When I Stop Talking, You'll Know I'm Dead Part 6

I said, "What, am I bothering you?"

You were never supposed to challenge the Colonel in front of his people. He believed it undermined his authority.

He shouted, "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm eating my breakfast," I told him. "I want to be alone."

"Oh, you want to be alone?" he said. "Good. Be alone. You're fired!"

"I'm fired? No problem. You owe me a million dollars for this tour so far. Let me have my million bucks, and I'm gone."

Of course, I did not want to get fired, but I knew he would never give me a million dollars.

He stormed over to my table. "All right, big shot, follow me."

He acted like he was taking me to his room for the payout. We got up there, a stuffy motel suite, bed unmade, clothes everywhere. He walked to the bureau, opened the swinging doors and there, inside, he had made up a shrine to the Buddha. There were candles and incense set around a gold sculpture of Buddha, with his belly and grinning face and grand fleshy ears. The Colonel started lighting the candles.

"What the h.e.l.l is happening?" I asked.

"We have to ask the Buddha what to do," he said.

He rubbed the Buddha's belly. He was such a con man. He said, "Tell me, O great Buddha, do you think we should keep Jerry Weintraub? Or should we let him go?"

He closed his eyes, as if he were meditating, communicating with the sages, then said to me, "The Buddha hasn't made up his mind yet."

The Colonel mumbled something, leaned in as if he was listening, then said, "It's the opinion of the Buddha that if you apologize in front of the boys all will be forgotten and it will be as it was before."

"I'm not apologizing," I said. "Tell that to the Buddha."

"You're not apologizing?"

"That's right. Tell the Buddha."

The Colonel closed his eyes, mumbled, nodded.

"The Buddha is very angry," he told me. "The Buddha says, 'Take Jerry Weintraub to the airport.' "

He blew out the candles and closed the cabinet. We went down to the van. The boys rode along. We got on the highway. I had my luggage and everything. We drove through town, past the arena. The Colonel was watching me, waiting for me to buckle. I did not buckle. I stared straight ahead. We saw the first signs for the airport. "All right, all right," he said. "Pull over."

The van stopped; the Colonel jumped out.

"Come on," he told me. "We need to talk."

He said, "Look, Jerry. You have to apologize. You have to say you were wrong. In front of everybody. All these boys work for me, and what you are doing can destroy everything."

"But I wasn't wrong," I told him. "I just wanted to have my breakfast alone."

"It's important to me that you apologize," he said. "Do it for me and later on I will do something for you."

"Fine," I told him. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say that you are sorry, that you made a mistake, and that you shouldn't have done what you did."

"But I didn't do anything."

"It doesn't matter. Just say it."

We got back into the van and went to the arena. When we got out, with all the boys standing around, the Colonel said, "Jerry has something he would like to say."

"I am sorry," I told them, "I made a mistake, I should not have done what I did, and I will never do it again."

But I used that promise, the Colonel's price--"Do it for me and later on I will do something for you"--many times over the years. There is a lesson in this: Let the other guy save face with his people, but keep score.

Years later, the Colonel was living in Las Vegas, working as an advisor to Hilton Hotels. He was a great man, and still he died like most men die, little by little, then all at once. He had a stroke on January 21, 1997. He was eighty-seven years old. I was a pallbearer at his funeral and gave a eulogy, paying my respects to one of the last great showmen, and, more important, to a mentor and a true friend.

Old Blue Eyes.

Working with Elvis made me rich, taught me show business, made me a player. I did not have to hustle quite as much. Once you've established yourself, you can, to some extent, let business find you. You become a beacon, a door into a better life. "Can you do for me what you did for Elvis?" In other words, people seek you out.

One afternoon, as I was reading through contracts, or whatever--I mean, who can remember?--the telephone rang.

"h.e.l.lo."

"Is this Jerry Weintraub?"

"Yes."

The voice on the other end touched a sweet spot in the back of my brain. I knew it, but was not sure from where.

"Jerry, you and I need to talk business."

"Who is this?"

"Frank Sinatra."

"Oh, come on," I said. "Who is it really?"

"This is Frank Sinatra, Jerry, but I want you to call me Francis."

