Strangers in the Night, page 19
Our wedding took place on a miserable day in November. The wind howled as if it were being tortured by some unseen deity in the sky and cold rain sheeted from the clouds. Francis and I didn’t care—we were eager to get on with the ceremony and put this chapter of our lives behind us. We were hopeful that everything would change for the better then, and we could focus on creating a home together.
Finally, we pulled into the drive of Lester Sack’s—and reporters had, once again, found us. They swarmed the front walk, ignoring the driving rain.
I put my hand on Francis’s arm to restrain him. “Baby, let it go. They’re here and what’s done is done. Let’s just get married already.”
“They ruin everything,” he growled. “They’re not going to ruin my wedding day, too.” He kissed me quickly on the cheek and flung open the car door.
Light bulbs flashed and he stumbled, blinded by the light and distracted by the rain. He ran around the car to open the door for me. Instantly I was pelted with rain—and with questions.
“Ava, do you love him?”
“How does MGM feel about this match?”
Ignoring them, I held my purse over my head as we darted for the front door.
“Frank, didn’t you just divorce Nancy? Is she at home with the kids?”
“Does she know you’re getting married already?”
“I heard you were dropped by MGM.”
That did it. Francis swiveled around, the vein in his neck bulging. “How did you parasites know we were here? Who wants me to punch him out?”
“Come on,” I said, dragging him inside. “Who cares if they’re here?”
He screamed and swore all the way to the front door. At least he didn’t throw cherry bombs at them—that had become his new favorite parlor trick with the press.
Inside, Bappie, Francis’s parents, and Manie’s family had already begun to gather. At the last minute, Francis’s bandleader, Axel Stordhal, agreed to stand in as best man, his wife as matron of honor. Bappie had already had the honors twice and this time wanted to be another member of our small but mighty audience.
I didn’t waste time and headed upstairs, where I slipped into a gorgeous halter dress made of gauzy marquisette with stiffened brocade and a pink taffeta top. Howard Greer made the dreamiest designs and this one was no different; it fit like a second skin. The only problem with a second skin was I couldn’t wear anything underneath it. For jewelry, I fastened on a double strand of pearls and diamond earrings. Finally, I touched up my lipstick and I was ready or not.
When the “Wedding March” began, I walked slowly from the bedroom down a set of stairs to the living room. I tried to ignore the fact that the piano was out of tune and so did our pianist, Dick Jones.
My heart fluttering, I smiled brightly as I looked at the faces of our nearest and dearest. Francis’s eyes met mine and his face beamed like a spotlight on a dark stage. We were rich in people who loved us—we were rich in each other, and even after the events of the last few days and the last few months, his flaws and mine, I loved this man with all my heart. We were an outrageous yet perfect pair. Life was an adventure after all, wasn’t it?
I glanced at the white carnation in the buttonhole of his dark suit. Dolly had probably put it there. Tears pricked my eyes at the sight, and I blinked rapidly to hold them back. I wished Mama could be here, too.
When I reached the fireplace posing as our altar, Francis took my hands in his and the judge began the ceremony. When it was time for the magic words, I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“Do you, Francis Albert Sinatra, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife . . .”
Francis grinned and his blue eyes sparkled. “I do.”
I smiled back at him, wanting to take him in my arms.
“Do you, Ava Lavinia Gardner, take this man to be your lawfully wedding husband . . .”
“I do,” I managed over a lump of emotion in my throat.
“By the power vested in me . . .” The judge finished and we sealed the deal with a fervent kiss.
The audience erupted into cheers and applause.
I laughed and looked at the guests, seeing I wasn’t the only one who had tried not to cry. Every woman in the room was dabbing at her eyes and all were smiling. I went immediately to Dolly. She hugged me fiercely.
“Honey, I’m so glad this day has come,” she said. “You love him, don’t you?”
“Maybe too much,” I said, laughing and wiping at the tears.
