His Way

by Kitty Kelley

  “Do you know that Barbara Walters one time in an interview with Mrs. Lady Bird Johnson after President Johnson died—she had the gall and the cojones to say to this woman—she asked this question: How did you feel about your husband’s extracurricular activities outside with other women? This is after he had died. She’s talking to the widow. That’s the kind of danger there is in people like that. Oh, if they were only guys, I’d … oh.…

  “Now this fat broad in New York got sore about it and went to her defense. Barbara Wawa doesn’t need defense. She needs diction lessons. Did you ever listen to her? She says ‘too-too twain’ and ‘I wuv a wabbit.’ Diction lessons, not defense. She doesn’t need that. And a tuck here, and there, too, under the ear and under the nose. …”

  Enraged by Liz Smith’s comment that his wife had been embarrassed by his outbursts, Frank continued:

  “She said in her column that the one who’s the most upset about my attack on Barbara Wawa was my wife, Barbara. Now, my wife never gets mad at me. Did Juliet ever get mad at Romeo, for chrissakes? I’m her E.T. How could she get mad at me.… That dopey broad also said in her column that Barbara Wawa was considered persona grata at the White House. That makes sense, because the President has to deal with Castro and Qadhafi. Now, I don’t know what the hell goes on at the White House. Ronnie’s on his own at the White House.… Don’t you yell at me, lady. This is my platform up here. I don’t have a newspaper to publish me like they do.”

  Frank took every opportunity to berate his journalist enemies. Gleefully, he told Beverly Sills how he had approached Katharine Graham, chairman of the board of the Washington Post Company, to say that her paper was a rag and her clothes were even worse.

  “Who does your outfits? Edith Piafs dressmaker?” he asked Mrs. Graham, referring to the fact that Edith Piaf, the “Little Sparrow,” wore rags.

  Horrified by the story, Beverly Sills said, “Tell me something, Frank. What do you get out of doing something like that?”

  “Satisfaction,” said the singer.

  Provoked by a Paul Conrad cartoon that appeared in the Los Angeles Times portraying President Reagan with a hearing aid, Frank sent a letter to the editor, blaming the newspaper for publishing the “poison” of Conrad, who, he said, “is a disgrace to responsible journalism, an insult to anything that calls itself a newspaper and you all ought to be ashamed of yourselves for hiding behind the First Amendment, which was never intended for people like Conrad anyway.”

  Earlier, he had fulminated about an article in People magazine. In a two-page, single-spaced letter, he had said that the publication was “to accurate journalism what Preparation H is to advanced medicine.… Long after Anita Bryant has begun dating the head of the Gay Task Force, I will still have nothing to do with Time, People, or any of its illegitimate offspring or clones.” He ended: “Good manners and the federal government still prevent me from sending your editor garbage through the mails, something postal inspectors seem to overlook when it comes to handling People magazine.”

  Not even the presence of the President and First Lady could stem his tirades. At a Kennedy Center concert attended by the Reagans in 1983, he offered a toast: “To the confusion of our enemies—the press in general and the gossip columnists in particular.” Saying that Washington has “a little gossip now and then,” he asked how anyone could be expected to live with “those idiots,” and hoped that “they all break their typewriters or sew up their mouths.”

  Nancy Reagan, too, had felt persecuted, misunderstood, and threatened by probing journalists at the beginning of her husband’s first term in office in Washington, D.C. Frank, in turn, had felt quite protective toward the First Lady when press coverage focused on her extensive wardrobe, the designer clothes she had accepted free and was forced by law to return, the $250,000 diamond necklace and earrings she had borrowed from Harry Winston for the inaugural and kept for six months, the $209,508 she spent for 220 place settings of new White House china, and the $822,641 she raised from private donors to redecorate the White House. Because of the First Lady’s love of luxurious living, the Reagan administration soon became known as “millionaires on parade.”

