jack appeared to be in a good mood, anticipating a return to his home near the heights of Mulholland Drive overlooking the San Fernando Valley. He had just completed the filming of the western film Missouri Breaks, which was directed by Arthur Penn, and co-starred Marlon Brando.

Jack was a warm and very friendly person and went out of his way to make me feel at ease. He chatted away like we were old pals. As we turned left onto Imperial Highway, heading back to Beverly Hills, he told me about his early days of struggle in Los Angeles as an unknown actor.

He called them his starving artist days, living in his small, crappy studio apartment on Arbor Vitae Street (which he pronounced as Arbor Vīty), under the flight path of the jumbo jets landing at LAX, while waiting for a break in the film industry.

He asked where I lived and made me feel fortunate to be living with a roommate in Santa Monica in a one-bedroom apartment north of Wilshire Boulevard. I liked that he’d asked about me, as a fellow being, not as some star talking down to someone.

One of the things that struck me as I spoke with him was that, unlike some celebrities, he felt human and real. Jack was Jack. What made him one of the greatest film actors of all time was that when he was acting, he was completely natural in playing himself, to the fullest extent that any role required. At the same time he could thoroughly become the essence of the character he was portraying.

Photo by Alan Light. Used by permission. Taken at the 62nd Academy Awards 3/26/90

As he climbed out and carried his bags toward the front door, he paused to give a wave back to me.

I drove the limo back to the hotel, where my personal car was parked in the underground parking lot, and hoped the next beeper call from the dispatcher, paging me for another assignment, would be as great an experience as meeting Jack.

Chapter Two: Sandra the Socialite

I received a page on the beeper setting up an afternoon pickup for a trip from a location situated below Mulholland Drive, between Coldwater Canyon and Laurel Canyon. I thought it would be a routine LAX airport drop-off.

After going up a winding road that runs through mountainous terrain that has spectacular views of the canyons and city below, a view that is even more spectacularly seen at night, I pulled the limousine up in front of a house at Oriole Way, off of N. Doheny Drive, above Sunset Boulevard.

The destination was close to Elvis Presley’s Hollywood Hills mansion and was also near the former home of Bobby Darin and Sandra Dee.

It was a warm and dry fall afternoon. The sun was shining as I got out of the vehicle and approached the house. Nearby I heard a loud explosive noise that sounded ominously like the report of a large caliber firearm.

I rang the doorbell. A few moments later a woman with long dark brown hair, who appeared to be perhaps in her early thirties, opened the door. She was holding a rifle and wearing only an untied silk robe over her bra and panties. She was an attractive and well-built woman, and a fair amount of her was on display.

She set the rifle down on a chair next to a rifle-carrying case on the floor, and as she turned to walk away, she said that she would only be just a few minutes getting dressed to go to the airport. Just before she moved out of sight she paused and asked me to put the gun back in its case while she got dressed. My mind was racing, and I must have looked dumbfounded or shell-shocked. I was thinking What if she just shot someone? Could this be a ruse to incriminate me with my fingerprints on the murder weapon?

She looked at me as if I was clueless and said she was taking the weapon on her flight out of LAX and, of course, she had to get rid of the ammo in the gun before checking it in at the airport. Most people would have just jacked the live round out of the chamber, but apparently not her.

As we drove to the airport we chatted. She said that I looked familiar and asked if we had met before. I told her a little about myself and then she said Do you work at the Beverly Hills Hotel? I told her that I did and she mentioned that she had recently seen someone driving one of the cars of an old acquaintance of hers, Frank Sinatra.

The hotel’s dispatcher asked me if I could do a short non-revenue assignment. In the lower garage, where the limos parked, he had shown me a shiny black vintage Rolls Royce Silver Cloud that was stored in the hotel and was rarely used. He’d asked if I wouldn’t mind driving it around Beverly Hills because the owner had given orders for the vehicle to be driven once per week to charge the battery, and ensure the engine ran smoothly. I was very careful backing out of the very tight parking space and had taken it for a spin around the neighborhood. I was thrilled by the low purr of the quiet but powerful engine as I put the car through its graceful paces. Even in that neighborhood, passing cars slowed and gawked. As I drove by a mansion not far from the hotel I saw a young woman, perhaps a couple of years older than me, smile and wave to me as I drove by, as if she knew me. When I put the Rolls back it into its parking slot, I noticed the California license plate, FAS 1. The car belonged to Frank Sinatra.