Francis kissed us both, looking happier than I’d seen him in weeks—maybe ever.
“She’s the one, son,” Dolly said, and he smiled.
“She is, Ma.”
We cut a four-tier cake and drank champagne, and within a short couple of hours, the party was over and we were on the road to our honeymoon. At dawn, we arrived in Miami, exhausted but happy. At the Green Heron Hotel, I discovered I’d taken the wrong luggage and sent for it back in Pennsylvania. I ordered out for groceries and cooked Francis his favorite breakfast of fried eggs in olive oil; we ate companionably, fueled ourselves with coffee, and decided to go for a walk on the beach before our flight to Cuba later that day.
I shivered in the wind that whipped over the water and swept us along the sand.
“Here, Angel. Take my jacket.” Francis slipped it over my shoulders, and I tucked my hand into his as we made our way down to the beach.
We sauntered along the water’s edge, taking in the raw beauty of the ocean, churning and foaming and communing with the land that contained it. And for a few hours, we were quiet, relishing nature and our place within it, our toes in the sand, our hopes in the sky. We relished each other and all that lay ahead. Things would be better now—we were together, truly together, and nothing else mattered.
Perhaps marriage really was the cure to our madness after all.
Part 3
“All or Nothing at All”
1951–1953
Chapter 26
Frank
We were married at last, after more guilt and pain in the ass than I’d anticipated, but we’d made it. We enjoyed a week in Cuba, but no sooner had we returned from the honeymoon than my hot-headed woman was spitting nails and driving off into the desert, leaving me alone in Palm Springs. We’d argued about an old flame of hers and somehow the conversation returned to the hooker’s letter. I did know the hooker, but Ava didn’t need that information, especially when we were trying to get married and get on with things. It would have only added fuel to the fire. After looking into matters with a little help from the Boys, I discovered the stunt was Howard Hughes’s doing. The man had more money than God and he liked to play at being him, too. He’d paid the hooker off to send the letter, to prevent Ava from marrying me. I was going to have to teach him a lesson or two, see how he liked meeting my fists.
I drove to Los Angeles after Ava like the back end of the car was on fire. By the time I arrived at the house we were renting in the city, she was passed out in bed. I wondered how much she’d had to drink. It worried me, how much booze my lady could put away. It seemed to be growing by the day.
I slid in beside her warm, languid body. Immediately, all was forgotten and I wanted nothing but to pull her into my arms.
“Hi, Angel.”
“You came,” she said, opening her eyes. She gave me a sleepy smile.
“Of course I did.” I kissed her mouth softly.
“I’d yell at you some more, but I’m too tired and too happy to see you.” She wrapped her arms around my neck.
My body responded as she pressed against me. She was all round breasts with pert nipples and soft skin that demanded to be touched. She ground against me, and I took her like we were running out of air and life. And this was how it was between us: hot or hotter—never cold, never dull. We couldn’t seem to help ourselves. We’d argue and love each other and argue some more. It was exhausting—and sometimes I wondered why I’d given up my life with Nancy and the kids for the wild, untenable relationship I’d dived into headfirst—but I loved her in a way that didn’t make sense, even now. Even after all we’d done to each other and all we’d been through.
When we’d both been satiated, she lay in my arms. I drew circles with my fingertip on her shoulder.
“Did you hear about From Here to Eternity?” I asked.
“The book?”
“The picture. Rights sold to Columbia for eighty-two thousand dollars! Harry Cohn gave it to Zinnemann to direct.”
“Good grief,” she said, resting her chin on her arm. “I guess Harry really wanted it.”
“Well, it did win the National Book Award. I heard it sold a million copies or more.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said. “I’m not surprised. I loved that book.”
“I did, too,” I said, sitting up and propping a pillow against the headboard. “I’d give about anything to be cast, but they probably wouldn’t give me a screen test, never mind a role.”
“You don’t know that, baby,” she said, laying her hand on my knee.
