Special Guest of the Bradley Breen Fan Club

For fifty dollars and perhaps a glass of red or whatever was on hand in your liquor cabinet or in your purse or in your medicine cabinet or in the lap of your pantsuit, Laddy would be more than happy to be the guest of honor at any chapter of the Bradley Breen Fan Club, official or unofficial.

Gas, tolls or even plane fare would need to be included in the deal, depending on the location, but you'll get more than your money's worth. References are available from satisfied club members as far away as Philadelphia and Lancaster County. Laddy didn't even need to advertise. His requests for appearances came strictly from word of mouth, in perfume-scented letters filled with schoolgirlish handwriting that appeared in his Atlantic City post office box.

True, he had never even held his son as a baby. Never once had a word been exchanged between them. But this fan club appearance offer was a legitimate curiousity, and these teenaged girls were so hungry for any bit of information, or even a sparking, live-wire loose connection, that everybody walked away happy. Some of the mothers, remembering Laddy himself from his own glory days, wobbled away happy, their knees weak and their privates wet. It was a win-win for everybody.

He had done four appearances so far, even after the cease-and-desist order had arrived by certified mail in the shabby Atlantic City apartment he shared with his own father, the Irish tenor and self-proclaimed "Boardwalk Baron," Seamus Breen.

Seamus, who now appeared regularly in the Monsoon Room of the Apricot Motel on Pacific Avenue, knew nothing of the pending legal action. If he knew, though, it wouldn't surprise him. Seamus did not think highly of his son, even when --especially when -- Laddy was at the top of his game, in 1959 and 1960. That's when Laddy was hitting them out the park, one Top Ten single after another.

Strangely, Seamus was never able to score a hit record ever, although he recorded plenty. He was also never ever able to make a real go of it on television (some say it was his accent). However, his nightclub act was top notch (he appeared with the likes of Jerry Lewis and Frank Sinatra at the 500 Club and became a staple attraction at Steel Pier during the war years). He never showed his bitterness onstage, but Laddy could attest that he was bitter plenty, even though he would remind people that he didn't do badly for a pipsqueak sailor right off the boat from Dublin and working his way up from a singing waiter.

It was only recently when Seamus learned of Laddy's hitching his star to his illegitimate son's wagon, a boy whose very conception in 1960 ruined Laddy's career. In a quiet but ugly moment of sheer and drunken disgust, in the tiny, airless apartment they shared, Seamus had asked Laddy where Laddy's pride was. Seamus lifted up the toilet seat to look for it in there. Laddy replied calmly that his pride was still there, but it was drowned in ale and pot and pills.

No matter. This would be Laddy's new career, since nobody else would think to hire him. He would be The Man Who Spawned Bradley Breen, and make guest appearances for a modest fee. Seamus didn't argue, since it helped pay the rent.

Laddy may not have inherited that talent from his velvet-voiced father, but he did inherit the Irish gift of gab and a penchant for the tall tale. A vist from Laddy would guarantee an afternoon of wonderful insights and personal interaction with the man who spawned Bradley Breen himself, only twelve years prior and before the disappointed eyes of a shame-filled world. And if you're lucky, Laddy would even sing one of his own old hits for you and only you, just like in the old days of poodle skirts, greased-back hair and the young, good Elvis.