Sinatra

by J. Randy Taraborrelli

  “The pictures got into the hands of the press,” Mickey Rudin explained of the photos of Sinatra and the mobsters. Actually, the photos fell into the public domain as soon as they were used as evidence in the investigation. One of them would end up as a two-page spread in Life in January 1979. More bad publicity. “Who took that shot, anyway?” Frank asked when he saw it. “We shoulda stopped that joker from taking that picture.”

  Even his friend President Reagan, when asked about Frank’s ties to the mob, could offer no defense, saying, “We’ve heard those things about Frank for years. We just hope none of them are true.”

  Frank knew that he had to address some of the more enduring questions about his character. His legacy had always mattered to him, which is why he had devoted so much care and attention to the music he would leave behind. That he was thought by many to be of ill repute was a perception he wanted to change once and for all.

  Sinatra Sets the Record Straight—His Way

  In the spring of 1980, Frank Sinatra found a way to finally address his critics: He applied for a Nevada gaming license. He knew the application would open him up to heavy scrutiny, which was precisely why he did it. He had lost his original in 1963 when Sam Giancana got into a fight with Phyllis McGuire’s road manager at the Cal-Neva Lodge. As the result of the subsequent investigation, Frank abandoned his license just before it was to be revoked. Now he wanted it back. However, in order to get it, he would have to submit to a full investigation of his life by the Nevada Gaming Control Board. According to the Nevada statutes regarding the approval of a gaming license, it can only be approved for “a person of good character, honesty and integrity, a person whose prior activities, criminal record, if any, reputation, habits and associations do not pose a threat to the public interest.” Frank welcomed the examination, even though he was told it would cost him $500,000. “Bring it on,” was how he put it at the time. This would be his opportunity to address, once and for all, in a public forum stories and rumors that had dogged him for years.

  But the vetting process may not have been as thorough in Frank’s case as it would have been for a less-connected individual. Most observers at the time agreed that he would be granted the gaming license regardless of the testimony offered at the hearings; he was so closely aligned to the Reagans and to other political figures and had raised so much money for charity, especially in recent years, that it seemed unlikely that the investigation would go against him. The Nevada Gaming Control Commission did not have subpoena power and therefore could not compel certain known underworld players and Sinatra associates, like Judith Campbell Exner, to testify. Sam Giancana was dead, so at least he would not be coming forward. In fact, most of the guys Frank considered friends, like Skinny D’Amato, were gone now. Instead, the committee was assisted by Mickey Rudin in locating people Frank and Mickey felt could best vouch for Sinatra’s good character. Therefore this venue felt to Frank like a safe place for him to address questions and possibly reshape his image in front of a national audience. To most observers, though, it would feel like a carefully stage-managed PR effort.

  Sinatra gave his testimony on February 11, 1981, in Las Vegas’s city council chambers. He was accompanied by Barbara, various attorneys and publicists, and Jilly Rizzo. Earlier in the day, Frank’s close friend Sheriff Peter Pitchess of Los Angeles County testified that “if Mr. Sinatra is a member of the Mafia, then I am the godfather.” A Catholic priest and Sinatra family friend, Father Herbert Ward, testified that Frank “gave glory to God.” While CNN cameras broadcast the proceedings live, Gregory Peck, Kirk Douglas, and Bob Hope, in sworn affidavits, testified to Frank’s generosity and benevolent spirit. Las Vegas Sun publisher Hank Greenspun insisted that the incident that caused Sinatra’s license to be revoked in 1963 was “nothing more than a shouting match” between Frank and Ed Olsen, chairman of the gaming board, now deceased. Mickey Rudin said that the FBI had always been “out to get” Sinatra and pointed out—accurately—that much of the “information” in their official files on Sinatra was rumor and innuendo masquerading as fact.

  Finally, the pièce de résistance: Frank Sinatra’s sworn testimony. This promised to be riveting television, and it didn’t disappoint. Frank, wearing a suit and black thick-rimmed glasses and with notes, documents, and other legal records at the ready, testified that Sam Giancana never had a financial interest in the Cal-Neva Lodge and that “I never invited Mr. Giancana to come to Cal-Neva Lodge, and I never entertained him and I never saw him” on that night in 1963—“or any other night, for that matter.” He further testified that Giancana had never been to Cal-Neva at any other time.