I sighed heavily. I did know that—it would be the most sought-after picture with those numbers behind it already—but I was dead in Hollywood and they wouldn’t even give me a chance. “I’m going to London,” I said, changing the subject. “Will you come?”
“I can’t,” she said. “I have a meeting.”
I frowned. “You don’t even know when I’m going.”
“When are you going?”
“Next week.”
“That’s exactly when I have a meeting,” she replied.
“How many times have I joined you on set?”
“I’m meeting with David and a director, Francis. It’s not like I can blow them off. They’d be furious, and it’s unprofessional.”
“Come on, wifey. A good woman stands by her man. Besides, it’s for the Royal Command charity show. It’s a good gig for me, good press for us. You’ll get to meet the legendary Duke of Edinburgh.” I tried to tempt her. “I hear he throws a mean cocktail party for the stars.”
She slapped me playfully on the arm. “I stand by you plenty. But it does sound like a good time. I’ll see if the director doesn’t mind rescheduling.”
I smiled and tugged on a damp strand of her hair. “Atta girl. Will you sing a number with me, too?”
She laughed. “And look like a fool next to you and your sexy voice? Not a chance.”
“You’ve got a set of pipes. They’re sultry and soft. Come on, you know you can sing.”
Basking in my flattery, she smiled. “One song.”
I grinned. “You’ve got it.”
We made the flight over the pond, but the party wasn’t as we’d hoped. Though the royal set and their guests wore their best suits or sparkled in sequined gowns and satin, and plenty of top shelf booze was on hand, it was a stiff, formal affair. Ava and I were expected to follow English protocol that we didn’t know. We bumbled our way through the series of awkward bows and handshakes around the royals and tried to make the most of it.
“I need another drink,” Ava whispered, her eyes on the duke. “If I have to have one more conversation about the weather in Los Angeles, I’m going to die of boredom.”
“We’ve already had three and I get the feeling they’re all keeping track,” I replied. “Better keep it to a minimum. Besides, we’re going on soon. We can party after, baby.”
“There’s no way I’m going to perform to that crowd,” she said, finishing her drink. “They’re tight as virgins.”
I nearly spewed the whiskey in my mouth.
She laughed at my expression. “You know it’s true.”
“It’ll be fine. Regardless, you’ll be great.”
She shook her head. “No way. I’m not singing. I’ll look ridiculous and they’ll all think I’m terrible.”
“You promised,” I said, feeling my face go hot. She was going to bail on me now, at the last minute?
We argued quietly until it was time to begin—and I soon learned that she meant what she’d said. She wasn’t going to sing. I didn’t sing well either, and I scolded the band during a number, which ticked everyone off, leaving me with only Jimmy as accompaniment on the piano. The crowd looked on in restrained but clearly surprised amusement and I wanted to get out of there the minute I could.
Tired and in a foul mood, we went back to the hotel, arguing the whole way.
Inside our suite, Ava kicked off her heels and removed her earrings, but as she reached for her travel bag she screeched.
“My necklace, it’s gone!”
“The emerald necklace? Are you sure?” It was the same necklace that had been impounded in Spain. Bad luck seemed to follow it and I’d spent a fortune on that thing. Well, she had spent a fortune—I’d asked her for money to cover it, but I did pay her back. Another embarrassing admission I’d had to make as a grade A loser.
I yanked open the drawers one by one and sorted through the few things inside. After I’d opened them all, and dug through her suitcase, I swore loudly. Her face crumpled at the realization that it really was gone, and the anger that had stuck to my ribs all night began to fade.
I wrapped her in my arms. “We’ll get it back, doll. I’ll call the hotel manager and the police.”
Tears brimmed in her eyes. “It was my favorite. It matched my engagement ring.”
“I know,” I said, and swore again. We’d arrest whoever that son of a gun was, or I’d beat him to a pulp once we found him. I dialed down to the front desk and we also filed a report, but in so many words he let me know we’d probably never see the necklace again. A perfectly terrible end to a terrible trip.
