“Come on in, the water’s fine,” I shouted. They gave me the bird. I took aim and splashed them.

  “Bombs away!” Jimmy called as he launched himself at the water, pulling his arms and legs together to form a cannon ball. He smacked the water hard, splashing everyone nearby.

  The women near the water’s edge screeched and moved their chairs back. George and I rewarded Jimmy with a face full of water as soon as his head poked above the surface. A splashing match broke out between us, and the next thing we knew, we all ended up on the shore, waterlogged, and poured another round.

  We drank and told inappropriate jokes and basked in the ease of the day.

  “Hey, Frankie,” Jimmy said, slipping his hands behind his head as he lay down on a towel in the grass. “Which broad is it this week?”

  “Any broad I want.” I punched him in the ribs lightly.

  Jimmy doubled over as if he’d been hurt, and we all laughed. “After the other night, I thought you might be carrying a torch for Ava Gardner.”

  We’d seen Ava at the softball game, and I’d nearly tripped over myself to say hello. She was as beautiful as ever, and single at last. I’d wanted to abandon the game and take her somewhere private. Too bad she’d been distant and polite, like I was her uncle or something. And then the fellas and I had acted like a couple of schoolboys on my balcony later that night, screaming her name. I could have sworn I saw the curtains moving in the back window of her house, but she never did step outside—and I never stopped thinking about the curve of her lips and the deep green of her eyes. Not that night, or since.

  There was something about her, beyond her obvious physical attributes, and I wanted to be the one to find out what that something was. If she’d only give me a chance.

  “She’s a tough nut to crack,” I said. “But if anyone can, I can.”

  We bantered back and forth a bit about my hubris and my five-foot eight-inch frame, all in good fun, but I couldn’t help feeling for the first time in my life that maybe they were on to something. Maybe I just wasn’t good enough for her and wouldn’t catch her eye now, or ever. Maybe a crooner from Hoboken wasn’t glamorous enough for her. She’d been married first to America’s sweetheart after all, followed by Artie Shaw. Women went crazy for Shaw and his clarinet. I didn’t get it.

  “Did you hear they’re courting Ava for One Touch of Venus?” Jimmy asked. “They couldn’t have picked a better broad to play a Roman goddess.”

  “The musical?” I asked.

  “They’re talking about a picture.”

  “I’d watch her in anything.” Danny whistled.

  I laughed and slugged Danny on the arm. “I laid eyes on her first.”

  “I’m pretty sure Mickey Rooney and Artie Shaw laid her first,” Jimmy said.

  We broke into laughter again, but I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy and for no goddamn good reason. Jimmy and Danny, and George for that matter, were as welcome to the sublime Ava Gardner as any other single man. I, however, wasn’t available at all, at least not in any real sense. I may have had a lot of freedom and a lot of women, but Nancy still wore my ring.

  George gave us the eye. “This isn’t the place, gentlemen.” He nodded subtly to the group of women behind us.

  George was of the same mind as the Boys, my Italian friends, if I could call them that. They warned me off public displays with other women, told me I should keep my dalliances brief, the wife at home happy, and all would be well. I could do what I wanted discreetly, they’d said, but I couldn’t walk out on my wife and kids—that wasn’t up for debate. Problem was, Nancy was no fool and we’d argued about the stories in the paper plenty, and the diamond bracelet she’d found that had wound up on another woman’s wrist. Mostly, Nancy looked at me with sad eyes when I rolled in late or decided to stay in the apartment I’d rented in town. I didn’t know how to change things without ruining all we had and all we were—and I didn’t know if I could live with that.

  “I saw you in the paper again,” Danny said after a gulp of whiskey. “Something about an Un-American Activities Committee. They after you?”

  “Nah,” I said. “They know I’m not a communist. They just want to point fingers because they’re a bunch of racist pricks. I don’t see how promoting the Little Guy makes me a communist.”

  “You’re not a politician,” George warned. “They eat their own. You think you’re doing them a favor—and you are—by drawing a lot of the heat away from them. But you’re the one who will go down, Frank. You need to cool it.”

