"What's happening, son?" he asked.
"Well, Colonel, we have a problem," I told him.
"Oh, we do," he said. "What's our problem?"
"It seems I was misled before I booked the matinee," I said, "and now I'm stuck with five thousand unsold seats."
He pushed his hat back and said, "Well, son, as far as I can tell, we don't have a problem. You have a problem."
"Yeah, well, what should I do?" I asked.
"I'll tell you what you should do," he said. "You should fix your problem."
He went back to his entourage, and I went back to the hotel. I got in bed. I tossed and turned. When I finally fell sleep, I had nightmares, a tiny Elvis, with his cape and flare boots, kung fu kicking before an empty house, storming offstage, shouting, WHINE-traub! WHINE-traub!
I woke up early and went to the arena. I stood in the aisles and studied the seats. I noticed that bolts secured each of the seats to the floor. Meaning these could be unscrewed and carried away. How long would it take to unscrew five thousand seats, how many men would it take? I wandered over to the jailhouse I had seen the day before, asked for the person in charge, and soon found myself talking to the sheriff. I don't remember what he looked like, so imagine him as you want--a trim, officious, bureaucrat, or a big, burly southern lawman, the sort played by Jackie Gleason in Cannonball Run. I moved a pile of money from my pocket to his pocket.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"I want to take five thousand seats out of the convention center, hide them for a few hours, then, before the nighttime show, put them right back in," I said. "Can you help me?"
"No problem."
A few hours later, the sheriff showed up with dozens of prisoners, men in orange jumpsuits who unscrewed and carried away the seats, which they piled in the parking lot and covered with a blue tarp. In my mind, I still see that blue tarp hiding the unsold seats. It is one of several images that, spliced together, tell the story of my career. The jewelry bag with my initials is the life I did not live. The seats rising from second base to the grandstand is the audience that must be attracted, satisfied, sold. The blue tarp is the need to innovate and improvise.
Elvis sang the matinee. It was great. Not an empty seat in the house. Then, as he rested between shows, the prisoners went back to work, tearing away the tarp, carrying the seats back to the arena, screwing them into the floor. The second show was even better. Elvis sang all his hits. Between songs, he dabbed sweat from his face with a scarf, then tossed the scarf to the women near the stage, who fought over it, smelled it, passed out. I went back to the Fontainebleau hotel with Elvis. He was spent, exhilarated but depleted, having given everything away. "You know, Jerry, it's amazing," he told me. "The crowd was good in the afternoon, but it's always so much better at night."
We were on the road for just under a month. I was working as a kind of advance man, traveling a day or two ahead of the tour, checking into hotels, meeting security, scouting arenas. I was learning the ups and downs and constant crises of life on the road. Now and then, I pursued a whim or a moneymaking scheme of my own. There was, for example, the near disaster of the scarves (this happened on a later tour). Having seen the girls fight over the scarves Elvis tossed from the stage--you could see the flurry, the snap of teeth--I decided to order the kind of scarves used by Elvis and sell them at the concession stands. Turn a nice little profit. The first boxes reached me at the Pontiac Dome in Detroit, Michigan. Seventy-five thousand seats, sold out, New Year's Eve. I had ordered thirty-five thousand scarves, ten cents apiece, made in Hong Kong, with Elvis's picture on them. I remember walking past the concession as the fans came in from the parking lot. They stood in line to buy T-shirts, mugs, key chains, but no one seemed interested in my scarves. During intermission, the head of concessions came up to me, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Weintraub, but we're not selling the scarves," he said. "It's just not going to work."
I walked into the dressing room, moping, depressed. Elvis saw me sitting in a chair with my head down. "What's wrong?" he asked. "You look terrible."
"I have a problem."
"What?"
I told him about the scarves.
"If I fix it," he said, "will you smile?"
"How are you going to fix it?"
"Don't worry," he said. "Just tell me: Will you smile?"
"Of course," I said. "I'm starting to smile just thinking about it."
So what does he do? He goes out onstage, does a number, gets the crowd going wild, stops, puts his hand on his forehead, salutelike, as if trying to make out something far away, then says, "You know, I can't see anything or anyone from up here. Turn on the lights."
