Sinatra

by J. Randy Taraborrelli

  “Jesus Christ, Betty! I just told you,” he shouted into the phone, “we’re going to lay low for a while.”

  “Okay,” she said meekly. “I love you, Frank.”

  He hung up on her.

  “From a friend, I later heard he was back in Los Angeles,” Betty later recalled. “Swifty had dinner with him—Swifty, the perpetrator of it all! Frank was speaking to him, but not to me. I was so hurt, so miserable.

  “I couldn’t deal with it,” Betty continued. “There was no way to understand it. We had been such friends for so long, how could he drop the curtain like this? I was under a permanent cloud then—trying to excuse him to others, pretending I understood—but others had seen this behavior before. No one just drops someone without discussion. It was such a shock. I spent night after night in tears.”

  One moment he was there, making love to Betty, confiding in her, sharing his life with her and being essential to her support system in grief. Then the next he was gone, as if he’d never existed in her life, as if they’d never even met. His feelings about her had quickly shifted from caring about her, to being angry with her, to being just plain apathetic about her. Once the relationship was breached, he no longer cared one way or the other. Apparently he could turn off his feelings, just like that. It meant little to Frank to cut someone out of his life, no matter how much he once cared about that person—or how much that person still cared about him. Would it not have been easier on all concerned if he had just leveled with Betty the way he had with Mickey Rudin about her? “That was as ruthless as I had seen Frank Sinatra at that point in our relationship,” noted George Jacobs. “I was taken aback at the cold way he cut Betty completely dead. That was the first time Mr. S. showed a side that frightened me.”

  “He behaved like a complete shit,” Betty would say years later. “He was too cowardly to tell the truth—that it was just too much for him, that he couldn’t handle it. I would have understood. [I hope.]”

  Soon after, Frank and Betty came face-to-face—in a manner of speaking. A month earlier when all was well between them, the two had been invited to a dinner party by Edie Goetz, daughter of Louis B. Mayer. They showed up as planned—separately, of course. Upon realizing that they were no longer together, Goetz seated someone between them.

  “Frank didn’t acknowledge my existence,” Betty recalled. “Not a flicker of recognition. He did not speak one word to me—if he looked in my direction, he did not see me, he looked right past me, as though my chair was empty. I would have preferred him to spit in my face, at least that would have been recognition. I couldn’t deal with this—there was no way to understand it. My humiliation was indescribable.”

  Betty Bacall pulled Edie Goetz into the kitchen to confide in her. She was sorry, she said, but she had no choice: She had to leave. Being in the same room as Frank while he ignored her so completely was nothing but pure torture. “My God. You think you know someone,” Betty whispered through her tears, “and then it turns out . . . you don’t.”

  Part Seven

  THE RAT PACK YEARS

  The Rat Pack

  The date was January 26, 1960. Showtime was at 8 p.m. “Let’s start the action,” Frank Sinatra would say to his pals—Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Peter Lawford, and Joey Bishop—as the orchestra played the overture and they prepared to take the Las Vegas stage. While standing in the wings, each would smoke a quick cigarette and then guzzle a final swig out of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Then the performers would slap each other on the back as they bounded onto the stage to an enthusiastic welcome.

  In 1960, few entertainers were more popular or controversial than forty-four-year-old Frank Sinatra. Despite the growing prevalence of rock and roll and British popular music, he somehow still managed to maintain his premier status in the world of show business. Though his fans were getting older, he was still the master of a particular style of entertainment. He still had his own loyal following. Of all of his touring engagements, Frank enjoyed appearing in Las Vegas more than anywhere else. He had made his Vegas debut at the Desert Inn back in September 1951, when there were only four hotels on the Strip. By 1960, though, the Strip was a mecca of colorful lights, high-rise hotels, and noisy casinos. The entertainment there was always the best in the business: Danny Thomas, Jerry Lewis, Lena Horne, Red Skelton—the list was endless, and Frank was one of the top-drawing attractions.

