A meeting was finally scheduled in March 1998 at May Britt’s condominium on Beverly Glen, near Wilshire Boulevard, between Sammy’s children—Tracey, Mark, and Jeff—and Altovise. Sonny and May were there to guide them through years of ill will. They had already agreed to work together on the musical, and the children, led by Tracey, pleaded with Altovise to find some common ground, bury the hatchet, and come together as a family to work on other projects. For five hours they talked, argued, and cried as they each unleashed decades worth of anger and frustration. Sonny and May tried to referee, and they lunched on pizza before the meeting finally ended with an agreement to work together. After Altovise and Sonny left the apartment, May, Mark, and Jeff appeared pleased with the result.
“Looks like something is going to happen,” said Mark.
But Tracey didn’t buy into any of it.
There was too much history with Altovise, and too many arguments and broken promises. No matter what Sonny promised in cooperation, as far as Tracey was concerned, Altovise hadn’t changed. Tracey also believed that Sonny was just another lawyer in a long line of lawyers who made promises on behalf of Altovise that would ultimately be broken.
“What are we, stupid?” said Tracey. “I didn’t believe one word she said. And Sonny’s stupidity is that he still doesn’t realize what a wild card Altovise is. I told him she doesn’t have a motherfucking friend anywhere. Not one person will do anything with her, and here we are saying let’s work together? If you guys think she’s going to work with you, that’s fine.”
Tracey looked at May.
“Mark my words, Mother, not a fucking thing is going to happen. Don’t get your hopes up. I know I’m not. I’m done with her,” said Tracey.
CHAPTER 16
In January 1960, Frank Sinatra dubbed his gathering at the Sands with Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Peter Lawford, and Joey Bishop “The Summit,” but the press loved the name “Rat Pack,” and the world couldn’t get enough of it. A cigarette in one hand, a drink in the other, jokes all around, and arguably the best male vocals ever assembled on one stage.
Five grown men with Las Vegas as their playground performed and drank and caroused at night, and filmed Ocean’s Eleven by day. Fans and celebrities flocked to Vegas just to catch a sight or even be near them. The national press covered every step, and the Rat Pack took on mythic proportions, growing larger even through decades of social change. By the 1990s cigarettes were considered cancer sticks and women more than arm candy, but the name Rat Pack still carried great recognition from the older generation who grew up with Frank, Dean, and Sammy. And there were new, younger generations to school on the meaning of hip and cool. And now, with Sammy’s estate finally free from the choking grip of the IRS, Mort Viner wanted to do business.
During a long career at ICM, Mort was a preeminent figure in entertainment circles, a man who secured a sterling reputation, which was unusual in the rarefied air of successful Hollywood agents. Among Mort’s many clients were Shirley MacLaine, Michael Crawford, and Dean Martin.
It had been more than a year since Dean’s passing, and Mort continued to represent his estate, which, unlike Sammy’s, was healthy and wealthy. Dean and Mort had forged a longstanding and lucrative business and personal relationship that made Dean a very rich man. Smart investments, ownership of his work, and good management left an estate that, upon Dean’s death, continued to churn out dollars. Now Mort wanted more, and he saw a gold mine in reviving the Rat Pack name. New records, licensing deals, and even performances by impersonators were among the ideas for Frank, Dean, and Sammy. There had been previous attempts to do some Rat Pack business, but the ever-present shadow of the IRS prevented any ideas from expanding past talk. But soon after hearing that Sammy’s estate had finally been settled, Mort and Sonny began what would become weekly discussions, and finally a face-to-face meeting in Los Angeles. During the ensuing months, Sonny made a point of stopping by Mort’s office on each trip to L.A. to talk about Sammy, Dean, Frank, and the Rat Pack. Sonny liked Mort immensely. He was a bear of a man and a straight shooter, who spoke plainly and clearly held his ground in negotiations. If someone pressed too hard, Mort went after them with both barrels. Like a teacher talking to a student, Mort took Sonny behind the glitter of the famous names, the booze, the broads, and the manufactured excitement to the real business of the Rat Pack, which over the years had been simple: Frank Sinatra got the lion’s share of everything, most often 50 percent. Dean got 25 percent, and Sammy the other 25 percent.