  He was worried, and given the way the record company had been treating me lately, I should be worried, too. I’d had a real nice lineup of hits, but things seemed to be slowing down a little. It would pass. I knew we’d be right back on top with the next record.

  “At least you weren’t in the paper this week for threatening a reporter,” Jimmy said, swilling his beer and swatting at a fly buzzing around his head. “They sure like to crucify you.”

  “One of these days Frank will learn to stop harassing the reporters and then he won’t be crucified anymore,” George growled. He poured tanning oil into his right hand and rubbed it over his arms and hairy barrel of a chest.

  “And one of these days they’ll learn to leave me the hell alone before I take a bat to their knees,” I shot back.

  George gave me another long look, brows drawn.

  I winked at him and he rolled his eyes. I’d been in and out of the press for months and the stories were usually bad. Reporters stalked me, invaded my private life, started fights between Nancy and me, and gave Mayer over at MGM reasons to scowl. But I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of being silent. I’d give them my fist instead, and soon enough, they’d find some other jerk to come after.

  As the sky faded to dark, everyone got drunker than ever. We were dehydrated from hours of sunning and swimming and drinking enough whiskey and beer to fill a swimming pool. George ordered a taxi, but before he stumbled around the front of the house, he took me aside. The light through the windowpane reflected off his glasses.

  “We need to talk. My office, tomorrow,” he said.

  “Sure, sure,” I said, wanting to get him off my back. It was definitely time for him to go home. He was ruining my buzz.

  He gripped my arm as I turned to go. “I know you’re flying high right now and you think no one can touch you because you’re a star, but that’s not the case, Frank. The crash is even harder for someone like you.”

  What crash? He needed another beer.

  “Don’t be such a nag. I’ve got Nancy for that.” I shook his hand off and sent him on his way, trying to put the conversation from my mind.

  Some neighbors left, and a handful of others were arriving, but just as things were starting to get a little dull, I had an idea.

  “Help me with these, would you?” I called to Jimmy. He put out his cigarette and together we dragged a large box of fireworks from the shed onto a raft.

  “For heaven’s sakes, what are you doing?” Nancy had her hands on her hips and her dark curly hair was wild from the day’s activities. She was tipsy as well from the spiked punch. She looked happy and beautiful, and if the house hadn’t been full of people, I’d have swept her off her feet and taken her to bed.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my tongue thick from all the whiskey. “We’re just having a little fun.”

  I pushed off from the shore and paddled out into the lake. The raft wobbled over the undulating water beneath me. I steadied myself and carefully stood, flipped open my lighter, and held it to the wick of one of the firecrackers. The flame licked at my fingers as I held the lighter steady, waiting for it to catch. It took several tries but at last, the wick caught and as it did, the flame burned my finger. I swore and dropped the lighter.

  The lit firecracker landed on the pile of others. In an instant, the packages caught fire.

  “Frank! Jump, you fool!” Jimmy shouted.

  I dove off the raft, swimming away furiously, swallowing too much water. The whine and prattle of fireworks filled the air, and the small lick of flames grew to a soaring blaze.

  “Well, damn! There goes the raft,” I slurred.

  “Splash it with water!” Jimmy yelled, stumbling sideways.

  He hit the water with an enormous splash and swam out beside me. A couple of neighbors joined in and the four of us got to work, splashing the raft. When the last of the flames went out, we looked at each other, panting and out of breath.

  “That was about the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” I said.

  We all burst into laughter.

  Yet, in spite of the laughter and the sun-drenched day and the hours we spent partying into the night, George’s warning echoed in my mind. He’d always been a little stern, but this time, he wasn’t bluffing. He was genuinely worried. I could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he’d smoked too much. The press was on my back, and I knew he was right. I should heed his warning.

  Like it or not, I’d better watch my step.

