hn-classics/_stories/1966/8349523.md

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2014-09-22T06:43:36.000Z	Frank Sinatra Has a Cold (1966)	http://www.esquire.com/features/ESQ1003-OCT_SINATRA_rev_	nl	77			17					1411368216	story author_nl story_8349523	8349523

In the winter of 1965, writer Gay Talese arrived in Los Angeles with an assignment from Esquire to profile Frank Sinatra. The legendary singer was approaching fifty, under the weather, out of sorts, and unwilling to be interviewed. So Talese remained in L.A., hoping Sinatra might recover and reconsider, and he began talking to many of the people around Sinatra—his friends, his associates, his family, his countless hangers-on—and observing the man himself wherever he could. The result, "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold," ran in April 1966 and became one of the most celebrated magazine stories ever published, a pioneering example of what came to be called New Journalism—a work of rigorously faithful fact enlivened with the kind of vivid storytelling that had previously been reserved for fiction. The piece conjures a deeply rich portrait of one of the era's most guarded figures and tells a larger story about entertainment, celebrity, and America itself.

Frank Sinatra, holding a glass of bourbon in one hand and a cigarette in the other, stood in a dark corner of the bar between two attractive but fading blondes who sat waiting for him to say something. But he said nothing; he had been silent during much of the evening, except now in this private club in Beverly Hills he seemed even more distant, staring out through the smoke and semidarkness into a large room beyond the bar where dozens of young couples sat huddled around small tables or twisted in the center of the floor to the clamorous clang of folk-rock music blaring from the stereo. The two blondes knew, as did Sinatra's four male friends who stood nearby, that it was a bad idea to force conversation upon him when he was in this mood of sullen silence, a mood that had hardly been uncommon during this first week of November, a month before his fiftieth birthday.

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Sinatra had been working in a film that he now disliked, could not wait to finish; he was tired of all the publicity attached to his dating the twenty-year-old Mia Farrow, who was not in sight tonight; he was angry that a CBS television documentary of his life, to be shown in two weeks, was reportedly prying into his privacy, even speculating on his possible friendship with Mafia leaders; he was worried about his starring role in an hour-long NBC show entitled Sinatra—A Man and His Music, which would require that he sing eighteen songs with a voice that at this particular moment, just a few nights before the taping was to begin, was weak and sore and uncertain. Sinatra was ill. He was the victim of an ailment so common that most people would consider it trivial. But when it gets to Sinatra it can plunge him into a state of anguish, deep depression, panic, even rage. Frank Sinatra had a cold.

Sinatra with a cold is Picasso without paint, Ferrari without fuel—only worse. For the common cold robs Sinatra of that uninsurable jewel, his voice, cutting into the core of his confidence, and it affects not only his own psyche but also seems to cause a kind of psychosomatic nasal drip within dozens of people who work for him, drink with him, love him, depend on him for their own welfare and stability. A Sinatra with a cold can, in a small way, send vibrations through the entertainment industry and beyond as surely as a President of the United States, suddenly sick, can shake the national economy.

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For Frank Sinatra was now involved with many things involving many
people—his own film company, his record company, his private airline,
his missile-parts firm, his real-estate holdings across the nation, his
personal staff of seventy-five—which are only a portion of the power he
is and has come to represent. He seemed now to be also the embodiment of
the fully emancipated male, perhaps the only one in America, the man who
can do anything he wants, anything, can do it because he has money, the
energy, and no apparent guilt. In an age when the very young seem to be
taking over, protesting and picketing and demanding change, Frank
Sinatra survives as a national phenomenon, one of the few prewar
products to withstand the test of time. He is the champ who made the big
comeback, the man who had everything, lost it, then got it back, letting
nothing stand in his way, doing what few men can do: he uprooted his
life, left his family, broke with everything that was familiar, learning
in the process that one way to hold a woman is not to hold her. Now he
has the affection of Nancy and Ava and Mia, the fine female produce of
three generations, and still has the adoration of his children, the
freedom of a bachelor, he does not feel old, he makes old men feel
young, makes them think that if Frank Sinatra can do it, it can be done;
not that they could do it, but it is still nice for other men to know,
at fifty, that it can be done.

But now, standing at this bar in Beverly Hills, Sinatra had a cold, and
he continued to drink quietly and he seemed miles away in his private
world, not even reacting when suddenly the stereo in the other room
switched to a Sinatra song, "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning."

\[pullquote align='C'\]Sinatra with a cold is Picasso without paint,
Ferrari without fuel—only worse.\[/pullquote\]

It is a lovely ballad that he first recorded ten years ago, and it now
inspired many young couples who had been sitting, tired of twisting, to
get up and move slowly around the dance floor, holding one another very
close. Sinatra's intonation, precisely clipped, yet full and flowing,
gave a deeper meaning to the simple lyrics—"In the wee small hours of
the morning/while the whole wide world is fast asleep/you lie awake, and
think about the girl...."—it was like so many of his classics, a song
that evoked loneliness and sensuality, and when blended with the dim
light and the alcohol and nicotine and late-night needs, it became a
kind of airy aphrodisiac. Undoubtedly the words from this song, and
others like it, had put millions in the mood, it was music to make love
by, and doubtless much love had been made by it all over America at
night in cars, while the batteries burned down, in cottages by the lake,
on beaches during balmy summer evenings, in secluded parks and exclusive
penthouses and furnished rooms, in cabin cruisers and cabs and
cabanas—in all places where Sinatra's songs could be heard were these
words that warmed women, wooed and won them, snipped the final thread of
inhibition and gratified the male egos of ungrateful lovers; two
generations of men had been the beneficiaries of such ballads, for which
they were eternally in his debt, for which they may eternally hate him.
Nevertheless here he was, the man himself, in the early hours of the
morning in Beverly Hills, out of range.

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The two blondes, who seemed to be in their middle thirties, were preened
and polished, their matured bodies softly molded within tight dark
suits. They sat, legs crossed, perched on the high bar stools. They
listened to the music. Then one of them pulled out a Kent and Sinatra
quickly placed his gold lighter under it and she held his hand, looked
at his fingers: they were nubby and raw, and the pinkies protruded,
being so stiff from arthritis that he could barely bend them. He was, as
usual, immaculately dressed. He wore an oxford-grey suit with a vest, a
suit conservatively cut on the outside but trimmed with flamboyant silk
within; his shoes, British, seemed to be shined even on the bottom of
the soles. He also wore, as everybody seemed to know, a remarkably
convincing black hairpiece, one of sixty that he owns, most of them
under the care of an inconspicuous little grey-haired lady who, holding
his hair in a tiny satchel, follows him around whenever he performs. She
earns $400 a week. The most distinguishing thing about Sinatra's face
are his eyes, clear blue and alert, eyes that within seconds can go cold
with anger, or glow with affection, or, as now, reflect a vague
detachment that keeps his friends silent and distant.

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Leo Durocher, one of Sinatra's closest friends, was now shooting pool in
the small room behind the bar. Standing near the door was Jim Mahoney,
Sinatra's press agent, a somewhat chunky young man with a square jaw and
narrow eyes who would resemble a tough Irish plainclothesman if it were
not for the expensive continental suits he wears and his exquisite shoes
often adorned with polished buckles. Also nearby was a big,
broad-shouldered two-hundred-pound actor named Brad Dexter who seemed
always to be thrusting out his chest so that his gut would not show.

Brad Dexter has appeared in several films and television shows,
displaying fine talent as a character actor, but in Beverly Hills he is
equally known for the role he played in Hawaii two years ago when he
swam a few hundred yards and risked his life to save Sinatra from
drowning in a riptide. Since then Dexter has been one of Sinatra's
constant companions and has been made a producer in Sinatra's film
company. He occupies a plush office near Sinatra's executive suite. He
is endlessly searching for literary properties that might be converted
into new starring roles for Sinatra. Whenever he is among strangers with
Sinatra he worries because he knows that Sinatra brings out the best and
worst in people—some men will become aggressive, some women will become
seductive, others will stand around skeptically appraising him, the
scene will be somehow intoxicated by his mere presence, and maybe
Sinatra himself, if feeling as badly as he was tonight, might become
intolerant or tense, and then: headlines. So Brad Dexter tries to
anticipate danger and warn Sinatra in advance. He confesses to feeling
very protective of Sinatra, admitting in a recent moment of
self-revelation: "I'd kill for him."

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While this statement may seem outlandishly dramatic, particularly when
taken out of context, it nonetheless expresses a fierce fidelity that is
quite common within Sinatra's special circle. It is a characteristic
that Sinatra, without admission, seems to prefer: All the Way; All or
Nothing at All. This is the Sicilian in Sinatra; he permits his friends,
if they wish to remain that, none of the easy Anglo-Saxon outs. But if
they remain loyal, then there is nothing Sinatra will not do in
turn—fabulous gifts, personal kindnesses, encouragement when they're
down, adulation when they're up. They are wise to remember, however, one
thing. He is Sinatra. The boss. Il Padrone.

\[pullquote align='C'\]The most distinguishing thing about Sinatra's
face are his eyes, clear blue and alert, eyes that within seconds can go
cold with anger, or glow with affection, or, as now, reflect a vague
detachment that keeps his friends silent and distant.\[/pullquote\]

I had seen something of this Sicilian side of Sinatra last summer at
Jilly's saloon in New York, which was the only other time I'd gotten a
close view of him prior to this night in this California club. Jilly's,
which is on West Fifty-second Street in Manhattan, is where Sinatra
drinks whenever he is in New York, and there is a special chair reserved
for him in the back room against the wall that nobody else may use. When
he is occupying it, seated behind a long table flanked by his closest
New York friends—who include the saloonkeeper, Jilly Rizzo, and Jilly's
azure-haired wife, Honey, who is known as the "Blue Jew"—a rather
strange ritualistic scene develops. That night dozens of people, some of
them casual friends of Sinatra's, some mere acquaintances, some neither,
appeared outside of Jilly's saloon. They approached it like a shrine.
They had come to pay respect. They were from New York, Brooklyn,
Atlantic City, Hoboken. They were old actors, young actors, former
prizefighters, tired trumpet players, politicians, a boy with a cane.
There was a fat lady who said she remembered Sinatra when he used to
throw the Jersey Observer onto her front porch in 1933. There were
middle-aged couples who said they had heard Sinatra sing at the Rustic
Cabin in 1938 and "We knew then that he really had it\!" Or they had
heard him when he was with Harry James's band in 1939, or with Tommy
Dorsey in 1941 ("Yeah, that's the song, 'I'll Never Smile Again'—he sang
it one night in this dump near Newark and we danced..."); or they
remembered that time at the Paramount with the swooners, and him with
those bow ties, The Voice; and one woman remembered that awful boy she
knew then—Alexander Dorogokupetz, an eighteen-year-old heckler who had
thrown a tomato at Sinatra and the bobby-soxers in the balcony had tried
to flail him to death. Whatever became of Alexander Dorogokupetz? The
lady did not know.