  Sinatra’s testimony was in direct conflict with that of Phyllis McGuire to the committee, on January 27, that Giancana was present at Cal-Neva for the first three to five days of the McGuire Sisters’ engagement. She also testified that Sinatra had broken up the fight between her and her road manager, Victor LaCroix Collins (who, inexplicably, was not called to testify). Sinatra was unfazed by the contradiction. He insisted that he wasn’t even in Nevada at the time, but rather in Los Angeles. However, it was pointed out that eighteen years earlier in 1963, he was on the record as having told Ed Olsen that Giancana was at Cal-Neva. Frank’s mouth became a thin tight line as he explained, “I might have said it. I was frustrated. I was angry. I might have said anything. But if I said it, I didn’t mean it.” He also testified that he could not even recall how he met Sam Giancana.

  Mickey Rudin then testified about the night in question in 1963: “[Sinatra] went back and forth several times [to Cal-Neva from Los Angeles]. I would have to tell you it was my recollection that he was not there when Giancana was present, and I would also have to tell you that I don’t have that much confidence in my recollection. Maybe I fixed in my mind that he wasn’t there and that’s now the story.

  “I do know [Sinatra] didn’t invite [Giancana] and both of us were upset that he was there,” Rudin further testified. “I don’t know if [Sinatra] sent up word or I sent word to tell [Giancana] to leave or if I was even on the premises. I’m a little confused about it, but I do know that neither one of us invited him, and we were unhappy about his being there.”

  Frank testified that he thought he remembered Mickey telling Giancana to leave the premises, but Mickey said he didn’t recall having done that. Frank also testified that he wasn’t aware of any connection between Giancana and the Villa Venice nightclub in Chicago, that Giancana had never asked him to perform at the club, and that it was “just possible” that he saw Giancana while performing there.

  Sinatra’s final word on Sam Giancana: “I never had anything to do with him business-wise and rarely, rarely, socially,” he said, his face darkening. “No connection whatsoever.”

  Sam’s daughter Antoinette Giancana—who was also not called to testify—was unhappy about Sinatra’s testimony, saying later that she and her father were at the Villa Venice every night Frank performed there and that her father and Frank embraced each time they saw one another. McGuire was also angry with Sinatra for disavowing his relationship with her companion, Giancana. “Frank adored the man and then, after his death, turned on him and denied their friendship just to get that license,” she said later. “All the proof of Frank’s friendship with Sam is in the FBI files. It’s all there. Everything.” In fact, even the authorized Sinatra television miniseries produced by Tina (which would not air until ten years later, in 1991) portrayed a close relationship between Sinatra and Giancana.

  There was also some intriguing testimony regarding Frank’s trip to Havana in 1947. Frank testified that his purpose in going was not to meet with any underworld characters, such as Lucky Luciano, but rather “to find sunshine.” In response to the allegation—which seemed to have first been made by Lee Mortimer—that Sinatra brought $2 million to Havana in an attaché case, Frank said, “If you can find me an attaché case that holds two million dollars, I will give you the two million dollars.” He further testified that he had no idea why his name
and address were in Luciano’s possession when the gangster was once searched by Italian officials. And as to the allegation that his early career was financed by mobsters, Sinatra had only two words: “It’s ridiculous.”

  Regarding the photograph of Frank and the group of mobsters who visited him backstage at the Westchester Premier Theater—described by one committee member as “a who’s who and what’s what in the area of organized crime”—Frank explained, “I was asked by one of the members of the theater—he told me Mr. Gambino had arrived with his granddaughter, whose name happened to be Sinatra . . . and they’d like to take a picture. I said, ‘Fine.’ They came in and they took a picture of the little girl, and before I realized what happened, there were approximately eight or nine men standing around me, and several other snapshots were made. That is the whole incident that took place.” Of the gentlemen in the picture, Sinatra said, “I didn’t even know their names, let alone their backgrounds.”

