As with many parents, Frank had an easier time being a father when his children were young. As Big Frank would stand at the mirror and shave, Little Frank would watch carefully, lather himself up with shaving cream, and do the same thing with an empty razor. Frankie wanted to be just like his father; they looked alike; they had the same mannerisms; they even had the exact same gait. When Frankie was about three and would get sick, his dad would bring a little tray into his room, set it up on the bed, and the two would slurp chicken noodle soup together and watch the puppet show Kukla, Fran and Ollie on a little black-and-white television. Or they would eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and tell each other corny jokes. “I’m about as sick as a kid can ever get,” Frankie once told his father. “I’ll bet you a quarter that tomorrow you feel better,” Frank wagered. “How’s that work, Dad?” Frankie asked. “If you feel better, I’ll give you a quarter. And if you don’t feel better, I’ll still give you a quarter.”
Things changed for father and son when Ava came into the picture and broke up their home. Frankie was about four when Frank left to be with her. As he got older and realized that his father was only going to be around on special occasions, Frankie seemed to take it the hardest. “He felt bewildered and abandoned and quietly traumatized,” was how Tina later put it.
“For any happiness that comes from being the son of a famous father, there is an equal if not greater amount of heartache,” he told the writer Fred Robbins when he was a teenager. “People are afraid of me now because they’re dealing with a name rather than the individual. I’m not famous. My name is famous but I’m not. So, this makes it difficult. Being the offspring of someone who is in the public eye constantly is a lonely existence. I don’t think I have to say any more than that. It’s a very lonely existence. I’ve learned to live without a good many things which are important to people.”
Unlike his sisters, Frankie refused to allow himself to feel too connected to his dad, mostly because the inevitable separation anxiety was too much for him to handle. It was such a great loss, losing Frank to Ava, that Frankie never quite reconciled it. He was a son who needed his father. Short of having him always present in his life, he would make the best of it. He was exactly the way Frank had been with Marty, the same coping mechanisms in place. The difference between the two, though, was that Marty was ever-present, even if not ever-patient.
As a youth, Frank Sr. was outgoing, gregarious, and full of personality; no doubt having Dolly as a mother helped in that regard. But conversely, Frank Jr. was withdrawn and introverted and, ironically enough, more like Marty. At any rate, with the passing of just a few years, the emotional gulf between father and son had widened to the point where by the time Frankie was in his teens they barely communicated. Very soon, Frankie would get in with the wrong crowd in school and find himself arrested for shooting out streetlamps with a pellet gun. After bailing him out, Frank and Nancy would make the decision to send him away to boarding school. His teen years would not be easy.
“Just go out and talk to him,” Nancy said, motioning to their sixteen-year-old son lying by himself in the sun on one of the lounges. According to George Jacobs, who witnessed the scene, Frank shrugged and went outside. He pulled up a lounge and sat next to Frankie and tried to make awkward small talk. From the kitchen, Nancy watched sadly as father and son just lay side by side baking in the hot sun, not saying much to each other.
“Look, I tried,” an exasperated Frank later told Nancy as George Jacobs brought him a shot of Jack Daniel’s. “He doesn’t have anything to say to me. What do you want from me? The kid hasn’t smiled since he was seven!”
“Well, did you ask him about school?” Nancy asked. “He has a new girlfriend. Did you ask him about that? He’s driving a truck for a sporting goods warehouse, you could talk about that! And he says he wants to be a singer like you. Did you ask him about that?” Nancy stopped herself. She could tell that Frank was feeling badly; she wanted to relieve him of his guilt. “Look, at least you tried,” she said in a reassuring tone. “Frankie will come around. Don’t worry.”
It was when his children visited in Palm Springs that Frank Sinatra was more aware than ever of the stark duality of his life. It was as if the serene world that existed when his kids were in town had virtually nothing to do with the chaotic world in which he ordinarily moved. When the two worlds collided Frank did his best to devote himself to the one involving parenthood, not the one involving celebrity. For instance, if his publicist, Jim Mahoney, called to ask him to do an interview with a reporter, he would always decline. Not only did he not want to take time away from the kids, but he actually didn’t want to be reminded of what he couldn’t help but view as his “real” life. This life with his family? For him, this was make-believe.