And they remembered when Sinatra was a failure and sang trash like
"Mairzy Doats," and they remembered his comeback and on this night they
were all standing outside Jilly's saloon, dozens of them, but they could
not get in. So some of them left. But most of them stayed, hoping that
soon they might be able to push or wedge their way into Jilly's between
the elbows and backsides of the men drinking three-deep at the bar, and
they might be able to peek through and see him sitting back there. This
is all they really wanted; they wanted to see him. And for a few moments
they gazed in silence through the smoke and they stared. Then they
turned, fought their way out of the bar, went home.

Some of Sinatra's close friends, all of whom are known to the men
guarding Jilly's door, do manage to get an escort into the back room.
But once they are there they, too, must fend for themselves. On the
particular evening, Frank Gifford, the former football player, got only
seven yards in three tries. Others who had somehow been close enough to
shake Sinatra's hand did not shake it; instead they just touched him on
the shoulder or sleeve, or they merely stood close enough for him to see
them and, after he'd given them a wink of recognition or a wave or a nod
or called out their names (he had a fantastic memory for first names),
they would then turn and leave. They had checked in. They had paid their
respects. And as I watched this ritualistic scene, I got the impression
that Frank Sinatra was dwelling simultaneously in two worlds that were
not contemporary.

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On the one hand he is the swinger—as he is when talking and joking with
Sammy Davis, Jr., Richard Conte, Liza Minelli, Bernie Massi, or any of
the other show-business people who get to sit at the table; on the
other, as when he is nodding or waving to his paisanos who are close to
him (Al Silvani, a boxing manager who works with Sinatra's film company;
Dominic Di Bona, his wardrobe man; Ed Pucci, a 300-pound former football
lineman who is his aide-de-camp), Frank Sinatra is Il Padrone. Or better
still, he is what in traditional Sicily have long been called uomini
rispettati—men of respect: men who are both majestic and humble, men who
are loved by all and are very generous by nature, men whose hands are
kissed as they walk from village to village, men who would personally go
out of their way to redress a wrong.

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Frank Sinatra does things personally. At Christmas time, he will
personally pick dozens of presents for his close friends and family,
remembering the type of jewelry they like, their favorite colors, the
sizes of their shirts and dresses. When a musician friend's house was
destroyed and his wife was killed in a Los Angeles mud slide a little
more than a year ago, Sinatra personally came to his aid, finding the
musician a new home, paying whatever hospital bills were left unpaid by
the insurance, then personally supervising the furnishing of the new
home down to the replacing of the silverware, the linen, the purchase of
new clothing.

The same Sinatra who did this can, within the same hour, explode in a
towering rage of intolerance should a small thing be incorrectly done
for him by one of his paisanos. For example, when one of his men brought
him a frankfurter with catsup on it, which Sinatra apparently abhors, he
angrily threw the bottle at the man, splattering catsup all over him.
Most of the men who work around Sinatra are big. But this never seems to
intimidate Sinatra nor curb his impetuous behavior with them when he is
mad. They will never take a swing back at him. He is Il Padrone.

At other times, aiming to please, his men will overreact to his desires:
when he casually observed that his big orange desert jeep in Palm
Springs seemed in need of a new painting, the word was swiftly passed
down through the channels, becoming ever more urgent as it went, until
finally it was a command that the jeep be painted now, immediately,
yesterday. To accomplish this would require the hiring of a special crew
of painters to work all night, at overtime rates; which, in turn, meant
that the order had to be bucked back up the line for further approval.
When it finally got back to Sinatra's desk, he did not know what it was
all about; after he had figured it out he confessed, with a tired look
on his face, that he did not care when the hell they painted the jeep.

Yet it would have been unwise for anyone to anticipate his reaction, for
he is a wholly unpredictable man of many moods and great dimension, a
man who responds instantaneously to instinct—suddenly, dramatically,
wildly he responds, and nobody can predict what will follow. A young
lady named Jane Hoag, a reporter at Life's Los Angeles bureau who had
attended the same school as Sinatra's daughter, Nancy, had once been
invited to a party at Mrs. Sinatra's California home at which Frank
Sinatra, who maintains very cordial relations with his former wife,
acted as host. Early in the party Miss Hoag, while leaning against a
table, accidentally with her elbow knocked over one of a pair of
alabaster birds to the floor, smashing it to pieces. Suddenly, Miss Hoag
recalled, Sinatra's daughter cried, "Oh, that was one of my mother's
favorite..."—but before she could complete the sentence, Sinatra glared
at her, cutting her off, and while forty other guests in the room all
stared in silence, Sinatra walked over, quickly with his finger flicked
the other alabaster bird off the table, smashing it to pieces, and then
put an arm gently around Jane Hoag and said, in a way that put her
completely at ease, "That's okay, kid."

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**NOW SINATRA SAID A FEW** words to the blondes. Then he turned from the
bar and began to walk toward the poolroom. One of Sinatra's other men
friends moved in to keep the girls company. Brad Dexter, who had been
standing in the corner talking to some other people, now followed
Sinatra.

The room cracked with the clack of billiard balls. There were about a
dozen spectators in the room, most of them young men who were watching
Leo Durocher shoot against two other aspiring hustlers who were not very
good. This private drinking club has among its membership many actors,
directors, writers, models, nearly all of them a good deal younger than
Sinatra or Durocher and much more casual in the way they dress for the
evening. Many of the young women, their long hair flowing loosely below
their shoulders, wore tight, fanny-fitting Jax pants and very expensive
sweaters; and a few of the young men wore blue or green velour shirts
with high collars and narrow tight pants, and Italian loafers.

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It was obvious from the way Sinatra looked at these people in the
poolroom that they were not his style, but he leaned back against a high
stool that was against the wall, holding his drink in his right hand,
and said nothing, just watched Durocher slam the billiard balls back and
forth. The younger men in the room, accustomed to seeing Sinatra at this
club, treated him without deference, although they said nothing
offensive. They were a cool young group, very California-cool and
casual, and one of the coolest seemed to be a little guy, very quick of
movement, who had a sharp profile, pale blue eyes, blondish hair, and
squared eyeglasses. He wore a pair of brown corduroy slacks, a green
shaggy-dog Shetland sweater, a tan suede jacket, and Game Warden boots,
for which he had recently paid $60.

Frank Sinatra, leaning against the stool, sniffling a bit from his cold,
could not take his eyes off the Game Warden boots. Once, after gazing at
them for a few moments, he turned away; but now he was focused on them
again. The owner of the boots, who was just standing in them watching
the pool game, was named Harlan Ellison, a writer who had just completed
work on a screenplay, The Oscar.

Finally Sinatra could not contain himself.

"Hey," he yelled in his slightly harsh voice that still had a soft,
sharp edge. "Those Italian boots?"

"No," Ellison said.

"Spanish?"

"No."

"Are they English boots?"

"Look, I donno, man," Ellison shot back, frowning at Sinatra, then
turning away again.

Now the poolroom was suddenly silent. Leo Durocher who had been poised
behind his cue stick and was bent low just froze in that position for a
second. Nobody moved. Then Sinatra moved away from the stool and walked
with that slow, arrogant swagger of his toward Ellison, the hard tap of
Sinatra's shoes the only sound in the room. Then, looking down at
Ellison with a slightly raised eyebrow and a tricky little smile,
Sinatra asked: "You expecting a storm?"

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Harlan Ellison moved a step to the side. "Look, is there any reason why
you're talking to me?"

"I don't like the way you're dressed," Sinatra said.

"Hate to shake you up," Ellison said, "but I dress to suit myself."

Now there was some rumbling in the room, and somebody said, "Com'on,
Harlan, let's get out of here," and Leo Durocher made his pool shot and
said, "Yeah, com'on."

But Ellison stood his ground.

Sinatra said, "What do you do?"

"I'm a plumber," Ellison said.

"No, no, he's not," another young man quickly yelled from across the
table. "He wrote The Oscar."

"Oh, yeah," Sinatra said, "well I've seen it, and it's a piece of crap."

"That's strange," Ellison said, "because they haven't even released it
yet."

"Well, I've seen it," Sinatra repeated, "and it's a piece of crap."

Now Brad Dexter, very anxious, very big opposite the small figure of
Ellison, said, "Com'on, kid, I don't want you in this room."

"Hey," Sinatra interrupted Dexter, "can't you see I'm talking to this
guy?"

Dexter was confused. Then his whole attitude changed, and his voice went
soft and he said to Ellison, almost with a plea, "Why do you persist in
tormenting me?"

The whole scene was becoming ridiculous, and it seemed that Sinatra was
only half-serious, perhaps just reacting out of sheer boredom or inner
despair; at any rate, after a few more exchanges Harlan Ellison left the
room. By this time the word had gotten out to those on the dance floor
about the Sinatra-Ellison exchange, and somebody went to look for the
manager of the club. But somebody else said that the manager had already
heard about it—and had quickly gone out the door, hopped in his car and
drove home. So the assistant manager went into the poolroom.

\[pullquote align='C'\]"I don't want anybody in here without coats and
ties."\[/pullquote\]

"I don't want anybody in here without coats and ties," Sinatra snapped.

