True stories as told by Jeanne Wood Kern (or Brushes with Powerful People)

Former BCHS Faculty member Maurice Fitzgerald’s family was visited by the Barrow Gang (Bonnie & Clyde)

Bonnie and Clyde were known for simply stopping at random houses as they rampaged across the country, and demanding the owners provide food and lodging. Sometimes, the people were enamored with the legend of the notorious pair, and they entertained willingly. Other times, they did so at gunpoint and threats.

One such selected “hospitality” house was the Fitzgerald’s. Maurice was a small child at the time, and he was hustled up to bed with strong inducements to Stay Put. Which he did. He related he knew something was wrong, but he hadn’t a clue who the “guests” were, and so he obeyed his parents and Stayed Put.

The Barrow gang moved on in the early morning, without incident. Not much of a story, but true. I have no clue how old he was when he realized just why he was staying put. 

The Don of New Orleans 

©1961

When I was hired by people I’d worked with before in Colorado theatre to go to New Orleans to open a new melodrama theatre, I was surprised to discover we were re-designing a long-standing building known as the Southport Casino. And yes, it had been a casino, still owned by Carlos Marcello, the Godfather of New Orleans Cosa Nostra. Marcello was often pointed to as the man who ordered the hit on JFK. He’d been deported many times—once purportedly parachuted out of an airplane over Guatemala, from which he returned to New Orleans in 3 days. He always returned.

One of the theatre owners was going to live on the top floor of that building, and he reported that the first night they turned on the lights, the parking lot filled with Lincolns and Cadillacs in minutes. Many NOLA Italians were checking to see what was going on in the casino.

The first time we went to lunch during rehearsals, we walked to the bar and grill just beyond the parking lot.  We went in—and a hush fell. People froze in their activities.  Then the bartender said, “It’s OK. They’re with the theatre.” And gambling activity resumed while we ordered our food.  Note: We took it to go.

The Casino itself was grand. Almost every feature was a cover-up for some sort of gambling device. One dice table rose on pullies to form a false ceiling. The roulette wheel rotated in its table, becoming the bottom. Walls with gaming statistics had pull-out false wall coverups. To reach the second floor, one had to locate a secret rope that lowered a near-invisible staircase.  Intriguing.

But most intriguing was the owner, a rather short, grey-headed, grandfatherly type who visited during rehearsals three or more times, flanked by big and very silent bodyguards. He dropped by “to see how da’ kids was doin’.” And to make sure his rental property was being cared for, and still keeping the secrets of its former uses. We all met him, though most of us were too naïve to know just who he was. Except for the having people killed part, he was very sweet.

Rumors had it there was a tunnel under the street in front of the building leading to an church across the street where players fled during raids and joined in the choir.

It was a far cry from my next job in Bridge City, Texas, where all we had was the Klan.

P.S.  Jim Wood also worked there as an actor. That is where we met.