  “She’s had such a bum rap,” said Frank. “The china was a terrible, terrible misrepresentation. The china was given by citizens. She didn’t buy it with our … tax money. It was given to the White House, and what’s wrong with having pretty china in the White House? What’s wrong with having a White House that’s the most wonderful capital building in the world? Nothing wrong with that at all. When she first came to town … she got a bad going over by the press, which doesn’t surprise me … [Nancy] is a very classy lady. She’s quite shy, contrary to what is said about her … she is warm and fun. She has a great sense of humor and giggles and … she’s just great… just great.”

  Nancy, in turn, acted like a thrilled schoolgirl in Frank’s presence. A special rapport developed between the First Lady and the singer, whose Secret Service code name was “Napoleon.” Frank flew to Washington several times to have private luncheons with her in the White House solarium, where they chatted for hours. On his trips to Washington to see Nancy, Frank came unaccompanied by his wife, who was not close to Mrs. Reagan. Barbara seemed to resent her husband’s fawning attentions to the First Lady. The feeling was mutual on Nancy Reagan’s pan.

  “Even when the Sinatras were invited to a White House state dinner, Mrs. Reagan always wanted Frank seated next to her and Barbara … well, we had to seat Barbara in outer Mongolia,” said a staff member.

  After his private luncheons with the First Lady, Frank flew back to Palm Springs. The White House staff ushered him in and out of the family quarters so that he was never seen by the press. “We always knew better than to ever interrupt those luncheons,” said a member of Mrs. Reagan’s staff. “When she was with Sinatra, she was not to be disturbed. For anything.”

  As soon as Frank heard about the assassination attempt on President Reagan, he rushed to Washington to be at Nancy’s side; he sat next to her on the Truman balcony watching the Fourth of July fireworks; he danced with her most of the night at the Annenbergs’ New Year’s Eve party, which so angered his wife that she stormed out and refused to attend the following year. Frank offered to buy Nancy Reagan the Bulgari jewels that she had borrowed to wear to the wedding of Prince Charles; he contributed ten thousand dollars to her White House redecoration project; he arranged for her to receive the Scopus Award from the American Friends of Hebrew University; he helped her promote the Foster Grandparents program by singing with her at the White House and then recording the song for Reprise Records, with all royalties going to Foster Grandparents. He even flew into Washington to be the surprise entertainer at a Congressional Club luncheon in her honor.

  Bedazzled, Nancy relied on him for everything pertaining to White House entertainment, making him the unofficial czar in charge of performances for state dinners. The White House social staff soon learned to look to him for direction. He upgraded the lighting with colored filters in the East Room and suggested a new sound system, which the White House purchased and installed to his specification. He taught the resident staff—engineers, ushers, and the social office—how to maximize a performance with the placement of the stage, putting plantings in the acoustical dead zones and making the live zones technically correct.

  Frank arranged for Zubin Mehta, conductor of the New York Philharmonic, to perform at the state dinner for Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. When Mrs. Reagan wanted Mel Tillis to sing, Sinatra told the country singer to appear, informing him: “I’ve already checked your schedule and you are free.”

  The only friction to arise between Frank and the First Lady occurred during the queen of England’s ten-day visit to the United States in March 1983. This was an important occasion for Nancy, who wanted to return the same kind of royal hospitality she and the President had received at Windsor Castle. She put Frank in charge of the dinner at the Twentieth Century Fox studios in Hollywood at which she wou
ld welcome the British monarch, hoping that he would produce a spectacular gala.

  Unfortunately, Frank was not at his best for the occasion. He had learned that the queen was planning a dinner the following evening aboard her yacht, H.M.S. Britannia, in honor of the Reagans, to which he had not been invited. Irate, he made his wife, Barbara, call the White House and talk to Mike Deaver about the royal slight. The presidential advisor said he could do little to accommodate the Sinatras because the guest list was the queen’s, and the White House had nothing to do with it. At Barbara’s insistence, though, Deaver reluctantly called Buckingham Palace.

  “We have a very difficult situation here,” said Deaver, “and I do hope you won’t think us too presumptuous, but if it would be possible to receive Mr. Sinatra on the yacht, we’d be most grateful.”

