Tuesday, Feb. 27, 2001 | 8:28 a.m.
Susan Snyder's column appears Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays. Reach her at [email protected] or 259-4082.
The museum that bears Liberace's name is on East Tropicana Boulevard.
But the real Liberace museum may very well be in Gladys Luckie's house and heart. For no one knew Mr. Showmanship the way Luckie knew him.
For 40 years she cooked his meals, traveled with him, lived with him and listened to his ideas and concerns.
"He always called me his second mother," Luckie said. "I have fond memories. That's what's keeping me around."
Must have a lot of them. Luckie turned 90 in January. You wouldn't know it unless she told you. And you don't believe her when she does.
She no longer drives the limited-edition, two-seat Cadillac that Liberace bought her, but it's still parked in her driveway. The car was part of the deal Mr. Showmanship used to lure a hesitant Luckie to Las Vegas in the 1970s.
She already had been working for him in Southern California for more than 20 years. But he wanted her here, where he lived while working at the Las Vegas Hilton.
He doubled her salary, bought the car and bought her the house she still lives in. It was completely furnished, from the china in the cabinet to the sterling silver coffee urn and serving pieces, the pictures on the wall and the dish towels in the kitchen.
The car was strictly for personal use. Luckie says she drove Liberace's cars for household business.
"I think I've driven them all," Luckie said of the pianist's rhinestoned, chromed, customized cars. "He always said, 'Drive whatever you want.' "
Mostly, she says, she drove the station wagon Hilton officials gave Liberace as a gift. It had piano keys painted along the sides.
"That's what I did my grocery shopping in," Luckie recalls.
Menus weren't a challenge, but the hours took some getting used to.
"He'd never eat before shows," she said. "So I'd be up to greet him at 2 or 3 o'clock in the morning when he got home, and he'd eat. We'd sit up until 7 o'clock in the morning, talking. I was his sounding board."
Luckie says Liberace liked whatever she put in front of him. But her fried chicken was one of his favorites.
"And he always said I was the only one who made Cream of Wheat the way he liked it -- with sugar and lots of butter," she said.
It was the last thing she fed him before he died of AIDS in February 1987, at his Palm Springs home. Luckie was still in Las Vegas. Three weeks before he passed away, he sent for her.
"I thought he was getting better because he was eating so well," she recalled.
"That last day I made him Cream of Wheat. He gave me a smile and a wink -- like that," she said, demonstrating the wink. "And that was the last thing. He died."
Luckie says she thinks of Liberace daily. It wouldn't be hard. The player piano still sits in the living room. It is covered with photographs of him, her and the pair of them together.
Wedged among the mementos is a verse she wrote to mark his passing:
"I can recall a million reasons, why I loved you like a son. A man of many seasons; your second mother I'd become."
"He was very unselfish. He gave a lot," Luckie said, surrounded by the evidence. "I still miss him. But like they say, the good go first."
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