Those were the terms, said Mort, when they reunited in 1988 for the Together Again tour. Frank’s “people,” which included his attorney Bob Finkelstein and manager and promoter Eliot Weisman, always argued that since Frank was by far the biggest attraction, he deserved the bigger fees. Actually, said Mort, it wasn’t an argument. Weisman simply stated what the cut would be, and everyone listened. That was usually the way with Frank and his people, said Mort. They bullied, cajoled, and intimidated nearly everyone, except for Dean.
Despite a carefully cultivated image as a boozer and ladies man, Dean Martin was a quiet introvert who stayed away from the carousing and wild parties that Frank and Sammy enjoyed so much. For Dean, his relationship with Frank and Sammy was all business, said Mort, and his participation was nothing more than a well-crafted shtick. Dean considered Frank and Sammy friends, but never buddies, and unlike Sammy and the rest of the world, Dean never allowed Frank to overwhelm him or his life. While Sammy said “How high?” every time Frank yelled “Jump,” Dean distanced himself from Frank and his “people,” particularly Frank’s many friends from Chicago. Frank’s cultivated image as a man who counted high-ranking members of organized crime in Chicago and New York among his friends served him well over the years, allowing him to wield a very big stick at a time when the mob controlled Las Vegas and nearly every theater and venue across the country. Even the threat of tapping into those relationships in his business and personal dealings brought most people to their knees. But Dean couldn’t care less about Frank’s friends.
“Dean Martin,” said Mort, “was a man’s man.”
Sammy, on the other hand, always remained indebted to Frank for wielding his power in the 1950s to gain Sammy entry into clubs he otherwise would have been excluded from. It was Frank who stood up for Sammy when he married May Britt, and it was Frank who brought Sammy into his group of playmates with Dean, Peter Lawford, and Joey Bishop. And that’s how it remained throughout their friendship. Sammy had always been loyal to Frank, and he readily acknowledged that without Frank, numerous doors would have remained closed to him. But for Frank, friendship was always on his terms, and it always centered on control. When Frank spoke, people listened, and when anyone, particularly a friend, refused to obey his “requests,” Frank turned his back on them. After all, said Mort, he did it famously in 1968 with his own wife, Mia Farrow. They married in 1966, when she was twenty-one and he was fifty. Frank was filming The Detective and Mia Farrow was offered the lead in Rosemary’s Baby. Filming of both movies coincided, and Frank demanded that Mia work with him. She refused, and Frank filed for divorce. It was no different with Sammy. Boozing and adultery were okay in Frank’s book, but cocaine was unacceptable. And rumors of Satanism? That didn’t fly at all with Frank. When Sammy refused Frank’s “request” to stop using cocaine, a furious Frank closed the door on their quarter-century-long friendship.
“Fuck him,” said Sammy, who had his own life, his own desires, and his own secrets.
They finally settled their differences in 1980, and eight years later they were on tour again. Their reuniting with Dean, and then Liza, in 1988 proved enormously successful, and now Mort and Frank’s representatives—Finkelstein and Weisman—wanted to revive one of the most famous names in show business.
Sonny told Mort of his one meeting with Finkelstein in August 1994, and how he warned Sonny that trying to settle the IRS debt was futile. Despite the warning, Sonny said he admired Finkelstein’s smarts and smooth manne
r.
Mort had other ideas.
“Respect the man, but don’t trust him,” said Mort.
Sinatra business, he said, was always a bare-knuckled brawl, with Frank always coming out on top. Frank was eighty-two and in failing health, and his daughter Tina was among several family members overseeing the Sinatra estate. But the major deals were being done by Finkelstein and Weisman, who had been with Sinatra for years. Sonny said he never heard of Weisman.
“You were a federal prosecutor, and you never heard the story of Eliot Weisman?” said Mort. “Sit down. If you’re going to do business with Sinatra, you need to know who you’re dealing with.”
The Westchester Premier Theater was a 3,500-seat venue located in Tarrytown, just north of New York City. From the day Diana Ross opened the theater in 1975, top-name acts followed. Frank Sinatra performed there three times, in April and September of 1976, and with Dean Martin in May 1977.