The lights come up, he blinks, eyes asquint.
"I still can't see," he says. "Tell you what. I'm going to take a five-minute break. Go out to the concession. They have scarves. I want everyone to get a scarf and wave it so I can see where you are."
In those five minutes, the concessionaires sold every scarf in the arena. Then, as Elvis was walking back on stage, he looked at me and said, "Are you smiling now?"
That first tour ended in San Diego. I was standing backstage on the last night, looking through the curtain at the crowd, dazed, shell-shocked. Just then, amid all this drifting and dreaming--I was wearing my crocodile boots--the Colonel whacked me on the shoulder with his cane. "Come with me," he said. "We need to talk."
He had a big guy following him with two huge suitcases. We went through the tunnels to a little door, an electrical closet. There was a table inside, a lightbulb, and a bunch of machinery. The Colonel told the big guy where to put the bags, then said, "Beat it. I need to talk to Jerry alone."
The Colonel locked the door. "Get the bags up on the table," he told me. "Open them."
It was like a scene in an old pirate movie, in which the swashbuckler looks into the treasure chest and the glow of doubloons reflects off his face. These cases were filled with money, tens, twenties, fifties, all cash. As if we had robbed a bank. "Pour it on the table," said the Colonel.
"What's this?" I asked.
"The money from the concessions," he said. "T-shirts and collectibles. Half of it's yours."
"No, I had nothing to do with that," I said. "Just the tickets. Just the shows."
The Colonel was already giving me an incredibly generous deal: an even split. I got half, and the Colonel and Elvis together got half.
"When I have a partner," he told me. "I have a partner. Now pile up that money."
It was a mountain of bills, some stained with ketchup, some stained with chives, stacked on the table. The Colonel said, "Stand back," then raised his cane and brought it down hard on the pile, dividing it into two huge piles, which he pushed apart with the cane, saying, "That side yours, this side mine... Is that fair?"
"Sure," I said. "It's more than fair."
The tour lasted just six weeks, but it changed everything. Like what happens when you put your picture in a Xerox and press enlarge, enlarge, enlarge. I went on tour at twenty-six as just another young talent manager, but when I came back, I was a millionaire.
The Colonel had houses in LA and Palm Springs. I was with him constantly, in every kind of mood and weather, when he was happy and money was coming in, and when he was ailing and old. No matter how rich he became, he was always ready for a new idea. He was, after all, a carnival man. Take, for example, the Gordon Mills affair, maybe my greatest moneymaking idea that did not come off.
The phone rings in the middle of the night. It's Elvis. He is angry and paranoid, pacing the halls of Graceland.
"Is that Jerry?" he asks.
"Yeah, Elvis. It's me. What's up?"
"I don't know what I'm doing here," he says. "I just don't know."
"What's wrong, Elvis?"
"The Colonel," he says. "I don't need him. I'm done with the Colonel."
"Come on, Elvis."
"Listen, Jerry, you should be my manager."
This is not unusual, these freaked-ou
t, middle-of-the-night calls made by talent--decisions made, then unmade in the morning. Especially when the artist is as brilliant and isolated as Elvis. The Beatles had each other, and Sinatra, well, Sinatra was from another era, but Elvis, who was bigger than all of them, was alone.
I said, "Look, Elvis. I am sorry, but I can't. That's not going to happen."
We talked for a little, then hung up. I could not fall back asleep. I stared at the ceiling, thinking. A few days before, I had seen a copy of Life magazine with a man named Gordon Mills on the cover, a music manager from London. According to the article, his management company, MAM, which was traded on the London Stock Exchange, was the most successful in the industry, representing two of the three biggest stars in the world: Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck. Now it happened that these stars were numbers two and three. Elvis was number one.
I went to see the Colonel at six the next morning. He was drinking coffee. I threw Life magazine in front of him.
"What's this?" he asked.
"That," I said, "is Gordon Mills."
"Yeah, so?"
"Look, Colonel, what if I told you I had a way to make a hundred million bucks just like that?"
