GAMBOA CAY, THE JUDGE & MISS DOROTHY'S GIRLS - By Dallas Realtor Bill Cherry

In the late ‘60s and part of the ‘70s, hidden behind a tall, 490-foot fence of bamboo and wooden planks on the shore of the bayou was a mysterious and frequently whispered about hideaway called Gamboa Cay.

When Doris Hutchinson got it, it was just a bayou-front home. But with her partner, Brad Duncan, who claimed to be a protege of architect Frank Lloyd Wright, it was turned into an eccentric Caribbean-style six bedroom hotel.

The entrance was guarded by huge iron double gates that once adorned a famous prohibition dinner club. On every one of the 36 fence posts was a flaming torch.

Inside there were a multitude of stained glass windows, and an old safe from a Wells Fargo office in Somewhere, USA; two huge statues of water buffaloes; the running lights from a vessel that I heard was named the "Galveston;" a fountain and a gas street light that had made their ways from Philadelphia, but no one knew how or why; a huge mirror in a hand-carved rosewood frame that was once in the famous Willis mansion; one of the first home washing machines - a three-legged affair that was serving as a planter; and in the Sea Dog bar, there were 1,600 items of interest from here, there, and yonder. Number 1,601 was a huge but realistic plastic shrimp hanging from the ceiling.

You could rent the whole place for $210 a night, and that included breakfast. Hutchinson would prepare a Polynesian dinner if the guests wanted to have a party in the ballroom. .

One Friday night, six raucous attorneys from one of the big and famous law firms in Dallas rented Gamboa Cay and brought in six beautiful ladies of the night in push-up bras and long, tight evening gowns from Miss Dorothy's cat house. The plan was for the lawyers to drink themselves silly all Friday night while enjoying the company of their dates.

On Saturday, they planned a big dinner party. Lots of their golf buddies and other friends who shared their interest in liquor, loud and boisterous talk, and occasional overnighters with women who were not their wives, would be the guests. Miss Dorothy had agreed to bring in dates for the guests, too. Hutchinson and Duncan had booked a steel band to play on the 300 feet deck that overlooked the bayou.

All of this was in celebration of a big jury verdict against a bank that had just given the law firm enough money to pay its overhead for the remainder of the year and put a handsome envelope in the breast pocket of each of the partners. Of course the judge who had given that handsome ruling, and his mistress were invited, too.

Saturday night came, ending a day of outdoor beer drinking, capsizing multiple times in the Sunfish sailboats, and getting overexposed to the sun.

By now the dark-yellow summer moon was rising over the bayou and the outside torches were burning. But everyone was inside where the air conditioning units were belching the putrid smell of two days of stale beer, liquor and cigarette smoke.

No one was paying attention to God's beauty that was to the south and the east and the west of Gamboa Cay or thinking about His Ten Commandments.

Inside, everywhere you looked, there was a pretty girl in a push-up bra and evening gown snuggling up next to a stoned-drunk attorney. All were waiting for the 80 guests to arrive.

Soon they began to show up, and about 9 o'clock a parade of taxis came in the driveway with even more young ladies in long, tight dresses. Then the steel band started playing, marking the beginning of the serious partying.

By noon on Monday, an 8 by 10 glossy of the judge with his mistress on his lap with her tongue shoved in his right ear had been delivered by courier to the judge's wife at their Dallas Highland Park home.

I have heard two stories: one was that one of the attorneys who gave the party planned to run against the judge in the next election, so he had arranged the embarrassment. The other was that the judge had sent one of Miss Dorothy's ladies's brother to the big house, and she decided it was time to even the playing field.

The lesson learned that night at Gamboa Cay was one that the Mexican waiters and bartenders had jokingly told their customers for years, "Lo mejor de los dados es no jugarlos." The best cast of the dice is not to play.

Soon word about the party spread, and the use of Gamboa Cay as a place for alleged licentious debauchery quickly went on the wain. It wasn't long before Hutchinson and Duncan disposed of the place and moved to a real South Sea island to start all over again.

Copyright 2003 - William S. Cherry

All Rights Reserved