The assistant manager nodded, and walked back to his office.

**IT WAS THE MORNING AFTER.** It was the beginning of another nervous
day for Sinatra's press agent, Jim Mahoney. Mahoney had a headache, and
he was worried but not over the Sinatra-Ellison incident of the night
before. At the time Mahoney had been with his wife at a table in the
other room, and possibly he had not even been aware of the little drama.
The whole thing had lasted only about three minutes. And three minutes
after it was over, Frank Sinatra had probably forgotten about it for the
rest of his life—as Ellison will probably remember it for the rest of
his life: he had had, as hundreds of others before him, at an unexpected
moment between darkness and dawn, a scene with Sinatra.

It was just as well that Mahoney had not been in the poolroom; he had
enough on his mind today. He was worried about Sinatra's cold and
worried about the controversial CBS documentary that, despite Sinatra's
protests and withdrawal of permission, would be shown on television in
less than two weeks. The newspapers this morning were full of hints that
Sinatra might sue the network, and Mahoney's phones were ringing without
pause, and now he was plugged into New York talking to the Daily News's
Kay Gardella, saying: "...that's right, Kay...they made a gentleman's
agreement to not ask certain questions about Frank's private life, and
then Cronkite went right ahead: 'Frank, tell me about those
associations.' That question, Kay—out\! That question should never have
been asked...."

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As he spoke, Mahoney leaned back in his leather chair, his head shaking
slowly. He is a powerfully built man of thirty-seven; he has a round,
ruddy face, a heavy jaw, and narrow pale eyes, and he might appear
pugnacious if he did not speak with such clear, soft sincerity and if he
were not so meticulous about his clothes. His suits and shoes are
superbly tailored, which was one of the first things Sinatra noticed
about him, and in his spacious office opposite the bar is a red-muff
electrical shoe polisher and a pair of brown wooden shoulders on a stand
over which Mahoney can drape his jackets. Near the bar is an autographed
photograph of President Kennedy and a few pictures of Frank Sinatra, but
there are none of Sinatra in any other rooms in Mahoney's
public-relations agency; there once was a large photograph of him
hanging in the reception room but this apparently bruised the egos of
some of Mahoney's other movie-star clients and, since Sinatra never
shows up at the agency anyway, the photograph was removed.

Still, Sinatra seems ever present, and if Mahoney did not have
legitimate worries about Sinatra, as he did today, he could invent
them—and, as worry aids, he surrounds himself with little mementos of
moments in the past when he did worry. In his shaving kit there is a
two-year-old box of sleeping tablets dispensed by a Reno druggist—the
date on the bottle marks the kidnapping of Frank Sinatra, Jr. There is
on a table in Mahoney's office a mounted wood reproduction of Frank
Sinatra's ransom note written on the aforementioned occasion. One of
Mahoney's mannerisms, when he is sitting at his desk worrying, is to
tinker with the tiny toy train he keeps in front of him—the train is a
souvenir from the Sinatra film, Von Ryan's Express; it is to men who are
close to Sinatra what the PT-109 tie clasps are to men who were close to
Kennedy—and Mahoney then proceeds to roll the little train back and
forth on the six inches of track; back and forth, back and forth,
click-clack-click-clack. It is his Queeg-thing.

Now Mahoney quickly put aside the little train. His secretary told him
there was a very important call on the line. Mahoney picked it up, and
his voice was even softer and more sincere than before. "Yes, Frank," he
said. "Right...right...yes, Frank...."

When Mahoney put down the phone, quietly, he announced that Frank
Sinatra had left in his private jet to spend the weekend at his home in
Palm Springs, which is a sixteen-minute flight from his home in Los
Angeles. Mahoney was now worried again. The Lear jet that Sinatra's
pilot would be flying was identical, Mahoney said, to the one that had
just crashed in another part of California.

**ON THE FOLLOWING** Monday, a cloudy and unseasonably cool California
day, more than one hundred people gathered inside a white television
studio, an enormous room dominated by a white stage, white walls, and
with dozens of lights and lamps dangling: it rather resembled a gigantic
operating room. In this room, within an hour or so, NBC was scheduled to
begin taping a one-hour show that would be televised in color on the
night of November 24 and would highlight, as much as it could in the
limited time, the twenty-five-year career of Frank Sinatra as a public
entertainer. It would not attempt to probe, as the forthcoming CBS
Sinatra documentary allegedly would, that area of Sinatra's life that he
regards as private. The NBC show would be mainly an hour of Sinatra
singing some of the hits that carried him from Hoboken to Hollywood, a
show that would be interrupted only now and then by a few film clips and
commercials for Budweiser beer. Prior to his cold, Sinatra had been very
excited about this show; he saw here an opportunity to appeal not only
to those nostalgic, but also to communicate his talent to some
rock-and-rollers—in a sense, he was battling The Beatles. The press
releases being prepared by Mahoney's agency stressed this, reading: "If
you happen to be tired of kid singers wearing mops of hair thick enough
to hide a crate of melons...it should be refreshing, to consider the
entertainment value of a video special titled Sinatra—A Man and His
Music...."

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But now in this NBC studio in Los Angeles, there was an atmosphere of
anticipation and tension because of the uncertainty of the Sinatra
voice. The forty-three musicians in Nelson Riddle's orchestra had
already arrived and some were up on the white platform warming up.
Dwight Hemion, a youthful sandy-haired director who had won praise for
his television special on Barbra Streisand, was seated in the
glass-enclosed control booth that overlooked the orchestra and stage.
The camera crews, technical teams, security guards, Budweiser ad men
were also standing between the floor lamps and cameras, waiting, as were
a dozen or so ladies who worked as secretaries in other parts of the
building but had sneaked away so they could watch this.

A few minutes before eleven o'clock, word spread quickly through the
long corridor into the big studio that Sinatra was spotted walking
through the parking lot and was on his way, and was looking fine. There
seemed great relief among the group that was gathered; but when the
lean, sharply dressed figure of the man got closer, and closer, they saw
to their dismay that it was not Frank Sinatra. It was his double. Johnny
Delgado.

\[image id='34c22066-e054-40de-b82f-93afc2ea9280'
mediaId='2520c01d-3395-4b08-9edb-0b655a70729a' caption='' loc='C'
share='true' expand='true' size='L'\]\[/image\]

Delgado walks like Sinatra, has Sinatra's build, and from certain facial
angles does resemble Sinatra. But he seems a rather shy individual.
Fifteen years ago, early in his acting career, Delgado applied for a
role in From Here to Eternity. He was hired, finding out later that he
was to be Sinatra's double. In Sinatra's latest film, Assault on a
Queen, a story in which Sinatra and some fellow conspirators attempt to
hijack the Queen Mary, Johnny Delgado doubles for Sinatra in some water
scenes; and now, in this NBC studio, his job was to stand under the hot
television lights marking Sinatra's spots on the stage for the camera
crews.

Five minutes later, the real Frank Sinatra walked in. His face was pale,
his blue eyes seemed a bit watery. He had been unable to rid himself of
the cold, but he was going to try to sing anyway because the schedule
was tight and thousands of dollars were involved at this moment in the
assembling of the orchestra and crews and the rental of the studio. But
when Sinatra, on his way to his small rehearsal room to warm up his
voice, looked into the studio and saw that the stage and orchestra's
platform were not close together, as he had specifically requested, his
lips tightened and he was obviously very upset. A few moments later,
from his rehearsal room, could be heard the pounding of his fist against
the top of the piano and the voice of his accompanist, Bill Miller,
saying, softly, "Try not to upset yourself, Frank."

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Later Jim Mahoney and another man walked in, and there was talk of
Dorothy Kilgallen's death in New York earlier that morning. She had been
an ardent foe of Sinatra for years, and he became equally
uncomplimentary about her in his nightclub act, and now, though she was
dead, he did not compromise his feelings. "Dorothy Kilgallen's dead," he
repeated, walking out of the room toward the studio. "Well, guess I got
to change my whole act."

When he strolled into the studio the musicians all picked up their
instruments and stiffened in their seats. Sinatra cleared his throat a
few times and then, after rehearsing a few ballads with the orchestra,
he sang "Don't Worry About Me" to his satisfaction and, being uncertain
of how long his voice could last, suddenly became impatient.

"Why don't we tape this mother?" he called out, looking up toward the
glass booth where the director, Dwight Hemion, and his staff were
sitting. Their heads seemed to be down, focusing on the control board.

"Why don't we tape this mother?" Sinatra repeated.

The production stage manager, who stands near the camera wearing a
headset, repeated Sinatra's words exactly into his line to the control
room: "Why don't we tape this mother?"

Hemion did not answer. Possibly his switch was off. It was hard to know
because of the obscuring reflections the lights made against the glass
booth.

"Why don't we put on a coat and tie," said Sinatra, then wearing a
high-necked yellow pullover, "and tape this...."

Suddenly Hemion's voice came over the sound amplifier, very calmly:
"Okay, Frank, would you mind going back over...."

"Yes, I would mind going back," Sinatra snapped.

The silence from Hemion's end, which lasted a second or two, was then
again interrupted by Sinatra saying, "When we stop doing things around
here the way we did them in 1950, maybe we..." and Sinatra continued to
tear into Hemion, condemning as well the lack of modern techniques in
putting such shows together; then, possibly not wanting to use his voice
unnecessarily, he stopped. And Dwight Hemion, very patient, so patient
and calm that one would assume he had not heard anything that Sinatra
had just said, outlined the opening part of the show. And Sinatra a few
minutes later was reading his opening remarks, words that would follow
"Without a Song," off the large idiot-cards being held near the camera.
Then, this done, he prepared to do the same thing on camera.

"Frank Sinatra Show, Act I, Page 10, Take 1," called a man with a
clapboard, jumping in front of the camera—clap—then jumping away again.

"Did you ever stop to think," Sinatra began, "what the world would be
like without a song?... It would be a pretty dreary place.... Gives you
something to think about, doesn't it?..."

Sinatra stopped.

"Excuse me," he said, adding, "Boy, I need a drink."

