[Rat Pack 11] - I Only Have Lies for You Read online

  Relieved, I sat back and allowed the waiter to set down our plates, and fuss with our silverware and napkins. When he had everything to his liking he stood up straight.

  “Anything else, gents?”

  “Just keep those martinis comin’, Pally,” Frank said, “and make sure they stay dry.”

  THREE

  I woke the next morning with my mouth feeling stale from all the martinis Frank and I drank. No sooner had I opened my eyes when there was a knock on the door and a voice calling, “Room service.”

  “I didn’t order room service,” I called back.

  “Compliments of Mr. Sinatra.”

  I crawled out of bed and staggered to the door. When I opened it a smiling bellboy wheeled in a cart and asked, “On the balcony, sir?”

  “Sure,” I said, “the balcony’s fine.”

  He wheeled it out there, then headed for the door.

  “Hold on, I’ll give you--“

  “I’ve already been taken care of, sir,” the bellboy said. “Have a good day.”

  After he left, I went to the bathroom to wash my face and hands, try to wake myself up, and rinse out my mouth. Then I went out to the balcony to see what Frank had sent me. The odd thing was, aside from the taste in my mouth, I was fine. I didn’t even have a hangover.

  I lifted the cloche on the table, expecting to see bacon-and-eggs or pancakes. Instead, what I saw was a perfect martini sitting there. Next to it was a card, and on the card was written: “Hair of the dog.”

  Very funny.

  Thankfully, next to the cloche was a pitcher of ice cold orange juice. I poured myself a tall glass, drank half of it down. It was the best cure for what ailed the inside of my mouth.

  I carried the rest of the glass to the rail and looked down at the beach. The bunnies were already out in their bikinis, pursued by males of varying sizes, shapes and ages. They could have their pick. This was their jungle, and many of them came down to Miami Beach for this very hunt. But the game was capture and release, nobody was looking for anything permanent. It was the same for the men, but they weren’t as well armed.

  And when the time was right, they all left the beach and came to Vegas. The games were different there, so were the rules, and the ammunition was money.

  But I wasn’t hunting. I was just along for the ride, and to get away from dice, roulette wheels and cards for a while. Not that I would mind a little catch and release, myself, if it came along.

  I finished my juice and went back inside, leaving the martini to sit where it was, like a little time bomb.

  Frank and I agreed not to meet for breakfast, because we’d be having lunch with Jackie Gleason—who, Frank assured me, could eat or drink both of us under the table.

  I decided to shower and go downstairs for a little breakfast by myself. Just something light that wouldn’t interfere with my lunch, but that would assure I wouldn’t have to start drinking on an empty stomach. Because, having lunch with Frank and Jackie Gleason, I knew there would be a lot of drinking.

  ***

  The same car was waiting in front of the hotel. I got there before Frank. The driver was leaning against the car, and when he saw me he opened the back door.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He remained outside until, moments later, Frank came rushing out. He spoke briefly with the driver about whether or not he knew where a certain restaurant was, and then the driver opened the door for him to climb in next to me. Funny, it didn’t matter that I’d known him personally now for about five years and that we were friends, there were times I was still intimidated in his presence. On this morning I had to pinch myself. I’m in a limo in Miami Beach with Frank-fucking-Sinatra!

  “Hey, Clyde,” he greeted me.

  “’mornin’, Frank.”

  “Sleep well?”

  “Pretty good,” I said. “This place has mattresses as good as the Sands.”

  The driver got in and we were off.

  “Jackie’s lookin’ forward to meetin’ another Brooklynite,” Frank told me.

  “I hope I don’t disappoint him.”

  “Believe me,” Frank said, “you’re still more Brooklyn than anythin’ else. After all, I’m still Frank from Jersey.”

  Yeah, right, I thought.

  ***

  When we entered the restaurant we were greeted expansively by a maitre d’ who showed us to a table where Jackie Gleason was waiting. Jackie stood and opened his arms wide for Frank to rush into. The two friends greeted each other enthusiastically, and then Frank introduced me.

  “Jackie, this is my buddy, Eddie G..”

  “Eddie G.,” Jackie said, sticking his hand out. “I’ve heard a lot about you, pal!”