  Since Frank’s many friends and relatives would all make their way to Vegas to see him perform, the good times never really ended for anyone in his circle during an engagement in the desert. The gambling. The “dames.” The audiences. For Frank, it was one big party. “He goes and goes and goes and never stops until he’s completely done in,” said Red Norvo, his part-time accompanist. “But to see him really go, you’ve got to see him in Vegas.”

  By this time, Frank Sinatra was a co-owner of the Sands, with a 6 percent share in the hotel (each point was worth close to $100,000). He also enjoyed unlimited credit with the hotel because Jack Entratter, the corporate president, had ordered the management to tear up all his IOUs, worth anywhere from tens of thousands to hundreds of thousands of dollars, depending on Frank’s gambling sprees. Just having Frank in the casino always made for big business, especially when he was joined by his pack. They were called the Rat Pack by some in the media—appropriating the name of the society that had once included Judy Garland and others—and the Clan by others. In fact, Frank preferred to refer to himself and his buddies—Martin, Davis, Lawford, and Bishop—as the Summit. Around this time, Eisenhower, Khrushchev, and de Gaulle were planning a summit conference in Paris. Frank said that he and his pals would have their own “summit conference of cool.”

  Frank, Dean, Sammy, Peter, and Joey were also in the midst of making the film version of Ocean’s 11 for Frank’s Dorchester Productions, in association with Warner Bros. The movie, shot in Las Vegas, was the first of four they would do together. Ocean’s 11 was a comedy-drama about Danny Ocean [Sinatra] recruiting a bunch of former military buddies to rob five major Las Vegas casinos simultaneously on New Year’s Eve. The filming schedule was grueling and their lifestyles made it even tougher on them. After each concert performance, which ended at two in the morning, the fellows would drink the rest of the night away, partying until the sun rose. Then, somehow, they would manage to drag themselves in front of the movie cameras at dawn for work on the film. Afterward, they’d sleep for a couple of hours and begin again.

  Ironically, considering their popularity there, Las Vegas was never the place to see the Rat Pack if one wanted to actually hear them sing. In other cities, the performances were of a high caliber; each gentleman had the opportunity to sing a separate set of hits and standards before the finale, when all would gather onstage for scripted and unscripted comedy and a few jointly performed songs. In Vegas, though, it was much more impromptu. To most observers, it felt like the men were more concerned about entertaining each other than about singing for their audiences.

  Shirley MacLaine, at twenty-five, was considered the Rat Pack’s mascot because she was a “dame” they hung out with and, according to her, with whom they were never intimate. (MacLaine starred with Sinatra in the 1958 film Some Came Running and received an Academy Award nomination for her work.) In her memoir, My Lucky Stars, she best described the way the Rat Pack looked when she wrote about watching Frank and Dean get ready for a night on the town. “What got me were their hats. They wore wide-brimmed hats right out of the racetrack number from Guys and Dolls. Their shoes were uncommonly polished and I was certain their socks didn’t smell. Underneath it all, I sensed their underwear was as white and fresh as soft, newly fallen snow.”

  They looked great, but didn’t always sound it. In truth, none of the singers were in very good voice when they performed in Las Vegas. No singer’s vocal cords could hold up under the pressure of the schedule they maintained, along with all the booze, the smoking, and the late hours. The fellows would spend an hour in the steam room every day, hoping to r
estore their vocal cords and stamina.

  Most historians who have written about the Rat Pack have made note of the constant jokes relating to Sammy’s race. For instance, while onstage and with the lights low, Frank would say to Sammy, “You better keep smiling, Sammy, so we can see where you are.” Or when Sammy would do his Sinatra impression of “All the Way,” and Frank would say, “He’s just, excuse the expression, a carbon copy.” While this kind of humor seems a puzzlement today, at the time it really was all in good fun.

  In fact, Frank’s dedication to racial and ethnic equality went back many years, all the way to his Hoboken childhood when he felt the sting of prejudice because of his Italian ethnicity. People still remember that when he first began singing “Ol’ Man River” back in the 1940s, he was careful to replace the line “Darkies all work on the Mississippi” with “Here we all work on the Mississippi.” (After he made that lyrical change, most other performers followed suit whenever they sang the Kern-Hammerstein song in concert.)

