His Way

by Kitty Kelley

  He pointed out that the Nazis used the method of divide and rule by pitting race against race. “Don’t let it happen here,” he pleaded. “I learned that a few people who have nothing to do with the Gary schools, who aren’t even parents, have interfered and helped foment this trouble. Don’t listen to them. Sit down and talk it over. If President Roosevelt could do it with Churchill and Stalin, then the kids of America can work out their problems too.”

  The priest onstage glanced at the mayor sitting next to him, and obvious embarrassment crossed the faces of the other civic and business leaders on the platform. Frank ignored their discomfort and proceeded to name one of the agitators, who was a local businessman. He called him “a cheap meddler” and “a two-bit politician who has had his name on the billboard two times but never was elected.” “Surely you’re not going to let a man like this influence you,” he said. “You ought to run this bum out of town.”

  The priest stalked off the stage at this point and the mayor, red in the face, started to leave as well, but reconsidered and stayed in his seat. Frank finished by singing two songs and asking the kids to rise and repeat with him a pledge for tolerance. “We will strive to work together to prove that the American way is the only fair and democratic way of life.” Then everyone sang the national anthem.

  Sputtering with rage, the mayor accosted Frank as he was leaving. “Your remarks were most unfortunate. You were ill-advised in your statements, and what you said was a disservice to the cause and to the community.”

  Frank did not end the strike at Froebel High School, but for making the trip he received the first scroll presented by the Bureau of Intercultural Education in New York, where Eleanor Roosevelt was the keynote speaker. A month later, he received the annual unity award from the Golden Slipper Square Club of Philadelphia. The Newspaper Guild honored him with a Page One Award, and the National Conference of Christians and Jews cited him for “his outstanding efforts and contribution to the cause of religious tolerance and unity among Americans.” He received the New Jersey Organization of Teachers award for “making the greatest contribution to racial progress and intercultural amity.” His name was added to the 1945 Honor Roll of Race Relations by the curator of the Schomburg Collection of Negro Literature of the New York Public Library. Months later, the Catholic Youth Organization of Chicago presented him with their Club of Champions award, citing him as “an honest, fearless, and forthright fighter against intolerance, who has utilized his influence with a vast following to further those ideals which are the heartbeat of our democracy.”

  The liberal press applauded Frank for his tolerance crusade, but others criticized him for associating with groups such as American Youth for Democracy; Progressive Citizens of America; and the Independent Citizens Committee of the Arts, Sciences, and Professions, which was headed by his good friend, sculptor Jo Davidson. Gerald L. K. Smith, leader of the conservative America First party, testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee in January 1946 that Frank “acts as a front” for Communist organizations. Jack Tenney, chairman of the California State Senate Committee on Un-American Investigations, also accused him of being a Communist.

  Casually dismissing the charges, Frank told The Daily Worker: “Somebody said I spoke like a Communist. You know, they call Shirley Temple [who was eighteen years old at the time] a Communist too. Well, I said, me and Shirley both, I guess.”

  Smith, who was hell-bent on destroying “Hollywood’s left-wing cabal,” called Frank a “Mrs. Roosevelt in pants,” which delighted him.

  “If that means agreeing with Jefferson and Tom Paine and Willkie and Franklin Roosevelt, then I’ll gladly accept the title,” Frank said.

  Later, Gerval T. Murphy, a director of the supreme council of the Knights of Columbus, accused Frank of aligning himself with the Communist Party by speaking “at a Red rally of sixteen thousand left-wingers” in New York’s Madison Square Garden.

  “That was no Red rally,” Frank said. “It was a rally sponsored by the Veterans Committee of the Independent Citizens Committee of the Arts, Sciences, and Professions. While Murphy was hunting witches, the committee was urging passage of legislation to provide housing for veterans. I was trying to help veterans get homes to live in. If that was subversive activity, I’m all for it. Murphy’s statement was a complete distortion. The minute anyone tries to help the little guy, he’s called a Communist. I’m getting so I expect crackpots to say things like that. The guy’s a jerk.”

