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July of 1982 arrived and with it a piece of luck. I got the lines for July and August I had bid for. Managing to place two Madrid trips, back-to-back, at the end of July and the beginning of August; giving me a total of seven days in Madrid!
The God of layovers was with me, dear reader.
On 27th July, 1982, I arrived in Madrid to begin my “marathon” layovers. I had operated the flight with a Lebanese Captain by the name of Gabriel Alcazar. Who could pass as actor Akim Tamiroff’s twin! Including the identical, gravelly voice! He had previously flown for MEA out of Beirut, was a good stick, and amusing to fly with.
Actor Akim Tamiroff in “For Whom the Bells Toll.”
For example: “Cap’n Gaby” would roll those large brown eyes my way, and ask, “Are you happy?”
I’d lean back in my chair, glance vacantly about the cockpit, giving his question consideration, then answer, “Y-Yeah...I’ve got my health...a g-good job...I’m quite happy.”
“No, no, no!” Gaby would snap. “Are you happy with your side of the airplane?”
Cap’n Gaby had a penchant for dividing the cockpit in half, dear reader. He just wanted to know if my half was alright. What a character.
Upon arrival in Madrid, I learned that once a week the Eurobuilding Hotel threw a gratis cocktail party exclusively for airline crews. It so happened there was one that night; prompting me to go down to the basement and check it out.
Air Crews getting hammered in the Eurobuilding’s basement.
I found crews from SAA, Finnair and SAS – plus solitary me from SAUDIA. I was looking to hook up with another air stewardess - alas, the “magic” wasn’t there. Working on my second beer, I felt this party was a bust – thinking I should bug-out - when somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Spinning round – I came face-to-face with a male Caucasian of medium height, mid-thirties, having dark hair, wearing jeans, yellow silk sneakers, a black pullover and a pink-satin bomber jacket.
Honestly, dear reader, my first thought was: “Who is this gay gentleman?”
He held an unlit cigarette, and asked in a Bronx accent, “Hey, buddy, youse got a light?”
I shrugged and said, in a stuttering California accent, “S-Sorry, pal, you’re bum-fuck outta luck. I d-don’t smoke.”
He cracked a crooked smile, put away the fag, and stuck out his hand, saying, “Don’t sweat it, buddy. I’m Dave O’Malley.”
“Pete C-Chisholm...” I replied, as I shook his hand. Dave had a firm, genuine grip.
And thus, dear reader, I set out on another strange odyssey in Madrid.
Upon comparing notes, I learned that O’Malley wasn’t an airline crew member – he was a gatecrasher. Full of the old “Irish blarney,” he had smoothly weaseled his way into this airline-staff cocktail party. Actually, O’Malley was a New York cop on an extradition assignment here at Madrid. If it hadn’t been for a SNAFU in the paperwork, O’Malley would have already caught a flight back to the “Big Apple” with a prisoner in tow. Having another night to kill in Madrid, O’Malley suggested we “blow this pop-stand,” and catch a nightclub act he had stumbled on the night before.
I couldn’t help myself, dear reader. This smooth, gregarious, fast talking New Yorker had me in the palm of his hand. Having formerly worked and lived with cops for six years, I understood what made this guy tick – and instantly liked him.
O’Malley didn’t let me down; he guided me to The Windsor Tower (La Torre Windsor) a 32-floor office building in the financial center of Madrid, located at Calle Raimundo Fernández Villaverde 65.
It possessed Madrid’s premier nightclub, which we merely called “The Windsor,” with an awesome sound system playing the latest hits. Everything in this spacious club was either black or tiled with small, rectangular mirrors - plus a gigantic mirrored ball rotating above center stage - reflecting all manner of dazzling stage lights. The strobe and laser show, dancing off all these thousands of mirrors, were what I’d always imagined an LSD trip to be – without wanting to throw myself off a rooftop.