Now, you have to understand, for me, yes, there was Perry Como, and the Beatles, and the Four Seasons, and Elvis, but Sinatra was it. Head and shoulders above the rest. He was my idol, who I went to see when I was not working, when I was low down and in need of a pick-me-up, and when I was flying high and wanted to celebrate. I was in love with this man, or the man he was in his music, before I ever shook his hand. More than just a performer, he was a symbol. He was Vegas and the high life, the epitome of cool, but also one of us, a kid from Hoboken, who struggled on the same streets and dreamed the same dreams. He had been challenged but persisted. He was tough, too, and did not let himself get pushed around. He was Maggio in From Here to Eternity, From Here to Eternity, for G.o.dsakes! In short, he was you as you dreamed you might be. By the early seventies, when I knew him, he was beyond the recklessness of youth, the ups and downs, Ava Gardner, the feud with Warner Bros. He was in the highest realm of show business. He was royalty. Then there was his music, how he wrapped himself up in each song and turned everything into an anthem. His records became the soundtrack of your life. To this day, if you look in my car, you will find only Sinatra CDs. Which is why, when the call came like that, out of the blue, I wondered if I was being hoaxed. for G.o.dsakes! In short, he was you as you dreamed you might be. By the early seventies, when I knew him, he was beyond the recklessness of youth, the ups and downs, Ava Gardner, the feud with Warner Bros. He was in the highest realm of show business. He was royalty. Then there was his music, how he wrapped himself up in each song and turned everything into an anthem. His records became the soundtrack of your life. To this day, if you look in my car, you will find only Sinatra CDs. Which is why, when the call came like that, out of the blue, I wondered if I was being hoaxed.

"Yes, Mr. Sinatra."

"Please, call me Francis."

"Okay, Francis. How can I help you?"

"I want to meet."

"Great. When?"

"Look, kid, when I say I want to meet, that means now."

"Where?"

"Go to the Santa Monica airport. My plane is waiting. It will bring you to Palm Springs."

"I would love to, Mr. Sinatra. But it's the middle of the day. I have meetings."

"Call me Francis."

"Okay, Francis."

"Now, do what I say. Go to the airport. You will be home in time for dinner."

"Yes, Francis."

I drove to Santa Monica, got on the plane.

A driver picked me up on the runway in Palm Springs. We drove through hills studded with wood and gla.s.s houses, each turned, like a flower, toward the sun. Sinatra met me at his front door, shook my hand, brought me in. He was slender and handsome, always with a half smile, always fixing a drink, his words commented on by his famously blue eyes, which, unless he was angry or depressed, and he got very depressed, seemed to be saying, "Can you believe our lives? Can you believe how much fun we're having?" Let's say he was wearing chinos, white loafers, silk socks, and a V-neck sweater--the man could dress. We talked. This was 1972. Frank had "retired" the year before. It was one of the many retirements he announced then unannounced. He went in and out of the ring more times than Muhammad Ali. The real champions are torn: They want to go out on top, leaving an image of their best selves lingering before the public, but cannot stand to stay out of the fight.

Frank tapped my knee. "Look, Jerry," he said, "I've seen what you've done with Elvis. Very impressive. I'm thinking of coming out of retirement. Do you think I can play those same kind of rooms?"

"I don't see why not."

Of course, I would not put Sinatra in the exact same rooms where Elvis was singing. These were different performers. Elvis was for the ma.s.ses, for the people in the little towns between the big towns, the great crowds that filled the fields of the state fair. Sinatra was for the Italians and Jews, for the city people. He was urban. But the point remained--I could put Frank into new joints, bigger joints, the sort of arenas where crooners had never performed.

"Well, Okay," said Sinatra, "let's say that happened: Where would you start me?"

"Frank Sinatra? Well. Frank Sinatra has to open at Carnegie Hall."

I said this quickly, decisively, as if there was no other answer; a sense of certainty is what management is selling.

"Well, yes," said Sinatra. "Carnegie Hall sounds interesting."

He stood up, walked around the room, shaking the ice in his gla.s.s. "Okay, good," he said, "let's go with this."

"Go with what?"

"I want you to book a tour," said Sinatra. "I want you to handle this tour as I come out of retirement."

I got quiet, looked out the windows.

"What is it, kid?" asked Sinatra.

I said, "Look, Mr. Sinatra, I don't want you to take this the wrong way..."

"Francis, please. My name is Francis Albert Sinatra."

"Okay, Francis, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I have heard, just being around, talking to people, that sometimes, now and then, and again, don't take this the wrong way, you don't show up--you make the date, but don't turn up for the show."

He put down his drink, turned, and looked at me--his eyes were not humorous anymore, but icy blue. We didn't know each other, and, looking back, I suppose I was accusing him of being unprofessional. He said, "Are you crazy, coming into my house, talking to me like that? What's wrong with you?"