They tried it again.

"Frank Sinatra Show, Act I, Page 10, Take 2," yelled the jumping guy
with the clapboard.

"Did you ever stop to think what the world would be like without a
song?..." Frank Sinatra read it through this time without stopping. Then
he rehearsed a few more songs, once or twice interrupting the orchestra
when a certain instrumental sound was not quite what he wanted. It was
hard to tell how well his voice was going to hold up, for this was early
in the show; up to this point, however, everybody in the room seemed
pleased, particularly when he sang an old sentimental favorite written
more than twenty years ago by Jimmy Van Heusen and Phil Silvers—"Nancy,"
inspired by the first of Sinatra's three children when she was just a
few years old.

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If I don't see her each day

I miss her....

Gee what a thrill

Each time I kiss her....

As Sinatra sang these words, though he has sung them hundreds and
hundreds of times in the past, it was suddenly obvious to everybody in
the studio that something quite special must be going on inside the man,
because something quite special was coming out. He was singing now, cold
or no cold, with power and warmth, he was letting himself go, the public
arrogance was gone, the private side was in this song about the girl
who, it is said, understands him better than anybody else, and is the
only person in front of whom he can be unashamedly himself.

\[image id='8da092c8-15ce-455a-977a-af56a8965cee'
mediaId='efa61d97-6c1a-4596-b9dd-4425b7f080e2' caption='' loc='C'
share='true' expand='true' size='medium'\]\[/image\]

Nancy is twenty-five. She lives alone, her marriage to singer Tommy
Sands having ended in divorce. Her home is in a Los Angeles suburb and
she is now making her third film and is recording for her father's
record company. She sees him every day; or, if not, he telephones, no
matter if it be from Europe or Asia. When Sinatra's singing first became
popular on radio, stimulating the swooners, Nancy would listen at home
and cry. When Sinatra's first marriage broke up in 1951 and he left
home, Nancy was the only child old enough to remember him as a father.
She also saw him with Ava Gardner, Juliet Prowse, Mia Farrow, many
others, has gone on double dates with him....

She takes the winter

And makes it summer....

Summer could take

Some lessons from her....

Nancy now also sees him visiting at home with his first wife, the former
Nancy Barbato, a plasterer's daughter from Jersey City whom he married
in 1939 when he was earning $25 a week singing at the Rustic Cabin near
Hoboken.

\[pullquote align='C'\]He was singing now, cold or no cold, with power
and warmth, he was letting himself go, the public arrogance was gone,
the private side was in this song about the girl who, it is said,
understands him better than anybody else, and is the only person in
front of whom he can be unashamedly himself.\[/pullquote\]

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The first Mrs. Sinatra, a striking woman who has never remarried ("When
you've been married to Frank Sinatra..." she once explained to a
friend), lives in a magnificent home in Los Angeles with her younger
daughter, Tina, who is seventeen. There is no bitterness, only great
respect and affection between Sinatra and his first wife, and he has
long been welcome in her home and has even been known to wander in at
odd hours, stoke the fire, lie on the sofa, and fall asleep. Frank
Sinatra can fall asleep anywhere, something he learned when he used to
ride bumpy roads with band buses; he also learned at that time, when
sitting in a tuxedo, how to pinch the trouser creases in the back and
tuck the jacket under and out, and fall asleep perfectly pressed. But he
does not ride buses anymore, and his daughter Nancy, who in her younger
days felt rejected when he slept on the sofa instead of giving attention
to her, later realized that the sofa was one of the few places left in
the world where Frank Sinatra could get any privacy, where his famous
face would neither be stared at nor cause an abnormal reaction in
others. She realized, too, that things normal have always eluded her
father: his childhood was one of loneliness and a drive toward
attention, and since attaining it he has never again been certain of
solitude. Upon looking out the window of a home he once owned in
Hasbrouck Heights, New Jersey, he would occasionally see the faces of
teen-agers peeking in; and in 1944, after moving to California and
buying a home behind a ten-foot fence on Lake Toluca, he discovered that
the only way to escape the telephone and other intrusions was to board
his paddle boat with a few friends, a card table and a case of beer, and
stay afloat all afternoon. But he has tried, insofar as it has been
possible, to be like everyone else, Nancy says. He wept on her wedding
day, he is very sentimental and sensitive....

**WHAT THE HELL** are you doing up there, Dwight?"

Silence from the control booth.

"Got a party or something going on up there, Dwight?"

Sinatra stood on the stage, arms folded, glaring up across the cameras
toward Hemion. Sinatra had sung Nancy with probably all he had in his
voice on this day. The next few numbers contained raspy notes, and twice
his voice completely cracked. But now Hemion was in the control booth
out of communication; then he was down in the studio walking over to
where Sinatra stood. A few minutes later they both left the studio and
were on the way up to the control booth. The tape was replayed for
Sinatra. He watched only about five minutes of it before he started to
shake his head. Then he said to Hemion: "Forget it, just forget it.
You're wasting your time. What you got there," Sinatra said, nodding to
the singing image of himself on the television screen, "is a man with a
cold." Then he left the control booth, ordering that the whole day's
performance be scrubbed and future taping postponed until he had
recovered.

**SOON THE WORD SPREAD** like an emotional epidemic down through
Sinatra's staff, then fanned out through Hollywood, then was heard
across the nation in Jilly's saloon, and also on the other side of the
Hudson River in the homes of Frank Sinatra's parents and his other
relatives and friends in New Jersey.

When Frank Sinatra spoke with his father on the telephone and said he
was feeling awful, the elder Sinatra reported that he was also feeling
awful: that his left arm and fist were so stiff with a circulatory
condition he could barely use them, adding that the ailment might be the
result of having thrown too many left hooks during his days as a
bantamweight almost fifty years ago.

Martin Sinatra, a ruddy and tattooed little blue-eyed Sicilian born in
Catania, boxed under the name of "Marty O'Brien." In those days, in
those places, with the Irish running the lower reaches of city life, it
was not uncommon for Italians to wind up with such names. Most of the
Italians and Sicilians who migrated to America just prior to the 1900's
were poor and uneducated, were excluded from the building-trades unions
dominated by the Irish, and were somewhat intimidated by the Irish
police, Irish priests, Irish politicians.

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One notable exception was Frank Sinatra's mother, Dolly, a large and
very ambitious woman who was brought to this country at two months of
age by her mother and father, a lithographer from Genoa. In later years
Dolly Sinatra, possessing a round red face and blue eyes, was often
mistaken for being Irish, and surprised many at the speed with which she
swung her heavy handbag at anyone uttering "Wop."

By playing skillful politics with North Jersey's Democratic machine,
Dolly Sinatra was to become, in her heyday, a kind of Catherine de
Medici of Hoboken's third ward. She could always be counted upon to
deliver six hundred votes at election time from her Italian
neighborhood, and this was her base of power. When she told one of the
politicians that she wanted her husband to be appointed to the Hoboken
Fire Department, and was told, "But, Dolly, we don't have an opening,"
she snapped, "Make an opening."

They did. Years later she requested that her husband be made a captain,
and one day she got a call from one of the political bosses that began,
"Dolly, congratulations\!"

"For what?"

"Captain Sinatra."

"Oh, you finally made him one—thank you very much."

Then she called the Hoboken Fire Department.

"Let me speak to Captain Sinatra," she said. The fireman called Martin
Sinatra to the phone, saying, "Marty, I think your wife has gone nuts."
When he got on the line, Dolly greeted him:

"Congratulations, Captain Sinatra\!"

\[image id='e756a88a-79c4-46bf-96f2-95961b28bb9e'
mediaId='ca99bfc4-1668-4d9c-abf2-a374f20b2554' caption='Frank Sinatra
pictured at age 6.' loc='L' share='true' expand='true'
size='L'\]\[/image\]

Dolly's only child, christened Francis Albert Sinatra, was born and
nearly died on December 12, 1915. It was a difficult birth, and during
his first moment on earth he received marks he will carry till death—the
scars on the left side of his neck being the result of a doctor's clumsy
forceps, and Sinatra has chosen not to obscure them with surgery.

After he was six months old, he was reared mainly by his grandmother.
His mother had a full-time job as a chocolate dipper with a large firm
and was so proficient at it that the firm once offered to send her to
the Paris office to train others. While some people in Hoboken remember
Frank Sinatra as a lonely child, one who spent many hours on the porch
gazing into space, Sinatra was never a slum kid, never in jail, always
well-dressed. He had so many pants that some people in Hoboken called
him "Slacksey O'Brien."

Dolly Sinatra was not the sort of Italian mother who could be appeased
merely by a child's obedience and good appetite. She made many demands
on her son, was always very strict. She dreamed of his becoming an
aviation engineer. When she discovered Bing Crosby pictures hanging on
his bedroom walls one evening, and learned that her son wished to become
a singer too, she became infuriated and threw a shoe at him. Later,
finding she could not talk him out of it—"he takes after me"—she
encouraged his singing.

Many Italo-American boys of his generation were then shooting for the
same star—they were strong with song, weak with words, not a big
novelist among them: no O'Hara, no Bellow, no Cheever, nor Shaw; yet
they could communicate bel canto. This was more in their tradition, no
need for a diploma; they could, with a song, someday see their names in
lights...Perry Como...Frankie Laine...Tony Bennett...Vic Damone...but
none could see it better than Frank Sinatra.

Though he sang through much of the night at the Rustic Cabin, he was up
the next day singing without a fee on New York radio to get more
attention. Later he got a job singing with Harry James's band, and it
was there in August of 1939 that Sinatra had his first recording hit—
"All or Nothing at All." He became very fond of Harry James and the men
in the band, but when he received an offer from Tommy Dorsey, who in
those days had probably the best band in the country, Sinatra took it;
the job paid $125 a week, and Dorsey knew how to feature a vocalist. Yet
Sinatra was very depressed at leaving James's band, and the final night
with them was so memorable that, twenty years later, Sinatra could
recall the details to a friend: "...the bus pulled out with the rest of
the boys at about half-past midnight. I'd said good-bye to them all, and
it was snowing, I remember. There was nobody around and I stood alone
with my suitcase in the snow and watched the taillights disappear. Then
the tears started and I tried to run after the bus. There was such
spirit and enthusiasm in that band, I hated leaving it...."