  When the congressional investigation into communism was focused on Hollywood, Sinatra said: “Once they get the movies throttled, how long will it be before the committee gets to work on freedom of the air? How long will it be before we’re told what we can say and cannot say into a radio microphone? If you can make a pitch on a nationwide radio network for a square deal for the underdog, will they call you a commie?”

  In the face of growing anti-Communist virulence, Frank later backed down and tempered his earlier statements. “I don’t like Communists,” he said, “and I have nothing to do with any organization except the Knights of Columbus.”

  “Frank was such an ardent liberal in those days,” said Jo-Carroll Silvers. “So concerned about poor people that he was always quoting Henry Wallace. We both shared this political bond, more so than anyone else in our social group. In fact, both Frank and I were fairly close to the Communist Party line at that time. Neither of us was a card-carrying member, of course, but we were both very close to people like Albert Maitz who were, and we shared their beliefs for the most part.

  “But Frank was unsettling, almost scary sometimes—a real contradiction. His temper was awful in those days. Phil and Sammy Cahn were frightened to death of him because he was so volatile. You never knew when he was going to explode. He was a sincere liberal and would take to the stump to criticize any racial prejudice, but then he was always mean to the little people around him. He seemed to enjoy making people look little in front of others. He thought it made him look big. Perhaps that’s because Frank is physically small and slight, and needs to feel big and masculine. I don’t know. He treated Hank Sanicola like a servant and made him wait on him all the time. He’d say, ‘Match me,’ and make Hank light his cigarette. He’d scream at Bobby Burns.”

  Formerly the band manager for Tommy Dorsey, Bobby Burns had gone to work for Frank after the war and had become his personal manager for a while. He traveled with Frank while Hank Sanicola stayed in L.A. to supervise Frank’s business investments.

  Next to President Roosevelt and Winston Churchill, another man Frank admired in 1947 was Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, the West Coast Mafia chief for Murder, Inc. Siegel, who had been indicted for murder in 1940, described himself as a businessman. He did not mention his activities in book-making, gambling combines, a racetrack wire service, extortion, and narcotics traffic. He had moved at the top of Beverly Hills society ever since he had arrived from New York in 1934, where he’d been associated with Meyer Lansky, Frank Costello, and Charlie “Lucky” Luciano.

  “Phil and Frank admired and adored Bugsy Siegel so much,” said Jo-Carroll Silvers. “When we were in Chasen’s [for dinner] and saw him, Frank and Phil would immediately stand up when he passed and, with real reverence in their voices, say, ‘Hello, Mr. Siegel. How are you.’ They were like two children seeing Santa Claus, or two little altar boys standing to pay homage to the pope. They were wide-eyed and so very impressed by this man, who was the chairman of the Mafia board then. Bugsy was handsome, charming, and very pleasant, but he also had an aura of danger about him that Frank would later cultivate. Phil and Frank were enthralled by him. They would brag about Bugsy and what he had done and how many people he had killed. Sometimes they’d argue about whether Bugsy preferred to shoot his victims or simply chop them up with axes, and although I forget which was his preference, I will always remember the awe Frank had in his voice when he talked about him. He wanted to emulate Bugsy.”

  Interestingly enough, the two men shared certain
similarities. Both were notorious womanizers who took flamboyant lovers but always returned home to their long-suffering wives. Both traveled with entourages, possessed ferocious tempers, and had grandiose visions of empire-building. Bugsy dreamed of a gambling metropolis in the Las Vegas desert while Frank envisioned himself the kingpin of a million-dollar resort hotel two miles outside of Las Vegas. Bugsy’s dream flourished, and the Flamingo Hotel launched Nevada as the gambling capital of the United States. Frank’s luxury resort broke ground but was never completed. In May 1946, he would announce plans to build in Hollywood the largest sports arena on the West Coast, one to rival New York’s Madison Square Garden, but construction was never started.

  “Like Bugsy, Frank had a Mafia redneck mentality,” said Jo-Carroll Silvers. “He always dressed well but in a vulgar, showy way. He was not funny like Phil and Harry Crane; he liked crude practical jokes but he was not a humorous man. Like gangsters, he gave great big crude showy presents. For our wedding he gave us a huge silver coffee service. That was part of his image of himself. He was quite Sicilian without any WASP overlay. His moods were such that there was a good Frank and a bad Frank, but he was openly good and openly bad. He didn’t try to hide the dark side of himself in those days.

