Strangers in the Night, page 28
“I’m writing something special for you, Frank,” he said one night, a cigarette hanging on the edge of his lip. He was curled over a notebook filled with lyrics, notes, and scratch-outs. We’d been lounging around the pool during a merciful day off, working our way through a pint of bourbon. By nightfall we were nice and lubed and far too philosophical, and Van Heusen had been channeling it to the page.
“Oh yeah?” I reached for the crystal decanter and refilled our glasses. “Hey, you want something to eat? I’m starved.”
“I could eat,” he said.
I asked the housekeeper to cook up a couple of burgers and then flicked a look at the pile of pages in his lap. “You ready to tell me what you’re working on?”
“A suite of new songs. You’ve been through a lot the last few years.”
I nodded. “Ain’t that the truth. Can I see what you’ve got?”
He handed me the top page and I pored over the page of fresh ink. The song was called “Only the Lonely.” “Shit, Jimmy, this is good.”
He nodded. “Been tough watching you suffer, man.”
I stared into my glass, avoiding his eyes. The song captured a sense of searing loneliness and despair, but also a reverence for love. My friend had me pegged. I couldn’t have written the song better myself.
I cleared my throat, swallowing the emotion. It was the start of a new album, one I knew had to be dedicated to Ava, but how would I sing without making a spectacle of myself on stage? “This is amazing work, man.”
“You’re a pretty amazing guy,” he said.
I punched him in the shoulder playfully to lighten the mood, and we both laughed.
Weeks later, I recorded that album, and though it wouldn’t be the hit that my others had been, I knew it was among my best, and most of all, it was cathartic. It was my Ava album, an album about breakups and heartache—and the very first themed album out there on the market. Somehow we knew we were on to something, grouping songs by theme and we were—themed multisong albums changed music forever.
I couldn’t help myself and sent a copy to Ava.
She called me to thank me for it, the first time we’d spoken in months. My heart skipped in my chest at the sound of her voice.
“Sing me the Ava song, baby,” she said after we’d been on the phone for some time.
“You want me to sing now?”
“Yes. Like you mean it, baby.”
“Oh, I mean it alright,” I said, and I began the song that would forever spark longing every damn time I sang it.
“That’s beautiful,” she said, the sound of her sniffles drifting faintly over the line.
“You’re beautiful.”
“I miss you, Francis.”
“I miss you, too, Angel.”
That woman possessed my soul. I knew I held hers, too, as hard as she’d fought it, and I began to think that maybe we really were like Romeo and Juliet after all. Star-crossed lovers, forever in love but ultimately a tragedy. There was something poetic about our desperate need for each other.
Soon after the Ava album hit the radio, I headed to Indiana to film Some Came Running. I was to costar with Shirley MacLaine and Dean Martin, an Italian American comic, singer, and actor I’d heard plenty about but hadn’t yet met. We got along like the Three Stooges. Dean was witty and told wild stories about running bootleg booze across the Pennsylvania border for the Mafia as a teenager and tales of the shenanigans and scrapes he’d been involved in since becoming a star. Shirley had a great sense of humor and liked to have a good time the way we did. She was young, though, and couldn’t quite keep up with the long, late nights, the hundred-dollar tips to the bellboys, or the pranks Dean and I played on each other. I’d leave cracker crumbs in Dean’s bed one night and he’d repay me the next with spaghetti sauce on my tuxedo.
Even though Dean was aloof and hard to know, I instantly understood I’d found a lifelong friend in him. He let me do my thing and he did his own, and together, we were dynamite. It wasn’t long before Dean was invited to the Sands and shortly after, our names stretched across the marquee, side by side, on a regular basis.
One night, the house was packed and the crowd was rowdy after hours of gambling and booze, so we played to it.
“How about we sing a set, pal?” I said into the microphone, looking out at the eager, smiling faces, the dimmed lights and the cigarette cloud that hovered overhead.
“That would be swell,” Dean replied. He stumbled to mimic a drunkard.
The audience laughed at the sight. I chuckled, too, and said, “The mic is this way.” I pretended to lead him back across the stage.
The audience roared.
The band caught on quickly and began the song again.
Dean started to sing and then let the words trail off. He stopped and scratched his head like he’d forgotten the rest.
I looked at my watch and then at him. “I’ve got to catch a train soon.”
The crowd howled.
This time, I began to sing—and Dean interrupted my song. As the audience hollered and clapped, I felt a heady buzz. It was a different kind of satisfaction to be considered funny, and we loved every minute of it.
We bantered more, goofing around as laughter rippled through the audience. Our energy was electric—the audience rapt—and we both knew this was the start of something. A comedy routine, a play between friends, a little music. A great new show, Vegas style.
Jack Entratter, the hotel manager, met us after the show and clapped me on the shoulder. “That was hilarious, man. Did you two plan it?”
Dean and I glanced at each other and grinned. “Nope. That was improvisation, my friend.”
“I’ll say,” Jack said. “If you’re feeling up to it tomorrow night, let’s do it again.”
“You’ve got it, boss,” I said. “Now how’s about a real drink and a game of craps?” We had some serious gambling to do.