  Chapter 3

  Frank

  Even though good sense told me to, I didn’t listen to George’s warnings, and as it turned out, I paid for it. Enemies to the causes I’d promoted and believed in smeared my name all over town right along with the politicians’. My record sales dipped and that did it—I stopped accepting invitations to speak for my politician friends, at least for the time being. I didn’t, however, stop hitting the clubs and one night, I was stupid enough to get sloshed and land a right hook in a journalist’s smug face. I hated being followed around by photogs; they didn’t respect a man’s privacy and they took a special kind of satisfaction in smearing me in the papers. I took a special satisfaction in introducing them to my fist.

  In my Sunset Towers apartment, the phone rang, and a ripple of dread rolled over me. I knew it was George on the other end of that line and I didn’t want to hear the latest. I let it ring until it stopped, only for another call to begin. This time, I picked up.

  “Hiya, George,” I said as I tapped the bottom of a fresh pack of cigarettes, knocked a smoke free, and lit it with a match.

  He didn’t bother to greet me.

  “I’ve got some bad news. Old Gold cigarettes is dropping you.”

  “What? Why?” I looked down at the packet in my hands. My radio sponsor was one of my biggest fans, or so I’d thought.

  “You’re bad for business,” George replied gruffly. “And imagine my surprise when I picked up the papers today.” He started to read the headlines aloud. “‘Frankie Makes Mischief in Hollywood. Sinatra’s Left Hook Strikes Again.’ Are you really beating up journalists? Jesus Christ, Frank. You don’t have the luxury to act like this right now. Did you notice you didn’t make the list of Down Beat’s top singers of the year either? You’re losing touch with your audience. I’ve been warning you, but you don’t seem to give a shit, and now it’s catching up with you.”

  Pulling on the end of my cigarette, I dragged smoke into my lungs and pushed it out in a steady stream. “That reporter was asking for it. He’s been dragging my name through the mud for months.” Lee Mortimer—I hated the guy—he’d deserved every last punch I gave him, even if I did have to appear in court and pay nine thousand dollars in fines.

  “I think we need to put you on the road, get you out of town,” George said. “Get ready for a club tour. Let’s see if we can at least put you on the charts again.”

  As I hung up, I swore under my breath. I paced out onto the balcony. The sky simmered with the last embers of a spectacular sunset. Why were things snowballing all of a sudden? I couldn’t believe my radio sponsor had given me the boot. What the hell? That was what I paid George for—to manage things—though admittedly, he’d warned me plenty.

  I sucked on the end of my cigarette and dropped it to the ground, crushing it with the heel of my shoe. Inside, I paced, anxiety crackling inside me. Perhaps things would be better on the tour. George seemed to think so.

  Unable to stay inside another minute, I took the elevator and strode down Sunset Boulevard, trying to outrun the thoughts in my head. Things would turn around. George would think of something, I told myself. He always did.

  After an hour, the roaring in my ears calmed. I headed back to the apartment, my hands in my pockets, wishing I had some plans that night, something to keep me from sinking. When I was this worked up, and the hours wrung themselves out, my thoughts turned dark and I had trouble staying out of my own way. It had always been that way.

  When I rounded the bend and Sunset Towers came into view, I saw a woman just ahead on the sidewalk, her silhouette unmistakable even in the dark. Slender waist and full hips, a bandana tied over dark curls—it was Ava Gardner. A stroke of luck I hadn’t expected.

  “Ava!” I called and jogged to catch up to her. She turned at the sound of her name. “I thought that was you.”

  She gave me her megawatt smile. “Hey there, Frank Sinatra.”

  Something in my chest lurched at the sound of my name on her lips.

  “That smile of yours is your superpower,” I said.

  “And yours is flattery,” she countered. “You hand out praise like candy.”

  I laughed, shaking my head. “I only hand out praise when I mean it.”

  “Is that so.” Her eyes gleamed and her ivory skin looked luminescent in the pale glow of the streetlamp. It took all my strength not to brush my thumb across the soft roundness of her cheekbone.

  I cleared my throat. “What are you doing out here at this hour?”

  “Sometimes I like to walk at night,” she said. “Helps me quiet my head a little.”

  “A woman shouldn’t be out alone in the dark.”