  Afterward, to demonstrate the kinds of photographs that are often taken backstage, Frank displayed a scrapbook of photographs of himself with Gregory Peck and the prime minister of Israel; with his wife, Barbara, and Anwar Sadat; and with inspectors of the San Francisco Police Department, who, Sinatra said, looked like “unsavory guys. If you look at this picture without my telling you [who they are], it’s frightening.”

  The one time Frank seemed to lose his composure came when he was asked about the volatile incident that took place in 1967 between him and Caesars Palace casino manager Carl Cohen, when Cohen cut off his credit and embarrassed him in front of the Apollo astronauts. Frank had been so upset by Cohen’s actions, he took Mia on a terror ride in a golf cart and then confronted Cohen about his actions. He ended up getting punched in the face when he called Cohen a “kike.” When asked about it, Frank snapped, “That was a personal incident, just between the two of us, between two fellas. I’d rather not discuss that. It was something I think has nothing to do with the Sands, Las Vegas, or anyplace.” He added, “A dislike was formed between two people, and there was a scuffle.” The committee members seemed stunned by Sinatra’s heated response. He had so intimidated them by becoming annoyed at their bringing up Cohen that no one dared pursue the line of inquiry. When the subject was quickly changed, it appeared clear to most observers that Sinatra was in charge of the proceedings.

  As to the incident at Caesars Palace in the early 1970s, when casino manager Sanford Waterman pulled a gun on Sinatra, Frank continued to testify defensively: “I came off the stage and went up to Waterman, who was in the pit. I asked for some credit, and he gave me a rough time. I thought maybe he was going senile or something because he had never spoken to me like that before. He put a gun in my rib and said, ‘You’re never gonna hurt me.’ If we hadn’t stopped the people from wanting to take his head off, he would have been hurt very badly that night. We actually saved his life and got him into an office. Because when the people saw him with a pistol in his hand . . . I just whacked his hand and got rid of it.”

  Of the Kennedys, Frank said that he had never attempted to intercede on behalf of Sam Giancana with either John or Robert Kennedy.

  Before this inquiry, Mickey Rudin had turned over what he described as “fourteen pounds” of FBI files that Sinatra and Rudin had obtained under the Freedom of Information Act. Anyone who has ever seen these files, which comprise thirty years of investigation into Sinatra’s life by the FBI, can attest to the fact that they are, at first glance, incomprehensible. It takes months of work to decipher them, given that so many sections and names are redacted to protect certain parties. In the end they can only be used as a road map for further inquiry. They most certainly cannot be used to draw conclusions, because so much of the material found in them is based on hearsay, gossip, and rumor.

  However, perhaps because of their daunting volume, the committee apparently didn’t bother to review them all. They probably reasoned that they knew everything they needed to know about Frank Sinatra—a man who has had more words published about him than probably any other figure in the history of popular entertainment—just based on his press coverage. In retrospect, it would appear that they decided to just go easy on him. There seems to be no other possible explanation as to why the committee seemed so ill-equipped to pin Frank down on any important details or to fully challenge him.

  Stephen Webb, a former FBI agent, explained, “Years had passed, and Sinatra picked the right time to do this little dance with the Las Vegas officials. Too many people were dead, and too much water had gone under the ol’ bridge. No one cared as much as they might have in the 1950s, and to have to read all of those documents, well, forget it. I was one of the guys assigned to go over the paperwork before it was handed over, and I saw for myself what a complete mess it was. I didn’t know what Sinatra was guilty of, and frankly I didn’t care. However, reviewing the boxes of papers that were sent to the committee did nothing to illuminate anything for me. It was one big mess.”

  As expected, at the end of the five-and-a-half-hour testimony, Nevada Gaming Control Board chairman Richard Bunker moved that Frank Sinatra be recommended to the Nevada Gaming Control Commission for a six-month license; the other three commissioners who had interrogated Sinatra agreed. On February 19, 1981, Frank appeared before the Gaming Control Commission and answered more questions for about an hour and a half, again saying that he had never had any sort of association with members of organized crime. The commission gave Frank his gaming license, and did so even without the six-month limitation.