The club also featured an American production entitled New York, New York, and as the light-show and music died - a canned Sinatra began singing the song of the same name as an introduction – allowing dancing customers to get to their tables. As Frank wound up the intro - the houselights died – now the room was pitch black.
Once again the musical strains of “New York, New York” cranked up - along with the stage lights - as stunning showgirls took the stage along with handsome boys. All these kids were trained, experienced dancers that had paid their dues on the stages of Las Vegas. And that’s exactly what this show featured; a rhinestones and feathers Vegas revue.
Hence the Bill Lloyd Dance Troupe entered my life – containing mostly American dancers with a sprinkling of Brits – presenting choreography straight from fabulous Las Vegas.
In between dance numbers there was the cutest, pixie-like Spanish couple that performed amazing, floating, magical illusions. Along with “Eddie” - a quick-change artist - who started out as King Kong carrying Fay Wray up the side of the Empire State Building. Then, in a flash, became Marilyn Monroe doing “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” Followed by Édith Piaf singing her heart out with "Non, je ne regrette rien.” Both of these specialty acts were in fact “astounding” – an inadequate word that doesn’t really do them justice.
Eddie with the “Magic Couple” backstage.
One of Bill Lloyd’s acts also really knocked my socks off, and, as the dancers took the stage, O’Malley whispered in my ear, “This is what they call the ‘Leather Number’!”
The boys were wearing black leather thongs, chaps and caps, with sparkling collars and chains, as did the girls but without the chaps or caps.
In short, the entire show was the “hot ticket” in Madrid and the Madrileňos ate it up; giving the dancers in particular a standing ovation when it finished at two A.M.
Being way past my bedtime, I was ready to call it a night, and thanked O’Malley for a delightful evening.
“Oh no, buddy,” O’Malley protested, “you can’t bailout! The night is young and the best part is yet in front of us. Follow me.”
Reluctantly, I trailed O’Malley to the rear of the club, where we plopped down on a couch in a private lounge area next to the sound booth. We ordered drinks and waited. And waited.
At length - while getting restless, wondering what the hell we were doing here - out of the darkness four beautiful women, in heavy theatrical makeup, drifted our way. As each one approached O’Malley, giving him a hug and kiss on the cheek, he in turn introduced them to me: Annie was from the States, Ursula was Irish, while Caroline and Zoe were British.
Annie, Me and Ursula on New Year’s Eve at the Windsor.
Caroline and Zoe backstage.
Impresario Bill Lloyd with sisters Melanie and Gail having drinks after the show.
Finally the other shoe dropped, dear reader. These were the dancers from the show. This lounge was where they usually gathered for a drink after work, and planned the rest of the evening’s activities.
We wound up at Teatro Joy Eslava (Joy Eslava Theater), at Calle Arenal 11, an old opera house originally built in 1871, which, 110 years later, had been transformed in 1981 to the hottest disco at Madrid. The interior was magnificent, with three levels of intricate, old world opera-design, and boasted a dance floor space of 6,560 square feet. Plus, when they exhibited a dance show, the stage would raise off the floor to present it. At the end of the number, the stage would then descend to floor level allowing the performers to mingle and boogie with the dancing patrons. Joy Eslava also put on amazing fashion shows and generally appealed to a glamorous, varied and cosmopolitan clientele, ranging from models, actors, singers and sports stars, to Spanish and international royalty, plus tourists who desired to experience the Madrid night life.
The line waiting to get in stretched around the block and wasn’t moving. Despite this the four dancers from the Windsor, that O’Malley and I were escorting, took us directly to the front of the line, where the bouncers recognized the dancers and ushered us in.
More dancers from the Windsor joined us and we all boogied until dawn.
Over the next few months, as dancers are always famished, I’d throw catered parties at my Eurobuilding suite for these kids after their shows. The Spanish magician, and his cute wife, usually entertained us with up close and personal mind-blowing illusions – our parties lasting until dawn.
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