In 1976, after many happy years of Carson playing the Sahara Hotel, Cliff Perlman, the chairman of the board of Caesars Palace, called me and asked if Johnny was interested in making a switch. “Johnny should definitely come here,” he argued. “We have a much bigger show room, and we’re getting all the biggest acts. No reason for you to be the last of the Mohicans.”
Johnny had played the Congo Room in the Sahara since the sixties, and he was its top draw. It had a capacity of about 700, and Johnny always sold out. “Look, Cliff, the Congo Room is known as a comedy room and gets all the best comedians because it is a great size for comedy. Your show room seats nearly 1,300. Carson is concerned about filling all the seats.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Perlman. “Your man is a major star. We will promote the hell out of the switch.”
As predicted, when Johnny and I talked about the move, the size of the room was paramount among his considerations. “What do you think?” he asked.
In the meantime, I had done some research. “Sinatra and Bette Midler and Paul Anka are all doing well. I know they’re not comedians, but Caesars is putting fannies in the seats.”
After mulling over the move for a few days, Johnny came back to me with terms. “I don’t want to play full weeks anymore, just three nights a week. And I only want to do one show a night. If they’re agreeable and the money is right, I’ll consider going.” His idea was that he could fly forty minutes from Burbank to Vegas after the Thursday Tonight Show finished taping and play Caesars on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. We also asked for Caesars to pay for Jack Eglash and his band, to provide the plane that would take Johnny between Burbank and Vegas, to pay for the opening act of Carson’s choice, and, oh yeah, to pay Johnny $250,000 for each weekend. Perlman hemmed and hawed and rubbed his temples. “We’ve never done anything like this before,” he said.
I wasn’t surprised. The men who make their living off the illusions of gamblers seldom take risks themselves. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Johnny has plenty of work at home to keep him busy.”
“Aw hell, let’s do it.” Perlman wanted Carson. It was a sure thing.
I was pretty pleased with the terms—eight weekends a year for a tasty $2 million. But the money was not the deciding factor: for Johnny it was the challenge. “I might as well play at the best hotel on the Strip,” Johnny said. “Let’s see how I do against Sinatra’s counts.” In the end, the major regret was that he had to leave behind the Sahara Girls.
There was a sentimental aura surrounding Johnny’s last gig at the Sahara. As was our custom, we arrived the night before in order for him to soak up the atmosphere. We were in high spirits when we arrived at the airport, but as soon as we saw Jim Brown in the car, we could tell that he was upset.
“There was a problem last night with Buddy,” said Jim, referring to Buddy Hackett, who was preceding Johnny in the Congo Room. It appeared that Buddy, who almost always finished in second place behind Johnny in the counts, had dropped into third place behind Totie Fields. For those who do not remember, Totie Fields was a short, stout, hilarious woman whose stardom was cut short in her fifties when she died from heart problems and cancer.
“Buddy got wasted last night,” reported Jim. “Out of nowhere he pulled a .38-caliber pistol and began shooting up the dressing room. He shot Totie . . .”
“He shot Totie?!” Carson and I exclaimed.
“Well, you know, her picture . . .”
Johnny ended his run at the Sahara in spectacular fashion. The crowds were wildly enthusiastic, and there wasn’t a seat to be had. The Sahara Girls opened, followed by Phyllis McGuire. Mike Davis asked Stan Irwin to hold twelve seats for him and he brought a group of oil execs up from Houston for the last show. Davis arrived and tipped the maitre d’ a cool $1,000. There was a great party that the hotel threw for Johnny at the Sahara house where he stayed. The band came over. Johnny played the drums and the Sahara Girls romped by the pool. I left at five a.m. God knows when Carson got to bed.
Several months later, it was time for the opening at Caesars Palace. Acquiring Johnny Carson was a major get for Caesars, and to show just how pleased and proud he was with this new arrangement, Cliff Perlman told Johnny that he could invite as many guests as he wanted, and the hotel would pick up the tab for their room, food, and beverages for the entire weekend. In addition, each couple or single guest was instructed to turn their airline receipts in at the casino cage where they would be given the equivalent amount in casino chips.
