Our plan was to rename the hotel Johnny Carson’s Aladdin and leverage his commitment to appear at the hotel a set number of days every year to attract other investors. Hey, if he was working in town, why not own the hotel where he worked? The best potential partner to join Carson’s effort was the National Kinney Corporation, a New Jersey conglomerate. Kinney came to the deal late but with plenty of money, and things looked very promising. But on the verge of completing the deal, Johnny and I were blindsided by events that seemed disastrous then but pretty hilarious in hindsight.
We met with Andrew Frankel, then the CEO of Kinney. Ed Nigro was to run the hotel and casino, Jack Eglash would become entertainment director, and Johnny would be the headliner and namesake for the moribund hotel. Many stories have appeared on the subject of Carson and the Aladdin Hotel. For Johnny the deal had to make sense or he would pass. As it turned out, it didn’t and we passed.
Essentially National Kinney would put up all the money and Johnny would get 20 percent of the hotel. He would have to undergo the process required by the Gaming Control Board to be licensed, but he was prepared to do that.
Given that there were other parties that were interested in buying the casino, the details of our protracted negotiations were kept under wraps as much as possible, and National Kinney’s participation was a closely held secret. We felt that we could freely discuss the subject at home, of course.
Indeed, Johnny and I went over the plans for the formal announcement one morning in his living room. We knew there were people around, but we surely didn’t think anyone was paying attention. Were we wrong! Shortly after breakfast, Joanna Carson phoned her brother, Peter Ulrich, and told him about the casino plan. Ulrich bought 2,000 shares of National Kinney, which he sold over the next three months at a profit of around $5,000. Joanna also told another friend, who bought 1,000 shares of National Kinney the next morning and then flipped them several days later for a small gain. Joanna, apparently the CNBC of her generation, also discussed the deal with Judy, who told her father, who bought 5,000 shares, which netted him a profit of about $5,000. A lawyer in my firm also bought about 5,000 shares of the stock. He was reprimanded and fired.
Today middle school children know about the laws against insider trading, but the stock market was a foreign country to most people in 1980, and neither Judy nor Joanna knew the rules, and neither Johnny nor I ever thought to talk to them about it. Trading stock had never been one of their interests. But after the average number of shares in National Kinney traded daily on the American Stock Exchange jumped from 7,000 to 100,000, the Securities and Exchange Commission thought a discussion was in order. None of the traders in our little circle bothered to deny what they had done. Why would they? They thought it was not only legal but also very clever. They had no idea that this was the sort of thing that led to prison stripes. Very quickly they settled with the SEC and returned their profits to the original stock owners after receiving a good slap on the wrist. Johnny found it galling to find his pristine national reputation soiled by such a boneheaded escapade, but in a way, it was lucky that it was so foolish; no one believed that Johnny or I could be involved in or sanction something so foolish.
In the meantime, a strong competitor for the hotel had emerged: the pop singer and Las Vegas stalwart Wayne Newton. Newton had a large and loyal following. Known as Mr. Las Vegas, he symbolized every aspect of the desert destination: the glamour, the glitz, the flash. What’s more, Newton filled theaters every night for forty weeks a year (Johnny filled theaters, too, but he performed only on weekends). Prior to this point, neither Johnny nor I thought Newton was a serious competitor. The sellers and their partners would be carrying the note for the sale, which obviously meant that they wanted to turn the project over to the buyers who had the soundest finances and the most promising upside. Johnny’s name on the hotel and his commitment to play there every year carried enormous weight. When we realized that Newton’s group was as strong a contender as Johnny’s, we worked very hard to finalize the deal with the bankruptcy trustee.
Over the years, Johnny had been the subject of threats, and in the course of reporting them, we developed a rapport with some special agents from the FBI. At around that time, one of them called and asked to meet me. Johnny happened to be performing in Vegas at the time, so I invited the agent to come up from LA to talk and stay for the show. We met in Johnny’s dressing room at Caesars.
“Do you know who Vincent Alo is?” the agent asked. “Jimmy Blue Eyes?”