But in November 1977 the theater fell into Chapter 11 bankruptcy proceedings after its president, Eliot Weisman, resigned amid a federal racketeering investigation. Weisman and seven others were indicted in 1978 and charged with stock fraud for failing to disclose that organized crime figures, including then–New York crime boss Carlo Gambino, invested heavily in the theater.
Weisman was a securities salesman who joined two New York mobsters—Gregory DePalma and Richard Fusco—in drawing a prospectus for a public offering in 1973 of $2.25 million in stock to build a concert hall over a landfill. Comedian Alan King and singers Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme were listed as stockholders, but that did little to spur public interest in the stock. So the trio bought their own stock with a 10-percent-a-week loan from Gambino, and got others, including executives at Warner Communications, to buy shares on condition that their money would be refunded later. Once the theater opened in 1975, the trio skimmed nearly $800,000 from the profits in the first year alone, much of the money used to pay back Gambino and the other investors. Skimming, or taking money off the top before it’s accounted for state and federal tax purposes, was business as usual for the mob, which owned, managed, or had a business interest in nearly every club and theater in every major city in the country, as well as casinos in Las Vegas.
Weisman, DePalma, and Fusco not only skimmed off the revenues from the ticket sales, they skimmed from the parking, bar, restaurant, candy concession, souvenir and program stands, and T-shirts. They even scalped tickets and sold others for seats that didn’t exist. The FBI inadvertently learned of the scheme through wiretaps involving another investigation, and after the theater eventually imploded from the pressure of paying back the costly mob loans and bogus stock purchases, indictments were handed down.
DePalma and Fusco eventually pleaded guilty to racketeering charges while Weisman was convicted by a federal jury and sentenced to six years in prison. But Mort said there was more to the story.
The investigation into the Westchester Premier Theater produced wiretaps that implicated Frank Sinatra in the skim, and prosecutors claimed he received $50,000 in cash under the table from the 1976 concerts. They also said that Mickey Rudin, Frank’s manager, received $5,000 while Jilly Rizzo, Frank’s longtime bodyguard, also received $5,000. Federal prosecutor Nathaniel Akerman offered Weisman a deal: testify against Frank or go to jail.
Weisman took the prison term.
Akerman convened a grand jury in 1980, focusing specifically on Frank and his associates, and he brought out several witnesses who testified that Frank not only took the money, but he agreed to make three visits over less than a year, knowing his appearances would provide packed houses to fuel the skim. Prosecutors even showed that infamous photo of Frank backstage during one of his 1976 appearances, arm in arm with eight mobsters, including Carlo Gambino and Paul Castellano. Sonny was still a federal prosecutor when Castellano and his bodyguard were shot and killed on a New York street in 1985 by a crew led by John Gotti.
“So Weisman gets out of prison, and in gratitude Frank gives him a job,” said Mort. “You should take a look at Jilly Rizzo.”
Jilly Rizzo was considered Frank’s best friend and did a variety of jobs for him, from bodyguard to gopher. Born and raised in the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn, Rizzo was a member of a tough street gang in the 1930s, which stole cars, burglarized homes, and terrorized the neighborhood from their base on Bay 50th Street. By the 1950s Rizzo, who had the rough appearance of a prizefighter, opened a restaurant at 256 West 52nd Street in Manhattan, which he called Jilly’s Place. With a large, round white light positioned over the front awning, Jilly’s was known not only for the high-powered celebrities that visited, including Frank, Sammy, and Dean, but for the one-eyed cat named Joey, who table-hopped into the early morning hours.
After Jilly and Frank met in Miami in the 1950s, the two men struck a close friendship. Rizzo became a part-time actor, playing bit parts in movies and a regular turn on Laugh-In. He closed Jilly’s in the 1970s and remained at Frank’s side, becoming his closest confidant.
In 1990 Rizzo was convicted with five others in federal court for their involvement in a scheme that fleeced $8 million from a New York bank, the Flushing Federal Savings and Loan Association. The bank collapsed in 1985 and was the first of many that would eventually close as part of the savings and loan fiasco that ripped through the country in the 1980s. Billions in assets were wiped out due to insolvency of the banks, and Flushing Savings & Loan was one of the most notable failures, with total losses over $100 million. One of its many bad deals involved a $5.5 million loan to Rizzo, who announced plans in 1983 to build a $50 million Jilly’s Resort and Sports Complex in the Poconos, just a few miles from the Hillside Inn. But Rizzo and his partners, who were alleged mobsters, acquired the loan by giving shares of their company, World Wide Ventures, to the wife of the bank’s president. The resort was never built, after the Securities and Exchange Commission got wind of the deal. Rizzo was charged and convicted of fraud. He avoided jail time because of his age, and was sentenced instead to community service.