The occasion was a big deal for Johnny as well; he had invited more than 350 guests to what had become a black-tie event (the 900 or so paying customers who were going to attend would have to wear black tie as well). Carson’s parents were coming, as were his brother and his sister and their spouses; so were important people from The Tonight Show like Bobby Quinn, Ed McMahon, and Fred de Cordova; Bud and Cece Robinson; many Hollywood notables; and even my parents and Judy’s parents. It was going to be a very big night.
To make sure that everything was going smoothly, I went up to Las Vegas several days before the opening and brought my secretary, Carrie Becker, to help make sure that all of the invited guests were properly cared for. What I found was pretty close to perfection. The promotion was first-rate, and the town was buzzing. Cliff Perlman and the entire staff at the hotel had done a great job. But these black-tie events were hardly the norm, and even Johnny was nervous. After all, it was a new place, and the show room was much bigger. He still wasn’t sure that his comedy would extend to its far reaches. He always said it was easier for singers to work big places than comedians.
The plan was for Johnny to fly up by himself the day before the opening; Joanna would come the next day with a group of friends. In those days, private jets were less common than today, and Johnny was coming in on a commercial flight. Ordinarily I would have gone to the airport to meet him, but I was busy in the show room dealing with seating details and watching Phyllis rehearse, so I sent Caesars’ limo driver to pick him up at the airline gate. Johnny’s plane was due in at one p.m., and when two o’clock came and went, I began to be concerned. This was long before cell phones, but the hotel had walkie-talkies that it used for communication, and I kept checking with the desk to determine if the driver had picked up its new headliner. Four times I called without the clerk being able to tell me anything. Now I was worried.
Finally I went out to the bell desk to see what was going on. To my surprise, I ran into Johnny, who had just exited a cab. He was standing at the check-in counter demanding the keys to his suite. “The driver completely fucked up,” he fumed. “He went to the wrong goddamn gate and by the time he found me, I told him to get lost and I hopped in a cab.”
At that moment, the check-in clerk advised Johnny that he would have to wait about thirty minutes before his suite was ready.
When this happens to you or me, we’re expected to act like grown-ups and adjust. But when this happens to the biggest star in Vegas, who was arriving for his debut performance at what is supposedly the town’s premier hotel, well, this, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call a catastrophe.
Carson went nuts. He started yelling at the clerk, who very politely excused herself and walked away. Later we learned that most of the hotel employees were of the Mormon faith and had been taught to walk away from rude behavior, but it struck Johnny as insulting.
“Damn it, Henry,” Carson said. “Charter me a plane and get me back to Los Angeles. I will not work here.”
“You know there are 350 invited guests on their way here,” I reminded him. “Homer? Ruth?”
“I don’t give a shit,” he snapped. “I won’t spend one minute more with these monumental incompetents.”
The hotel general manager arrived and tried to make things right. A new suite was ready, a distressed and apologetic Jerry Gordon, the hotel’s general manager, assured Johnny; the management could not be more anxious to please this unhappy star.
“Too late!” snarled J
ohnny. He was angry, but I also thought he was being self-indulgent. I was beginning to wonder how long he was going to continue to carry on. Then I got a call from Cliff Perlman.
“Henry, please bring Johnny up to my suite. I promise you I won’t let him walk because of the fuckups of my staff. Please, please bring him up. Security will be there in a moment to escort you up.”
“Okay, Cliff, but let me just say this: right now Johnny needs to feel as if he were the only star you have.”
“Okay,” said Cliff. “I get it.”
I then talked Johnny into seeing Cliff. “That’s the least you owe him.” And up we went.
Once Carson entered the suite, the Perlman charm took over. He took Carson by the arm and showed him the apartment. Sitting atop the hotel, it was 10,000 square feet of opulence, with a rooftop swimming pool, Jacuzzi, wine cellar, health spa, six bedrooms, and a living room that was easily able to accommodate 300 people.
“Every time you come to Caesars,” said Perlman, “this is where you’ll stay.”