On the way to the airport the woman in the back seat told me that she was Sandra Ilene West and that she used to live in that neighborhood near the Beverly Hills Hotel. It dawned on me that she was the one who had waved at me as I was driving Sinatra’s Rolls a month before. She had known that car.

She was very friendly and talkative. On the way to the airport she told me a little about her life. She told me that her deceased husband was a very wealthy man, a cattle baron, who was owner of a very large ranch in Texas, one so large, it would take over an hour by car to traverse the width of it.

The ranch, she told me, contained towns with banks, pharmacies and stores that were also part of her husband’s estate. She said that she was looking forward to shooting on the ranch and enjoying the star-filled Milky Way nights not obscured by the lights of a big city nearby.

As I dropped her off, she asked for my name and said that she would request my services on her return trip. I didn’t have a business card but I wrote my name on the work original work order receipt and kept the carbon copy. Later, when I looked at my copy, I saw that she had put a $200 gratuity on the bill. ($200 in 1976 is the same as about $1,000 now.) She said that I should visit her upon her return from Texas.

One month later I got an assignment to pick her up at LAX. When we got to her house she invited me in. She offered me a drink. I accepted glass of a wine and we became friends.

Several months later, when visiting Sandy, she asked if I knew of anyone who could get her some Quaaludes, a drug commonly used in the 1970s, available by prescription, but by then it had become more controlled. Somehow I wasn’t surprised her tastes ran in that direction.

On March 11, 1977 I got a call from a friend who told me that Ms. West had suddenly died from an overdose. She was only in her thirties.

Among the many media accounts of her life I learned that she had been so strikingly beautiful that she had attracted men as diverse as Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, and Nicky Hilton. She had met and dated Sol West before she met his brother Ike, who she married.

The West family had first made a fortune in the cattle drives of the 19th Century and had invested in oil. The brothers lived a fast life by the 1960s, but it didn’t last for Ike.

He had health issues and a history of drug use, never a good combination. He died at the Las Vegas Flamingo Hotel in 1968, under circumstances the media called mysterious.

After his death, Sandra West was often seen wearing expensive jewelry and a mink coat around Beverly Hills. Always one to glitter, she had even showed up in a Texas Rodeo Queen ensemble, complete with rhinestones and a cowgirl hat.

I was sorry to hear about her death. She was one of those people who sparkled, but perhaps had stood too close to the flame.

The following month, she was in the news again on account of a provision in her will that was being contested. In her will she had specified that she wanted to be buried next to her late husband at the family burial plot in Texas, dressed in a lace negligee and placed in a semi-reclining position inside her beloved Ferrari. The will was upheld and she was buried according to her wishes on May 19, 1977.

Chapter Three: Mr. Time Magazine

The ‘70s ushered in cultural changes, coming on the heels of the free-spirited decade of the ‘60s, as the decade did. The times were bound to be colorful in that part of the world, and I was about to get a unexpected glimpse or two.

On November 8, 1975, I got an early morning pager beep. The dispatcher told me that I was scheduled for a full day and night assignment. That was unusual right off the bat.

I drove up the oval driveway leading up to the Beverly Hills Hotel lobby, and right on cue at 8:15 a.m. my client, Mr. Henry Anatole Grunwald, the Managing Editor of Time magazine came out, trailed by his male administrative assistant.

The minute he was seated in the back he told me that we were going to have a very busy schedule that day.

The first stop was for a morning appointment at 9:15 a.m. at an address in Topanga Canyon. I consulted my Thomas Brothers Guide map book (My most reliable source of navigation in those pre-GPS days) and plotted my route. From the address, I began to have suspicions that this may be a more interesting assignment than I might have originally expected.

The limo rolled in fluid ease along the Pacific Coast Highway. I knew by heart every one of the twenty-two S-curves climbing up Topanga Canyon Boulevard and then heading downward through Tuna Canyon. As we neared our destination I nodded to myself. I had heard and read about Sandstone.

The Sandstone Retreat was a clothing-optional resort that catered to swingers. The estate consisted of a mansion, guest rooms, a spa, swimming pools, orgy rooms and 15 acres of mountainous land with cavorting trails and panoramic views of the Santa Monica Mountains. It had been founded by John and Barbara Williamson, who believed that exchanging partners for sex would set society free, that monogamy was sexually unsatisfactory and was preventing people from having full lives.

I’d overheard Mr. Grunwald say that he intended to interview the new director of the establishment in order to discuss his reactions to a documentary film about the membership resort that was receiving some notoriety in the national and international press.

