When I Stop Talking, You'll Know I'm Dead Part 7

"But you do, Jerry."

"Do what?"

"You do own a house in Palm Springs."

"I do not. You're out of your mind."

"Jerry, you do. You bought it last season."

And when he said this, I had a fuzzy recollection of the card game, George Hamilton, and the rest. So we got the keys, went down, and checked it out. And you know what? George Hamilton was right. It was terrific, a sweet little house with a pool and a view of the hills. We stayed there for twenty years.

Wherever you went with Sinatra, you were surrounded--by fans, by politicians, by celebrities, and yes, by mobsters. A lot has been made of this, but there was nothing much to it. If you were in show business, there really was no avoiding the Mafia. They were in the music industry, operated the nightclubs. They loved Frank, but they had no real place in his life. They came around for the same reason everyone else came around: because it was fun to be around Sinatra. The fact is, as much as these guys loved Sinatra, they loved Dino more. He was their guy, big and handsome and charming as h.e.l.l. When it came to Dean, women would lie down and open their legs. It wasn't even a question of, "Should I?" "Maybe it's wrong?" They just did it. It was his manner, his way. He was Peck's bad boy. The gangsters swarmed around him. He worked as a blackjack dealer in the Beverly Hills Club in Cincinnati. Dean's whole philosophy was that everybody on the other side of the table is a sucker. Whoever he was dealing to was by definition a sucker. And when he got on stage, everybody in the audience was a sucker, too. That's why he sang the way he did, c.o.c.ky and nonchalant--because he was singing to the suckers. He couldn't believe people actually paid to hear him.

Most of that mob stuff was just rumor or misunderstandings. I will tell you a story: In the late seventies, I had a great idea for a show. Sinatra performing with Count Basie and Ella Fitzgerald. We would open on Broadway, then tour. We went through rehearsals, built sets, all the rest. Then, just before we were to open, word came down: The musicians are going to strike. The theater district will go dark. Did Sinatra care? Of course not. To him, it meant another night at 21. But for me, it was a disaster. I had a lot of my own money in the show. I would lose it all. I went around like a madman, meeting officials and union reps, trying to explain: Look, we're not a Broadway show. We're a concert that is opening in a theater on Broadway. There's a difference. We should get an exemption from the strike. Look, we're not a Broadway show. We're a concert that is opening in a theater on Broadway. There's a difference. We should get an exemption from the strike.

After twenty hours of this, I was sitting in a room outside the office of the union boss. I was spent, beat, wiped out, exhausted, undone, about to give it up. Just then, the door opens and out comes a woman, all done up, legs from here to here. She says, "Jerry? Jerry Weintraub?"

Uh-huh?

"Don't you recognize me, Jerry? I went to school with you. P.S. 70 in the Bronx."

"Oh, yeah," I say. "Of course, wow, you look fantastic!"

"I wish I could say the same about you. You're a mess. What's wrong?"

So I tell her the whole story--the show, the strike, how the show should not be part of the strike, and how a lot of the money in the show belongs to me, her friend from P.S. 70, Jerry Weintraub.

She takes me into the office of the union boss. He's not there. It's just me and her. She picks up the phone, makes a call. She gets the boss on the line. I can picture him, floating in his pool in Westchester or something, his wife and kids all around, his city-side honey suddenly ringing on the phone.

"I know you said don't call here, but I am sitting with an old friend from the Bronx, Jerry Weintraub, and what is happening to him and his show is just not fair... He needs an exemption... So I'm just gonna sign your name."

Which is how I walked out with that magic piece of paper. The next day, the story was all over the tabloids: Look what Frank Sinatra has pulled off with his mob connections.

Sinatra was not without flaws. He was a human being, after all. He had his problems and insecurities like the rest of us. You had to monitor his mood. He was usually happy Rat Pack Sinatra, but sometimes he fell into a funk. You never really knew what you were going to get. Now and then, he suffered bleak, dark, low-down moods--you had to throw him a rope and haul him back to the surface. If you really cared about him--and I loved the guy, it should be obvious--you had to be prepared, on occasion, to pull him out of the hole.