But he did—as he would leave other warm places, too, in search of
something more, never wasting time, trying to do it all in one
generation, fighting under his own name, defending underdogs,
terrorizing top dogs. He threw a punch at a musician who said something
anti-Semitic, espoused the Negro cause two decades before it became
fashionable. He also threw a tray of glasses at Buddy Rich when he
played the drums too loud.

\[image id='d732e0c2-6681-4fe7-90d9-02c532611107'
mediaId='274478ec-9c5f-4c5e-a602-8d867cc959ea' caption='Dolly Sinatra
with son, Frank. October 1945.' loc='R' share='true' expand='true'
size='L'\]\[/image\]

Sinatra gave away $50,000 worth of gold cigarette lighters before he was
thirty, was living an immigrant's wildest dream of America. He arrived
suddenly on the scene when DiMaggio was silent, when paisanos were
mournful, were quietly defensive about Hitler in their homeland. Sinatra
became, in time, a kind of one-man Anti-Defamation League for Italians
in America, the sort of organization that would be unlikely for them
because, as the theory goes, they rarely agreed on anything, being
extreme individualists: fine as soloists, but not so good in a choir;
fine as heroes, but not so good in a parade.

When many Italian names were used in describing gangsters on a
television show, The Untouchables, Sinatra was loud in his disapproval.
Sinatra and many thousands of other Italo-Americans were resentful as
well when a small-time hoodlum, Joseph Valachi, was brought by Bobby
Kennedy into prominence as a Mafia expert, when indeed, from Valachi's
testimony on television, he seemed to know less than most waiters on
Mulberry Street. Many Italians in Sinatra's circle also regard Bobby
Kennedy as something of an Irish cop, more dignified than those in
Dolly's day, but no less intimidating. Together with Peter Lawford,
Bobby Kennedy is said to have suddenly gotten "cocky" with Sinatra after
John Kennedy's election, forgetting the contribution Sinatra had made in
both fundraising and in influencing many anti-Irish Italian votes.
Lawford and Bobby Kennedy are both suspected of having influenced the
late President's decision to stay as a house guest with Bing Crosby
instead of Sinatra, as originally planned, a social setback Sinatra may
never forget. Peter Lawford has since been drummed out of Sinatra's
"summit" in Las Vegas.

"Yes, my son is like me," Dolly Sinatra says, proudly. "You cross him,
he never forgets." And while she concedes his power, she quickly points
out, "He can't make his mother do anything she doesn't want to do,"
adding, "Even today, he wears the same brand of underwear I used to buy
him."

Today Dolly Sinatra is seventy-one years old, a year or two younger than
Martin, and all day long people are knocking on the back door of her
large home asking her advice, seeking her influence. When she is not
seeing people and not cooking in the kitchen, she is looking after her
husband, a silent but stubborn man, and telling him to keep his sore
left arm resting on the sponge she has placed on the armrest of a soft
chair. "Oh, he went to some terrific fires, this guy did," Dolly said to
a visitor, nodding with admiration toward her husband in the chair.

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Though Dolly Sinatra has eighty-seven godchildren in Hoboken, and still
goes to that city during political campaigns, she now lives with her
husband in a beautiful sixteen-room house in Fort Lee, New Jersey. This
home was a gift from their son on their fiftieth wedding anniversary
three years ago. The home is tastefully furnished and is filled with a
remarkable juxtaposition of the pious and the worldly—photographs of
Pope John and Ava Gardner, of Pope Paul and Dean Martin; several statues
of saints and holy water, a chair autographed by Sammy Davis, Jr. and
bottles of bourbon. In Mrs. Sinatra's jewelry box is a magnificent
strand of pearls she had just received from Ava Gardner, whom she liked
tremendously as a daughter-in-law and still keeps in touch with and
talks about; and hung on the wall is a letter addressed to Dolly and
Martin: "The sands of time have turned to gold, yet love continues to
unfold like the petals of a rose, in God's garden of life...may God love
you thru all eternity. I thank Him, I thank you for the being of one.
Your loving son, Francis...."

Mrs. Sinatra talks to her son on the telephone about once a week, and
recently he suggested that, when visiting Manhattan, she make use of his
apartment on East Seventy-second Street on the East River. This is an
expensive neighborhood of New York even though there is a small factory
on the block, but this latter fact was seized upon by Dolly Sinatra as a
means of getting back at her son for some unflattering descriptions of
his childhood in Hoboken.

"What—you want me to stay in your apartment, in that dump?" she asked.
"You think I'm going to spend the night in that awful neighborhood?"

Frank Sinatra got the point, and said, "Excuse me, Mrs. Fort Lee."

After spending the week in Palm Springs, his cold much better, Frank
Sinatra returned to Los Angeles, a lovely city of sun and
[sex](/lifestyle/sex/advice/a9353/best-sex-positions/), a Spanish
discovery of Mexican misery, a star land of little men and little women
sliding in and out of convertibles in tense tight pants.

Sinatra returned in time to see the long-awaited CBS documentary with
his family. At about nine p.m. he drove to the home of his former wife,
Nancy, and had dinner with her and their two daughters. Their son, whom
they rarely see these days, was out of town.

Frank, Jr., who is twenty-two, was touring with a band and moving cross
country toward a New York engagement at Basin Street East with The Pied
Pipers, with whom Frank Sinatra sang when he was with Dorsey's band in
the 1940's. Today Frank Sinatra, Jr., whom his father says he named
after Franklin D. Roosevelt, lives mostly in hotels, dines each evening
in his nightclub dressing room, and sings until two a.m., accepting
graciously, because he has no choice, the inevitable comparisons. His
voice is smooth and pleasant, and improving with work, and while he is
very respectful of his father, he discusses him with objectivity and in
an occasional tone of subdued cockiness.

Concurrent with his father's early fame, Frank, Jr. said, was the
creation of a "press-release Sinatra" designed to "set him apart from
the common man, separate him from the realities: it was suddenly
Sinatra, the electric magnate, Sinatra who is supernormal, not
superhuman but supernormal. And here," Frank, Jr. continued, "is the
great fallacy, the great bullshit, for Frank Sinatra is normal, is the
guy whom you'd meet on a street corner. But this other thing, the
supernormal guise, has affected Frank Sinatra as much as anybody who
watches one of his television shows, or reads a magazine article about
him....

"Frank Sinatra's life in the beginning was so normal," he said, "that
nobody would have guessed in 1934 that this little Italian kid with the
curly hair would become the giant, the monster, the great living
legend.... He met my mother one summer on the beach. She was Nancy
Barbato, daughter of Mike Barbato, a Jersey City plasterer. And she
meets the fireman's son, Frank, one summer day on the beach at Long
Branch, New Jersey. Both are Italian, both Roman Catholic, both
lower-middle-class summer sweethearts—it is like a million bad movies
starring Frankie Avalon. . . .

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"They have three children. The first child, Nancy, was the most normal
of Frank Sinatra's children. Nancy was a cheerleader, went to summer
camp, drove a Chevrolet, had the easiest kind of development centered
around the home and family. Next is me. My life with the family is very,
very normal up until September of 1958 when, in complete contrast to the
rearing of both girls, I am put into a college-preparatory school. I am
now away from the inner family circle, and my position within has never
been remade to this day.... The third child, Tina. And to be dead
honest, I really couldn't say what her life is like...."

\[image id='543c78b5-80a1-4a21-98f6-8c8a07f6f4d4'
mediaId='c5e4ebba-840b-4e89-bab6-6f0c3f2e70d1' caption='The Sinatra
Family.' loc='C' share='true' expand='true' size='M'\]\[/image\]

The CBS show, narrated by Walter Cronkite, began at ten p.m. A minute
before that, the Sinatra family, having finished dinner, turned their
chairs around and faced the camera, united for whatever disaster might
follow. Sinatra's men in other parts of town, in other parts of the
nation, were doing the same thing. Sinatra's lawyer, Milton A. Rudin,
smoking a cigar, was watching with a keen eye, an alert legal mind.
Other sets were watched by Brad Dexter, Jim Mahoney, Ed Pucci; Sinatra's
makeup man, "Shotgun" Britton; his New York representative, Henri Gine;
his haberdasher, Richard Carroll; his insurance broker, John Lillie; his
valet, George Jacobs, a handsome Negro who, when entertaining girls in
his apartment, plays records by Ray Charles.

And like so much of Hollywood's fear, the apprehension about the CBS
show all proved to be without foundation. It was a highly flattering
hour that did not deeply probe, as rumors suggested it would, into
Sinatra's love life, or the Mafia, or other areas of his private
province. While the documentary was not authorized, wrote Jack Gould in
the next day's New York Times, "it could have been."

Immediately after the show, the telephones began to ring throughout the
Sinatra system conveying words of joy and relief—and from New York came
Jilly's telegram: "WE RULE THE WORLD\!"

**THE NEXT DAY, STANDING** in the corridor of the NBC building where he
was about to resume taping his show, Sinatra was discussing the CBS show
with several of his friends, and he said, "Oh, it was a gas."

"Yeah, Frank, a helluva show."

"But I think Jack Gould was right in The Times today," Sinatra said.
"There should have been more on the man, not so much on the music...."

They nodded, nobody mentioning the past hysteria in the Sinatra world
when it seemed CBS was zeroing in on the man; they just nodded and two
of them laughed about Sinatra's apparently having gotten the word "bird"
on the show—this being a favorite Sinatra word. He often inquires of his
cronies, "How's your bird?"; and when he nearly drowned in Hawaii, he
later explained, "Just got a little water on my bird"; and under a large
photograph of him holding a whisky bottle, a photo that hangs in the
home of an actor friend named Dick Bakalyan, the inscription reads:
"Drink, Dickie\! It's good for your bird." In the song, "Come Fly with
Me," Sinatra sometimes alters the lyrics—"...just say the words and
we'll take our birds down to Acapulco Bay...."