Once at the resort, I opened the door and accompanied Mr. Grunwald, with his assistant a relatively short distance behind. We were waved in through the check-in area and into the entrance with a large reception area and lounge areas.

A number of unabashed members passed us, most as casual as you can get in respect to clothes. We passed by another room where I could see various devices, swings and such, designed for exotic sexual positions and intercourse.

I felt somewhat ill at ease as we walked past a middle-aged couple using two suspended swing devices where they met repeatedly in the middle. (This impression imparted in me a new meaning to the term swinging.)

My three-piece Italian wool pinstripe suit, navy blue tie and wingtips were in stark contrast to the clothing, or lack thereof, of the members we passed as I went with Mr. Grunwald and his assistant on a tour of the main facilities, the pool, and the spa areas.

We parted, and I remained on-call as he and his assistant headed to a private meeting with the Director. After a few more glimpses of uninhibited members, I decided to wait in the reception area a while for their return. Then I went outside where I could take in the view of the Pacific Ocean in the distance.

After approximately 35 minutes Mr. Grunwald and his assistant returned. We were soon headed for our next stop, Paramount Studios in Hollywood. I didn’t need to consult my Thomas Brothers Guide for that one.

We arrived at the main gate on Santa Monica on Melrose Boulevard at around 11:30 a.m., where a studio representative met us. The guide gave us a tour in the limousine around the studio. One of the highlights for me was the replica of the New York City Public Library replete with the twin guardian lions, which I later visited in person. Our guide shared some of the history of the various sets of parts of the country and the world. He told us what films and television shows were filmed at the different locations.

Once Mr. Grunwald was done with his meeting, we headed for Lucy’s El Adobe Café, not far away on Melrose Boulevard. It was known as a restaurant and watering hole for members of the California Democratic Party, including then Governor Jerry Brown, who he was to meet with since he was beginning to surge in the national Democratic polls for the 1976 Presidential election. He hoped to size up Brown as a candidate. Mr. Grunwald said he was going to make a decision as to whether to assign a Time magazine staff reporter full-time to his campaign.

Once at Lucy’s, Mr. Grunwald invited me to come inside with them, since he had to excuse himself to make another telephone call that may take a little while, probably after Mr. Brown’s expected arrival time. He asked me to sit at the table that had been reserved and tell the expected guests that he was in the building and would be arriving shortly.

After holding the table for about 15 minutes, Mr. Grunwald returned with his assistant.

Mr. Brown had not arrived, so he ordered glasses of water. Chips and salsa were served. He left again to make another phone call. When he returned, it was approximately 25 minutes after the appointed hour.

After waiting another 10 minutes, while frequently looking at his watch, he said he was ready to call off the interview. Just as he said it, the proprietor, Lucy herself, came to the table and told him that Mr. Brown had telephoned, and that he and the Lieutenant Governor, Gray Davis were on their way and would be there in about 10 minutes.

We waited the 10 minutes and when he did not show, Mr. Grunwald and his assistant moved off to talk privately. When they came back he said he would be going to another meeting, and that someone else would provide him with transportation to another location nearby. He told me to stay. If the Governor and Lieutenant arrived prior to their return, I was to ask them to wait at the table.

The day was definitely taking on a turn that I did not expect when I got up that morning.

As they were leaving, Gray Davis arrived in the older, worn-out looking Dodge Dart that Mr. Brown liked to drive and be seen in, to show that he was a different kind of down to earth politician.

He apologized to Mr. Grunwald and said that Mr. Brown was unexpectedly and unavoidably detained, and that he would arrive very shortly. At that time Mr. Grunwald ordered me to start the limo and drive it up to the side entrance. I was disappointed that I didn’t have the opportunity to dip chips with the governor.

But their meeting together didn’t take long. On the way to our next stop of the day, Mr. Grunwald went on about that ridiculous washed out bland green Dodge Dart.

The next week, Time Magazine ran a story with a blurb on the magazine cover about the surging candidacy of another man who was a new kind of politician, who seemed to have serendipitously appeared on the national political landscape: the former peanut farmer from Georgia, Jimmy Carter.

We continued the day with a trip to the Century City area of Los Angeles where I waited in the vehicle just outside the Century City Hotel for about three hours, listening to a relatively new phenomenon, at the time called Talk Radio on KABC.

After a return trip to the Beverly Hills Hotel, where Mr. Grunwald changed and freshened up for the evening, I waited at the entrance, assisting the doormen