I didn’t really, but I was beginning to form a hunch, based on my observation that members of the bar, the medical profession, and the clergy seldom attracted such colorful nicknames. Soon I realized that I was more on target than I knew. Alo was a prominent member of the Genovese crime family in New York. He was a close associate of Lucky Luciano, and he later ran casinos in Florida and Cuba with Meyer Lansky. The Manhattan district attorney, Robert Morgenthau, called him “one of the most significant organized crime figures in the United States.”
“Did you ever see The Godfather Part II?” the agent asked me. “The character Johnny Ola? He’s partially based on Alo, except Johnny Ola got whacked.”
Alo was in his mid-seventies and supposedly semiretired, the agent told me. “But not really. Alo is lurking behind the scenes at National Kinney.”
“How? What’s he doing?”
“If I were you, I’d find a way to get Carson to back out of the deal with them.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “We’re pretty far along. We’re ready to name the interim CEO.”
“Look, let me be clear. You could name the Reverend Billy Graham as interim CEO, and the Gaming Commission’s never going to give Kinney a license,” the agent assured me. “Never. And Johnny will be embarrassed when the deal is rejected.”
Of course, the agent was right. And it was the sort of stain that could never be removed because Johnny could never prove that he wasn’t associated with criminals. And in Johnny’s case, the absurd insider trading case would only fuel the flames. “Fuck it,” Johnny said when I described the details of our meeting. “I don’t need the press to pick up on this. Call Kinney and tell them we’re out!”
When Newton and his group later acquired the Aladdin, news reports held that they beat out Carson for the hotel. Not true. Wayne and his group were the only bidders; Johnny had withdrawn with no hard feelings. As time went on, however, Johnny became increasingly annoyed that he was being portrayed as having lost out to Newton. He then started doing lame, stupid Wayne Newton jokes. Newton called me on numerous occasions to get Johnny to cut the jokes. I felt Johnny was unfair and I understood where Newton was coming from. However, the jokes became a recurring monologue that didn’t end until Newton confronted Carson. In a story he has related many times over the years, most recently on Larry King Live, Newton says he went to Burbank without an appointment and barged into Johnny’s office. “Freddy de Cordova was in the office with him,” Newton says. “I walked in, unannounced. I said to Freddy, I said, ‘Would you excuse us, please?’ He was so shocked that he did get up and leave. And I said to Mr. Carson, ‘I don’t know what friend of yours I’ve killed, I don’t know what child of yours I’ve hurt, I don’t know what food I’ve taken out of your mouth, but these jokes about me will stop and they’ll stop now or I will kick your ass.’” According to Newton, Johnny responded, “I’m your biggest fan!” To which Newton replied, “Don’t give me that crap. I am here to straighten out whatever your problem is. And whichever way you want to straighten it out is fine with me.” After I left Carson’s employ, I ran into Wayne, who told me of his NBC visit. Newton is a big guy, and Johnny was not in the best of shape at that time. It would have been no contest had they scuffled. But regardless, I don’t blame Wayne for being pissed. Eventually the jokes stopped but not soon enough to soothe Wayne’s ego.
As it turned out, Johnny never did work in Vegas again.
After the Hogoboom hearing, weeks passed in silence. At first, I wa
s in agony waiting for the decision. Johnny, with his shows and his performances to fill his mind, never seemed to think about it. No doubt he calculated that whatever happened, NBC needed him more than he needed them. Maybe he felt that worrying was what he paid me to do for him. Eventually it passed into the back of my mind. Then Judge Hogoboom called.
We convened at the Hillcrest Country Club. Adjacent to Beverly Hills and Century City, just a few blocks from Fox Studios, the club is the headquarters of the Westside Jewish establishment in Los Angeles. Among its Jewish and non-Jewish members were movie moguls like Marvin Davis; major agents; performers like George Burns, Jack Benny, as well as Frank Sinatra, and Sidney Poitier; prominent businessmen such as Bill Belzberg and Bob Recht; and bankers and attorneys, including Fred Richman.
