Excerpt:
Wild days fade, but streaking pinup girl remains a bombshell
July 16, 1995
Liz Renay’s rose garden is mature and dotted with red, yellow, and pink blossoms. Red tiles lead to her front door.
In the driveway, a dark red Karman Ghia has seen better days, but still could turn heads in traffic. Its license-plate frame reads, “Lucky Liz of Las Vegas.”
The owner of the house is a big blonde who gushes as she greets you at the door, then ushers you into the dining room. Her lips are redder than any rose in the garden. Her lavendar eye shadow matches her satin blouse and casual ensemble.
She painted the self-portrait that hangs in the living room. It’s a nude, as are bright oil paintings in the house, but on this day Liz Renay has her clothes on.
There was a time when that fact alone would have made headlines. Lord knows she made plenty of news by removing her clothes.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is the face and figure that launched a thousand fantasies for divisions of soldiers, scores of movie actors, and myriad mob lieutenants from New York to Hollywood. Time was, Liz Renay walked the street accompanied by an orchestra of wolf whistles. She was a voluptuous vixen who resembled Marilyn Monroe—only, well, more so. Lucky Liz could stop traffic, clocks, and hearts.
The flesh being fickle and fated, the life of a pinup girl is fleeting. Party favors and pretty faces fade. In a life packed with experiences that line the walls of her home, and thus far have filled five books, including a national bestseller, Liz Renay transcends the stereotypes.
As a fashion model, she posed and preened for the biggest names in New York. As a 52nd Street stripper, she became acquainted with the underworld while in her underwear.
The Palomino Club in North Las Vegas was one of her favorite venues. She became known for her spangles and beads and occasional bullwhips.
“I met a husband at the Palomino Club,” she says, laughing lightly. She had seven husbands all together. Most of her relationships faded faster than the bouquets she received after her nightly bump-and-grind routine.
“It was very naughty, but I had a tremendous act.”
You bet, Ms. Renay.
As an actress with more than 50 movie and television credits, she was known more for her cleavage than her character development. With titles such as Refinements in Love, Date with Death, The Thrill-Killers, and Spies-a-Go-Go, her movies were far more popular at the Friday night drive-in than on Academy Awards night. Those wishing to see her in action might catch her in a leading role in John Waters’ cult feature Desperate Living.
She is quick to mention that she never did pornography. Here’s how popular she once was: In the few X-rated flicks she did appear in, she was allowed to keep her clothes on.
Not that she was shy. She once attracted 5,000 frothing fanatics by streaking at high noon at Hollywood and Vine.
“It was like the Santa Claus Lane parade,” she says, acknowledging that she neglected to don a red suit and black boots.
The nude sprint generated national headlines and didn’t hurt her career.
Neither did the bestseller, My Face for the World to See or her latest literary offering, My First 2,000 Men.
That last title is just a figure of speech, by the way. Besides, ladies don’t keep count. She says, “I was in my heyday in World War II. I was having a ball, going out with every branch of the service.”
She also carried on with screen stars Burt Lancaster and Glenn Ford and mob characters Tony “Cappy” Coppola and Mickey Cohen.
Her relationship with Cohen earned her a stack on gun-moll notoriety and a three-year stretch at Terminal Island for perjury.
Alas in her life, Liz Renay has shown an aptitude for many things, but not for lying.
“There was no way I was going to say anything bad about Mickey,” she says. “Since I wasn’t telling the truth, I ended up telling some lies. I thought Mickey had a great deal of charm.”
That and the fact that she would have been murdered for ratting on the Los Angeles mobster.
At 69 years old, the lady of the house no longer removes her clothes professionally. She busies herself with songwriting, portrait painting, and writing.
In an age in America when sex sells everything, but somehow isn’t very sexy, Liz Renay remains a bombshell.
Description:
On the Boulevard brings together the best writing of Las Vegas' most popular columnist, the Las Vegas Review-Journal's John L. Smith. Smith provides singular insights into the fast, fluid, and often funny town he's chronicled for nearly 20 years. Subjects include: Las Vegas mayor and Mob mouthpiece Oscar Goodman, legendary slot cheat Bill Land, and seldom-chronicled gambling icons such as Mel Exber (Las Vegas Club), Si Redd (IGT), and Big Julie Weintraub ('60s junket operator).
Snippets from the Boulevard
Perils of Parenting
Winnie the Pooh crept into my daughter’s life subtly. But recently, the Pooh problem grew acute when my wife brought home a potty trainer. My daughter’s trouble is semantic, I suspect. After all, when we say “poo,” she hears “Pooh.” “No honey,” I said. “Not Pooh. Poo. Put poo in the potty.” Amelia shrugged and ambled off across the room. She returned a minute later with her stuffed Winnie under one arm, grinned at me, and jammed the willy-nilly silly old bear headfirst into the toilet. That’s my girl.
Dog Day
When a dog from hell began barking from inside the radiator of my gasping Mazda, I guessed something was amiss. After only 133,457 miles, the pock-marked pickup became demon possessed. I took the barking as an omen and gunned into the parking lot of an AM/PM market. Water, I thought. The little fella needs water. Or oil. Or, more likely, last rites. So I tried water, oil, chanting. Nothing worked. The hound howled from under the hood and the truck cab filled with white smoke. Finally, the engine belched like a frat house after a beer bust, then caught one last time. I slammed into first and traveled a quarter-mile before the pickup expired like a baritone bowser.
Tortoise Tribulation
Beyond angering some and profiting others, the plight of the lovable desert tortoise has also helped reveal a few of the absurd ironies at work in our society. To wit, the Department of Energy is placing “Caution Tortoises” signs in choice locations at the Nevada Test Site. The signs warn truck-driving workers to be careful when steering in tortoise territory. Unless I missed something, the Test Site also has a long history of exploding atomic bombs and conducting research that would curl a tortoise’s hair, if he had any. It seems a little late to go around hammering tortoise-crossing signs into the desert. If the Test Site desert tortoise can survive four decades of atomic blasts, radiation, leaks, and government bureaucrats, chances are good it can endure a Ford pickup.
Street Life
Herb Blitzstein liked to talk about leaving Las Vegas, about building a bankroll and escaping the heat on the street. He would move somewhere his face and reputation weren’t so notorious, somewhere the mention of his name didn’t make the cops’ mouth foam. But Blitzstein know he would never leave Las Vegas, just as he know he would never really quit the street life. The town was in his blood, and the memories of his heyday as the right-hand man of Chicago mob tough Anthony Spilotro were in his head. More than a decade after Spilotro’s grisly demise, Blitzstein died violently, shot in the head. The town that was in his blood finally had seen it spilled.
Reviews/Media Mentions:
Blackjack Confidential, KNPR, Gaming Today, Las Vegas CityLife, L.A. Times, L.A. Daily News
“You don’t have to be from Las Vegas to love John Smith’s writing. These are essays for all seasons. I love every one of the them.”
—Al Martinez, L.A. Times columnist and author of The Last City Room
“A fascinating look behind the hype, neon, and glitz of Vegas …”
—Dennis McCarthy, L.A. Daily News columnist
“… a writer at work.”
—James J. Kilpatrick, “Writer’s Art”
Huntington Press