Rizzo was killed in 1992 near his home in Rancho Mirage, California, when his Jaguar was hit by a drunk driver and exploded. Rizzo, seventy-five, couldn’t escape and burned to death.
Frank mourned the loss of his longtime friend, said Mort, while others, like Weisman, continued the Sinatra business. Following his prison term, Weisman went to work for Frank, and it was Weisman who promoted the Together Again tour with Frank, Sammy, and Dean.
This was all new territory for Sonny. He knew, like the rest of the world, that Frank Sinatra had long been dogged by gossip, innuendo, and even published reports that he was in some way connected to the underworld. Mort talked about Frank’s close friendship with Chicago mob boss Sam Giancana, and the familiar story of how Frank leaned on that friendship to help gain votes for John F. Kennedy in 1960. Frank’s association with the mob was a powerful tool, and one Frank used to its fullest, said Mort.
“Remember, kid,” said Mort. “Respect the Sinatras, but don’t ever trust them.”
Sonny parked the suggestion in the back of his head. But now, with Sammy’s estate settled, there was business at hand, and plenty of it. Frank, Dean and Sammy: An Evening with the Rat Pack was a new video produced from a long-forgotten concert. Originally called The Frank Sinatra Spectacular, the trio performed in St. Louis in 1965 to benefit a halfway house for ex-convicts, with the show hosted by Johnny Carson, who filled in for Joey Bishop. A copy of the performance was found years later in a closet in the halfway house.
In addition, HBO announced plans to film a Rat Pack movie that would star Ray Liotta as Frank, Joe Mantegna as Dean, and Don Cheadle as Sammy. HBO was relying on public domain for its material, and the producers didn’t approach any of the performers about assignment of rights or payments. Finkelstein, Mort, and Sonny warned that using the trio’s name and likeness and music required a deal. Finkelstein suggested a cease and desist order and cautioned HBO about potential legal action unless an agreement was reached. Tina Sinat
ra called the movie a “blatant raping, not only of my dad but of all those other brilliant performers.”
Sonny too, as Sammy’s representative, warned HBO in a March 1998 letter to Molly Wilson, HBO’s vice president and chief counsel, against using Sammy’s image and material, and the image of Altovise. Wilson replied that the film was based on a “variety of reliable sources.” She also said that Altovise was not depicted in the film, which takes place in the early 1960s and before her marriage to Sammy.
Despite the chest-beating and legal threats by Finkelstein to “shut this down,” it appeared there was little anyone could do legally to force HBO to play ball, and the issue was grudgingly dropped. Instead they moved to other pressing business, including plans to market the long-lost Rat Pack performance as well as coproduce a Rat Pack album and promote a tour of Rat Pack impersonators.
Sonny flew to Las Vegas to meet with Mort, Finkelstein, and Weisman at the Mirage hotel. Weisman greeted Sonny warmly and, with Finkelstein, congratulated Sonny for his work settling Sammy’s estate. They knew he was a former federal prosecutor, exchanged small talk about E. F. Hutton over a couple of drinks, and then quickly got down to business. Despite Mort’s previous warning about accepting past splits, Sonny said he had some other ideas about a more equitable distribution of any and all Rat Pack income, and he suggested that future splits be cut evenly at 33 percent each. Mort froze, while Finkelstein looked at Weisman, who simply shook his head.
“No, that’s not the way we do it,” Weisman grunted.
Frank was the star, said Weisman, and Frank always dictated terms. It was Frank, going way back to 1960, who decided to pay Sammy $100,000 for appearing in Ocean’s Eleven. There was no negotiation. Frank simply showed Sammy the contract with the six-figure number, and that was it. There were no royalties or future payments. Sammy was grateful and would have acted for peanuts. Frank was a businessman and saw the future.
Deconstructing Sammy Page 20