Confidential File

A Case of Zsa Zsa Vs. Zsa Zsa Impends

Zsa Zsa Gabor, the lovely and somewhat blond Hungarian, is news copy again.

In fact, the days are rare when she isn't.

If you go by what you read in the papers, it would seem that Miss Gabor is a more tense international crisis than the Geneva conference.

This time the lady has stolen Page 1 by the simple feminine device of protecting her good name.

She has just filed suit for 200 grand against a Hollywood Blvd. dress shop because it calls itself "Zsa Zsa."

I don't want to bore you with a lot of legal terminology, but here, in part, is the complaint prepared by her attorneys:

"…
The plaintiff herein has been and is now an internationally famous
actress, having performed upon the stage, in night clubs, on television
and in motion pictures.

"…That said name (Zsa Zsa) is to some extent fanciful and to the best of plaintiff's knowledge and belief, unique.

 "…That at all times mentioned herein and through constant use and repetition for many years in the past, plaintiff's name. Zsa Zsa,
and personality have been associated with the glamour of the area in
the city of Los Angeles known throughout the world as Hollywood…

"…That as a result of said activities and said long association the name 'Zsa Zsa'
as the name of the plaintiff has taken on secondary meaning in the
minds of the general public and at all times mentioned herein has
connoted and now connotes to the general public expensive, beautiful
anddesirable female attire…"

And, as Conrad Hilton might well add, you can say that again!

From a legal point of view, this pending action of Zsa Zsa vs. Zsa Zsa has some fascinating possibilities.

If the court finds for the Zsa Zsa of the first part, it will set an interesting precedent.
Henceforth, all of us who, in varying degrees, are in the public eye
will be able to protect our first names from any claim jumpers.

It opens up whole new vistas for celebrities. Tommy Sands, Dick Powell and Harry Belafonte will be able to put every lesser-known Tom, Dick and Harry out of business.

Victor
Mature can slap an injunction on a fairly up-and-coming record company.
Cesar Romero can get an order to pull every bottle of ChefMilani's
Caesar dressing off supermarket shelves. Oscar Levant, if some
perverted fancy strikes him, can rub out the entire Academy Awards
ceremony with a mere subpoena. And Tennessee Ernie can louse up a whole state.

Even
I can get into this act. Page 1059 of the Central Phone Directory lists
quite a covey business establishments that are brazenly capitalizing on
my name.

Among others, there's Paul's Barber Shop, Paul's Delicatessen, Paul's Bootery, Paul's Coiffeurs,
Paul's Rubbish Disposal, Paul's Suds 'n' Trim Shoppe and Paul's Eggs
(which is not just an infringement, but a pretty dirty crack.)

But in the Gabor case I must, as a responsible citizen, offer my services as a defense witness. I am willing to testify that my knowledge Zsa Zsa is not a "fanciful and unique" name. I know at least three French poodles named Zsa Zsa.

As evidence, however, that I am not prejudiced in this case, I'll tip Miss Gabor
to the defense strategy. The dress shop owner is going to claim in
court that he didn't name is shop after her. He's a devotee, he tells
me, of good music, and he named his establishment after the opera, "Zsa Zsa," written by Ruggiero Leoncavallo in 1900.

Of course, Miss Gabor may claim that Leoncavallo named the opera in her honor.

But, I don't think she will.

Confidential File 

Keeny Bares Facts on Fight With Kid H.

Keeny Teran's back home.

The former boy wonder of boxing who went sour on narcotics is, at the age of 28, going to give life another try.

This week, he finished a three-year stretch at Soledad State Prison. The crime that sent him there — peddling heroin — was just one of the hundreds of stories that kept Keeny in the headlines here for a decade.

In
his glorious, notorious life, boxing's most publicized bad boy was
jailed for burglary and dope, crowned as California's and NorthAmerican's bantam weight champion, and credited, in 1952, for the most courageous comeback in the history of the ring.

Yesterday, Keeny Teran sat down with me only hours after he walked through the prison gates, to discuss the next chapter in his life.

And he admitted that it might be a pretty dull one, so far as newspaper headlines are concerned.

"I'm going to try to do things right," he told me. "When I was at Soledad, I didn't serve time. I made it serve me. I read everything I could get my hands on."

"What kind of books?" I asked.

"Well, like one on the life of Teddy Roosevelt. I really picked up on him."

In prison Keeny
became editor of the paper. He also went to school for three and a half
hours a days until he made up enough credits to get his high school
diploma.

"On the outside I was always too busy with boxing," he explained, adding softly, "and other things."

"Other
things" included a taste for marijuana at the age of 11 and a side
career as an addict which started with his first fix of heroin the day
before his 15th birthday.

With no trace of false pride or tough guy in his voice, Keeny talked about those days.

"Nobody
forced me. Nobody offered it to me. I just took it," he said. "Dope is
its own agent. I just thought it won't happen to me. I'mKeeny."