As I stared at her tear-stained face, an unsettled sensation lodged in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want to think of the necklace as a sign of bad luck to come and yet it was impossible not to.
* * *
After the lousy trip to London, Ava and I returned to New York, where we planned to live for the next several months to wait out my show commitments. The problem was she was in demand, so much so that she spent only a few days with me before she had to jet back to Hollywood or some other destination for a promotional shoot or screen tests for a new film. I couldn’t stand it, watching her constantly go, leaving me behind to wallow in the pathetic life I was leading. It left me in a constant foul mood, and I’d pick a fight with her every chance I got. But no matter what I said or did, Ava did things her way. If I told her to stay in New York, she’d fly to California or Europe or Mexico and show up all over the papers in pictures with a man on her arm, her costar or some local celebrity. I’d fly into a rage, blow off a concert, and go to her, wherever she was, to tell her what I thought of the photographs. She would laugh them off, tell me how ridiculous and jealous I was being. She’d insist they were publicity stunts and a fun way to get under my skin. I was jealous enough to grind my reputation deeper and deeper into the mud. The jealousy would come over me like something violent and unrestrained. I was headed straight for the edge of a cliff, and it left me wondering if I’d have to drive myself off it before I’d make a change.
As it turned out, the change did come, but not by my own hand.
Universal canceled one of my few remaining deals, and CBS announced it was dropping my program. I suspected they might, though not for the reason I thought. They were peeved because of my refusal to rehearse. I wasn’t about to rehearse some of the worst music I’d ever heard and if they thought I would waste my time, they were out of their damn minds. Barking like a dog, parading around like a fool in an advertisement—I was a musician!
I was still licking my wounds when the biggest blow of all came in the form of a bill. My booking agency dropped me and charged me forty thousand dollars in expenses. I lost it, trashed my hotel room, and then got savagely drunk. As the news of my dismissal reached the Hollywood gossip mill, the jokes followed: “Even Jesus couldn’t resurrect Frank’s career” and “He’s a dead man walking.”
I was on the verge of a breakdown. What was show business anyhow? A way to prostitute ourselves? Sell ourselves for a little applause or a few autographs? Somehow I had to put this business—my livelihood—into perspective, or I knew I wouldn’t be able to carry on this way, sliding deeper, darker into an abyss.
One night, after a show at the Copacabana, one of my less-than-savory connections waved me over to a dark corner near the back wall. Some of the Boys were from the block where I grew up, and none were the kind of people I wanted to cross, so I was cordial enough, shook their hands, and thanked them for coming.
“Frankie, nice to see you,” Johnny said, pulling out a chair for me. He had what you’d expect in a guy that delivered unwanted news: thick hands, the shoulders of a linebacker, and a nose that looked like it had been broken a few times. The two men with him had their eyes glued on a pair of women with big tits that stuck out too far and that could only mean one thing: they were hookers.
“How’s things?” Johnny asked.
I waved the waitress over for a whiskey, straight up. “In the toilet, to be honest. I’m struggling.”
“The Copacabana isn’t enough for you.” He swirled the ice cube in his glass to water the whiskey.
I shrugged. It wasn’t a question. Of course it wasn’t and we both knew it, but I wasn’t going to get into it. “How’s Frank?”
“Who wants to know?” Johnny said.
I was referring to Johnny’s boss, Frank Costello, the head of the Luciano crime racket. Ever since Lucky Luciano was deported back to Sicily, Costello had taken his place. Much as I tried to steer clear of Costello, Joe Fischetti, and Willie Moretti, I’d known them most of my life and there was just no escaping them. Secretly, I admired them and their power, their invulnerability. No one messed with them unless they wanted to get hurt.
“Nobody wants to know,” I said, trying to hold back my irritation. “I was just making conversation.”
