Strangers in the Night, page 22
Later, I couldn’t stop thinking about the incident with the rhinos. It had shaken me, but it had also exhilarated me—so had Bunny’s intensity. He hadn’t even flinched at the animals’ approach. Suddenly I wanted to see more wild animals up close, especially if it meant seeing more of Bunny and his big gun.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” he asked the following afternoon. “You don’t seem like the type who’s into wildlife.”
He had me pegged. He’d seen me swat at the incessant swarming flies, mosquitoes, and other insects intent on taking a bite out of me until I’d gotten irritated and zipped myself up inside my tent with much loud complaining.
“Whatever do you mean?” I batted my eyes innocently, eliciting a laugh. I’d followed his instructions to wear long pants and boots, but it was too hot to wear long sleeves.
“Here, rub the exposed skin on your arms and neck with this.”
I took the tube of lemon eucalyptus oil and filled my palm with a glistening pool of it, liberally spreading it over my skin. I’d gotten used to the smell of the stuff, so I barely noticed its pungent woody scent.
As we rode away from camp, I found myself soaking in the scenery—miles of red clay and brush, patches of lush grasses and trees, a range of mountains pointing toward the heavens—but the most magnificent thing about Africa was the infinite sky. It was a vast desert of blue all day, and at sunset, the embers of a smoldering fire.
At last, Bunny pulled the truck off the dirt road to park.
“See there?” He pointed to a patch of tall, thick grasses. “There’s a stream, and where there’s water, there are usually elephants and plenty of other animals, too.”
We left the truck, walking briskly until we reached the edge of the thicket.
“Now,” he whispered. “We have to be very, very quiet. We don’t want to be trampled so move slowly. Do your best not to make a sound. There’s a herd just ahead.”
I was ready to ask him what sort of herd when his finger pressed against my lips, and he mouthed the word, “Shh.”
I smiled and his finger traced the curve of my lips.
My throat went dry at the look in his eyes. We shouldn’t go down this path. We couldn’t. I’d never forget Francis’s hurt and fury when I’d told him about my bullfighter.
I looked away.
Bunny led us painfully slowly through the grass. At last, the grass parted to make way for a brown ribbon of water glistening in the sunlight. On the banks of the stream, a herd of cow elephants lazed, drinking and spraying water over their papery skin. They were beautiful, majestic, and unbelievably enormous.
Bunny looked back at me and winked. When I smiled, he grabbed my hand, pulling me into a crouch beside him. We hid from view in a spray of weeds, where we watched them in awe. They spoke to each other in soft rumbles and playful nudges, their ears flapping to keep the flies away. There was one so close, I could hear her snuffling, felt as if I could reach out and touch her. I leaned closer—and jumped suddenly at a splashing sound.
“It’s alright,” Bunny whispered, his lips brushing my ear. “She was just taking a crap.”
I burst out laughing.
The sound split the air and I clamped my hand over my mouth—too late. The beautiful animals were spooked.
Bunny yanked me backward and we stumbled through the mud, splashing across the swamp, pausing only briefly to see the elephants stampeding, mercifully, in the opposite direction.
Relieved, he exhaled a deep breath and removed his hat to wipe the sweat ring from his forehead with his arm. “So much for staying quiet.”
“You have to admit, that was funny.”
“You’re funny,” he said. “The way you see wonder in everything. You’re kind of adorable.”
“Am I now?” I gave him one of my brightest smiles.
As his eyes locked on mine, I knew then that I’d even the score with Francis. His hookers for this one night. I’d put the hurt aside for an adventure, for one wild night in the bush. There wasn’t much I valued more than making memories, and that night, I’d make another.
That night, I would find myself in Bunny Allen’s bed.
Chapter 30
Frank
I flew to Los Angeles all nerves. I prepped for the screen test for hours and then went in for my appointment for From Here to Eternity as assured as I could be that I was ready. I gave my all like nothing I’d ever done before.