“Nice,” said Johnny, now notably calmer. “But I don’t see a tennis court up here.”
“No, it’s downstairs. But you know that our head pro is Pancho Gonzales,” said Cliff, invoking the name of one of the greatest players of the pre-Open era. “Any time you want to hit with him, it’s on me.”
“Thank you, Cliff.”
“You know,” said Perlman, closing the deal, “I’ve never let anyone stay up here, not even Sinatra. But I owe this to you as a show of my appreciation for your working here.”
The grand gesture appeased Johnny, the weekend was saved, and from then on, whenever Carson came to Caesars, Perlman moved to a Motel 6 across town. Well . . . at least to quarters less grand.
Later that day Johnny met one of the casino hosts, Wingy Grober. Short, elegant, and very funny, Wingy was so named because he had a withered arm. “I’m taking you guys to dinner tonight,” he said. A friend of Sinatra’s and a former owner of the Cal-Neva Hotel in Lake Tahoe, Grober had been given Johnny as an assignment by Perlman, who felt Wingy could handle Carson’s mood swings. Wingy soon became one of Johnny’s favorites and was given the high honor of free access to the Carson dressing room. That night Wingy introduced Johnny to Jimmy Grippo, the legendary magician. Johnny became an instant fan of the eighty-year-old Grippo, a master of verisimilitude with his hands. Johnny pulled out all the stops with his own tricks in an effort to top the master. After a while, everyone was standing around watching all the fun at our table. A great evening was had by all.
Johnny’s opening was magical. The reviews were first-rate, and the opening-night party was held in what was now known as the Carson Suite. The memory of Carson’s tantrum evaporated in a haze of good cheer.
Several years later, the casino impresario Steve Wynn offered to double what Caesars was paying Johnny to move to the Golden Nugget. When I advised Johnny that Wynn was offering $500,000 a weekend, he was flattered but unmoved. “I don’t need it,” he said. “The room at the Nugget is very small, and I’ll be playing to what amounts to an invited audience each show. Invited guests make for lousy audiences. Tell Steve thanks, but I’ll pass.” That was that.
By now you should not be surprised to hear that a major Las Vegas headliner, accustomed to receiving limitless perks and privileges, would conclude that among his entitlements is droit du seigneur. You may not be acquainted with this principle, but if you were alive during the Middle Ages, believe me, you would have heard of it. Allegedly it was the legal right allowing the lord of an estate to take the virginity of his serfs’ maiden daughters. There is actually little historical evidence that supports the idea that such a legal right actually existed, but it has been strongly maintained in legend and, in many places, in practice. Johnny had for all intents and purposes exercised a contemporary version of this in his New York life when his Tonight Show stardom made him very prominent, and his separation from Joanne made him even more obviously available. Rather than just being a garden-variety hound, Johnny had the pick of the litter.
When home in Los Angeles, and now married to Joanna, he had to be much more circumspect. But in the environs of a Las Vegas hotel, a free-fire zone where no wives were allowed, it was generally accepted that the bigger the star, the greater the latitude for indiscretion.
Early in 1980, Johnny was playing Caesars. Despite the fact that we were at that very time deep in the endgame of ABC-NBC negotiations, I still had to accompany Johnny to Vegas. Both of us were quarreling with our wives. I had by that point fallen into terrible habits. I was inattentive to Judy, I was routinely messing around, and we had separated several times. For this trip, as was often the case, I had arranged a date for the weekend, a young lady named Susan. I was far beyond being influenced by Johnny; I was by now well along into emulating him, and though I was conflicted and unhappy about where this was taking me, I made little effort to change.
The Thursday show, as usual, went off well, and afterward Johnny and I went to the Caesars lounge, where we were joined by Jack Eglash, Stan Irwin, his old pal Rodney Dangerfield, and Jimmy Grippo. Along with being a master of magic, Grippo astounded his audience with his apparent ability to read minds and induce hypnosis. By three in the morning our table had a large group of onlookers. Two of them were very good-looking girls, and Carson asked them to join our party. Soon we learned that they were from Nebraska, and they had come all the way just to see his show. Of course, Johnny invited them to come to Friday’s show as his special guests. In his accustomed role, Stan Irwin made all the arrangements. He put them with my friend Susan and me.