  We shook hands. Jackie’s handshake was firm, and he didn’t put his weight behind it. He looked just the way he looked in “The Hustler,” when he played Minnesota Fats to Paul Newman’s Fast Eddie Felson, 4 years ago. Those were two of the most riveting performances I’d ever seen on the screen at one time. Throw in George C. Scott, and you had a film that was a tour de force. At least, that’s what some of the critics said. I always said it was a helluva flick.

  “Glad to meet you, Jackie,” I said. “I’ve heard lots of stories about you, too.”

  “I bet you have. Come on, fellas, siddown, siddown.”

  We all sat. I’m not going to name the restaurant because it was never well known that Jackie ate there, but it was a Chinese place. A waiter came over and Jackie ordered for the table.

  “I hope you fellas don’t mind me orderin’, but I’ve got a helluva hangover, and this is the best cure for it!”

  I’d never heard of Chinese food for a hangover, but it was okay with me. I had spent most of my early life growing up in Bensonhurst and Bay Ridge. Bensonhurst had huge populations of both Italians and Chinese.

  “Whatever you say, Jackie,” Frank said, and I just nodded in agreement.

  I was seated at a table with two of the biggest personalities in Hollywood. I didn’t expect to get a word in, edgewise. But I was wrong, and it was only because they made sure I was included.

  “Frank tells me you’re from Brooklyn, Eddie.”

  “That’s right,” I said, “but not the Brooklyn you’re from, Jackie. Bensonhurst and Bay Ridge are a long way from growing up in Bed-Stuy.” Bed-Stuy was predominantly a black neighborhood and known to be a rough one.

  “Bedford-Stuyvesant was a tough neighborhood, all right,” Jackie said. “But I knew since I was six that I wanted to be on stage, so although I hung out a lot in schoolyards and pool halls, I spent most of my time on stage, not in the streets.” Jackie actually grew up at 328 Chauncey Street, which was the same address as the Kramdens on The Honeymooners.

  Since Jackie was apparently a regular at the restaurant, food came fast and furious. Before long, the entire surface of the table was covered with platters and we dug in.

  Frank and Jackie caught up but were sure to keep me involved in the conversation.

  “We still gotta get you on the show, Frankie,” Jackie said, at one point.

  “You don’t need me, Jackie,” Frank said. “You got Dino this week, and with him, you got two great crooners on the show.”

  I knew Frank was referring to Frank Fontaine, who played “Crazy Guggenheim” on Jackie’s show, during the “Joe the Bartender” skit, and was a fine singer.

  “Fontaine’s great,” Jackie said, “but he ain’t you, Frank.”

  “We’ll just have to work it out with our schedules, Jackie,” Frank said. “It’ll happen.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s what you always say.”

  “Hey,” Frank said, “didn’t I do you a favor last time I was here? Remember?”

  “Sure, throw that in my face,” Jackie said, with good humor.

  Frank looked at me. “I’m at the Fountainbleau last year, and Jackie calls me and says he wants me to do him a favor. He wants me to appear on a radio talk show with this kid, Larry King.”
/>
  I’d never heard of Larry King, but I didn’t interrupt.

  “The kid’s got it,” Jackie said. “Larry’s a good interviewer.”

  “That’s the thing,” Frank said. “He was a good interviewer, but I did that show for you, Jackie, so don’t say I don’t pay my debts or do favors for my friends.”

  I didn’t know if it was payback or a favor, but I knew that in spite of the fact that Jackie was a year younger than Frank, he had been something of a mentor to Frank. He had also helped Frank get through the whole Ava Gardner fiasco when Frank’s career was at a low in ‘50 and ’51, before “From Here To Eternity” brought him all the way back.

  Jackie and Frank stopped arguing about Frank being on Jackie’s show, and then Jackie and I started telling Brooklyn stories for the rest of lunch.

  FOUR

  Jackie and Frank were both a few years older than I was, but the Brooklyn Jackie and I grew up in was still pretty much the same. We had some old hangouts in common, both had spent time at Coney Island (for Nathan’s Hot Dogs), Sheepshead Bay (for Seafood) and Jones Beach (for bathing beauties). The oddest thing was, we both had fond memories of a girl from Rockaway. Luckily, it wasn’t the same girl. His was named Lola Marie Dennehy, and mine was Pepper O’Brien.