  “He seemed to revere his mother but pay no attention whatsoever to his wife, Nancy. In the time that we were together from 1945 to 1950, I never once saw him talk to her or touch her or relate to her in any way. I knew he played around with other women because Phil had told me about the daisy-chain parties, but Nancy was still very much his wife, always quiet and in the background. I can still see her serving spaghetti to Frank and all his male cronies.”

  Jo-Carroll was outraged when her husband told her what went on at the Wilshire Towers apartment that Jimmy Van Heusen and Axel Stordahl shared. “This was where all the men went during the week for their bachelor orgies,” she said. “They had a daisy chain going, and call girls were in and out of there all the time. One day Frank brought in Marlene Dietrich. Call girls were one thing, but Dietrich was something else. It was a joke to invite her, but she came because she had heard about Frank in those days.”

  Sammy Cahn was one of the men sitting around that apartment playing cards when Frank announced Miss Dietrich’s arrival, and he described what happened: “ ‘Who do you think is going to walk into this room?’ Frank said, and he named the lady who will be one of the great luminaries of the screen as long as movies are shown. Also one of the great all-around bedmates. I was somewhat skeptical. ‘I’m not so sure the lady’s going to walk in,’ I said, ‘but if she does and sees six or eight of us sitting around, she’ll certainly leave.’ Sinatra said, ‘Screw her, let her leave.’

  “I was wrong,” said Sammy Cahn. “The lady walked in, smiled demurely, allowed Sinatra to take her hand and lead her into the bedroom.”

  This was not Frank’s first public display of sexual prowess, nor would it be his last.

  Every New Year’s Eve, the men in Sinatra’s group dressed in black tie and took their wives to Frank and Nancy’s Toluca Lake home for a spectacular musical revue that was still remembered fondly decades later. “People begged to be invited,” said Jo-Carroll Silvers. “These were phenomenal full-scale shows full of skits and songs that we rehearsed for months and months. In one, Sammy wrote me a song called ‘I’m the Wife of the Life of the Party’ and I brought the house down when I sang it.” The song was a devastating satire with lyrics listing all of Phil Silvers’s faults and irritating habits, including the comedy routines he did without ever being asked.

  Comedy writer Harry Crane wrote many of the show’s sketches, the best remembered being one in which Frank played a waiter in a restaurant where Sammy Cahn, Harry Crane, and Peter Lawford were eating dinner. When they finished, Lawford, renowned for being extremely tightfisted, summoned Frank. “Hey, waiter. I’ll take the check now.” Frank, who was carrying a tray piled high with dishes, was so stunned by Lawford’s offer to pay that he fell over and dropped the tray, smashing all the dishes to the floor. In another, Frank appeared in blackface and sang his version of “Mammy.”

  As much work went into these New Year’s Eve shows as into any Broadway production. Richard Whorf, director and designer, painted a huge drop curtain for the set. Jule Styne wrote all the music and Sammy Cahn all the lyrics. Frank spent weeks working as a carpenter and electrician, sawing lumber, hanging lights, and borrowing costumes and props from MGM, where he had recently signed a five-year contract. Theater chairs were set up in the living room, where everyone performed, including some of the wives, who were given minor roles.

  People clamored for invitations, with some like Walter Annenberg flying in from as far away as Philadelphia. “Thanks a million for letting us come,” he said. “If you have a party next year, please invite us and we’ll fly out for it.”

  One New Year’s Eve in 1945, Frank stood at the front door greeting his guests, while Nancy stayed in the kitchen fussing with the food. She still knew her place. Her husband was the center of everyone’s attention; she was simply a satellite. He had received the greatest personal acclaim of any musical performer to date, and Modern Screen had named him the most popular screen star of 1945. In addition to his exploding fame, he was immensely rich. According to Walter Winchell, Frank Sinatra’s earnings the previous year were “more than any other individual in the world.” He was at the zenith of his success, whirling in a sphere of glamour and glitter where there was no longer any room for an Italian wife from Jersey City.