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Ten minutes later Sinatra, following the orchestra, walked into the NBC
studio, which did not resemble in the slightest the scene here of eight
days ago. On this occasion Sinatra was in fine voice, he cracked jokes
between numbers, nothing could upset him. Once, while he was singing
"How Can I Ignore the Girl Next Door," standing on the stage next to a
tree, a television camera mounted on a vehicle came rolling in too close
and plowed against the tree.

"Kee-rist\!" yelled one of the technical assistants.

But Sinatra seemed hardly to notice it.

"We've had a slight accident," he said, calmly. Then he began the song
all over from the beginning.

When the show was over, Sinatra watched the rerun on the monitor in the
control room. He was very pleased, shaking hands with Dwight Hemion and
his assistants. Then the whisky bottles were opened in Sinatra's
dressing room. Pat Lawford was there, and so were Andy Williams and a
dozen others. The telegrams and telephone calls continued to be received
from all over the country with praise for the CBS show. There was even a
call, Mahoney said, from the CBS producer, Don Hewitt, with whom Sinatra
had been so angry a few days before. And Sinatra was still angry,
feeling that CBS had betrayed him, though the show itself was not
objectionable.

"Shall I drop a line to Hewitt?" Mahoney asked.

"Can you send a fist through the mail?" Sinatra asked.

He has everything, he cannot sleep, he gives nice gifts, he is not
happy, but he would not trade, even for happiness, what he is....

He is a piece of our past—but only we have aged, he hasn't...we are
dogged by domesticity, he isn't...we have compunctions, he doesn't...it
is our fault, not his....

He controls the menus of every Italian restaurant in Los Angeles; if you
want North Italian cooking, fly to Milan....

Men follow him, imitate him, fight to be near him...there is something
of the locker room, the barracks about him...bird...bird....

He believes you must play it big, wide, expansively— the more open you
are, the more you take in, your dimensions deepen, you grow, you become
more what you are—bigger, richer....

"He is better than anybody else, or at least they think he is, and he
has to live up to it." —Nancy Sinatra, Jr.

"He is calm on the outside—inwardly a million things are happening to
him." —Dick Bakalyan

"He has an insatiable desire to live every moment to its fullest
because, I guess, he feels that right around the corner is extinction."
—Brad Dexter

\[pullquote align='C'\]He has everything, he cannot sleep, he gives nice
gifts, he is not happy, but he would not trade, even for happiness, what
he is....\[/pullquote\]

"All I ever got out of any of my marriages was the two years Artie Shaw
financed on an analyst's couch." —Ava Gardner

"We weren't mother and son—we were buddies." —Dolly Sinatra

"I'm for anything that gets you through the night, be it prayer,
tranquilizers or a bottle of Jack Daniel." —Frank Sinatra

**FRANK SINATRA WAS TIRED** of all the talk, the gossip, the
theory—tired of reading quotes about himself, of hearing what people
were saying about him all over town. It had been a tedious three weeks,
he said, and now he just wanted to get away, go to Las Vegas, let off
some steam. So he hopped in his jet, soared over the California hills
across the Nevada flats, then over miles and miles of desert to The
Sands and the Clay-Patterson fight.

On the eve of the fight he stayed up all night and slept through most of
the afternoon, though his recorded voice could be heard singing in the
lobby of The Sands, in the gambling casino, even in the toilets, being
interrupted every few bars however by the paging public address:
"...Telephone call for Mr. Ron Fish, Mr. Ron Fish...with a ribbon of
gold in her hair.... Telephone call for Mr. Herbert Rothstein, Mr.
Herbert Rothstein...memories of a time so bright, keep me sleepless
through dark endless nights...."

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\[image id='a48c8877-3fd4-41e9-a25d-27ff7f80314b'
mediaId='8f2febeb-db98-47b7-9938-3a45ce6b96b4' caption='' loc='L'
share='true' expand='true' size='L'\]\[/image\]

Standing around in the lobby of The Sands and other hotels up and down
the strip on this afternoon before the fight were the usual prefight
prophets: the gamblers, the old champs, the little cigar butts from
Eighth Avenue, the sportswriters who knock the big fights all year but
would never miss one, the novelists who seem always to be identifying
with one boxer or another, the local prostitutes assisted by some talent
in from Los Angeles, and also a young brunette in a wrinkled black
cocktail dress who was at the bell captain's desk crying, "But I want to
speak to Mr. Sinatra."

"He's not here," the bell captain said.

"Won't you put me through to his room?"

"There are no messages going through, Miss," he said, and then she
turned, unsteadily, seeming close to tears, and walked through the lobby
into the big noisy casino crowded with men interested only in money.

Shortly before seven p.m., Jack Entratter, a big grey-haired man who
operates The Sands, walked into the gambling room to tell some men
around the blackjack table that Sinatra was getting dressed. He also
said that he'd been unable to get front-row seats for everybody, and so
some of the men—including Leo Durocher, who had a date, and Joey Bishop,
who was accompanied by his wife—would not be able to fit in Frank
Sinatra's row but would have to take seats in the third row. When
Entratter walked over to tell this to Joey Bishop, Bishop's face fell.
He did not seem angry; he merely looked at Entratter with an empty
silence, seeming somewhat stunned.

"Joey, I'm sorry," Entratter said when the silence persisted, "but we
couldn't get more than six together in the front row."

Bishop still said nothing. But when they all appeared at the fight, Joey
Bishop was in the front row, his wife in the third.

The fight, called a holy war between Muslims and Christians, was
preceded by the introduction of three balding ex-champions, Rocky
Marciano, Joe Louis, Sonny Liston—and then there was "The Star-Spangled
Banner" sung by another man from out of the past, Eddie Fisher. It had
been more than fourteen years ago, but Sinatra could still remember
every detail: Eddie Fisher was then the new king of the baritones, with
Billy Eckstine and Guy Mitchell right with him, and Sinatra had been
long counted out. One day he remembered walking into a broadcasting
studio past dozens of Eddie Fisher fans waiting outside the hall, and
when they saw Sinatra they began to jeer, "Frankie, Frankie, I'm
swooning, I'm swooning." This was also the time when he was selling only
about 30,000 records a year, when he was dreadfully miscast as a funny
man on his television show, and when he recorded such disasters as "Mama
Will Bark," with Dagmar.

"I growled and barked on the record," Sinatra said, still horrified by
the thought. "The only good it did me was with the dogs."

His voice and his artistic judgment were incredibly bad in 1952, but
even more responsible for his decline, say his friends, was his pursuit
of Ava Gardner. She was the big movie queen then, one of the most
beautiful women in the world. Sinatra's daughter Nancy recalls seeing
Ava swimming one day in her father's pool, then climbing out of the
water with that fabulous body, walking slowly to the fire, leaning over
it for a few moments, and then it suddenly seemed that her long dark
hair was all dry, miraculously and effortlessly back in place.

With most women Sinatra dates, his friends say, he never knows whether
they want him for what he can do for them now—or will do for them later.
With Ava Gardner, it was different. He could do nothing for her later.
She was on top. If Sinatra learned anything from his experience with
her, he possibly learned that when a proud man is down a woman cannot
help. Particularly a woman on top.

\[image id='aad71476-fd68-4886-90d4-40cb7af77c31'
mediaId='fe759f77-4dff-45ce-a086-0f6ec90ef680' caption='Frank Sinatra
and Ava Gardner.' loc='C' share='true' expand='true'
size='M'\]\[/image\]

Nevertheless, despite a tired voice, some deep emotion seeped into his
singing during this time. One particular song that is well remembered
even now is "I'm a Fool to Want You," and a friend who was in the studio
when Sinatra recorded it recalled: "Frank was really worked up that
night. He did the song in one take, then turned around and walked out of
the studio and that was that...."

Sinatra's manager at that time, a former song plugger named Hank
Sanicola, said, "Ava loved Frank, but not the way he loved her. He needs
a great deal of love. He wants it twenty-four hours a day, he must have
people around—Frank is that kind of guy." Ava Gardner, Sanicola said,
"was very insecure. She feared she could not really hold a man...twice
he went chasing her to Africa, wasting his own career...."

"Ava didn't want Frank's men hanging around all the time," another
friend said, "and this got him mad. With Nancy he used to be able to
bring the whole band home with him, and Nancy, the good Italian wife,
would never complain—she'd just make everybody a plate of spaghetti."

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In 1953, after almost two years of marriage, Sinatra and Ava Gardner
were divorced. Sinatra's mother reportedly arranged a reconciliation,
but if Ava was willing, Frank Sinatra was not. He was seen with other
women. The balance had shifted. Somewhere during this period Sinatra
seemed to change from the kid singer, the boy actor in the sailor suit,
to a man. Even before he had won the Oscar in 1953 for his role in From
Here to Eternity, some flashes of his old talent were coming through—in
his recording of "The Birth of the Blues," in his Riviera-nightclub
appearance that jazz critics enthusiastically praised; and there was
also a trend now toward L.P.'s and away from the quick three-minute
deal, and Sinatra's concert style would have capitalized on this with or
without an Oscar.

In 1954, totally committed to his talent once more, Frank Sinatra was
selected Metronome's "Singer of the Year," and later he won the U.P.I.
disc-jockey poll, unseating Eddie Fisher—who now, in Las Vegas, having
sung "The Star-Spangled Banner," climbed out of the ring, and the fight
began.

Floyd Patterson chased Clay around the ring in the first round, but was
unable to reach him, and from then on he was Clay's toy, the bout ending
in a technical knockout in the twelfth round. A half hour later, nearly
everybody had forgotten about the fight and was back at the gambling
tables or lining up to buy tickets for the Dean Martin-Sinatra-Bishop
nightclub routine on the stage of The Sands. This routine, which
includes Sammy Davis, Jr. when he is in town, consists of a few songs
and much cutting up, all of it very informal, very special, and rather
ethnic—Martin, a drink in hand, asking Bishop: "Did you ever see a Jew
jitsu?"; and Bishop, playing a Jewish waiter, warning the two Italians
to watch out "because I got my own group—the Matzia."