  In the years to come, Sinatra opened up many doors for Sammy Davis, especially in Vegas, where he demanded that Sammy be allowed to perform in certain hotels and be paid what other stars were paid. Although Frank’s racial humor at Sammy’s expense seemed to some observers to be insensitive and condescending, Sammy shrugged it off. After all, he knew that when it really counted, Frank stood up for him against the widespread racism that had plagued him earlier in his career.

  JFK

  Senator John Fitzgerald Kennedy was a great admirer of the Rat Pack, especially of Frank Sinatra. As Peter Lawford’s brother-in-law (Lawford married into the powerful Irish-American Kennedy dynasty in 1955 when he wed JFK’s younger sister Patricia), JFK had front-row-seat entrée to the Las Vegas festivities on February 7, 1960. He was on the campaign trail and en route from Oregon to Texas on the Caroline, his private plane, with about a half dozen reporters when he decided to accept Sinatra’s invitation and stop off in Vegas for the Rat Pack show.

  Back in the summer of 1959, Frank and Peter had flown to Palm Beach, Florida, to visit with Kennedy patriarch Joe Kennedy. Kennedy had said he wanted their assistance in his son’s presidential campaign, and he told Frank that he wanted him to begin outlining plans for concerts to raise money for the campaign. He also wanted Frank to network with his influential show-business friends to secure their support for his son. Moreover, he asked him to record a theme song for the campaign, and they eventually settled on a reworking of Frank’s song “High Hopes.” There would probably be other favors in the future, he told Frank. That was fine with Sinatra; he was eager to help JFK get elected.

  For his part, JFK always looked forward to socializing with Frank. He enjoyed witnessing Frank’s wild antics, sharing his exciting women, and partaking in as much show-business excess and Hollywood gossip as possible. When Peter married Pat Kennedy, the couple purchased a mansion in Santa Monica and JFK became a regular visitor, often entertaining women on the premises.

  * * *

  After the Summit’s engagement at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas ended on February 16, 1960, the fellows took a train to Los Angeles, where they finished Ocean’s 11. Then it was back in the studio for Frank on March 3, 1960, to cut the Nice ’n’ Easy album with the Nelson Riddle Orchestra. Nice ’n’ Easy would prove to be a big album for Sinatra at Capitol, artistically and commercially. Originally it didn’t even have his name on the cover, just his very recognizable face. The public was so starved for Sinatra at this time that the album shot straight to number one on the charts. It was an easygoing, relaxed project, artistically right on the nose for the moment, charming and engaging.

  For the rest of 1960, Frank Sinatra and John F. Kennedy continued their friendship. JFK even spent a weekend in 1960 at Frank’s home in Palm Springs after his narrow victory over Nixon. Afterward, a proud Frank had a plaque mounted on the door with the inscription “John F. Kennedy Slept Here November 6th and 7th 1960.”

  Frank felt that JFK was the right candidate for the White House. Not only did he respect his politics, but he was excited by the notion of having a pal in such a high place. JFK had even mentioned the possibility of Sinatra becoming ambassador to Italy, which seemed like an unlikely possibility even to Frank, but did make him smile. Always a devoted Democrat (“I’ve been campaigning for Democrats ever since I marched in a parade for Al Smith when I was a twelve-year-old kid,” he liked to say), he would campaign tirelessly for Kennedy, raising money by performing at concerts, calling in favors, and as one associate put it, “by just being Frank.”

  Stark Duality

  In 1960, Nancy turned twenty, Frank Jr. sixteen, and Tina twelve. They were growing old enough to travel and didn’t have to wait for Frank to visit them in Beverly Hills. They would go to see him in Palm Springs. Nancy Sr. would pack suitcases for them and they would spend a week in the desert during the summer with Frank on Wonder Palms Drive (soon to be redubbed Frank Sinatra Drive). Frank’s place was located on the seventeenth fairway of the Tamarisk Country Club. Nancy would usually accompany the children, or sometimes Dolly and Marty if they happened to be in town from the East Coast.