  The palace politely took the matter under advisement, but declined to extend Frank an invitation. More than a week passed while Frank waited impatiently. Finally, he threatened to pull out as producer of Nancy’s dinner for the queen unless he were included on the royal yacht. An appeal was quickly made to Walter Annenberg, the former U.S. ambassador to the Court of St. James, to intercede for Frank. Only then did the queen agree to include the Sinatras in her shipboard party.

  As the architect of Nancy Reagan’s regal welcoming party, Sinatra had hoped to impress the Hollywood aristocracy, but the social pressure of an evening dominated by the White House and Buckingham Palace seemed to be too much for him. He nervously stumbled over his lines and forgot the words to his songs. Committing a terrible faux pas, he neglected to welcome the queen from the stage and then compounded his mistake by throwing kisses to the First Lady. Torrential rains beat down on the tin roof of the sound stage, making a disconcerting racket throughout the dinner as Queen Elizabeth patiently listened to eighty-seven-year-old George Burns tell off-color jokes. Nancy Reagan winced with embarrassment as Reuters described the performers including Frank, sixty-seven, and Perry Como, seventy, as “old Hollywood.”

  “It was a disaster—an absolute disaster,” said a White House secretary. “Frank put on the worst Las Vegas variety show, completely lacking in style and taste, and Mrs. Reagan was humiliated. She was very upset with him, very irritated, especially when he wanted the queen to take a tour of the studio, and became petulant when she declined. The menu was seafood, which the queen had expressly asked not to be served, plus sticky, cold chicken pot pies and sour wines. The valets ran out of umbrellas, and then Frank violated all protocol by leaving before the queen did. I guess he knew that he had blown it and just wanted to get away as fast as he could.”

  The British press was astounded by the evening, and reported in detail the American gaffes and repeated breaches of protocol.

  QUEEN’S TRIP IN TURMOIL headlined the London Evening Standard.

  SNUB FOR YANKS said the Daily Star, because the queen had not been introduced to guests like Bette Davis, Fred Astaire, and Jimmy Stewart.

  Describing Sinatra’s voice as “rasping and flat,” the Manchester Guardian pronounced the evening extremely tedious: “Overall it was not exactly an exhilarating performance.”

  British stars agreed. “It was so boring, I almost fell asleep,” said Elton John.

  “A bit dour,” said Julie Andrews.

  “It was the usual Hollywood cattle call, rather dull in many ways,” said society columnist Pamela Mason.

  Though she did her husband’s bidding at every turn, Barbara Sinatra occasionally chafed in her role as the subservient wife, for she had to tolerate public insults and scornful abuse during his black mood swings. In Frank’s manic phase, she was “my beautiful bride”; in his depressive stage, she was “the dumbest broad I ever met.”

  “I was Sinatra’s gofer at Caesars Palace for four years,” said Gloria Massingill, “and whenever he and Lady Barbara went at it, I’d be buzzed on my beeper to get her luggage ready and get her to the plane to fly back to Palm Springs. This happened whenever he stayed in the casino all night drinking and gambling and wouldn’t come to bed. She’d leave him and go home to the desert. Once they separated for several days and everyone thought for sure that they were going to get a divorce.”

  The public fights between the Sinatras grew coarse and crude, especially if Frank was drinking. He called her vicious names, which she returned in kind. So strong were the rumors of marital discord that in 1983 Frank felt compelled to say something during a barbecue given by Judy Green, widow of Frank’s close friend Bill, in Southampton on New York’s Long Island. Rising after dinner with a glass in his hand, he said, “You may have been hearing bad rumors about Barbara and me recently, but I’m telling you that we have been married for seven years. We also plan to be married for another seven years and after that for another seven years and on and on.” Everyone smiled thinly.

  Earlier that evening, Frank began drinking and nearly ruined the party when he inexplicably turned on New York socialite Pat Patterson as she approached him. Teasingly, she said that Frank owed her $750 for a dress that she had bought years before for a blind date they were supposed to have but which had been canceled at the last minute.

  “Come with me,” said Frank, and, in front of several guests, he escorted her to the door where his bodyguards were standing. “These men will see that you get home.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I want you out of here,” he said. “You’re leaving—now.”

  “But… but … I have to get my purse.”