We convened in a small private dining room, sitting around the table, the same four people who had attended the trial. After a career of litigation involving so many lawsuits that reached their climaxes in courtrooms designed to awe, it continues to strike me as ironic that the most momentous decision of my career was handed down in an airy dining room. Pleasantries were briefly exchanged, and then Judge Hogoboom began to speak.
After summarizing the facts and the opposing arguments, he got to the point. “I recognize that Mr. Carson most recently signed a three-year contract with NBC. Under the terms of this contract, it unambiguously has two years to go. However”—when Mickey heard that word, he visibly sagged—“under the law as delineated in Section 2855 of the California Labor Code, the seven-year statute is inviolate. Mr. Carson had no contractual obligation to NBC after October 1, 1979, which marked the end of his seven-year contract for personal services.”
By the time the judge completed the short recitation of his ruling, Rudin’s face had gone completely white. I have a strong competitive instinct and, for a lot of reasons, I was thrilled to win. But admiring and respecting Mickey as much as I did, I can’t say I relished his distress.
The announcement of the verdict had taken only a few minutes. It was near lunchtime at Hillcrest, and it put on an excellent spread. Under the circumstances, though, breaking bread might have been a little awkward. We thanked Judge Hogoboom, and we hurried back to our offices to share the news.
Johnny was, in his low-key Midwestern way, elated. He knew that a whole new world of opportunity was opening up for him, but it was going to take a while to fully sink in. I suppose I expected some sort of World Series moment, complete with champagne. Instead he thanked me and resumed his routine.
Fortunately, five minutes after I got off with Johnny, and entirely by coincidence, Edgar Rosenberg called. He didn’t know and couldn’t have known that the decision had been announced, but he knew the general timetable of things and had been checking in regularly, if only to keep reminding me of ABC’s ongoing interest.
“Edgar,” I said, “this is in strictest confidence. You’re the first person besides Johnny to know. As of an hour ago, Johnny Carson is a free man. And a free agent. Let Fred and Elton know that we can now talk.”
“That’s fantastic!” Edgar responded. “You’ve pulled off the coup of the century. Carson has got to be very grateful to you.”
“Gratitude is a rare commodity,” I replied. “Let’s just say he’s having a nice afternoon.”
Then Edgar delivered a message I believe he’d patiently been waiting to deliver for weeks. “Look, ABC knows that you and Johnny are going to Wimbledon and then the South of France. When you and Johnny are near the Mediterranean, they’d like to take you both for a cruise on their yacht to discuss in detail the proposal they outlined at my house.”
“Sounds great,” I said. “Why a yacht?”
“They think it will be better to have the meeting in international waters,” Edgar said.
“International waters? Edgar, what’s all of this cloak-and-dagger crap? We could meet in Macy’s window if we wanted to.”
“Maybe ABC’s lawyers specialize in maritime law,” said Edgar.
We didn’t hear immediately from NBC after the Hogoboom decision, which, upon reflection, was pretty smart on their part. There was no contract now in effect, but Johnny had made a commitment to remain until the end of 1980. One of the few advantages the network had was that it could lay back and wait to see what we wanted or what their rivals were offering.
Besides, Johnny was starting to feel better about NBC, even before the ruling. Silverman and the other execs were putting a lot of effort into recultivating their relationship with Carson, buttering up the king with gifts and considerations and perks that amounted to state-of-the-art superstar treatment. Silverman’s shrewd appointment of the affable, intelligent Brandon Tartikoff to be NBC’s point man in dealing with Carson began to pay off. Like all executives who achieve this rank, Silverman had a very healthy ego, but he didn’t let it get in the way of success. He saw that he and Johnny were not a congenial pair, and he found somebody who could do the job. Johnny’s feelings about the network began to soften. Now that he no longer had to stay, it was starting to seem possible that he would.
But there was still that Mediterranean cruise in the offing.
8
1979–1980: Clear Sailing
WITH A CONTRACTUAL obligation to NBC no longer hanging over his head, Johnny’s resentment toward his Tonight Show duties was swiftly evaporating. Now that he was not actually compelled to do the show, much of his old gusto returned. He was also tremendously excited about the plans we were formulating about how to organize the new Carson enterprises. But there was no hurry on our part, and as June rolled around, everything was taking a backseat to the upcoming holiday.
