Helen Cromwell - Good Time Party Girl: The Notorious Life of Dirty Helen Cromwell 1886-1969

GOOD TIME PARTY GIRL

Good Time Party Girl: The Notorious Life of Dirty Helen Cromwell, 18861969
by Helen Cromwell with Robert Dougherty

Originally published as Dirty Helen: A Zany, Wonderful, Unconventional Ex-Madam and Tavern-Keeper Tells of Her Adventures, the Fascinating People She Has Known and the Exploits That Make Her a Living Legend, Sherbourne Press, 1966

Images on pages 289 and courtesy of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

Image on page courtesy of the Milwaukee County Historical Society / Photo by Lyle Oberwise

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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 9781627310789

eISBN: 9781627310970

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GOOD TIME PARTY GIRL

The Notorious Life of

Dirty Helen Cromwell

1886-1969

by Helen Cromwell
with Robert Dougherty

Afterword by Christina Ward

FERAL HOUSE

Contents

Prologue

THE FRIDAY AFTERNOON HAPPY HOUR at the Naval Officers Club was at its peak. Peals of laughter mingled with the tinkling of ice in tall glasses. The club, at Naval Air Station, Glenview, Illinois, had never been so filled with gold-emblazoned blue uniforms and bright cocktail dresses. It was 1952, a high point of the Korean War era, and the air station was abuzz with the drone of overhead planes, alive with thousands of officers and enlisted men being schooled in special skills prior to leaving for the Far East. The big time of the week for everyone was the Friday cocktail hour.

Six of usthree coupleswere finishing our first martini and plotting our course for a night on the big town; the Chicago Loop was only about twenty-five miles away. Should we go to the Blackhawk and dance to the music of Ray Anthony? What about dinner at the Empire Room of the Palmer House? Didnt someone say the show was terrific at the Chez Paree?

A lovely red-haired model, my BOQ roommates date, leaned across the small cocktail table and cried, Ive got it! Lets drive up to Milwaukee and have dinner at one of those good German restaurants and then go to that wild, nutty bar called Dirty Helens! Delightful suggestion. I was excited over the prospects of the evening because I had long heard of Dirty Helen. She was a legend in her own time. How many college conversations had used Dirty Helen as a pivot point? What were all those tales I heard about her while on duty in the Mediterranean and in Japan? Fabulous stories and salty as hell.

It was almost eleven p.m. when we finished dinner and nosed the car up the dark, hilly St. Paul Avenue, past industrial plants, foundries, factories, and assorted dingy-looking buildings to a little two-story, white frame house with orange-colored lights on either side of the door and a brass plaque that said The Sun Flower Inn. Parking was a problem because the street was lined with cars of all descriptions, including Cadillac limousines and one Rolls-Royce. We finally found a parking spot and tromped up the short flight of stairs to the doorway. The din and racket coming from inside The Sun Flower Inn was unbelievable.

When the front door opened I couldnt believe my eyes! How could that many people jam into one room? We entered a lower-level vestibule, our feet sinking into a thick-pile carpet, then up a couple of steps into the main level. Smoke hung in the air like a fog bank. The squealing babble of voices was underscored by the high-key strains of an electric organ. And, to my amazement, there was practically no furniture in the place; people were flopped all over the floor, some stretched over resting their heads on their arms, some sitting up prim and proper, some leaning against the walls. There were no conventional tables and chairs to be seen anyplace.

I knew her immediately, before she even opened her mouth to scream her dirty words. The raven-haired woman behind the bar, which was to our right as we entered, was Dirty Helen. When she saw us standing there she screamed to her organista scream, I might add, that silenced the place completelyHey, Martin, play Anchors Aweigh! Goddamit, the fleets in! As the room filled with the booming of Anchors Aweigh, Helen waved an arm out toward her on-the-floor customers and commanded You people! Move your fat asses over and give some carpet to these sailors and their cute little bitches! As we gingerly stepped around and over the sprawled-out patrons I got a glimpse of the lush, dark carpeting that ran from wall to wall; and, when we found a small vacant patch and plopped down, we found it wasnt half uncomfortable, only unusual. Imagine, a barroom without tables and chairs!

My roommate and his red-haired date had been to Helens before and sometime during the evening, without my hearing them, had told the others in our group what to expect. I had been elected to be the patsy and was sent to the bar with the drink order: three scotch and waters, two bourbon and waters, and one brandy and soda. Anchors Aweigh had blended into Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life (Helens favorite song!) as I endeavored to get to the bar without stepping on too many mink coats and sable stoles which were sprinkled around the floor like so much soiled laundry. People were crushed around the bar three deep, laughing, talking, hollering. Underscoring all the din was the blaring organ giving forth with Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life. This is madness, I thought. Sheer madness. Finally, by pushing and shoving, I snaked my way through the throng and wedged myself into a position in the middle of the bar, a heavy wooden affair, battered and deeply carved with thousands of initials.

A male bartender rushed about frantically filling drink orders as Helen shouted commands to him, helped in mixing drinks, and kept her eye on the door so she could greet all new arrivals as they poured in. While waiting to get the attention of either Helen or the bartender I took stock of the place: behind the bar, strung along the wall, was a sixteen-foot-long mirror in a gold-leaf frame. The mirror was in four sections and each section was made up of beveled squares. Reflected in the great mirror from the opposite wall was an enormous painting of a nude woman, lolling on cushions and reading a book. I turned my back to the bar to view the painting and was immediately poked in the shoulder blades and asked, So you like my portrait, huh, Lieutenant? I whirled around to stare into the deep black eyes of Dirty Helen. The hub-bub around the bar died down; everyone wanted to hear my response to her question.

Its very interesting, I replied. Is it an antique?

Antique? Youre goddamed fucking-a right its an antique. Its a portrait of me when I was hustling the Yukon! Everyone at the bar screamed with glee. See that book Im reading? You know what that is? Without waiting for a response she answered her own question, Its a goddamed Sears and Roebuck catalog! Again her patrons screamed with glee. Hey, Martin, she shouted to the organist, Lets have a little hustling music! And Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life melded into Blue Moon. Okay, good-looking, whats your desire? Once again, before I had a chance to respond, she answered her own question with, A good lay, probably, but you cant get it here anymore! Ive gotten rid of the girls.