"I would tell you to keep talking," he said.
"I'm not going to bullshit you," I told him. "Elvis called me in the middle of the night and said he wants to get rid of you and make me his manager."
The Colonel made a noise like this: "Ahhhieeee."
I said, "Now, Colonel, I've had enough clients, done enough business, and been around long enough to know it doesn't mean anything. Elvis is you and Elvis. I get that. But it gave me an idea, seeing as he's talking about getting a new manager, and this is where the hundred million bucks comes in."
"Go on."
"This guy, Gordon Mills, has a publicly traded management company. He also has two of the three biggest recording artists in the world. Now here's my idea: We sell him Elvis's management contract. In name only. It will still be you running the show, but this guy will hold the paper. We structure this deal in stock, so Mills gets the contract and we--me, you, Elvis--get shares in his company. Lots of shares. Then, when word gets out that Gordon Mills has Tom Jones, Engelbert Humperdinck, and Elvis Presley, well, the share price goes through the roof. And we clear a hundred million easy."
"Yeah," said the Colonel. "Do it."
I called Gordon Mills and told him I had an idea, a surefire moneymaker.
"Great," he said. "Come over and explain it."
I would never sell an idea like this on the phone. It's still that way. I need to sit with a person, to watch him, read his eyes and hands, see if he is just as excited as I am, if I'm coming across.
I got on a plane and flew over. Gordon Mills lived in a mansion outside London. He had his own zoo. (A lot of rich people in England have zoos.) He was a poor kid from the East End who had made it all the way to a private zoo. We talked in his garden. Giraffes wandered by, zebras, and tigers. A lion cub pissed my lap! I explained the plan: how we would sell Elvis but not sell Elvis, how he would give us shares, how the stock price would rise. Gordon nodded through this, thinking Elvis, Elvis, then said, "Fantastic, Jerry! Let's do it!"
"Now look, Gordon, I want to make sure you understand the situation," I said. "You are not really going to manage Elvis. He won't accept that. I am talking about a business arrangement. You will sign the contracts and get commissions, but on the ground we will continue as we have been: I will handle the concerts, the Colonel will handle everything else; you will be his manager in name only. You will not talk to Elvis, or try to shape his career, and you will have absolutely no creative input. Get it?"
"Yes, yes, great. Let's do it."
"That's the first caveat," I said. "Here's the second: You can't tell anybody about this. I don't want to pick up the Daily Telegraph or the Sun and see splattered all over the pages, 'Gordon Mills to Be Elvis's Manager.' You can have that later, but not now. You've got to wait for that."
"Great, let's do it."
A few weeks later, Gordon Mills came to Vegas. The Colonel was there, too. It took me two weeks to set up a meeting. Tom Jones worked at Caesars and Elvis worked at the Hilton. Each manager wanted to meet on his home turf. I shuttled back and forth like Kissinger. I finally fixed a date at the Hilton. The Colonel won that round. He showed up in cowboy suit and hat. He sat on one side of the table, and Gordon sat on the other. These men had egos bigger than the moon. They would not talk to each other. Everything had to go through me. The Colonel would say, "Tell him he's not to travel with us." Gordon would say, "Tell him Elvis must make himself amenable to European dates." It went back and forth like that for hours, but I finally got the parameters fixed. Then, just as we were leaving, Gordon said, "Hey, Jerry, as long as I'm here, I would love to see Elvis perform."
"No problem," I said. "I'll get you seats."
"There will be eighteen of us," he said.
"What do you mean, eighteen of you?" I asked. "Who's eighteen?"
"Well, you know, my arranger, my public relations people, my this, my that..."
I said, "Look, Gordon, I was very clear about this. No creative input. You'll blow the whole deal."
"No, I understand," he said. "They just want to see Elvis."
Okay.
After the show, Gordon came backstage. We were talking. He said, "You know, Jerry, I would love to meet Elvis. Just say hello."
"Okay, I'll bring you over."
Elvis walked out of his dressing room, smiling, exhilarated.
I said, "Elvis, this is Gordon Mills. The man I told you about, that situation we're going to do."