Vacations had never been that important to Carson, but he loved the experience of his first trip to London and the Riviera in 1976 (the heat notwithstanding). Afterward, whatever else was happening in the life of Johnny Carson, those three vacation weeks in late June and early July were sacrosanct. One might think that having successfully experimented with foreign travel, Johnny might have been open to other destinations, but that was not the case then: the man who valued familiarity in his social life extended the principle to his vacations. All the trips were substantially the same, with only minor deviations: the first week spent in the South of France at Hôtel du Cap in Cap d’Antibes, a hotel that has represented the height of elegant seaside luxury since the 1870s. During the second week, we would fly to London for three to four days to attend the semifinal and final tennis matches at Wimbledon. Once a champion was crowned, it was back to Hôtel du Cap. And he always insisted that I, as his lawyer and friend, come along, and that I, like he, bring my wife. Yeah, it was brutal. But for eleven years in a row we toughed it out. The biggest change came about halfway through the eleven summers, when each of the married couples divorced.
Among the aspects of the holiday that Johnny most loved was the annual novelty of becoming a face in the crowd. In the States, he was one of the most familiar people in the country, easily among the most recognized. This meant that he was frequently approached and always watched, and there is a fair amount of discomfort that comes from the feeling of never being alone. In France or Britain, though, only Americans knew who he was, and they usually were polite and kept their distance. Europe allowed Johnny to remember how a normal American (admittedly, a normal American with a ton of money) was able to live his life.
This year was different, if only in one respect: our business with ABC. In order to get us into international waters for our meeting, which they felt was advisable—again, I’m not sure what admiralty lawyer offered that opinion—ABC had chartered Lord Lew Grade’s yacht Cartigrey. This yacht had been described by one guest as “not larger than an aircraft carrier”; it was designed to impress the natives—of whatever country—and it did.
Johnny was a free man now, so there were no limits on how ardently he could be wooed, and ABC was making damn sure they were doing it in style. Getting on the Cartigrey at the port of Antibes felt more like arriving on the deck of a naval vessel rat
her than a mere civilian boat. Crew and captain were handsomely uniformed, fitted out to what seemed like British Navy standards. Guests were piped aboard.
It was early afternoon, and Johnny and I were greeted topside by a small delegation from ABC. It was the same group that I had met at the Rosenbergs’ home. At its head was the network’s president, Elton Rule, a near legend in the television industry for having hauled ABC out of last place and onto the top, increasing the network’s earnings twelvefold along the way. An army officer who had fought at Leyte and Okinawa, the bulbous-nosed Rule had a kindly face, a hard-charging personality, an acute intelligence, and a reputation for extraordinary effectiveness.
Joining Rule were three other major figures in the company: Fred Pierce, the head of the television division, who had a wide beaky nose and an intense manner; Tony Thomopoulos, the son of Greek immigrants who had worked himself up to become the head of ABC Entertainment; and Gary Pudney, the energetic, eager-to-please vice president in charge of talent and special projects. Gary held the same portfolio of duties that Dave Tebet did at NBC, meaning that his job was to charm, to schmooze, to entertain, and to always, always, always keep the talent happy. In this case, Pudney took the job a step further and devoted a tremendous amount of attention to Joanna as well, no doubt hoping that in the midst of pillow talk, she might throw her favor toward ABC. Rule, Pierce, and Thomopoulos also took time to court her, something no NBC executive with the exception of Dave Tebet had ever bothered to do. Judy and I were carefully looked after but the main draw was the Carsons.
We cast off and sailed into the Mediterranean, cruising along the Côte d’Azur to Monte Carlo. The wooing part went on for more than an hour and then Rule and his cohorts made their pitch. The particulars were the same as those kicked about earlier in the year at the home of Joan Rivers and Edgar Rosenberg. But with no contract over Johnny’s head now, we could discuss anything and everything freely. As we talked, it became clear that as a business opportunity, the sky was no longer the limit.
Johnny Carson Page 14
