Life With The Jax Pack

One recent evening as Hanson was entertaining a normal Thursday group—Steve and Neile McQueen, John Derek and Linda Evans, Rako the Parisian model and a visiting New Yorker who felt the scene lacked a touch of air pollution—he flicked on the lights and surveyed the magnificence of his backyard.

"Can't you just imagine the parties that used to go on here?" he asked.

You sure could. You could also imagine the parties that might go on there now, or should. Put in a few dozen Barbara Parkinses, maybe, pipe out the old stereo, and hello from Hollywood, guys.

Steve McQueen said, "It's groovy, Jack, but where do you go to relax?"

McQueen is one of Hollywood's notable hermits. He did turn out for Twiggy later on, and he was out this night, but normally he appears only to race his motorcycle on Sundays. He explained that every man had to make his own scene. He hides in his home in Brentwood, and it used to be easier than it is now.

"Yeah, man," he said. "Jim Garner moved in next door and brought the heat."

Jack Hanson entertains as much by day as he does by night. A whole society of tennis worshipers are accustomed to dropping by, racket in hand, thirst in mouth, hunger in stomach. Hanson, a good player himself, quickly organizes things. Instant tournaments. One is likely to discover all sorts of pairs on the court from the Panchos, Gonzalez and Segura, to the Newmans, Paul and Joanne, who used to be next-door neighbors.

Court feuds will develop, and challenge matches will stretch out over a period of days, even weeks, the stakes increasing from $10 a corner to $100. When they end, others start. Spectators will change from a cluster of Samantha Eggars to another of Sonnys and Chers. And it all continues, with Sally hauling out an unending supply of baked hams, meat loaves and beverages.

When the daily tennis games are over and everyone has sped away in his or her Rolls, Bentley, Excalibur, Mercedes or Ferrari, the Hansons take a nap and then head for The Daisy. Got to be at The Daisy. That's where it all happens. After 191 years, 10 wars, a couple of depressions and the birth of the blues, the whole U.S. has wound up trying to get into The Daisy.

In 1963 Jack Hanson bought the property on Rodeo Drive where the original Romanoff's had stood and built his discotheque. He did so without the intention of making money, really, but only because he wanted a place to go at night. All of the good Hollywood spots had either folded or "slipped," places like Ciro's, Mocambo, the Crescendo. "There wasn't a meeting place anymore," he says. "A place where the alive people who can contribute something could get together."