If the director didn’t see I was right for the part, he was a moron—if he didn’t see I was right for the part, I was done. Through, finished for good. I tried not to think about it, but who was I kidding? I obsessed over it. This film that I could feel in my bones would be a huge hit. This role could turn everything around for me if they would just give me the chance.
When I was finished, I couldn’t sit still and paced the house for a week before I decided it was time to get out of town, spend some time with Ava. Besides, it was Christmas. I flew back to Kenya, hoping time on set with my wife would help calm my anxiety, but instead, we spent Christmas in shouting matches. She didn’t care one bit that I was there and showed no interest in the extravagant gifts I’d brought.
To make matters worse, I discovered she’d had an abortion without telling me she was pregnant in the first place.
“How could you do that to me?” I said, slumping into my chair after an hour of cussing and throwing pots and pans and upending the vase of flowers I’d brought her. The vase had shattered on impact. I was shattered, too. When I didn’t think that woman could hurt me anymore, she twisted the knife. “Don’t you want kids?” I asked. “I thought we were going to start a family.”
“And what exactly would I do with a baby on set, Francis?” she asked, her hands on her hips. “Or when you’re at three gigs every night, dragging your sorry ass home at five o’clock in the morning? What then? I’m not doing this by myself. Besides, we can’t spend a week together without going at each other’s throats. What kind of life would the kid have? You only think about yourself, Frank.”
She was right, I knew, but how could I trust a woman—the woman I was crazy enough to drive myself right off a cliff for—who went behind my back about something so important? The short answer was, I didn’t and I couldn’t.
I cut my trip short and took a job in Boston.
Ava and I patched things up long distance, but I was restless. There was no word on the screen test, and as week after excruciating week passed, I still didn’t know if I’d landed the part of Maggio. I railed against the capriciousness of Hollywood and the gatekeepers who made the decisions. Who were they to say I couldn’t act? Who were they to call the shots, anyway? They were just suits, men with money who wouldn’t know a good film or good music if it bit them in the ass. It was all about sales to them and nothing more.
I consoled myself with Jack Daniel’s and too many late nights at the bar after hours. Called up friends, Jimmy and Bogie—Humphrey Bogart, who was becoming a real pal—but though I appreciated their friendship, I still couldn’t see where to go from here, and the black dog found me again.
After a particularly grueling day, I was getting ready for a show when the phone rang. My stomach clenched at the sound of my talent manager’s voice.
“You’re the luckiest son of a bitch alive,” George Wood said matter-of-factly into the phone. “Apparently your screen test was great. They were impressed with you, Frank. And that’s not an easy feat these days.”
My heart racing, I ignored the dig. “Well? Did I get it?”
“They chose Eli Wallach.” He paused and my heart crashed to the ground like a fourteenth-story elevator. “But you’re in luck, Sinatra. Wallach took another role on Broadway instead. The part is yours.”
I screamed like a little girl. I’d gotten the part!
“You’re not pulling one over on me, are you?” I said, my voice hoarse.
“Not my style. You know that.”
I did. George wasn’t one to mince words. It was one reason why he was so successful. He didn’t take any crap and he didn’t push any either.
I hollered again as the back of my eyes pricked with overwhelming emotion. This would change everything. I knew it would—I’d make sure of it.
“Now,” he went on, “filming begins next month in Hawaii. And unfortunately for you, they took you at your word when you said you’d work for next to nothing, so you’ll only make a lousy thousand dollars a week.”
“I don’t care about the money,” I said breathlessly. I was playing the long game, and I knew, given my current status in Hollywood, I’d have to take what I could get. I’d already had one death in this town, and it was hell trying to resurrect myself. I’d be on my best behavior from here on out. I couldn’t wait to tell Ava.
“Good,” George replied. “That’s where you need to be right now. And listen, Frank, I have a lead on a record contract, but it’s not a sure thing yet so don’t go blabbing all over town about it. But I wanted you to know. Keep your head up. I think your luck is about to change.”
I would have hugged the man and beat him on the back if he’d been in the room. Instead, in a serious tone, I said a paltry, “Thanks, George. I owe you, and I won’t ever forget that. I mean it. I’m Italian. My word is everything.”