Then after the last show at The Sands, the Sinatra crowd, which now
numbered about twenty—and included Jilly, who had flown in from New
York; Jimmy Cannon, Sinatra's favorite sports columnist; Harold Gibbons,
a Teamster official expected to take over if Hoffa goes to jail—all got
into a line of cars and headed for another club. It was three o'clock.
The night was young.

They stopped at The Sahara, taking a long table near the back, and
listened to a baldheaded little comedian named Don Rickles, who is
probably more caustic than any comic in the country. His humor is so
rude, in such bad taste, that it offends no one—it is too offensive to
be offensive. Spotting Eddie Fisher among the audience, Rickles
proceeded to ridicule him as a lover, saying it was no wonder that he
could not handle Elizabeth Taylor; and when two businessmen in the
audience acknowledged that they were Egyptian, Rickles cut into them for
their country's policy toward Israel; and he strongly suggested that the
woman seated at one table with her husband was actually a hooker.

When the Sinatra crowd walked in, Don Rickles could not be more
delighted. Pointing to Jilly, Rickles yelled: "How's it feel to be
Frank's tractor?... Yeah, Jilly keeps walking in front of Frank clearing
the way." Then, nodding to Durocher, Rickles said, "Stand up Leo, show
Frank how you slide." Then he focused on Sinatra, not failing to mention
Mia Farrow, nor that he was wearing a toupee, nor to say that Sinatra
was washed up as a singer, and when Sinatra laughed, everybody laughed,
and Rickles pointed toward Bishop: "Joey Bishop keeps checking with
Frank to see what's funny."

Then, after Rickles told some Jewish jokes, Dean Martin stood up and
yelled, "Hey, you're always talking about the Jews, never about the
Italians," and Rickles cut him off with, "What do we need the Italians
for—all they do is keep the flies off our fish."

Sinatra laughed, they all laughed, and Rickles went on this way for
nearly an hour until Sinatra, standing up, said, "All right, com'on, get
this thing over with. I gotta go."

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"Shaddup and sit down\!" Rickles snapped. "I've had to listen to you
sing...."

"Who do you think you're talking to?" Sinatra yelled back.

"Dick Haymes," Rickles replied, and Sinatra laughed again, and then Dean
Martin, pouring a bottle of whisky over his head, entirely drenching his
tuxedo, pounded the table.

"Who would ever believe that staggering would make a star?" Rickles
said, but Martin called out, "Hey, I wanna make a speech."

"Shaddup."

"No, Don, I wanna tell ya," Dean Martin persisted, "that I think you're
a great performer."

"Well, thank you, Dean," Rickles said, seeming pleased.

"But don't go by me," Martin said, plopping down into his seat, "I'm
drunk."

"I'll buy that," Rickles said.

**BY FOUR A.M. FRANK SINATRA** led the group out of The Sahara, some of
them carrying their glasses of whisky with them, sipping it along the
sidewalk and in the cars; then, returning to The Sands, they walked into
the gambling casino. It was still packed with people, the roulette
wheels spinning, the crapshooters screaming in the far corner.

Frank Sinatra, holding a shot glass of bourbon in his left hand, walked
through the crowd. He, unlike some of his friends, was perfectly
pressed, his tuxedo tie precisely pointed, his shoes unsmudged. He never
seems to lose his dignity, never lets his guard completely down no
matter how much he has drunk, nor how long he has been up. He never
sways when he walks, like Dean Martin, nor does he ever dance in the
aisles or jump up on tables, like Sammy Davis.

\[image id='b1caaf3a-fadd-4f2b-9814-c65eb01be90a'
mediaId='11541912-97a4-464f-a3eb-a2ef0e7c6407' caption='' loc='C'
share='true' expand='true' size='M'\]\[/image\]

A part of Sinatra, no matter where he is, is never there. There is
always a part of him, though sometimes a small part, that remains Il
Padrone. Even now, resting his shot glass on the blackjack table, facing
the dealer, Sinatra stood a bit back from the table, not leaning against
it. He reached under his tuxedo jacket into his trouser pocket and came
up with a thick but clean wad of bills. Gently he peeled off a
one-hundred-dollar bill and placed it on the green-felt table. The
dealer dealt him two cards. Sinatra called for a third card, overbid,
lost the hundred.

Without a change of expression, Sinatra put down a second hundred-dollar
bill. He lost that. Then he put down a third, and lost that. Then he
placed two one-hundred-dollar bills on the table and lost those.
Finally, putting his sixth hundred-dollar bill on the table, and losing
it, Sinatra moved away from the table, nodding to the man, and
announcing, "Good dealer."

The crowd that had gathered around him now opened up to let him through.
But a woman stepped in front of him, handing him a piece of paper to
autograph. He signed it and then he said, "Thank you."

In the rear of The Sands' large dining room was a long table reserved
for Sinatra. The dining room was fairly empty at this hour, with perhaps
two dozen other people in the room, including a table of four unescorted
young ladies sitting near Sinatra. On the other side of the room, at
another long table, sat seven men shoulder-to-shoulder against the wall,
two of them wearing dark glasses, all of them eating quietly, speaking
hardly a word, just sitting and eating and missing nothing.

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The Sinatra party, after getting settled and having a few more drinks,
ordered something to eat. The table was about the same size as the one
reserved for Sinatra whenever he is at Jilly's in New York; and the
people seated around this table in Las Vegas were many of the same
people who are often seen with Sinatra at Jilly's or at a restaurant in
California, or in Italy, or in New Jersey, or wherever Sinatra happens
to be. When Sinatra sits to dine, his trusted friends are close; and no
matter where he is, no matter how elegant the place may be, there is
something of the neighborhood showing because Sinatra, no matter how far
he has come, is still something of the boy from the neighborhood—only
now he can take his neighborhood with him.

In some ways, this quasi-family affair at a reserved table in a public
place is the closest thing Sinatra now has to home life. Perhaps, having
had a home and left it, this approximation is as close as he cares to
come; although this does not seem precisely so because he speaks with
such warmth about his family, keeps in close touch with his first wife,
and insists that she make no decision without first consulting him. He
is always eager to place his furniture or other mementos of himself in
her home or his daughter Nancy's, and he also is on amiable terms with
Ava Gardner. When he was in Italy making Von Ryan's Express, they spent
some time together, being pursued wherever they went by the paparazzi.
It was reported then that the paparazzi had made Sinatra a collective
offer of $16,000 if he would pose with Ava Gardner; Sinatra was said to
have made a counter offer of $32,000 if he could break one paparazzi arm
and leg.

\[pullquote align='C'\]When Sinatra sits to dine, his trusted friends
are close; and no matter where he is, no matter how elegant the place
may be, there is something of the neighborhood showing because Sinatra,
no matter how far he has come, is still something of the boy from the
neighborhood—only now he can take his neighborhood with
him.\[/pullquote\]

While Sinatra is often delighted that he can be in his home completely
without people, enabling him to read and think without interruption,
there are occasions when he finds himself alone at night, and not by
choice. He may have dialed a half-dozen women, and for one reason or
another they are all unavailable. So he will call his valet, George
Jacobs.

"I'll be coming home for dinner tonight, George."

"How many will there be?"

"Just myself," Sinatra will say. "I want something light, I'm not very
hungry."

George Jacobs is a twice-divorced man of thirty-six who resembles Billy
Eckstine. He has traveled all over the world with Sinatra and is devoted
to him. Jacobs lives in a comfortable bachelor's apartment off Sunset
Boulevard around the corner from Whiskey à Go Go, and he is known around
town for the assortment of frisky California girls he has as friends—a
few of whom, he concedes, were possibly drawn to him initially because
of his closeness to Frank Sinatra.

When Sinatra arrives, Jacobs will serve him dinner in the dining room.
Then Sinatra will tell Jacobs that he is free to go home. If Sinatra, on
such evenings, should ask Jacobs to stay longer, or to play a few hands
of poker, he would be happy to do so. But Sinatra never does.

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**THIS WAS HIS SECOND** night in Las Vegas, and Frank Sinatra sat with
friends in The Sands' dining room until nearly eight a.m. He slept
through much of the day, then flew back to Los Angeles, and on the
following morning he was driving his little golf cart through the
Paramount Pictures movie lot. He was scheduled to complete two final
scenes with the sultry blonde actress, Virna Lisi, in the film Assault
on a Queen. As he maneuvered the little vehicle up the road between the
big studio buildings, he spotted Steve Rossi who, with his comedy
partner Marty Allen, was making a film in an adjoining studio with Nancy
Sinatra.

"Hey, Dag," he yelled to Rossi, "stop kissing Nancy."

"It's part of the film, Frank," Rossi said, turning as he walked.

"In the garage?"

"It's my Dago blood, Frank."

"Well, cool it," Sinatra said, winking, then cutting his golf cart
around a corner and parking it outside a big drab building within which
the scenes for Assault would be filmed.

"Where's the fat director?" Sinatra called out, striding into the studio
that was crowded with dozens of technical assistants and actors all
gathered around cameras. The director, Jack Donohue, a large man who has
worked with Sinatra through twenty-two years on one production or other,
has had headaches with this film. The script had been chopped, the
actors seemed restless, and Sinatra had become bored. But now there were
only two scenes left—a short one to be filmed in the pool, and a longer
and passionate one featuring Sinatra and Virna Lisi to be shot on a
simulated beach.

The pool scene, which dramatizes a situation where Sinatra and his
hijackers fail in their attempt to sack the Queen Mary, went quickly and
well. After Sinatra had been kept in the water shoulder-high for a few
minutes, he said, "Let's move it, fellows—it's cold in this water, and
I've just gotten over one cold."

So the camera crews moved in closer, Virna Lisi splashed next to Sinatra
in the water, and Jack Donohue yelled to his assistants operating the
fans, "Get the waves going," and another man gave the command,
"Agitate\!" and Sinatra broke out in song. "Agitate in rhythm," then
quieted down just before the cameras started to roll.

