Hail to the Ex-chief
For 20 minutes John Ehrlichman, who once had a flotilla of White House limousines at his beckon, stood despairing in front of the U.S. District Court on Washington’s Constitution Avenue trying to flag a cab. A large, black, official limousine finally hove into sight. Ehrlichman craned his neck to see who was inside (friend or foe?) and caught a glimmer of old acquaintance Senate Majority Leader Mike Mansfield, who gave him a merry wave—and whooshed on.
Erin Go Bragh!
Amid a cloud of pipe smoke in the corridors of Britain’s House of Commons, Prime Minister Harold Wilson was overheard talking to his new Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, Merlyn Rees. “The trouble with the Irish, my dear fellow,” the P.M. muttered, “is they’ll do anything with a hatchet except bury it.”
In her latest apologia pro vita sua, Rita Hayworth, 55, concludes, “I haven’t had everything from life. I’ve had too much.” Especially too much husbands. Of the second of the five, Orson Welles, she observes, “He was tormented, possessive, insecure…a genius, crazy like a horse, and a marvelous man, completely unaware of reality.” Aly Khan, No. 3, was an Oriental, a mystic. “He was upset by the fact that my character was becoming more definite. Perhaps for him I should have been and remained something like one of his horses.” Thus, Rita sums up, “Basically, I am a good, gentle person but I am attracted to mean personalities.”
While he languished in a Swiss jail for 11 months for mutual-fund manipulations, Bernie Cornfeld received supportive correspondence from Playboy publisher Hugh Hefner. But now that Cornfeld has been sprung, his only thanks to his loyal pen pal have been potshots at Hef’s luck with the ladies. “He’s got only two girlfriends,” sneers Cornfeld. “In the past 10 years, I’ve always had four, five, six to eight gals. Maybe my relationships weren’t as intensive, but I avoided a lot of headaches.”
The Last Tycoon
In 1969, when he left the filial film empire he had begun in 1912 with his three brothers, Jack Warner was still robust enough to enjoy a rousing set of tennis, jet between home bases in Beverly Hills, New York, Palm Springs and Cap d’Antibes, and maintain his reputation as one of the highest rollers in Riviera casinos. Now 81, the sole surviving Warner brother and last of the great Hollywood tycoons remains confined to bed in the La Jolla, Calif. hospital he entered several months ago. “It’s the end of Jack,” a friend reports sadly. “He’s all gone.”
Count on ex-Senator Eugene McCarthy for a Jesuitical jest. Obviously put off by the Nixon daughters’ syrupy defense of their father, McCarthy grouchily suggested to a friend a new law requiring all public officeholders above congressman to take a vow of celibacy. For instance, argued McCarthy (a separated father of four himself): “If the Pope were married, his daughter would be calling press conferences to affirm he is indeed infallible.”
On the run—for a fifth term—Massachusetts congressperson Margaret Heckler attended a fund-raising pour for herself at the Boston Harvard Club, then buzzed off for a late dinner with husband and friends in celebration of her 43rd birthday. When three armed, masked men slammed into the Charlestown restaurant near midnight, Margaret thought, “It was like part of an act. But when they said, ‘Freeze,’ we all knew it was no joke.” Table by table, the trio cleaned the diners out of $3,500. But they got not a sou from Heckler, who sighed, “It’s a good thing I never touch any of my campaign money.”