“You pay me, remember? Besides, I’m looking forward to seeing this ship turn around.”
I grinned. “Me, too, man. Me, too.”
* * *
The film turned out to be everything I wanted it to be. The director was brilliant, the cast was top notch, and I enjoyed working my tail off day after day on set in Hawaii. I was focused and attentive, on my best behavior, at least during the day. In the evenings, I let loose with Montgomery Clift, my costar who played Prewitt in the picture, and James Jones, the author of the novel. A former soldier, Monty could party like the best of them and even better, liked to philosophize the way I did after a few beers. We’d grab Jones and head to the hotel bar or out to the tikis on the beach, shut down the bar and go back to our suite to talk about life and politics, art and women, and everything between. I missed Ava like hell, but we both needed time away from each other. Some part of me was relieved for the separation.
One night after filming, the fellas and I were half a dozen beers deep and happened onto the topic of civil rights.
“Look, Monty, people have called me names my whole life,” I said. “Some people are nothing but a bunch of small-minded pricks who can’t tolerate a person who doesn’t look like them. I grew up in the city, you see? There were all kinds of people and we got along just fine. No one was better than the other. We worked hard, we lived hard, we made friends.”
He nodded, puffed on his cigar, and swigged from his beer can. “I don’t understand segregation. Can you imagine being told to drink at a different water fountain? What does that accomplish anyway, man?”
“What a crock of bullshit that is,” I answered. “I’ve spoken out against inequality plenty, and I will again, no matter what my manager says. I was told to keep my mouth shut, because it hurt my career, but I can’t stand it, man. The injustice.” I’d won a Golden Globe and Academy Award for a short about racial and religious tolerance called The House I Live In. Equality was a principle I was passionate about and I’d be damned if I’d back down now or ever.
He wagged his head in sloppy agreement, and I knew he was as lit as a Christmas tree. Made me laugh.
“It’s good to see you happy,” Monty said, lighting a cigar and squinting at me. He was a pretty boy, and the women were lured in by his brooding looks and bright eyes. He was a hell of an actor, too. I’d never met anyone into method acting, but he’d taught me a lot in our short time working together.
“I’ll be heading to London soon to see Ava,” I said, puffing on my own cigar and blowing a plume of smoke overhead.
“I’ve never seen anyone so whipped by his old lady,” Monty said, laughing at his own joke.
“You’ve never met Ava, have you?” I said. “She’s a witch. Casts a spell on just about everyone she meets, male or female. Most beautiful damned woman you’ve ever seen.”
“Those are the best kind,” Monty said. “Love isn’t enough. There has to be something else there.”
I nodded, contemplating his words. “We fight like a couple of cocks in a ring. She won’t hear of settling down or doing anything a woman is supposed to do. And yet, she owns me.”
“Maybe that’s why,” he replied.
I contemplated his words. I thought being married and truly belonging to each other would end the arguing between us. I thought it would mean she’d want to make a home together and put her career second, after us. We’d start a family, be happy. I was beginning to see how foolish that assumption was. The very things I loved about Ava—her unpredictability, her independence, and the drive that brought her success—meant she would never agree to what my idea of being married meant or my traditional views of a woman’s duties. She’d slug me at the mention of it.
I looked down at the drink in my hands and finished the last swallow.
Noticing my pained expression, Jones said, “She’s really got you tied in knots, hasn’t she?” He cracked open another beer. Cans littered the room and a cloud of not-quite dissipated cigar smoke hovered in the air. Combined with our sweat and Monty’s unwashed socks, it smelled like a locker room.
“Hey, Jones, open that window, would you?” I asked.
Jones, who had been quietly drinking himself into a stupor as he listened to us, jumped up to open the window. The ocean air rushed through the suite, catching the tendrils of smoke and whisking them out to sea.
“We should clean up. This place is a dump.” My words were slurred.
Monty bent to pick up one of the empty beer cans and launched it out the window at the dumpster below. It ricocheted off the lid with a clatter and fell to the ground. “Damn, I missed.”
