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attitude toward his profession. He not only believed the show must go on; he believed every show and every audience deserved his very best. And that’s what he gave those few people on that stormy night: his very best. According to Lee and others, Don Fedderson listened carefully—and he returned to the Beach Bar every night for the rest of his vacation, striking up a friendship with Lee in the process. Television was just a baby in those days, but it was a voracious baby that demanded a steady diet of new talent. Thanks to Don Fedderson, Lee starred in a local television show and that led to his engagement as a summer replacement for “The Dinah Shore Show.”
    That fifteen-minute, two-month show proved to be so popular that NBC offered Lee a thirty-minute variety show. It premiered in 1953 and lasted three seasons. Those were the days of Uncle Miltie, “I Love Lucy,” Jackie Gleason’s “Honeymooners,” and “The Ed Sullivan Show.” By the end of the 1953 season, Lee was part of that exalted company, and he loved it. He proudly recalled being dubbed “television’s first matinee idol.”
    From then on, Lee had it made; no more greasy spoons, run-down hotels, and second-rate clubs for him. He moved to California and built his first home in Sherman Oaks, a town that later made him its honorary mayor. With his developing genius for public relations, Lee had a piano-shaped pool installed in the backyard, a novelty that was soon featured in many national magazines. Overnight, Liberace had become a household name and everything he did was newsworthy. The more extravagant his lifestyle, the more media attention he received. Lee got the message. Offstage, the opulent way he lived would become as much a part of his persona, his legend, as anything he did onstage.
    Lee loved being in the limelight and was thrilled by his new celebrity status. California was paradise—until his mother moved in with him. Liberace was an old-fashioned man and he felt an old-fashioned obligation to care for his aging mother. But Frances, who sometimes treated him like a ten-year-old, really cramped his style. She wanted to meet all his friends, to revel in her son’s acclaim. But Lee’s closest friends were gay, not exactly the kind of men you bring home to mother when you’re pretending to be a heterosexual male.
    Lee told me that she wanted him to act like the superstar he’d become, to give large parties attended by Hollywood’s elite. Frances didn’t understand her son or the world in which he now lived. She knew nothing of things like “A lists” or “power lunching.” In comparison to Hollywood’s true elite—the studio heads, directors, and major stars—Lee was still a very small fish in a big pond. Frances cajoled, pressured, and manipulated Lee just as she had when he was in his teens, trying to get him to do what she thought he should.
    Lee needed an escape—and he found one in a rented apartment in North Hollywood. It became his hideaway—another item on his growing list of secrets.
    Movie stars seldom experience the kind of overnight fame that envelops a television personality. Lee always referred to the fifties as the “white heat” period of his life. He’d spent years dreaming of, striving for that kind of recognition. Now he finally had it. But Lee would soon learn that sometimes you have to be careful of what you wish for. By the time his first show was canceled, Liberace was a household name. He couldn’t go out in public without having someone come up and ask him for his autograph. People recognized his trademark toothy grin and wavy locks wherever he went.
    It wasn’t long before Lee realized that anonymity had its virtues. He told me that, before his television show, no one had questioned his sexual preference. It had never been an issue as long as he didn’t flaunt his lifestyle. He’d been able to quietly patronize known homosexual bars and clubs without attracting undue attention. In the gay