at these parties would usually revolvearound the movies, how bad they were, who was screwing whom, both at the studios and offscreen. Everyone was great friends, but they were all very concerned with who was making the most money and who was getting the best parts. They were united in their hatred of the studio moguls like the Warners, the Cohns, the Goldwyns. There was a great divide between these artists and the money that they seemed to covet even more than their art. All in all, the Bogart evenings were models of decorum, dialogue, and taste. It would get a whole lot raunchier in the years to come when Frank would take control.
The taking of that control was beginning to happen bit by bit before my eyes, especially after Frank returned from Hawaii from shooting Eternity. He seemed to know, six months before the movie was released, that this was a winner. He also recorded what would become his first hit record in years, “Young at Heart,” on his new contract with Capitol. It was a nice way to say “Fuck you!” to Columbia Records, which had dropped him the year before. He even had a nice way to say “Fuck you!” to Swifty Lazar, who was sucking up to him more and more with each bit of proof that Frank was going to be that rare person to beat the Hollywood curse, and, like Jesus and the South, rise again. Once when Lazar and I were in New York, Frank, the great practical jokester, enlisted Harry Kurnitz to get the landlady to give them the key to Lazar’s apartment. They came in during the middle of the night with a contractor and bricked up the wall to the closet that contained all of Lazar’s beloved English clothes, and then painted the whole thing to make it look like one big wall. Lazar went crazy when he came back. If there had been Candid Camera back then, this would have been the perfect stunt, just to see the look on Lazar’s face. On other occasions when Lazar was getting ready to go to some fancy party, Frank would sneak in and steal some vital element of his outfit, like a cummerbund, or one of his cuff links, or theshoes he had me set out for him to wear. The crazier he would drive Lazar, the better I knew he was doing in his life.
In the winter of 1953, Lazar sent me over to the Goldwyn Studio to drop a script off for Billy Wilder, who was working there at the time. Wilder took the script from me as if I weren’t there, and, as usual, did not say thanks. It was a treat, then, to run into Frank Sinatra on the lot. Instead of waving hello, he charged right over to me with something important to say. “George,” he greeted me with a big handshake and a bear hug. “I want you to go see my secretary. She’s got an important message for you. Go there right now. Right now.” He shook my hand again and he was off. I had no idea what that message could be, but I sure was curious. So I found my way to this little office on the lot, and I met Gloria Lovell, a plain schoolteachery woman in her thirties who was in the middle of signing Sinatra’s name to a pile of glossy photographs that were being sent to fans. “Oh, hello, George,” she trilled, as if she had known me all my life. Then she handed me a thick envelope. “Open it,” she insisted. It was a set of keys. “Welcome aboard,” she said. Aboard what, I asked her, totally confused. “You’re starting today,” she said. Starting where? “At Mr. Sinatra’s. He wants you to go there now. It may be a bit of a mess. He really needs you.” But what about Mr. Lazar? I sputtered. “He’ll manage,” she replied with a slight grin. What can I say to him, I continued in a near panic. I didn’t want to be blackballed, to see my brilliant career ended before it began. I was terrified of incurring the wrath of Swifty Lazar, who had grown to depend on me. It’s been three years, I tried to explain. I can’t just pick up and…“Mr. Sinatra will take care of Mr. Lazar,” Gloria Lovell stated with schoolmarmish authority. “You just worry
The taking of that control was beginning to happen bit by bit before my eyes, especially after Frank returned from Hawaii from shooting Eternity. He seemed to know, six months before the movie was released, that this was a winner. He also recorded what would become his first hit record in years, “Young at Heart,” on his new contract with Capitol. It was a nice way to say “Fuck you!” to Columbia Records, which had dropped him the year before. He even had a nice way to say “Fuck you!” to Swifty Lazar, who was sucking up to him more and more with each bit of proof that Frank was going to be that rare person to beat the Hollywood curse, and, like Jesus and the South, rise again. Once when Lazar and I were in New York, Frank, the great practical jokester, enlisted Harry Kurnitz to get the landlady to give them the key to Lazar’s apartment. They came in during the middle of the night with a contractor and bricked up the wall to the closet that contained all of Lazar’s beloved English clothes, and then painted the whole thing to make it look like one big wall. Lazar went crazy when he came back. If there had been Candid Camera back then, this would have been the perfect stunt, just to see the look on Lazar’s face. On other occasions when Lazar was getting ready to go to some fancy party, Frank would sneak in and steal some vital element of his outfit, like a cummerbund, or one of his cuff links, or theshoes he had me set out for him to wear. The crazier he would drive Lazar, the better I knew he was doing in his life.
In the winter of 1953, Lazar sent me over to the Goldwyn Studio to drop a script off for Billy Wilder, who was working there at the time. Wilder took the script from me as if I weren’t there, and, as usual, did not say thanks. It was a treat, then, to run into Frank Sinatra on the lot. Instead of waving hello, he charged right over to me with something important to say. “George,” he greeted me with a big handshake and a bear hug. “I want you to go see my secretary. She’s got an important message for you. Go there right now. Right now.” He shook my hand again and he was off. I had no idea what that message could be, but I sure was curious. So I found my way to this little office on the lot, and I met Gloria Lovell, a plain schoolteachery woman in her thirties who was in the middle of signing Sinatra’s name to a pile of glossy photographs that were being sent to fans. “Oh, hello, George,” she trilled, as if she had known me all my life. Then she handed me a thick envelope. “Open it,” she insisted. It was a set of keys. “Welcome aboard,” she said. Aboard what, I asked her, totally confused. “You’re starting today,” she said. Starting where? “At Mr. Sinatra’s. He wants you to go there now. It may be a bit of a mess. He really needs you.” But what about Mr. Lazar? I sputtered. “He’ll manage,” she replied with a slight grin. What can I say to him, I continued in a near panic. I didn’t want to be blackballed, to see my brilliant career ended before it began. I was terrified of incurring the wrath of Swifty Lazar, who had grown to depend on me. It’s been three years, I tried to explain. I can’t just pick up and…“Mr. Sinatra will take care of Mr. Lazar,” Gloria Lovell stated with schoolmarmish authority. “You just worry
Similar Books