“I’ll roll first,” Dean said, lighting a cigar and winking at me.
Our shows together were a huge hit, and next thing I knew, Dean and I had invited British singer and dancer Peter Lawford, nightclub veteran and comic Joey Bishop, and my pal, singer and comedian Sammy Davis Jr., to join us. On occasion, Shirley would join in the fun onstage, too. We’d perform for an hour, head to the gambling tables afterward, and then go upstairs to my suite for the best in booze and food and women. We were unstoppable: a group of men tearing up the town and diving headfirst into all the sin Las Vegas had to offer. The sillier we acted, the more the crowd loved it and soon a media frenzy began. People came from far and wide, paying top dollar to see us. Suddenly Las Vegas was the place to be. We’d made this town, and I was the leader of the pack.
The Summit, as we called ourselves—or the Rat Pack, according to the media—was a sensation. We drew enormous crowds who loved our slapstick, toilet humor, drunk jokes, and shots at racists as the demand for civil rights heated up. And, of course, jokes about sex. Sometimes we made the jokes for laughs and sometimes they were to make a point. In the end, we were nothing but a group of fellas having fun together onstage, and somehow, we’d become the group everyone wanted a piece of. People bought us rounds of drinks or sent us gifts, and women threw their room keys onstage.
Eventually, Peter had a bright idea that would solidify our fame.
“I bought the rights to a movie,” he said one night in the cigar lounge after a show. We’d been particularly feisty that night and decided some Cubans were in order. “It’s called Ocean’s 11,” he continued. “It’s about a group of vets hired to hit five different casinos at the same time. And we’re looking for a great cast.”
“Forget the movie, let’s pull the job!” I said.
Everyone laughed and raised a glass.
“Who are you thinking of for it?” I asked, giving Peter a sidelong glance.
“The script is being finished now, but William Holden would be lead, I think,” he said.
“Sounds like a good one,” I said. “If you change your mind, I’d be interested in a lead.”
As it turned out, he did change his mind.
And that was it—the preservation on film of the legendary Summit. We’d moved from stage to movie, and the project was a blast. After shooting wrapped each day, we’d head to the clubhouse, a steam room and health club at the casino, wearing matching robes monogrammed with our nicknames: Dag for Dean, short for Dago; Sammy was Smokey because he was the worst chain smoker we’d ever seen; and Peter was Brother-in-Lawford, since he was married to a Kennedy. Women rotated in and out of the sauna, slipping their room keys into our robe pockets, arguing about who got Dean.
We were practically national icons, and, I hoped, leaving a legacy behind that wouldn’t be forgotten. Admittedly, with each passing year my preoccupation with my legacy grew. I didn’t want to be another Joe Schmo, erased from time like waves washing over sand. It was a depressing thought, suffering and loving and raging, only to meet the same end as every other cad before me. I wanted my life to mean something. I wanted my music and my pictures to leave a lasting impact.
And as my star rose higher and higher, and anything I wanted seemed achievable, I grew closer to that goal. At least, I hoped so. There was no telling who would share my story after I was gone, or if anyone would even want to, but that was out of my hands. All I could do now was keep on working, keep on bringing my best to the table until the lights dimmed and I couldn’t go on anymore.
Chapter 41
Ava
Watching Francis’s meteoric rise from afar and reading the wild tales in the press about him and the Rat Pack spurred me on to try to forget him. He was living his life without me and doing it well. While I was happy for him, his happiness threw a mirror up to my own. Was I happy? I didn’t know and if that was the answer then the outlook wasn’t good. The wild, riotous part of me began to take charge, my moods becoming more mercurial. I could see the waves washing over me as the angry, thrashing, crushingly sad person I was beneath my charming exterior emerged. I didn’t try to curb my behavior. I’d spent the last fifteen years of my life trying to please everyone but myself, and now I was interested only in pleasing myself.
That was how I went looking for trouble. That was how I made another of the worst mistakes of my life.
Though my interest in matadors had waned, I still enjoyed the seductive yet deadly dance of bull and man so one idle afternoon, Bappie and I left Madrid and rode out to a bull ranch. I’d met the owner of the ranch through Hemingway, and he’d gladly welcomed me back. Along the way, my sister and I drank sol y sombra, a mixture of absinthe and Spanish cognac that had us feeling mighty fine by the time we arrived—and very, extremely drunk.
At the bull ranch, a crowd of locals had gathered outside the small, dusty ring to watch the testing of the bulls. It was a yearly event, and as important to them as a Catholic feast day. There was an odd satisfaction in thinking about the way rituals were conducted in Spain: always with a practiced hand, always with layers of meaning and centuries of tradition behind them that I, as an American, couldn’t quite grasp. But I wanted to, and I tried.
We arrived in time to see a bull being led into the ring. I watched, entranced, as the farmer shot him in the neck with barbed darts. It seemed so cruel, and yet, the ranch hands did it without even thinking.
Bappie gasped, tipping back the bottle of sol y sombra for another drink. “Why are they doing that? The poor animal. This is dreadful.”