  “Is that where Mr. Dennehy comes from in your Joe the Bartender skit?” I asked.

  “You know,” he said, “maybe it is. A lot of my characters are right outta my younger years in Brooklyn.”

  Frank told us about some of his Jersey hangouts, like Atlantic City and the Jersey shore, and then Jackie said he had to leave.

  “They’re rehearsing for the show,” he said.

  “You hate to rehearse,” Frank said.

  “Like the plague, but I gotta stop in and watch. They usually have a stand-in reads my part, but I pretty much ad lib and throw them completely off during the show. It’s a riot. I used to do it on The Honeymooners. Drove everybody crazy, especially the broad who played Trixie, Joyce Randolph.” He started to laugh. “Every once in a while she’d just stand there with her mouth open, dumbfounded, and Art Carney would have to step in and deliver her line. Now there’s an actor. Carney’s aces,”

  “You guys had some chemistry on that show,” Frank pointed out.

  “No different from the chemistry you, Dino and Sammy have on stage, pal.”

  “Speaking of Dino,” Frank said, “you’re gonna have a great time with him. He works the same way you do. No rehearsal.”

  “Should be a ball, then.”

  Jackie insisted on paying the bill, saying we were his guests, and then we all stood up. We walked out front together, where two limos were waiting. Jackie and Frank embraced warmly again, and then the Great One turned and shook my hand again, but this time with more warmth.

  “It was a pleasure to meet ya, Eddie. Nice to see somebody who remembers the old days in Brooklyn.”

  “The pleasure was mine, Jackie,” I told him. “And thanks for a great lunch—both the food and the conversation.”

  “Sure thing, pal.” He turned to Frank and poked him in the chest with a stubby forefinger. “You’re gonna do my show, right?”

  “We’ll set it up.”

  His driver opened the back door and Jackie got in, giving us one more wave. We watched as the limo drove off.

  “He’s a helluva guy, right?” Frank asked.

  “You got that right,” I said. “A funny guy, and watching him pack away the food and the drinks, I can see why Orson Welles named him ‘The Great One.’”

  “Oh there are a lot more reasons than that, let me tell you,” Frank said. “He was like a rock back when I was in the pits, while I was tryin’ to get the part in ‘From Here To Eternity.’”

  We got into the back seat of the limo and the driver ran around, got in and pulled out.

  “Speaking of ‘From Here To Eternity,’” I said, “Whataya got comin’ out next, Frank?”

  “I got two war pictures in the can. None But The Brave is bein’ released this month. I did that with Clint Walker. Jesus, he’s a big sonofabitch—almost as big as your buddy, Jerry. The other one is called Von Ryan’s Express, comin’ out in June. I shot that with Trevor Howard and my buddy, Brad Dexter.”

  “What about that book you were readin’—was it last year?”

  “Oh yeah, that private eye thing,” Frank said. “I’m gonna shoot that next year, with Nick Conte.” Richard Conte’s friends referred to him as “Nick.” “Get this, I’m playin’ a private eye named Tony Rome.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I don’t know if it’ll be any good, but it’ll be fun,” Frank said. “We’re shootin’ it down here, that babe Jill St. John’s in it, and my kid’s gonna sing the title song.”

  “Frank Junior?”

  “Nancy. Gonna be hot, that little lady. She’s got lots of projects comin’ up, including a spot in a film called The Oscar next year. Hey, get this, we’re gonna play ourselves.”

  “Wow, you’re both busy.”

  “That’s the name of the game, buddy boy. What about you?”

  So we talked a bit about my new job as something called “A Casino Host.” It was Jack Entratter’s idea to give me that job last year since so many people were coming to me to solve their problems it was interfering with my work as a pit boss.

  “Sounds good to me,” Frank said. “You know you’re our go-to guy for trouble, and we get ourselves into a lot of trouble.”

  “We goin’ to the Eden Roc tonight?” I asked.

  “You know it,” Frank said. “Smokey’s openin’ tonight, so you better get some rest because it’s gonna be a hot night on stage, and after.”

