Document text
Al.<44 4(ti --‘tWie?n<1 ./0•
Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview
FORM
Circumstances of Interview
STATE Hew York
NAIVE OF WORKER. Frank Byrd
ADDRESS 224 W. 135th. St. NYC
DATE September 22, 193e
SUBJECT HAHLEY1 HOUSE -HEFT PARTIES
1. Date and time of interview
2. Place of interview
FOLKLORE
NEW YORK
The Symphony Club --a meeting place of
musicians, actors, dancers and other
vaudeville performers -131st. St. and 7th. Av(
3. Name and address of informant Related to the reporter by "Slick"
Reynolds, Black Jack dealer at the Sym-
phony Club, located at 131st. St. and
Seventh Ave. (Harlem)
4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in
touch with informant.
5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you
6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.
Reynolds freely admits, like many others, of having
made a regular business of giving- rent parties and main-
taining a "buffet -flat" (pleasure house)
(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each
bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)
FORM C
Text of Interview (Unedited)
STATE hew York
NAIVE OF WORKER Frank Byrd
ADDRESS 224 135th. St. :Y.0
DATE September 22, 1938
SUBJECT HOUSE-HEYT PARTIES
FOLKLORE
NEW YORK
Sure, I used to give rent -parties all the time. And I made
7)retty good at it till repeal came along. Then I hadi to give it up.
Too much risk. A cop on the beat could be paid off, but them A.B.C.
boys (State Beverage Control Board) can't be reached even by the big
shots.
There was plenty of dough in the party racket and it used to
be the mainstay of a lot of the boys who needed to make a little extra
dough. But the only trouble with staging rent -parties as an out -an' -out
hustle was the lousy crowd you had to cater to. You put out your cards,
hire a piano -player, open your door an' just wait for all sorts of
studs and chicks to wander in. If you were lucky, you might get through
the night without any major accidents --but I never seemed to have that
kinda luck. Some punchdrunk spade or dizzy broad was always breaking
up my shindigs. :First they'd get loader, to the gills with Ling. Yong,
start rotting rambuncktuous an' wanting to pick a fight at the drop
of a hat. Some Fuy'd get accidently shoved or just naturally get evil
cause his ol' lady would dance more than once same --tzy. The next
minute, he'd be whooping like e wild Indian, waving his blade and
threatening to cut anybody who came near him. Well, that'd most likely
be the end of my party. Folks would start running in every direction--
out into the hellway, on the fire -escape, anywhere. One Saturday
night 2 even found a chick bracing herself inside the dumb -waiter
shaft, after some 'ose went haywire and shot out the lights.
It all started when his girl got stuck on a big black boy
dressed in longshoreman's dungarees, who came stalking in about
twelve o'clock with a pocket full of money and a mind to spend it
all. He gunned this chick, liked her style and set about making a
play for her. The broad was willing and showed her teeth from then
on. Her feller kept watching out of the corner of his eye, and by
the time he'd been back to the kitchen five or six times for a slug
of my liquid, I knew that it wouldn't be long before he'd explode.
Well, I was right. Pretty soon he walks up to the big boy an' says:
"Listen, ol' son --can't you find anybody else to dance wit'
'ceptin' my 01' lady?"
"Ain't no sign on her says she's yo' o:' lady, is dere?"
"Well, sign or no sign, better not catch you dancing. wid
her no more."
"'pose I do. What den?"
"Zell, T111 either have some of you or you'll have some of
me I"
"ell, don't rive a damn if I do," says the big feller; an'
from then on, it was on. Glasses started flying,, chairs overturned,
women screaming, and God knows what else. I usually ducks into a
closet an' waits for 'em to finish it up before I comes out to look
things over an' see how much damage is done.
Well, that's how most of ay .parties ended. An' then, to
top it off, when the cops would come, they'd stalk through the house
straight beck t- the kitchen and throw down a half cozen or more
slurs of my likl-er and stuff their cost pockets with fried chicken.
I was lucky to make a profit at all. But what the hell,
sometimes I had a good night and my books showed a pretty fair
profit. Guess that's why I stayed in the racket until it finally
petered out.