Just about all through my boxing career I was hooked," he added. "That's something most people don't realize."

In June of 1952, after 17 straight wins, the kid lost to Tommy Umeda.
"Before that, I was just using mildly," he said. "But when I lost that
fight, it broke my heart. I figured I was indestructible. I couldn't
lose.

"After that is when I stated using heavy."

By the end of that year Keeny was back on top of the world. He'd reversed the Umeda decision and for five weeks "beaten" the habit long enough to have everybody in Hollywood begging to do his life story.

"I
had everything to live for," he said. But his habit was bigger than he
was. He fought some more, won some good fights, lost a few — and all
the time he was fooling the State Athletic Commission doctors.

"Say
we'd weigh in at 12 o'clock. I'd take my fix at 1 o'clock. then I'd
wait until after 8 o'clock examination at the arena to fix again. I'd
spread them around all over my body. No tracks that way."

I asked Keeny if some more boxing might be in his future.

"Right now," he said, "I just don't know. I feel fine. I worked out all the time up there. I've never been in better shape.

"But who knows what the boxing commission is thinking of me now?"

Today's Today and That's for Me

"What I'd like to do," Keeny
added, "is get a job in an office. I'd like to be  sports writer, but I
know I'm not ready. I learned a lot up there, but I still sweat blood
getting one little column done.

"Another thing," the grown-up
kid went on, "I'm no crusader. I'm not going to go around telling what
a bad guy I was and how wrong I was. Right now I'm going to take each
day one by one, and make it my job to take care ofKeeny."

I hope he does a helluva good job.

Confidential File

'Justice' in Tijuana Is Extremely Tricky

It's traditional for imaginative American youngsters to be infected with wanderlust.

This is the story of an American youngster whose wanderlust led him to the grim obscurity of a Mexican federal prison.

His name: Robert Petersen.

At
17, he wasn't a particularly cocky little kid. But he did have his own
brand of bravado — exactly the kind of bravado that you'd suspect a
17-year-old who didn't yet scale 100 pounds and lacked an inch of being
5 ft. tall to affect.

Bobby like sharp clothes, flashy cars, and
race horses weighing  nearly a ton. He liked walking "hots" – cooling
off thoroughbreds after they'd worded out — because someday he was
going to be a jockey.

That was the motivation to leave school,
to leave home. His folks were nice people. He'd keep in touch. But you
can't learn how to ride a horse in your living room.

He worked the fairs, picking up $10 or $20 a day and some feedbag tips worth five and 10 times his salary.

It was one of those tips, in his short career at the tracks, that led him to the races at Tijuana's Caliente track.

It was a good tip and his $5 mutuel
ticket netted him enough to pay the rent on a shiny, new U-drive car.
At least, for a few days. But Bobby wasn't old enough to sign for it
himself. So he found a taxi driver in Tijuana — a friend of a friend
— who would.

He reportedly paid him $25 in advance. Then, he headed for San Diego to pick up a girlfriend for a drive-in movie date.

Bobby
told the taxi driver that he'd probably be gone a day. But he made the
mistake of being gone two days before he headed back for Tijuana.

And then he made his second mistake. Instead of driving straight for the house of taxi-driver, he stopped off at Caliente to put down two bucks on a horse he'd heard was ready to run.

The
horse was good but Bobby's luck wasn't when he walked out into the
parking lot after the sixth race. The nervous taxi driver had spotted
his car while dropping off a customer, and had then called the Tijuana
police to tell them that the car had been stolen from him. The police,
and a jail cell, were waiting for Bobby when he arrived in the lot.

The
kid got a trial, just like everybody else in Tijuana — except his, in
certain respects, was better. The U-drive representative testified that
the bill was paid in full. And thecabbie added that the whole thing was just a mistake.

But the judge didn't see it their way. Bobby was guilty of stealing the car.

And
suitable punishment for the crime would be four years hard time, in the
dusty, sun-soaked federal pen on the eastern outskirts of Tijuana.

For
more than a year, that's been the home of this teen-age kid. He's got a
knife gash on his back and some sores and bruises to prove it.

He's
been sleeping on the ground until it's comfortable and eating mush
until it almost tastes good.  I've been told that he doesn't complain
any more. It's healthier not to. Even if your family sends you shoes
and shirts and socks and somebody else wears them, it's better not to
say anything.

Besides, he's going to get out soon. His parents have fought his case to the Baja California court of appeals, and now it's been decided that for $640 he can buy his conditional release.

'We'll Get the Money'

I telephoned his folks yesterday, at their home in Northern California.

They've
got other kids — other mouths to feed — they admitted, but maybe by
selling a few things and contacting all their friends, they'll be able
to raise it.

"We'll get the money somehow," his mother told me. "We've got to."

And from what I've heard about teenage American prisoners in Mexican prisons, they better raise that money. Real fast.