I had explained the plan to Elvis. He was fine with it, one, because it would mean a lot of money, and two, because nothing would change.
Elvis said, "Oh, yes, Mr. Mills, it's a great pleasure to meet you, sir. Jerry told me all about this, it sounds like a terrific thing. Very excited about it."
Then Gordon said--and here's the kicker; it still kills me, all these years later--"You know, Elvis, I wanted to talk to you about the capes you wear in the show. I have some ideas."
They talked for a minute, Gordon gesticulating, Elvis, head down, like a boxer in the corner, nodding, "Yes, sir," "Yes, sir," "Yes, sir."
Elvis then said, "Can you excuse me, Mr. Mills?" and went into his dressing room.
Gordon turned to me, smiling, and said, "Oh, that went well! What a charming man!"
A second later, one of Elvis's guys came over and whispered in my ear: "Jerry, Elvis wants to see you right away."
That was the end of Gordon Mills.
There's something to be learned from this story. It shows how, even if you have the greatest script in the world, it won't work if the actors don't play their parts.
The Colonel and I were like father and son. We loved each other, but fought all the time. He used to get up early on the road, five, five-thirty in the morning, then go down to the free buffet. He would smoke his cigar and eat bacon and eggs surrounded by the lackeys who hung on his every word. I usually sat with them, but one morning--this was later--I woke up cranky and decided to eat alone. I got my food, walked by the Colonel's table, sat by myself in the corner.
He called over, "What are you, some kind of a big shot?"
I ignored him.
He said, "Hey, can't you hear me, big shot?"
I said, "What, am I bothering you?"
You were never supposed to challenge the Colonel in front of his people. He believed it undermined his authority.
He shouted, "What's wrong with you?"
"I'm eating my breakfast," I told him. "I want to be alone."
"Oh, you want to be alone?" he said. "Good. Be alone. You're fired!"
"I'm fired? No problem. You owe me a million dollars for this tour so far. Let me have my million bucks, and I'm gone."
Of course, I did not want to get fired, but I knew he would never give me a million dollars.
He stormed over to my table. "All right, big shot, foll
ow me."
He acted like he was taking me to his room for the payout. We got up there, a stuffy motel suite, bed unmade, clothes everywhere. He walked to the bureau, opened the swinging doors and there, inside, he had made up a shrine to the Buddha. There were candles and incense set around a gold sculpture of Buddha, with his belly and grinning face and grand fleshy ears. The Colonel started lighting the candles.
"What the hell is happening?" I asked.
"We have to ask the Buddha what to do," he said.
He rubbed the Buddha's belly. He was such a con man. He said, "Tell me, O great Buddha, do you think we should keep Jerry Weintraub? Or should we let him go?"
He closed his eyes, as if he were meditating, communicating with the sages, then said to me, "The Buddha hasn't made up his mind yet."
The Colonel mumbled something, leaned in as if he was listening, then said, "It's the opinion of the Buddha that if you apologize in front of the boys all will be forgotten and it will be as it was before."
"I'm not apologizing," I said. "Tell that to the Buddha."
"You're not apologizing?"
"That's right. Tell the Buddha."
The Colonel closed his eyes, mumbled, nodded.
"The Buddha is very angry," he told me. "The Buddha says, 'Take Jerry Weintraub to the airport.' "
He blew out the candles and closed the cabinet. We went down to the van. The boys rode along. We got on the highway. I had my luggage and everything. We drove through town, past the arena. The Colonel was watching me, waiting for me to buckle. I did not buckle. I stared straight ahead. We saw the first signs for the airport. "All right, all right," he said. "Pull over."
The van stopped; the Colonel jumped out.
"Come on," he told me. "We need to talk."
He said, "Look, Jerry. You have to apologize. You have to say you were wrong. In front of everybody. All these boys work for me, and what you are doing can destroy everything."
"But I wasn't wrong," I told him. "I just wanted to have my breakfast alone."
"It's important to me that you apologize," he said. "Do it for me and later on I will do something for you."
When I Stop Talking, You'll Know I'm Dead: Useful Stories from a Persuasive Man Page 8