Though he found it frustrating and maybe even a little painful, in his heart of hearts Sinatra always knew the truth: While he enjoyed being with his children, he was just more comfortable, more himself, when he was throwing back shots with Hank, or when he and Dean were calculating the best way to score a sexy broad in a bar, or when he was in the recording studio working out a complex arrangement with Count Basie. On those occasions when he’d lived up to his obligations as a parent, Frank Sinatra was proud of himself. But then he couldn’t wait to call one of his pallies to see what kind of trouble they could get into, or maybe catch the first thing smoking out of Palm Springs and head for Las Vegas where the real Sinatra could once again hold court.
The Execution of Private Slovik
Frank Sinatra’s relationship with the Kennedys fell into jeopardy in March 1960 when he decided to hire Albert Maltz to write a screenplay for The Execution of Private Slovik, the story of the only U.S. soldier since the Civil War to be executed for desertion. Sinatra planned to produce and direct.
Maltz had been the writer of Sinatra’s Oscar-winning The House I Live In. Since that time, he’d been imprisoned, fined, and blacklisted as one of the so-called Hollywood Ten for refusing to cooperate with the House Un-American Activities Committee. Maltz moved to Mexico in 1951, which was where Sinatra found him. He hadn’t been able to work on a film since 1948. Frank, like a few other Hollywood celebrities, such as Otto Preminger and Kirk Douglas, felt strongly that not only was Maltz’s blacklisting unfair but that any blacklisting was unconscionable. He also felt that Albert Maltz was the man to write the screenplay for Private Slovik.
A huge controversy resulted from Frank’s decision. Newspaper editorials across the country either endorsed or decried—mostly the latter—Sinatra’s bold attempt to break the blacklist. At one point, actor John Wayne said, “I wonder how Sinatra’s crony, Senator John Kennedy, feels about him hiring such a man. I’d like to know his attitude because he’s the one who is making plans to run the administrative government of our country.”
Sinatra, angry at Wayne, bought a full-page advertisement in Variety defending his decision, stating, “This type of partisan politics is hitting below the belt. I make movies. I do not ask the advice of Senator Kennedy on whom I should hire. Senator Kennedy does not ask me how he should vote in the Senate . . . In my role as picture maker, I have—in my opinion—hired the best man to do the job.”
None of this controversy made Joe Kennedy very happy, especially when religious leaders in New York and Boston warned him that Sinatra’s support of Maltz could do damage to his son’s career among Catholics. Joe telephoned Frank and told him he would have to choose: Maltz or the Kennedys. Begrudgingly, Frank chose the Kennedys; he paid Maltz $75,000, the entire amount he had promised to compensate him for his work. “In view of the reaction of my family, my friends, and the American public,” Sinatra said, “I have instructed my attorneys to make a settlement with Albert Maltz and to inform him that he will not write the screenplay for The Execution of Private Slovik.” (Many years later, Frank’s family would say that he and JFK discussed the controversy, and that JFK told him to go ahead with the project. That’s possible, too. In either event, Sinatra canceled the
deal.)
Frank Sinatra never produced The Execution of Private Slovik. However, the story did make it onto television in 1974 as a movie starring Martin Sheen, with a script by Richard Levinson and William Link.
On the Way to the White House
With the Albert Maltz affair behind him, Frank Sinatra continued his diligent campaign for John F. Kennedy. During much of it, JFK’s motorcade was preceded by a sound truck that played a recording of Sinatra’s “High Hopes,” with new lyrics by Sammy Cahn extolling the virtues of Kennedy. This was one of the favors that Joe Kennedy had asked for in his 1959 meeting with Frank. (“Everyone is voting for Jack / ’Cause he’s got what all the rest lack / Everyone wants to back Jack / Jack is on the right track / ’Cause he’s got high hopes . . .”)
Whatever Frank could do for the campaign, he would do no matter how big or small. He unofficially renamed the Rat Pack the “Jack Pack” and started singing about “that old Jack magic.” He gave concerts, made personal appearances, raised money . . . anything he could do.