I said, "Look, no disrespect, Francis, but that's what I heard. And my career is just getting started. And I'm doing great. I'm a millionaire already. And I don't want to get into something I can't handle."

And he pointed his finger at me, and I'll never forget this, and said, "Here's what we're going to do. You and I, the two of us here, we're going to shake hands. And we're going to promise. I'm never going to disappoint you. And you know what, kid? You're never going to disappoint me, are you?"

I said, "No, Francis, I will never disappoint you."

And we shook hands, had another drink, and that was it. Once Frank Sinatra, excuse me, Francis, made a decision, it stayed made. He was loyal, a great man. Being accepted by Sinatra, entering his circle, that fraternity of knock-around guys, Dino, Jilly, Sammy, was one of the honors of my life. It was also one of the best possible credentials. It was Old Blue Eyes telling the guy at the desk, "Take care of him--he's one of mine."

We opened at Carnegie Hall. I had ditched my cowboy hat and jeans for a tux. I had slipped out of Elvis Country into Sinatra Land. This is another part of the job: being able to cross frontiers, move from culture to culture, making everyone believe you are a fully committed citizen of each. The curtain was called for 8:00 P.M. P.M. This was a black tie deal. Celebrities up the wazoo. Everyone was there. I'm not going to give you a list, but close your eyes and think of who was big in the 1970s: Well, they were there. I was backstage at 7:59. The house was empty. The people were in the street or in the lobby, fashionably late. You call the show for 8:00, they arrive at 8:35. New York. I'm staring through the curtain, wondering what kind of delay we're looking at, when there's a tap on my shoulder. It's Frank--excuse me, Francis--in his tux, dapper as h.e.l.l. This was a black tie deal. Celebrities up the wazoo. Everyone was there. I'm not going to give you a list, but close your eyes and think of who was big in the 1970s: Well, they were there. I was backstage at 7:59. The house was empty. The people were in the street or in the lobby, fashionably late. You call the show for 8:00, they arrive at 8:35. New York. I'm staring through the curtain, wondering what kind of delay we're looking at, when there's a tap on my shoulder. It's Frank--excuse me, Francis--in his tux, dapper as h.e.l.l.

"Jerry," he said, "it's eight P.M. P.M. Let's go." Let's go."

"Yeah, but, Frank, the house is empty--no one is sitting down."

"Believe me," he said, "it will be like magic: When I start singing, they will be in their seats."

He turned, walked on stage, hit the first note, and BAM, the house was full.

On that first tour, I learned something new almost every night. Watching Sinatra work an audience of twenty thousand, take them up, bring them down, leave them in a kind of ecstatic high helped me in the movie business later on. It taught me how to structure a story: act one, act two, act three. Where did I go to school? Not to Harvard, Princeton, Stanford. I went to the school of Sinatra. I sat in his cla.s.s every night. And while I was sitting there learning, I was making millions of dollars.

But the best part of working with Sinatra was not the tours, or the concerts, or even the money. It was the friendship, the camaraderie, the sense of being in it with the boys, the Chairman and the rest of the Rat Pack. When Frank was in LA, we were at Chasen's three nights a week, lighting it up, drinking and laughing. It was always a party. You knew where it started, but not where it would end. One night, we met at Chasen's and the next thing I know we're at a poker table at Frank's house in Palm Springs, playing big stakes. The game went on and on. At some point, George Hamilton came in. He was a friend of mine. He said, "Jerry, the house across from me is being sold in foreclosure. Thirty thousand. You should buy it. You won't have to rent anymore. But you have to buy it today."

"George, can't you see I'm in the middle of a game?"

"Yeah, sure, but it's a h.e.l.l of a deal."

"You've seen this house?"

"Yeah, it's a beauty."

"Okay, if it's so great, buy it."

I write a check for thirty thousand, at least that's what they told me, because I forgot all about it a minute after it happened.

A few months later, Jane went to the desert to look at houses. We rented every winter. She found something she liked, then called our accountant to get money for the deposit.

"Why are you renting?" he asked her. "Jerry owns a house in Palm Springs."

She called me in a rage: "What the h.e.l.l is going on? The accountant tells me you own a house in Palm Springs. How dare you! You have a girl set up down there? How dare you do this to me!"

I said, "What? No, no. That's crazy, absolute bulls.h.i.t, not true. I own nothing in the desert."

I called the accountant. "What is this craziness?" I asked him. "You're telling Jane I own a house in Palm Springs? What's wrong with you?"