Along with two hundred other guests, I was waiting for Deb to come to L’Orange, one of the most exclusive and expensive restaurants in L.A., so we could make our wedding vows and then party all night. I started getting nervous when she was half an hour late. “Where the fuck is she?” I mumbled to Neil Bogart. “Maybe she’s not gonna come.” This conversation was taking place in the bathroom. “Here, this will help you out,” Neil said, and passed me a vial of coke. That conversation was repeated with Larry Harris, another Casablanca executive, and a few of my other friends. Each time I got the consolation prize of a vial. And each time I had to chase that electric feeling with a nice scotch. After two hours, Deb finally showed up. By then I was pie-eyed, but so was she. Her pupils were totally dilated and she was half in the bag. “Where were you?” “I was with Eileen back at the bungalow,” she said. I had rented a nice bungalow for us at the Beverly Hills Hotel. “We opened a bottle of champagne and we foundI was so in love with Debor2">I wasn’t going to let a little tardiness spoil my big day.