“You’re a lousy shot,” I said, and scooped up a few of my own. I launched them at the dumpster next. After we’d all missed a few, we realized the cans were too light to aim properly so we smashed them, flattening them into discs, and spun them like saucers.
“Bull’s-eye!” I shouted, hitting the target.
Monty and Jones cheered.
After several minutes of chucking cans and anything else we got our hands on out the window, we heard a loud knocking at the suite’s main door.
Monty grinned. “It’s probably for you.”
“Nah, I didn’t hire any girls tonight,” I said, stumbling to the door. With Ava so far away, I’d helped myself to prostitutes and a couple of cute girls I’d met at the bar. No big deal. It wasn’t as if I ever wanted to see them again, so Ava didn’t need to know about it. I loved that woman enough for ten men. Meaningless sex with someone else couldn’t change that.
“Debbie?” I said, scratching my head. Our costar, Deborah Kerr, stood on the other side of the door.
“What the hell are you all doing?” she demanded. “It’s three thirty in the morning!” Her eye makeup was smeared and her hair was disheveled, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’d been making mischief of her own. “I could hear you down the hall.”
We laughed at that but abandoned our game. It was late and we had an early wake-up call in just a few hours.
“Come on, boys, it’s time for bed,” she said, ushering us out of the living room.
We obeyed like naughty children and once we were all in our rooms and in bed, Debbie said good night.
“See you soon,” she said.
“Can I get a good-night kiss first?” I called out, eliciting laughter from the other two.
“Not on your life, Frank. Good night.”
I chuckled, feeling happier than I had in ages. I might not have been on top of the world, but baby, I was back in the game.
Chapter 31
Frank
I returned from Hawaii feeling like a new man. I’d given it my all and I knew, deep down, that I’d done a great job. I hoped things would start looking up from there. It was no secret that Ava was getting fed up with my constant low moods, and I didn’t blame her. She needed a man who could take care of her; a real man who didn’t have to beg, borrow, or steal just to stay afloat; and I hoped I could finally be that for her.
I had scarcely walked through the door at home in Palm Springs when the telephone rang.
“More good news, Frank,” George, my talent manager, said. “The record deal with Capital Records got the green light.”
A wave of sheer joy crashed over me. I wanted to kiss the man—I would’ve also kissed Johnny the Meathead who’d set me up with George in the first place, had he been around. George was as ballsy and no-nonsense as everyone said he was, and he got the job done.
“Good man!” I all but shouted into the telephone.
“There’s just one thing, Frank,” he cautioned.
“Anything,” I said. “I’ll do anything.”
“You’ll need to pay for the studio fees”—he paused—“And you’ll also have a new arranger.”
My mood dimmed slightly. “I’ll pay the fees, but no new arranger. Axel is my man.”
“He was your man,” George corrected. “Look, this guy Nelson Riddle is brilliant. One of the best out there and he’s going nowhere but up. You want to ride this train, believe me. He’s worked with Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, Mel Tormé. Besides, it’s time to shake off the old image of Frankie the sweetheart crooner and bring on Frank Sinatra, a man reinvented.”
He was right. I needed a brand-new everything. New look, new attorney, new accountant. There wouldn’t be any more cute Frankie Sinatra bowties, suspenders, and screaming young girls. It would be Brooks Brothers suits and a fedora, a pinky ring, Cuban cigars, and a healthy dose of swagger after a few years of hard knocks. I’d have a complete redo. I wanted to come back swinging.
When recording day arrived, I walked into the Capital Records studio a ball of nerves. I hadn’t recorded anything in six months, and most of what I’d been forced to sing the last two years was trash. Could I pull this off? Was I as good as I needed to be? I didn’t like the idea of a new arranger, and the pressure to be prefect—to not make a single wrong move—had my guts twisted in knots. I made a silent deal with myself that I’d record a few songs with the new arranger to see how things went, and when they turned out to be garbage, I’d put in a call to George and insist we bring Axel back.