  “Why? Because there might be strange men shouting your name off their balcony in the middle of the night?”

  I tipped my head back and laughed heartily. “You heard us, then.”

  “I think everyone heard you clear to Malibu.”

  I chuckled again. She was always wittier than I expected. “We’d had a few drinks.”

  “You don’t say.” Her tone was sarcastic, but her full lips stretched into another pretty smile.

  My stomach rumbled loudly, and this time, we both laughed. “I haven’t eaten supper yet, have you? I’m not much of a cook, but I can make a mean steak, and there’s probably something else in my fridge.”

  She hesitated a moment and then asked, “Have you got any gin?”

  I felt myself grin. “I always have plenty of booze.”

  “Well, alright then, show me the way. I’m starved.”

  As we walked the short distance to my apartment, I could feel her beside me, hear her soft breathing, and I had to force myself to be cool, confident. Inside, I removed my sweater and rolled up my sleeves before rummaging through the refrigerator. The housekeeper had left steak and potatoes, and a medley of carrots and peas that I could cook up in a snap.

  “This place is immaculate.” Ava looked around the kitchen at the chrome polished to a shine and the counter that had become a makeshift bar with a cocktail shaker and rows of liquor bottles. She moved to the living room and glanced around at the plush couch and ran her finger over the coffee tabletop. “Not a speck of dust anywhere. You must have a maid.”

  “I do, and when she’s busy, I clean it myself. I can’t stand disorder. It makes it hard for me to think.”

  “I have a live-in maid myself. Reenie Jordan. Well, she’s become something of a friend, too, truth be told.”

  “Is it a good idea to be friends with someone you’ve hired?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure most of what I do is a good idea, Frank, but I do it anyway.”

  I chuckled. “Is that so? Well, that makes two of us.”

  I made us each a gin martini, extra dry as the lady requested, and got to work on the food. I couldn’t help but look up from my chopping, to make certain she was really there. I watched her move, saw the liveliness dance across her features as she studied my place. She inspected the shelves that were decorated with a few odds and ends that I’d picked up at the gallery downtown: a desert landscape, a Waterford crystal decanter and glasses, and a series of marble statuettes. For the most part, the apartment had basic furnishings since it wasn’t my full-time residence.

  When she reached the record player, she crouched to look at the stack of records in the cabinet beneath it. “You have so many records. Are you a collector?” she asked, running her fingertips across the stack.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m in the music business. Besides, if you host parties, you need music. Have you heard “Jungle Nights in Harlem” by Duke Ellington?” When she shook her head, I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel, crossed the room, and pulled the record out of its sleeve. I blew on it to clear off any dust and laid it on the turntable. “You’ve got to hear this.”

  Duke opened the song on the piano, followed by a trumpet, a tap-tapping for rhythm, and lush saxophones cushioned the whole melody.

  She kicked off her shoes and sat on the floor, her back leaning against the sofa, her left foot moving to the beat. “This is great.”

  “Isn’t it?” I said, plating our food. “Let’s eat.”

  After we ate, I made us another round of drinks and put on one record after another. Soon we’d listened to big band and swing, jazz, and eventually some of the classical greats: Wagner, Strauss, Beethoven.

  “Can you imagine composing something like that?” I asked over the crashing of drums and cymbals.

  “It sounds like someone is marching.” She was stretched out on the floor, her eyes closed, listening to the strains of a magnificent orchestra. And all I could do was watch her: her arched brow, the adorable apples of her cheeks, the way her lips twitched into a smile. She’d made me laugh, too, more times than I could count. She surprised me in the best of ways. I didn’t know what to make of it.

  We talked about books and our favorite authors. She told me all about the way Artie Shaw demanded she read his chosen list of books, and how he’d paid for chess lessons for her—until she beat him. The way he’d insisted she learn to behave like an upper-class socialite when she was a down-to-earth kind of woman. She’d even taken a few college classes to try to keep up with his expectations—and to ward off the constant barrage of insults. He sounded like a real prick.

 

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