  “I’ll get your purse,” said one of the bodyguards. “When Mr. Sinatra says ‘out,’ he means ‘out.’ ”

  Frank had already returned to the party, where guests were speechless but much too frightened to object to his behavior. Later, they watched in horror as he assailed the head of Atlantic Records, Ahmet Ertegun, saying, “You ruined music with your rock and roll. It’s your fault what’s happened to the music business. You’ve destroyed music in this country. …” Without a word, the record executive moved away from Frank. Still, no one said anything for fear of drawing the abuse on himself.

  “It’s amazing that none of those very, social people ever objected to Frank’s bodyguards, but they never did,” said Stephen Green. “I remember when he visited Dad [William Green] and Judy, in Mt. Kisco and he arrived with two of his henchmen, Joe Tomatoes and Jerry The Crusher. At the end of the weekend, Joe Tomatoes was sitting with Frank at the pool and, winking at Dad, Sinatra said, ‘Have you got your letter written yet?’

  “ ‘Huh? What letter?’ said Joe Tomatoes.

  “ ‘Oh, God, Joe, how can I take you anywhere?’ said Frank. ‘Don’t you know that at the end of a nice weekend like this you’re supposed to write the hostess, in this case, Mrs. Green, a very nice letter telling her how happy you were to share her hospitality? I can’t believe you haven’t done that yet.’ He shook his head in disgust, and Joe Tomatoes, a real gorilla, went back into the main house. He walked out three hours later with a letter that looked as if it had been written by a five-year-old in left-handed print. The note said: ‘Thank you Mrs. Green for the good food and the nice time. Thank you. Joe Tomatoes.’ Dad and Judy so loved that letter that they had it framed in gold and hung in the guest room for all future guests to see.”

  Introducing the bizarre into the privileged lives of his rich society friends was one of Frank’s most memorable traits. He brought them a touch of vulgarity, a hint of the sinister. Though ordinarily they saw only the good Frank, who lavished presents upon them, sang at their benefits, and championed their charities, they occasionally glimpsed the bad Frank, who acted like a monster.

  Sinatra gave the country a televised look at his schizoid self in the winter of 1983: the good Frank graciously accepted a major national tribute, but days later the bad Frank berated a woman blackjack dealer at the Golden Nugget in Atlantic City.

  The national tribute came on December 4, 1983, when the President of the United States paid homage to Frank for his lifelong achievements in the performing arts.
He was one of the five honorées saluted in The Kennedy Center Honors: A Celebration of the Performing Arts, televised by CBS. Quoting Henry James, the President said that “art is the shadow of humanity” as he slipped a rainbow-colored ribbon around Frank’s shoulders, and he continued: “You have spent your life casting a magnificent and powerful shadow.”

  Standing alongside dancer-choreographer Katherine Dunham, director Elia Kazan, actor Jimmy Stewart, and composer-critic Virgil Thomson, Frank glowed in the grandeur of the occasion.

  “For the country itself,” Sinatra said, “it’s an important thing to do, to honor the arts people. I suppose it’s like the Oscars or the Tonys, but the biggest. But in any award, when you’re honored by your peers, that’s what really counts.”

  “And your government,” said his wife, Barbara.

  “And our government,” Frank added.

  Yet days later, the honorée was gambling at the Golden Nugget in Atlantic City with Barbara, Dean Martin, and Martin’s manager, Mort Viner. Frank told Kyong Kim, the thirty-three-year-old blackjack dealer, to deal to him by hand, not from the legally required sealed plastic box, which is called a shoe. The dealer paused, saying she would have to check with her supervisor.

  “You don’t want to play one deck, you go back to China,” snarled Frank.

  Hearing the disturbance, the casino supervisor, Joyce Caparele, walked over.

  “He said he wanted the single deck, or if he didn’t get his way about it that he would not be putting on the show,” she said. “I thought if I didn’t go along … if I would have said anything to Mr. Sinatra about anything that might have ruffled his feathers, I was afraid I would get fired.”

  The pit boss, Maxwell Spinks, was summoned to tell Frank that it was out of his authority to allow the dealer to deal to him by hand.

  “I can’t make a decision on this,” he said. “You would have to take it to higher authority.”