So here's a story: One day, I was at home, early in the morning, reading the paper, when the phone rang. It was Frank. Francis. He sounded down. He was calling from Vegas. It was 9:00 A.M. A.M. there. He had a regular gig at Caesars and was staying in a suite on top of the hotel. He never went to sleep before 6:00 or 7:00 there. He had a regular gig at Caesars and was staying in a suite on top of the hotel. He never went to sleep before 6:00 or 7:00 A.M. A.M., which meant he had been up all night, drinking and brooding on the roof of the hotel, where he had his own swimming pool. Could I hear all this in his voice over the phone? Yes. My job is reading people, keeping them level, and, when necessary, hip-checking them back onto the sunlit track.

"You sound terrible," I said. "What's wrong?"

"Depressed, Jerry," he said. "Depressed."

"Why? What's going on?"

"I can't do it anymore," he said. "The same thing, every day and night, going down to that same theater and singing the same songs to the same crowds, 'Fly Me to the Moon,' 'Chicago,' I just don't care."

What was Frank? Sixty? Sixty-five? No, younger. Late fifties, but he seemed old to me, a man with a lifetime behind him. It was 1974. I was a kid. It was just the beginning. I got on a plane for Vegas that afternoon, took a cab to Caesars, sat on the roof, staring at the heat shimmers dancing over the flats. Frank talked. He had a drink in one hand, a smoke in the other, double fisted, his voice full of fatigue, but his eyes sparkled. He told me how unhappy he was, bored of this whole business of night after night and song after song.

"Maybe I need a rest," he said.

"It's not a rest you need," I told him. "It's a new hill to climb."

This was Frank's nature. He was at his best when he was battling, fighting, struggling against all those fools who told him he had bitten off too much, gone too far. "You're bored," I explained. "You need a challenge."

"All right," he said, "what do you have in mind?"

"I have a great idea," I told him, "but I don't want to talk about it until I've had time to really put it together."

"No, no, what is it?" he asked. "You've got to tell me."

I said, "Look, I really do have a great idea, but I need a few days."

Of course, I did not have a great idea. I had no idea at all, but I knew that Frank needed a great idea less than he needed the prospect of a great idea, the promise of an event that would lift him out of his funk.

He said, "Tell me, Jerry. You've got to tell me."

So I started talking, improvising...

"Were going to do Madison Square Garden," I said.

"Yeah, so what?" said Frank. "We've done Madison Square Garden before. What's so great about that?"

"Now wait, Frank, hold on, let me tell you how we're going to do it..."

I kicked my voice up a notch, going into full ringmaster mode.

"... We're going to do it live, Frank! Live! Live!"

"Yeah, so what? We're live every night. That's show business."

"Yes, but we're never live like this," I said, "on every television in America and all across the world."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah..."

And now that I had gotten the thread I was gone.

"And let's do it in the center of the Garden," I told him, "on the floor, in a boxing ring."

"A boxing ring? What are you talking about?"

"I'll tell you what I'm talking about. You're the heavyweight champion of the world, Frank. You hold every belt in the world of entertainment. The number-one singer in the world. No challengers, no one even close. So let's do it in a ring, and make it like a heavyweight t.i.tle fight, and invite all the people who go to heavyweight t.i.tle fights, because they're your fans. And let's get Howard Cosell to be the announcer. Yeah, wow, I can hear it!"

"Hear what, Jerry? What can you hear?"

"I can hear Howard Cosell. He's ringside, his hand over his ear, announcing it as you come down the aisle, climb through the ropes and into the ring: "Ladies and gentlemen, live from Madison Square Garden. Jerry Weintraub presents 'Sinatra, the Main Event.'

"And here's the best part," I told Frank. "No rehearsals."

