Confidential File 

At Last, Some Kindly Words for Scarface

To look at prosperous stockbroker Benny Rubin today, you wouldn't suspect that he has a past.

But he does.

He used to be a comic. In fact, if you go back far enough, a burlesque comic.

It
was more years ago than the dapper, polished stock merchant would like
to admit. But, catch him along about sundown, with a cold Martini
within arm's reach, and he's likely to become as sentimental about his
yesterdays as Sophie Tucker gets over hers.

As a matter of fact,
it was a little after sundown when Benny was pointing his finger at me
across a white tablecloth at Villa Capri.

"Now you saw how they handled Al Capone in the movie," he was saying, "and in that 'Untouchables' show on TV."

"No," I told him. "I didn't see."

"Well," he answered, "I hope you don't judge Capone by the way those Hollywood writers portrayed him.

"As I remember him, back in Chicago," he continued hastily, "that man had no trace of an Italian accent whatsoever.

"Understand, I'm not trying to gild a rotten lily, Capone would say 'tousant' for 'thousand,' 'witcha' for 'with you,' and 'ovahder' for 'over there.'

"But," he added indignantly, "it was Jimmy Colosimo and Johnny Torrio who had the Italian accents."

I shook my head. "These Hollywood writers," I said. "The next thing you know they'll -"

"And
another thing," Benny continued, "Capone never yelled at anyone. He'd
chew his cigar to shreds and get red in the face, but he didn't yell.

"Or
do you think he'd really be caught at a ringside table with people
sitting behind his back? He'd sit at a ringside table, but his back
would be against a wall.

"Capone," Rubin went on, "could recite
names of judges, congressmen and senators, with their addresses,
private phone numbers and cash disbursements.

 "He did all his own bookkeeping in his head. He could tell you to the nickel what everyone owed him for alky, bottles, labels, protection."

"Benny," I said, "you must have known Al pretty well."

In cautious thought, Benny rubbed his chin.

"I
met him through a friend in 1919," he started again. "I was the top
banana — the principal comic — in the Follies at the Hay Market
Theater.

"No personal billing, understand. The only billing on the three sides of the marque outside said, 'Max Spiegel Presents the Social Follies.'

"Anyway,
after I'd been playing there a while, my friend picked me up at the
theater and took me out to dinner one night. Capone — or Al Brown, as
he was called then — was in the party.

As You Say, Mr. Capone

"During the course of the dinner, Sammy, my friend, asked me:

"'If you're the star of the show, Benny, how come your name's not in lights and who the hell is Max Spiegel?'

"I explained that Spiegel was the producer and that he didn't consider that my name meant anything at the box office.

"A little after that, Capone left the table to make a phone call.

"And
Paul, so help me," Benny said, leaning into me, "when I got back to the
theater my name — and my name alone — was plastered all over the
three sides of the marquee."

Benny sighed. "A guy who was that keen a judge of talent couldn't have been all bad, could he, Paul?" he asked.