  On the West Coast, away from the influence of his mother and George Evans, Frank took more extramarital liberties, to the acute embarrassment of his wife. It was becoming increasingly difficult for her to close her eyes to the little items that had been appearing in movie magazines about Frank and Lana Turner and Frank and Marilyn Maxwell. But she followed George Evans’s advice, saying, “Everyone else may love Frank, but he loves me, and I’m the one he comes home to.”

  Nancy enjoyed having the New Year’s Eve parties because they were in her home, where she felt most comfortable. Most of her guests were friends of long-standing with whom she felt secure. But this party did not bode well. As she was passing the hors d’oeuvres, she noticed a beautiful showgirl wearing a ring exactly like the one that Frank had given to her. And then she remembered. She had given the ring to Frank weeks before to take to the jeweler to be repaired. “I felt so humiliated,” she said later. “I thought I would kill myself.”

  10

  In 1946, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer was the mecca of movie studios—the richest, the biggest, the best. Producing one full-length feature film every week, this fantasy factory boasted as its motto “More Stars Than There Are in the Heavens.” By the time Frank Sinatra had his RKO contract renegotiated by MCA so that he could go to MGM, the Culver City studio had reached eighteen million dollars a year in profits—its largest ever. MCA agents Lew Wasserman and Harry Friedman informed the studio that Sinatra wanted the “morals clause” changed, that he insisted on making at least one outside picture a year, plus sixteen radio guest appearances, and that he demanded the publishing rights to the music in alternate films. It took three months of negotiations, but MGM agreed to everything, including a twelve-week-a-year vacation. He was signed to a five-year contract at $260,000 a year.

  Frank arrived on the MGM lot when the ten top movie stars in the world were Ingrid Bergman, Bing Crosby, Van Johnson, Gary Cooper, Bob Hope, Humphrey Bogart, Greer Garson, Margaret O’Brien, Betty Grable, and Roy Rogers. Frank was impressed but not intimidated. His records were selling at a rate of ten million a year, and for the third time he had won Downbeat’s award for the country’s favorite male singer as well as Metronome’s award for best male vocalist. Unlike most contract players, he came to MGM as a star in his own right, with his own press agents, his own entourage, and a devoted army of fans.

  Feeling as though he were in the most beautiful harem on earth, he tacked a sheet of paper to his dressing room door. On it were the nam
es of the MGM actresses he most desired; over a period of time he systematically checked off each one.

  One of the most dazzling was Marilyn Maxwell, an ex-band singer who was every man’s fantasy of a movie star: tall and voluptuous, with white porcelain skin, long platinum hair, and a smile so inviting that only monks could resist. “She was gorgeous—simply gorgeous,” recalled Nick Sevano, “and nice too. She spent hours showing me around Hollywood when I first came out because she knew that I had once been associated with Frank, and they were crazy about each other.”

  Marilyn, who was divorcing actor John Conte at the time, told friends that she was going to marry Frank, who had promised to divorce Nancy. In fact, Frank had asked his wife for a divorce, but Nancy refused even to consider it. In a rage, he stormed out of the house and left for New York to start filming It Happened in Brooklyn two weeks ahead of schedule. He asked Marilyn to meet him there on June 19 to go to the Billy Conn-Joe Louis heavyweight title fight with Toots Shor and his wife.

  Toots was flabbergasted when Frank told him he was bringing Marilyn and strenuously argued against it. He said that a championship fight at Madison Square Garden was too public an occasion for him to be seen with anyone but his wife. Frank ignored him, so Toots called Manie Sacks and George Evans and pleaded with them to do something. Nothing worked until George Evans called Marilyn Maxwell personally and begged her not to go, effectively ending the relationship. Frank went to the fight by himself and sat with Joe DiMaggio and Marlene Dietrich.

  Unaccustomed to taking orders, he resisted the studio regime throughout the shooting of It Happened in Brooklyn with Kathryn Grayson, Peter Lawford, and Jimmy Durante.

  “I got a break when we were starting this new picture in New York,” he said at the time. “We were shooting on the Brooklyn Bridge. We’d get out there in the morning and there’d be fog, so I wouldn’t have to work all day.”