  Frank never used the license. Actually, he didn’t even want it. These 1981 hearings weren’t about the license anyway. “I think I achieved what I set out to achieve,” he told one of his family members after the hearings were over. “There’s nothing else I can do to clear my name.” In the end, he said, he realized that his critics would never truly be silenced. He was willing to let it go, though, now that he’d had his say. He finally had read into the official record exactly what he wanted history to reflect about him. In doing so, he had tried to protect his legacy in his own way, which in the end was what really mattered to him.

  Frank and Nancy Tour Together

  By the winter of 1982, Nancy Sinatra had been retired from the record business for some time. She had married Hugh Lambert and now had two young daughters, Angela Jennifer (A.J.) and Amanda Kate. However, she was not a scion in the sense that money was available to her whenever she needed it. That’s not how the Sinatras worked as a family; everyone was responsible for earning his or her own way. If a desperate situation arose—such as when Nancy and her first husband, Tommy Sands, had separated and she had no place to live—the daughters were more apt to go to their mother for a loan. Nancy Jr. did in fact borrow from Nancy Sr. at that time, and paid her back quickly after she had her first hit, “These Boots Are Made for Walking.” No one remembers Frank Jr. ever having money issues, though; he’d been working since he was a teenager and had never stopped. Tina also found a way to make ends meet. But by the winter of 1981, Nancy definitely needed financial assistance. She wanted to resume her career but, despite having sold millions of records, was not able to secure a record deal. RCA did sign her to a contract to record a duet album with Mel Tillis, entitled Mel and Nancy. An excellent country album, it yielded two minor hits for the duo, “Texas Cowboy Night” (which charted at number twenty-three) and “Play Me or Trade Me” (number forty-three). Today the album is much sought after by Nancy’s fans because it still hasn’t been released on compact disc. Back in the early 1980s, however, it wasn’t enough to jump-start Nancy’s career.

  Not knowing how to proceed, Nancy asked Frank for advice. He suggested that they go out on the road together for about a year. Anytime an artist had the opportunity to work with Frank Sinatra it guaranteed them a tremendous amount of exposure. Plus, from a personal standpoint, the opportunity for Nancy to spend so much time with her father was priceless. She knew that Barbara would likely be on many of the dates as well, but Nancy would just keep h
er distance and hope for the best. This wasn’t about Barbara anyway. This was an opportunity for her to work with her father, a chance to get her career back in gear, and to make money doing it. After it was agreed that she would take her daughters on the road with her as much as possible, Nancy constructed an excellent act, about thirty minutes of pure Nancy Sinatra—her chart hits as well as pop numbers such as Little Anthony and the Imperials’ 1964 classic “Goin’ Out of My Head.”

  The tour opened on March 4, 1982, at Caesars Palace, with Nancy starting the evening, the mime team of Shields and Yarnell up next (later replaced by comedian Charlie Callas), and then the headliner himself, Frank Sinatra.

  One of the more interesting responsibilities Nancy shouldered opening for her father during this tour was a task most people might never even be aware of: keeping those who entered the showroom late from being embarrassed by having the spotlight shine on them while they were being seated. It actually happened quite a bit in Vegas. High rollers, especially, would show up when they felt like it—whether in the middle of Nancy’s performance or during the next act’s show—but never, of course, late for Frank’s set.

  Skilled professional that she is, Nancy, while singing, would see a group of people to her left arrive late and would immediately begin walking to her right, the spotlight following her so that the latecomers could be seated without attention. Then she would see a party arrive to her right and, still singing, would walk to her left for the same reason. Back and forth she would go throughout her set, trying her best to handle this tricky aspect of her job. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was disruptive. Vegas was not necessarily a place where good manners ruled; people would be noisy while making their way to their tables, talk rudely while being seated, and then loudly order drinks once at their tables.

  Nancy had many serious conversations with the management about seating people before her show instead of during it, but to no avail. There was no way, she was told, that management could force patrons away from the gaming tables and into Circus Maximus, the Caesars Palace showroom, in time for the show. When they were ready, the customers would walk in and sit down, and there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it. Nancy was frustrated, but she would deal with it.