"No rehearsals."

"No rehearsals. You just get there on the night of the show, and sing your songs, and do your thing, as fresh and spontaneous as can be--like a heavyweight t.i.tle fight. Frank Sinatra Live!"

"The Main Event" was one of the great concert events of the age, Sinatra, in a ring in the center of his town, singing the story of his life, and this is how it began, on the roof of Caesars, Sinatra depressed and brooding, Weintraub talking and talking.

When we got to New York, Sinatra checked into a suite in the Waldorf Astoria and I went to the Garden to set this thing up. Live? In every house in America, in every nation on earth? What was I thinking? Live? In every house in America, in every nation on earth? What was I thinking? The project had grown quickly--too quickly. It started as a concert broadcast on TV, but there was now a record and a film. And we had five days to pull it off. Just like that, I had three hundred people working for me. By the second day, I was feeling pressure. By the fourth, I was in a mild panic. By the fifth, I was out of my mind. What had started as a ploy to snap Frank out of his depression had turned into a major deal--handled wrong, it could turn into a major embarra.s.sment. The project had grown quickly--too quickly. It started as a concert broadcast on TV, but there was now a record and a film. And we had five days to pull it off. Just like that, I had three hundred people working for me. By the second day, I was feeling pressure. By the fourth, I was in a mild panic. By the fifth, I was out of my mind. What had started as a ploy to snap Frank out of his depression had turned into a major deal--handled wrong, it could turn into a major embarra.s.sment.

At such times, I become obsessed with details. That's where G.o.d is, so that's where I go, with my notebook and phone numbers and head full of ideas. The people, the angles, the chairs--I wanted to get everything exactly right. I hired Roone Arledge, who was then head of ABC Sports and ABC News, to produce the broadcast. I hired Don Ohlmeyer, who ended up being president of NBC, and d.i.c.k Ebersol, who later ran NBC Sports, and still does.

We built the boxing ring, arranged the seats, rehea.r.s.ed the camera moves, intros, and exits, everything ch.o.r.eographed to a fraction of a second. Commercials were a major issue. We were supposed to break six times in the hour, and needed a system whereby Frank would know when to close out a song and when to start back in. Also, which songs would work the best as hooks, and which would work the best as lead-ins to new segments. Simply put, I needed Frank at the Garden for a rehearsal. But when I called his room at the Waldorf, there was no answer, nor a return call, day after day. Finally, on the morning of the show, a secretary answered.

"This is Jerry Weintraub," I told her. "I've got to talk to Frank."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Mr. Sinatra is not available."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?" I said. "We have a show tonight! At 8:00 P.M. P.M., we go live around the world."

"I'm sorry," she said "but he's indisposed."

Click.

I kept calling, but he never got on the phone.

At 2:00 P.M. P.M. a note arrived from Sinatra. It was his set list, the songs he planned to sing. It was ridiculous, absurd. I could not believe what was on there. "Crocodile Rock," "Disco Inferno." a note arrived from Sinatra. It was his set list, the songs he planned to sing. It was ridiculous, absurd. I could not believe what was on there. "Crocodile Rock," "Disco Inferno."

To h.e.l.l with this! I jump in a cab and head over to the Waldorf.

I went through the lobby, up the elevator, knocked on the door. I was in a panic. Clearly, Sinatra was not. He was, in fact, sitting in his bathrobe, smoking a cigarette as he read the newspaper. I went over, holding the set list.

"What is this?" I asked.

"What's what?" he said.

"These songs."

He laughed. His hair was pushed back and every part of him glittered. His funk had clearly lifted. "Forget the list," he said. "I wanted to see you, and figured that list would get you here quicker than a phone call."

"Okay, great," I said, "why did you want to see me?"

"Because you've been calling every eight minutes. What do you need, Jerry?"

"Well, I'll tell you," I said. "We have a live show in five hours, Frank. I need you to come to the Garden."