Of a total of 1,520 delegates, JFK had 700 guaranteed by July, when the Democratic National Convention was to take place. He only needed 61 more votes to win a first-ballot nomination.
On July 10, the night before the opening ceremonies of the convention, Frank worked behind the scenes of a gala fund-raiser, a hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner at the Beverly Hilton in Beverly Hills, attended by twenty-eight hundred people. Many of Frank’s celebrity friends—such as Angie Dickinson, Shirley MacLaine, Peter Lawford, and Judy Garland—sat at the head table with Kennedy. (Jackie Kennedy stayed behind in Hyannis Port; she was six months pregnant and had a history of medical problems associated with pregnancy.) Since it was so well attended, the gala actually required two ballrooms. Sinatra, Garland, Davis, and Mort Sahl performed in both. Later, Frank beamed as he sat at the table with Democratic candidates Stuart Symington, Adlai Stevenson, and Lyndon Johnson. As everyone watched, Frank would go over to Jack and whisper something in his ear, causing Jack to nod vigorously. Then Jack would whisper in Frank’s ear . . . and Frank would laugh heartily.
The next day, the Jack Pack, along with Janet Leigh and Tony Curtis, performed “The Star-Spangled Banner” to open the Democratic convention at the Los Angeles Memorial Sports Arena.
The enthusiasm for JFK was so strong by this time that no one else stood a chance of securing the nomination. It was all but guaranteed when Wyoming gave its fifteen votes to Kennedy. As the crowd cheered and waved flags and Kennedy banners, a jubilant Frank Sinatra told Peter Lawford, “We’re on our way to the White House, pallie. We’re on our way . . .”
The Kennedys Worry About Frank and Sammy
By the fall of 1960, the Kennedys had begun to seriously reconsider the wisdom of Frank Sinatra’s involvement in JFK’s presidential campaign. Jack, Bobby, and even Joe Kennedy had been deluged with mail from people who felt that the family’s relationship with Sinatra was unwise because of the singer’s controversial reputation. There was also significant pressure from Kennedy’s friends and political advisers to distance the campaign from Sinatra. Too many unanswered questions loomed where he was concerned, said the naysayers, primarily about the extent of his involvement with mobster Sam Giancana.
Sam Giancana—Chicago’s Mafia boss—with his Cuban cigars, sharkskin suits, and flashy automobiles, was a dark and dangerous character. He and Frank had met a few years earlier in Miami at the Fontainebleau. Frank was with Ava at the time, and she disliked Sam immediately. It was as if she knew trouble when she saw it. However, Frank became friendly with Sam and gave him a gaudy star-sapphire pinky ring as a gift, which was just what Giancana needed to complete the stereotypical image of a gangster. “See this ring?” Sam told his younger brother, Chuck. “Frank gave me this ring. I’m his hero. The guy’s got a big mouth. But he’s a stand-up guy.”
JFK and Bobby had begun to believe that any association at all with Sinatra might prove risky, especially considering his friendship with Giancana. In fact, now that the primary had been won, the Kennedys were inclined to distance themselves from Sinatra, from Giancana, and from any other characters they felt were unsavory—and to do so before JFK got into the White House. In October, Bobby even suggested damage control where Sinatra was concerned. JFK agreed. Bobby then had his staff check to see just how many photographs actually existed of his brother and Frank posing together with women at various parties. JFK had decided he wanted them found and destroyed. Bobby went a step further; he also wanted the negatives. To that end, a representative from RFK’s office contacted Frank to request that any photographs or negatives that could prove to be embarrassing be sent to the White House immediately. Maybe insulted or maybe just not wanting to be told what to do—or maybe a little of both—Frank decided not to cooperate. Lying, he said that no such photographs existed.
Also going on around this time was the planning of Sammy Davis’s wedding to May Britt, a Swedish actress (born Maybritt Wilkens) in Las Vegas. Joe Kennedy was concerned. Because interracial marriage was still illegal in thirty-one states, Joe feared that Sammy’s marriage would reflect poorly on the Kennedys.