  It was always a big thrill not only for the kids but for Frank whenever the entire family would descend upon him in the desert. At around this time, he had expanded the property from just a small house to a virtual compound. Not only did he add rooms and bathrooms to the main house, but he also built another home on the property with its own four bedrooms, eight bathrooms, and swimming pool. The kids called it “the Christmas Tree House” because it was so traditional, with its wood-framed architecture, not at all like the main house, which was all glass and metal.

  “Palm Springs Frank” was a lot more fun than “Beverly Hills Frank,” and his children knew it. In the desert, their father just seemed relaxed and happier. To their delight, he would spend as much time with them as possible, playing all sorts of games in one of the two pools under the scorching sun. Sometimes he would pile them all into his jeep and take them on bumpy rides through the desert. Or he’d take them on expensive and fun shopping sprees.

  Now that Nancy was a young woman, Frank enjoyed taking her to a small dress shop on Palm Canyon Drive and telling her she could have anything she liked. She would spend an hour proudly modeling different outfits for him, and Frank would wait for as long as it took until she found just the perfect ensemble. Nothing was too good for his eldest child, whom he once bought a pink Thunderbird convertible. He had it delivered, wrapped with an enormous pink bow.

  Trying to also treat Frank Jr., Sinatra would take him to a local music store. There, the two would thumb through the albums and talk in depth about music, comparing their likes and dislikes. Frank Jr. would then pick out a few records by favorite artists—usually family friends, like Dean or Sammy. (Frank Jr. hated rock and roll, just like Dad.)

  It didn’t take much to please Tina. All she wanted was alone time with Daddy. She could curl up in his lap for hours, watch television with him, and be the happiest little girl in the world.

  Getting them all together in the kitchen, Frank would make steamed rice with chocolate bits, a treat Dolly used to prepare for him when he was a youngster in Hoboken. His kids loved it.

  Dinners were always a big Italian-American event when the family was together in the desert. His spaghetti sauce—which he called “gravy,” the way they did back in Hoboken—would simmer with pork chops all day long, the distinctive smell wafting through the main house. If Nancy was present—and she usually was—she would be the one to make the meatballs. Spaghetti that night would be perfectly cooked by Frank, al dente.

  “Let’s go sit by the pool,” Nancy would usually suggest to Frank after dinner. He would smile and nod. Then the two of them would pull up side-by-side lounges and watch a perfect desert sun, chatting quietly. Meanwhile, their children would watch from a safe distance. “In my mind, they just seemed absolutely perfect for each other,” Nancy Jr. would recall. “I would sit and wonder why they weren’t together all
the time. He seemed like her best friend.”

  Sometimes during the week, Tina might act up and her mother would discipline her by swatting her across the butt. She would squeal and cry, and then get over it. It meant little to her, but it was something Frank hated. “You shouldn’t hit her,” Frank would tell Nancy. “Oh, that’s not hitting her,” Nancy would explain. “That’s just spanking.” She knew, however, that Frank was sensitive to any kind of physical parental discipline because of the way his parents had smacked him around when he was young. He would never lift his hands to his children, ever. That he seemed to take Tina’s side in these kind of disputes just made her want him to be around more often.

  One day, Tina just came out and asked the question foremost on her mind. “Why can’t we just be together all the time, Daddy?”

  Frank looked down at her and then scooped her into his arms. “Because it doesn’t work like that, Pigeon,” he said, using his nickname for her. “That’s not the way our family works.”

  “But other families work like that,” she protested.

  “But they’re not as happy as we are,” Frank said. “Now, are they?”

  Tina thought it over. It didn’t quite seem right to her. However, he was her dad, and in her eyes he was never wrong.

  Frank’s relationship with Tina and Nancy was always easy and effortless. But Frank Jr., also known as Frankie, was a different story. There was just always something a little off between father and son, and no one could quite understand it. Frank could be so abrupt and short with Frankie, some in the family were reminded of the way Marty had treated him when he was a kid. “Take time and get to know him,” Nancy would tell Frank. “What for? I already know my kid,” Frank would say in protest. To imply otherwise was to suggest that he wasn’t a good father. Even though he knew he had his inadequacies and never fooled himself into thinking he didn’t, he still didn’t like it being brought to his attention.