Meanwhile, at home I had a son and daughter. And here I was in Las Vegas, blithely behaving like a complete shit. I was definitely Carson’s protégé now. He loved who I was becoming.
The next day Johnny called to make sure the girls would be coming to the show. “Maybe they would like to join us at a small dinner party afterward,” Johnny suggested, “up in my apartment.” They were more than delighted to accept, and Mr. Carson attended to those details personally. Cliff Perlman had one thousand bottles of wine in his cellar, and Johnny availed himself of some of the best. The kitchen prepared a special menu subject to Johnny’s personal approval.
After the show, I took the girls backstage for a few minutes to say hello to the star. They were then escorted to the suite while I sat with Johnny for forty-five minutes until he could descend from his performance high. Wingy Grober was with us. “If there is anything special that you want tonight,” Wingy assured him, “the staff of Caesars Palace, as always, awaits your pleasure.”
There were five of us at dinner. Susan and the Cornhusker girls soon became very drunk, while I was suddenly overcome by an excruciating headache. “Hold the fort,” I whispered to Johnny. “I’m going back to my room for some painkillers.”
Several pills and a hot shower later, I felt well enough to go back to the party. To my surprise, the three girls were skinny-dipping in the rooftop swimming pool, while Johnny, wearing nothing but an apron, served them wine from a silver platter. “Ze white is a 1968 Chassagne-Montrachet,” he said in a cheesy accent plucked from the Mighty Carson Art Players, “and ze rhedd is a 1966 Pétrus.” I was impressed; that Pétrus went for $3,000 a bottle.
“Come on, Henry,” Johnny shouted. “Take off your clothes! Join the fun!”
Well, I did take off my clothes and I did try to join in, but something in the bacchanalian nature of the moment brought my headache back. Unable to enjoy myself, I had to leave. No one else did, not even Susan, the girl I’d brought with me, although I assumed she’d follow me back to our room soon enough.
My head had hardly hit the pillow before I fell asleep.
When I woke up the next morning, I looked around for Susan, but she wasn’t in bed with me or in the room. She had spent the night partying with Johnny and the Cornhuskers.
I was humiliated. I was resentful. I was really pissed.
But it served me right. And besides, I wasn’t s
ure if I was furious with Susan or myself. At that point, the difference was pretty much academic. When Susan finally came to my room I told her to get her things together and clear out. It had been the perfect way to fuck up a weekend and I had managed to do it perfectly. Johnny, who could rarely be accused of uncool behavior, never said a word about the previous night. But I had learned my lesson. You could ape Johnny’s way of living. In fact, he pretty much insisted on it. But Johnny owned the game. The rules favored him. In Vegas, the house always won.
A few years later, something similar happened, although it came to a different conclusion. In the early eighties, Joanna Carson introduced me to Joyce DeWitt, the vivacious and raucous dark-haired beauty who was then starring in ABC’s hit comedy Three’s Company. Joyce needed some legal advice, and Joanna recommended me. Some months later, Joyce, who had a background in musical theater, was looking to develop a nightclub act, and I was happy to send her to Jack Eglash, who began helping her create a song-and-dance routine in the style of Ann-Margret. As it happened, Joyce was in Vegas one weekend rehearsing with Eglash when Johnny came up to perform at Caesars.
By this time, my marriage was on its last legs, and Judy and I had again separated. (As Johnny was fond of saying, “Half the marriages end in divorce—and then there are the unhappy ones.”) When Jack mentioned that Joyce was staying at our old stomping grounds, the Sahara, I gave her a call and asked her to come see the show. When she agreed, I was thrilled because I was smitten with her, and my instincts told me that she might be feeling the same way. I was holding out the hope that something would develop for me with Joyce. I let Johnny know I’d be sitting in the show room with Joyce, and she would be joining us for dinner. He knew her work and was all for it.
Johnny Carson Page 20