“It’s supposed to make him less fierce for the riders when they enter the ring. Frankly, it would just piss me off more to be penetrated before the big event.”
As we chuckled at my attempt at humor, Angelo Peralta, the owner of the ranch, headed over to shake my hand. Angelo still had that twinkle in his eye that I remembered from the first day I’d met him and the deeply wrinkled skin from years in the sun.
When he reached for my hand, the whispers began among the onlookers, the delighted smiles, the waves. I realized they now knew they were looking at a movie star, all the way from Hollywood. Within moments, they began to chant my name.
“Ava! Ava! Ava!”
“Well, I guess they’ve found me out,” I said, glad I was wearing my sunglasses. Secretly, I was pleased by their attention for a change. I still had it, even now, even as I creeped closer to middle age and becoming an old maid.
“They want you to ride the horse,” Angelo said, nudging me.
“Well, I am being considered for a part as a bullfighter on horseback,” I said, giggling after entirely too much alcohol. “Imagine me, a bullfighter.”
Apparently the crowd had already imagined it. “Viva, Ava!” they cried, giving me a rush of adrenaline.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give them a little show to remember me by.
“Hold this,” I said, handing Bappie my purse and the bottle of liquor. “I’m going to ride that damned horse.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked, her words slurred. She could hold her liquor, too, but not like I could—a skill I shouldn’t be proud of but which had served me well. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
I winked. “That’s why it’ll be fun.”
The ranch hands lifted me onto the saddle of the largest black stallion I’d ever seen and like a shot, we galloped into the middle of the ring. I laughed, waving to the crowd, clutching the strap with one hand and the banderilla, the matador’s flag, in the other. The crowd went wild and chanted my name louder.
“Ava! Ava! Ava!”
I threw my head back and laughed, drunk as a skunk, and giddy with the rush of being watched.
The powerful animal kicked up a cloud of dust, coating me with a fine film of dirt, and galloped into the center of the circle. I clung to the reins, suddenly realizing what I was doing was dangerous and that Bappie had had a point. This probably wasn’t a good idea. But that was my way, wasn’t it? Always stumbling into things that weren’t a good idea and then paying the consequences later. No sense in changing that now.
I held my breath, gathering my courage.
The crowd frothed with excitement.
A ranch hand shouted and then let the bull loose into the ring. Without hesitating, it charged us.
I screeched as the horse, a mass of muscle and sinew beneath me, bolted, writhing and irritable and desperate to dislodge the intruder and to save itself. I screamed again and the crowd cheered, a little too delighted by the spectacle.
Suddenly the bull was upon us.
The stallion danced right, dodging the furious animal, but the bull charged again. My heart pounded in my ears and suddenly I wanted to get off this damned animal and escape the ring.
This time, the horse wasn’t fast enough, and the bull grazed its side.
I clutched the reins, my vision blurring from the alcohol. My stallion didn’t like being wounded and galloped away, kicking as it went. I clenched my legs around its middle to steady myself as best I could. The horse heaved and huffed, its sides contracting and expanding beneath my legs as it tried to draw in steadying breaths. The horse was as terrified as I was.
The audience roared, their voices rising into the scorched dusty air and contorting into jeers. They jeered at my choices and every wrong move I’d ever made. At the fact that I was stupid enough to climb atop a frightened animal in a dangerous dance between life and death. Is this what it had all come to? In a desperate attempt to appease my vanity, I was risking my life? This could very well be the end, and for what? I was my own worst enemy, always had been. In that moment, nothing could be clearer—except wishing I hadn’t gotten on that damn horse at all.
The horse bucked again and I screamed, yanking hard on the reins and squeezing its middle with my legs with all my might.
I thought of Francis then, of how he’d have not only talked me out of the stunt but taken the reins himself to keep me from making such an absurd mistake. And in that instant before the bull began to charge a third time, I missed him acutely. Missed his noisy, pushy, loving voice in my ear, his warmth at my side. Francis would have done anything to keep me out of that ring, even if it meant making a spectacle. Even if he’d had to throw me over his shoulder and carry me out of there, and right now, I wished with all my might that he had. Sometimes he knew what was better for me than I did.
I looked ahead at the steaming animal who couldn’t wait to tear me and the horse to shreds. Panting, I held on for dear life.
The bull turned and charged again.
My horse reared up, his own scream echoing in my ears. And then I was flung from the saddle.
I smacked the ground—hard—landing on my cheekbone.
A collective gasp arose from the audience.
Pain shot through my skull, and my teeth rattled with it as if I’d been hit across the face with a nine iron. I sucked in air and willed myself to get up, to get myself to safety, but for once in my life, I couldn’t speak and I couldn’t seem to move.
* * *
The next instant, hands lifted me from the ground and carried me swiftly over the barrier of the ring.
“Ava!” Bappie screeched. “Are you alright?”
I nodded, dazed. “I’m alright, I think. My cheek.” I cradled my face with my hand.
As Bappie helped brush the dust from my clothing, someone placed a cup of sol y sombra in my hand, and I was pushed to my feet. My head spun and sweat stung my eyes. I wiped at them hastily and leaned on my sister.