  “I’ll go back to my room and take a nap,” I promised.

  “Good,” Frank said, “I don’t want you draggin’ us down. This trip is all about havin’ a blast.”

  FIVE

  Sammy killed it.

  The Eden Roc was not as luxurious and over the top as the Fountainbleau, but it was close, having been designed by the same architect, Morris Lapidus. It was located right down the street at 4525 Collins Avenue (The Fountainbleau was at 4441). He designed it in 1954 for Harry Mufson, after Mufson and his partner in the Fountainbleau, Ben Novack, had a falling out.

  Sammy sang, played instruments, did impressions, and then introduced Frank and Dino, both of whom I was sitting with. He called them both up on stage for a little impromptu Summit action (which the Miami Herald the next day referred to as a mini “Rat Pack” reunion).

  Sammy also took the time to introduce Jackie, who simply stood and waved, graciously refusing to join Sammy on stage. He was sitting to my right, with Marilyn Taylor on his left. He introduced us when Frank and I got to the Eden Roc. She was stunning. Her sister, June, was credited by Jackie as the one who helped him overcome his stage fright, so when he got his own show he hired her and her dance troupe to appear on the show. June won an Emmy in 1955 for doing just that; Marilyn was one of the dancers.

  After the show, we went backstage. Sammy hugged Frank and Dino, slapped me on the back and shook hands with Jackie. He was also very gracious to Marilyn. It was a mob scene, with visitors, columnists, and photographers, so we agreed to meet Sammy out front and all go to dinner.

  Jackie supplied a stretch limo to accommodate all of us, and when Sammy managed to get away he joined us and we drove to a nightclub that Jackie frequented. There was a table waiting, and we ate, drank and laughed all night, with nobody able to keep up with “The Great One’s” consumption of food and booze. But we all tried.

  ***

  The next day Frank stayed in all day, working with his band for that night’s opening at the Fountainbleau. Dino and Jackie played golf. They invited me, but I declined. I had played in the past, but it really wasn’t my game. Sammy was at the Eden Roc, working with the band, smoothing out what he thought were some bumps in his opening night. I hadn’t seen any, but he would know much better than I would.

  So I spent the day alone, but Fr
ank, Dino, Sammy and I had all agreed to meet for Frank’s show, and then dinner. I was not a beach person — although I had spent many summer days in the sand at Jones Beach in Brooklyn with friends — but there were too many beautiful women out there not to want to get a closer look. So I put on my swimming trunks and sat in a lounge chair for a few hours, under an umbrella, girl watching.

  I met a pretty divorcee named Fiona Harpe, who was in a lounge chair to my right. While ogling all the young beach bunnies bouncing and jiggling up and down the sand, I would steal glances over at this beautiful redhead in her 30’s. Finally, I sent a drink over once I was sure I recognized what she was drinking: margaritas.

  She smiled and waved a thank you. We ended up moving our chairs closer together.

  “I’m here just trying to get my bearings after a brutal divorce,” she said, “and trying to decide if I want to go back to Chicago or not. Why are you here?”

  “Time off from my job in Vegas,” I said.

  “Oh, what do you do there?”

  “I used to be a pit boss at the Sands, but now I’m what’s called a ‘host.’”

  “The Sands?” she asked, her eyes getting brighter. “Isn’t that where Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin play?”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “I’m actually here with them for Sammy’s opening at the Eden Roc, which was last night, and Frank’s opening tonight.”

  “Omigod!” she said. “I’d love to see that show tonight.” Then she put her hand over her mouth. “Oh! I’m sorry, that was incredibly tacky of me.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I’d love to take you if you’ll have me as an escort.”

  “Oh, God,” she said, “would you, really?”

  After that, I thought we might end up spending a pleasant, exhausting afternoon in her room or mine, but it didn’t happen. But who knew what would occur after Frank’s show that night?

  I promised to pick her up at her door for a pre-show drink later that evening, and we parted ways there on the sand. Not even a lunch together. I watched her walk away, much more enamored of her mature body than with those of the jiggly co-eds on the beach. They were pleasant to watch, but this was the kind of woman you wanted to be in bed with. More “cushiony” than “jiggly.”