"No, Jerry, you said no rehearsal, remember? Live?"

"Yeah, I remember, but this thing has grown."

"Don't worry, Jerry."

Sinatra obviously had a plan in mind, but he was not sharing it with me.

"Well, I am worried," I said. "Can't we just do a quick run-through?"

"No, Jerry, no rehearsal. That's what you said. I will be there when the show starts. That's when you need me. Not before."

At 7:30 P.M. P.M., his limo pulled into Madison Square Garden. The streets were filled with scalpers and fans--and that special electricity only Frank could generate. He had arrived with a police escort, sirens, flashing lights. He climbed out, straightened his tux, tossed away a cigarette, took my arm, and asked, "How you doing, kid?"

"Not great," I said.

"We'll fix that in a minute," he told me. "First, remember to tell your wife, Jane, to get in the car when I start singing 'My Way.' I want to go by Patsy's and pick up some pizzas for the plane."

So that was what he was thinking about--not the show, not the commercial breaks, not the slender thread that was holding me above the flames of oblivion, but the pizzas he would eat on the way back to Palm Springs.

As we were walking to the dressing room, his entourage trailing behind us, he said, "Okay, Jerry. What's the problem?"

"We're going to commercial six times in this hour," I told him, "and this is a live show, and you don't know when to break."

"Jerry, is there a kid around here with a red jacket?" he asked.

"I'm sure we can get one," I said. "Why?"

"Have a kid in a red coat stand up ringside with a sign that says 'five minutes,' " he said. "When I see him, I will start 'My Way.' "

"Okay," I said, "but what are you going to do during the six commercial breaks?"

He said, "I'm going to sing, Jerry. That's what I am going to do. When you go to commercial, I will be singing and when you come back, I will still be singing. That's live."

He taught me about spontaneity that night--this, too, helped me as a film producer. Live, let it happen. There's never a better take than the first: Sinatra knew that in his bones.

If you watch a tape of the "Main Event," you see me and Sinatra walk out of the dressing room and down the aisle side by side. He is Muhammad Ali and I am Cus D'Amato, the trainer, the cut man, the voice in the ear, saying, "You are the champ! It's yours! Now get in there and murder the b.u.m!" I was, in fact, as white as a sheet, shuffling as if to my own funeral. You hear Cosell going though his routine: "... Here, coming through the same tunnel that so many champions have walked before, the great man, Frank Sinatra, who has the phrasing, who has the control, who knows what losing means, who made the great comeback, and now stands still, eternally, on top of the entertainment world..." Just before we went out, when the music started Sinatra leaned over me--well, I was a lot taller than Frank, so he looked up, but it felt like he was leaning over me, you know? And he asked, "How you doing now? Better?"

"No," I said, "not better."

"What the h.e.l.l's the matter with you?" he said.

"Frank"--or Francis, that's what I said--"this is going live around the world, we have not rehea.r.s.ed and have no markers or breaks. It could be the end of my career."

He pinched my cheek and said, "Listen, kid. You got me into this, and I'm going to get you out."

And he went through the ropes, and the music started, and it was all Frank from there. He was a genius. He held the crowd in his hand. "The Lady Is a Tramp," "Angel Eyes," "My Kind of Town," they poured out of him like Norse sagas. When he sang "Autumn in New York," it was as if he were leaning on a bar, spilling his guts out to a late-night, Hopperesque bartender.

Who thought this could work, intimacy in an arena filled with thousands and thousands of people, but he pulled it off. He turned the Garden into a shadowy, three-in-the-morning, Second Avenue saloon. You could have heard a pin drop.

Then, just like that, when it seemed no more than a moment had pa.s.sed, the kid walked the aisle in the red coat and Frank launched into "My Way." The ignition was turned in the limo, the pizzas were pulled from the ovens, the plane raced down the runway, and we were laughing and eating pepperoni as the jet climbed into the stratosphere.

Firing Ferguson.