Frank Sinatra was on the beach in the next situation, supposedly gazing
up at the stars, and Virna Lisi was to approach him, toss one of her
shoes near him to announce her presence, then sit near him and prepare
for a passionate session. Just before beginning, Miss Lisi made a
practice toss of her shoe toward the prone figure of Sinatra sprawled on
the beach. As she tossed her shoe, Sinatra called out, "Hit me in my
bird and I'm going home."

Virna Lisi, who understands little English and certainly none of
Sinatra's special vocabulary, looked confused, but everybody behind the
camera laughed. She threw the shoe toward him. It twirled in the air,
landed on his stomach.

"Well, that's about three inches too high," he announced. She again was
puzzled by the laughter behind the camera.

Then Jack Donohue had them rehearse their lines, and Sinatra, still very
charged from the Las Vegas trip, and anxious to get the cameras rolling,
said, "Let's try one." Donohue, not certain that Sinatra and Lisi knew
their lines well enough, nevertheless said okay, and an assistant with a
clapboard called, "419, Take 1," and Virna Lisi approached with the
shoe, tossed it at Frank lying on the beach. It fell short of his thigh,
and Sinatra's right eye raised almost imperceptibly, but the crew got
the message, smiled.

"What do the stars tell you tonight?" Miss Lisi said, delivering her
first line, and sitting next to Sinatra on the beach.

"The stars tell me tonight I'm an idiot," Sinatra said, "a gold-plated
idiot to get mixed up in this thing...."

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"Cut," Donohue said. There were some microphone shadows on the sand, and
Virna Lisi was not sitting in the proper place near Sinatra.

"419, Take 2," the clapboard man called.

Miss Lisi again approached, threw the shoe at him, this time falling
short—Sinatra exhaling only slightly—and she said, "What do the stars
tell you tonight?"

"The stars tell me I'm an idiot, a gold-plated idiot to get mixed up in
this thing...." Then, according to the script, Sinatra was to continue,
"...do you know what we're getting into? The minute we step on the deck
of the Queen Mary, we've just tattooed ourselves," but Sinatra, who
often improvises on lines, recited them: "...do you know what we're
getting into? The minute we step on the deck of that mother's-ass
ship...."

\[image id='1b489825-7e76-4f78-9339-404b1201ec3f'
mediaId='185fbe7c-8941-47d1-b52d-3d8ba103af72' caption='Virna Lisi and
Frank Sinatra on the set of "Assault on a Queen". 1966.' loc='R'
share='true' expand='true' size='L'\]\[/image\]

"No, no," Donohue interrupted, shaking his head, "I don't think that's
right."

The cameras stopped, some people laughed, and Sinatra looked up from his
position in the sand as if he had been unfairly interrupted.

"I don't see why that can't work..." he began, but Richard Conte,
standing behind the camera, yelled, "It won't play in London."

Donohue pushed his hand through his thinning grey hair and said, but not
really in anger, "You know, that scene was pretty good until somebody
blew the line...."

"Yeah," agreed the cameraman, Billy Daniels, his head popping out from
around the camera, "it was a pretty good piece...."

"Watch your language," Sinatra cut in. Then Sinatra, who has a genius
for figuring out ways of not reshooting scenes, suggested a way in which
the film could be used and the "mother" line could be recorded later.
This met with approval. Then the cameras were rolling again, Virna Lisi
was leaning toward Sinatra in the sand, and then he pulled her down
close to him. The camera now moved in for a close-up of their faces,
ticking away for a few long seconds, but Sinatra and Lisi did not stop
kissing, they just lay together in the sand wrapped in one another's
arms, and then Virna Lisi's left leg just slightly began to rise a bit,
and everybody in the studio now watched in silence, not saying anything
until Donohue finally called out:

"If you ever get through, let me know. I'm running out of film."

Then Miss Lisi got up, straightened out her white dress, brushed back
her [blonde hair](/entertainment/interviews/g1311/hot-blondes/) and
touched her lipstick, which was smeared. Sinatra got up, a little smile
on his lips, and headed for his dressing room.

Passing an older man who stood near a camera, Sinatra asked, "How's your
Bell & Howell?"

The older man smiled.

"It's fine, Frank."

"Good."

In his dressing room Sinatra was met by an automobile designer who had
the plans for Sinatra's new custom-built model to replace the $25,000
Ghia he has been driving for the last few years. He also was awaited by
his secretary, Tom Conroy, who had a bag full of fan mail, including a
letter from New York's Mayor John Lindsay; and by Bill Miller, Sinatra's
pianist, who would rehearse some of the songs that would be recorded
later in the evening for Sinatra's newest album, Moonlight Sinatra.

While Sinatra does not mind hamming it up a bit on a movie set, he is
extremely serious about his recording sessions; as he explained to a
British writer, Robin Douglas-Home: "Once you're on that record singing,
it's you and you alone. If it's bad and gets you criticized, it's you
who's to blame—no one else. If it's good, it's also you. With a film
it's never like that; there are producers and scriptwriters, and
hundreds of men in offices and the thing is taken right out of your
hands. With a record, you're it...."

But now the days are short

I'm in the autumn of the year

And now I think of my life

As vintage wine

From fine old kegs....

It no longer matters what song he is singing, or who wrote the
words—they are all his words, his sentiments, they are chapters from
the lyrical novel of his life.

Life is a beautiful thing

As long as I hold the string....

When Frank Sinatra drives to the studio, he seems to dance out of the
car across the sidewalk into the front door; then, snapping his fingers,
he is standing in front of the orchestra in an intimate, airtight room,
and soon he is dominating every man, every instrument, every sound wave.
Some of the musicians have accompanied him for twenty-five years, have
gotten old hearing him sing "You Make Me Feel So Young."

When his voice is on, as it was tonight, Sinatra is in ecstasy, the room
becomes electric, there is an excitement that spreads through the
orchestra and is felt in the control booth where a dozen men, Sinatra's
friends, wave at him from behind the glass. One of the men is the
Dodgers' pitcher, Don Drysdale ("Hey, Big D," Sinatra calls out, "hey,
baby\!"); another is the professional golfer Bo Wininger; there are also
numbers of pretty women standing in the booth behind the engineers,
women who smile at Sinatra and softly move their bodies to the mellow
mood of his music:

Will this be moon love

Nothing but moon love

Will you be gone when the dawn

Comes stealing through....

\[pullquote align='C'\]It no longer matters what song he is singing, or
who wrote the words—they are all his words, his sentiments, they are
chapters from the lyrical novel of his life.\[/pullquote\]

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After he is finished, the record is played back on tape, and Nancy
Sinatra, who has just walked in, joins her father near the front of the
orchestra to hear the playback. They listen silently, all eyes on them,
the king, the princess; and when the music ends there is applause from
the control booth, Nancy smiles, and her father snaps his fingers and
says, kicking a foot, "Ooba-deeba-boobe-do\!"

Then Sinatra calls to one of his men. "Hey, Sarge, think I can have a
half-a-cup of coffee?"

Sarge Weiss, who had been listening to the music, slowly gets up.

"Didn't mean to wake ya, Sarge," Sinatra says, smiling.

Then Weiss brings the coffee, and Sinatra looks at it, smells it, then
announces, "I thought he'd be nice to me, but it's really coffee...."

There are more smiles, and then the orchestra prepares for the next
number. And one hour later, it is over.

The musicians put their instruments into their cases, grab their coats,
and begin to file out, saying good-night to Sinatra. He knows them all
by name, knows much about them personally, from their bachelor days,
through their divorces, through their ups and downs, as they know him.
When a French-horn player, a short Italian named Vincent DeRosa, who has
played with Sinatra since The Lucky Strike "Hit Parade" days on radio,
strolled by, Sinatra reached out to hold him for a second.

"Vicenzo," Sinatra said, "how's your little girl?"

"She's fine, Frank."

"Oh, she's not a little girl anymore," Sinatra corrected himself, "she's
a big girl now."

"Yes, she goes to college now. U.S.C."

"That's great."

"She's also got a little talent, I think, Frank, as a singer."

Sinatra was silent for a moment, then said, "Yes, but it's very good for
her to get her education first, Vicenzo."

Vincent DeRosa nodded.

"Yes, Frank," he said, and then he said, "Well, good-night, Frank."

"Good-night, Vicenzo."

After the musicians had all gone, Sinatra left the recording room and
joined his friends in the corridor. He was going to go out and do some
drinking with Drysdale, Wininger, and a few other friends, but first he
walked to the other end of the corridor to say good-night to Nancy, who
was getting her coat and was planning to drive home in her own car.

After Sinatra had kissed her on the cheek, he hurried to join his
friends at the door. But before Nancy could leave the studio, one of
Sinatra's men, Al Silvani, a former prizefight manager, joined her.

"Are you ready to leave yet, Nancy?"

"Oh, thanks, Al," she said, "but I'll be all right."

"Pope's orders," Silvani said, holding his hands up, palms out.

Only after Nancy had pointed to two of her friends who would escort her
home, and only after Silvani recognized them as friends, would he leave.

**THE REST OF THE MONTH** was bright and balmy. The record session had
gone magnificently, the film was finished, the television shows were out
of the way, and now Sinatra was in his Ghia driving out to his office to
begin coordinating his latest projects. He had an engagement at The
Sands, a new spy film called The Naked Runner to be shot in England, and
a couple more albums to do in the immediate months ahead. And within a
week he would be fifty years old....

Life is a beautiful thing

As long as I hold the string

I'd be a silly so-and-so

If I should ever let go...

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Frank Sinatra stopped his car. The light was red. Pedestrians passed
quickly across his windshield but, as usual, one did not. It was a girl
in her twenties. She remained at the curb staring at him. Through the
corner of his left eye he could see her, and he knew, because it happens
almost every day, that she was thinking, It looks like him, but is it?

Just before the light turned green, Sinatra turned toward her, looked
directly into her eyes waiting for the reaction he knew would come. It
came and he smiled. She smiled and he was gone.

**[Read more](/news-politics/g114/greatest-stories/) of the greatest
Esquire stories ever published—in their entirety.**