Frank was to be Sammy’s best man, and he didn’t care what anyone thought of it. But Frank, like a lot of broad-minded people at the time, understood that there were racists in the country who strenuously, and sometimes violently, objected to the notion of interracial dating, let alone marriage. He had to agree that it made no sense to court scandal right before the election. Still, when Bobby asked him to talk to Sammy about postponing the ceremony, Frank wasn’t sure how to proceed. But Sammy offered to delay the ceremony himself; he knew the score, and he wanted to save Frank the embarrassment.
“This was when Frank was starting to get pissed at the Kennedys,” said Sammy Davis in retrospect. “Now his political ambitions for Jack were beginning to interfere with his personal friendships, and that was no good. Frank was a loyal friend. They didn’t come no better. You didn’t mess with that. He told me, ‘I’d never ask you to postpone the wedding, Sam.’ And I said, ‘I know that. That’s why I’m doing it on my own. Because I understand.’ Next thing I knew, Peter was on the line. Frank had handed him the phone, he was too broken up to continue talking. ‘This was the right thing to do, Charlie,’ Peter told me. ‘Frank’ll never forget this.’ ”
Still, despite these unpleasant moments, no one was happier than Frank Sinatra when JFK won a narrow victory over Richard Nixon on November 8, 1960.
On November 13, Sammy married May, with Frank as his best man. “At my bachelor party Frank cornered me and said, ‘Instead of paying you a straight salary for Sergeants 3, I’m going to give you $75,000 plus 7 percent of the action. It should be worth a quarter of a million to you. You’ll have a wife and kids to think about.’ That’s the kind of guy he is. It’s easy for others to say that it was only right for Frank to be there, he’s your friend. But it’s not that simple. With all of his independence, he still knew how quickly a career can go down the drain on the whim of the public. For him to state, ‘This is my friend and you can stick it in your ear if you don’t like it’ and putting in jeopardy everything he’s worked for, lost and regained, and must fight to hold on to, it was not a minor thing for Frank to be my best man.”
Matters got dicey once again when Frank and Peter Lawford were asked to produce and star in JFK’s preinaugural ball. From the outset, Joe Kennedy told Frank that Sammy was not to attend the ball because of the public fervor that had, as predicted, occurred over his marriage to May. It didn’t matter that Sammy had also campaigned hard for JFK. There seemed to be nothing Frank could do to convince Joe that Sammy should be allowed to perform. Then he couldn’t get in touch with JFK to discuss the matter with him. Kennedy ducked his calls.
Frank called one White House aide, demanding that he find a way for him to talk to Kennedy. The aide refused, knowing that JFK didn’t want to discuss the Davis matter with him. Frank said, “Jack owes me, man. He doesn’t know how much he owes me. And n
ow this?”
“I tried to tell him, ‘No, Frank, it’s not Jack. It’s Bobby. Bobby’s the one responsible,’ ” said the Kennedy aide.
“But Frank was adamant that it was Jack’s fault. ‘Shit!’ he said at me. ‘I can’t believe this. How can Jack do this to Sam?’” It made no sense. After all, Mahalia Jackson, Harry Belafonte, and Nat King Cole were on the bill. “Just the fact that he’s a buddy of mine should be enough for Jack to call an end to this,” Frank insisted. “Sam loves Jack. You can’t allow this to happen.”
However, Sammy’s affection for JFK didn’t matter at this point; he was still barred from attending the festivities. Frank was so upset, he wasn’t able to make the call to Sammy himself; he had Peter Lawford do it.
No doubt Frank was beginning to see the light: He didn’t have quite as much influence on “Chickie Baby” as he thought he had, and maybe even deserved. Kennedy was a politician and, as such, a pragmatist who wasn’t about to allow emotion to get in the way of his political ambitions. That Sinatra didn’t realize this earlier demonstrated his complete lack of understanding about how things work in the political world.
Frank and Sammy never discussed the matter of the ball. They were pals and always had an understanding about these things; it was understood between them that there was nothing that could have been done. “He told me it was one of the few times he ever felt at such a loss,” recalled his daughter Nancy. “He had been able to protest and bring about change. But now he could do nothing. Yes, he could have backed out of the inaugural, but Sammy would never have allowed that.”
Part Eight
AND MARILYN MONROE
Sinatra Page 27
