about Mr. S. You’re working for him now.” It took a bit longer for it to settle in, but soon I understood that I had absolutely no choice in this stunning turn of events. Frank Sinatra had stuck the ultimate needle into the little man he loved to needle. Itwas almost as if Sinatra somehow knew how little faith Lazar had had in him and wanted to show him once and for all who was the real boss. Whatever it was, my life was about to be turned upside down, and I was about to embark upon the wild ride of the century. Frank Sinatra had just made me an offer I could not refuse.
3
From Eternity to Here
O NE of the nicest things about Swifty Lazar was that he didn’t hold a grudge, at least not if the person who had done him wrong was more powerful than he was. I thought I’d never be able to face Lazar at the apartment house, but the next time I saw him he was all smiles. He took Frank’s “stealing” me with the same good humor he took Frank’s walling up his closet. Not one snide remark, like “I hope you’re satisfied.” Or “I hope you’re enjoying these Jersey goombahs as much as you did Noël Coward.” Or “I’m leaving for Switzerland tomorrow and Irwin Shaw is so disappointed you won’t be making it to the slopes with us.” He could have, but he didn’t. He put on a great face, though he did seem a little lost for a long time, going through a lot of new help. The main reason he didn’t complain was that Frank Sinatra, with the huge success of Eternity, was quickly getting just ashot as he had been cold, and I’m sure Lazar wanted to work this former “loser” into one of his big deals.
My first day working for Frank was very exciting. When I opened his apartment door, I was surprised he needed a valet at all, the place was so immaculately neat. I knew he had tried a Filipino houseboy a few months before, but the fellow hadn’t lasted a week. Sinatra wanted someone who spoke his language. The five-room, two-bedroom unit was a shrine to Ava Gardner. There were pictures of her everywhere, in the bathrooms, in the closet, on the refrigerator. There were a couple of framed photographs of his children and of his parents but none of his ex-wife Nancy. Aside from one bookcase, almost all biographies (Washington, Lincoln, both Roosevelts, Booker T. Washington, and a lot of Italians—Columbus, da Vinci, Machiavelli, Garibaldi, Mussolini), most of his possessions were records and clothes. There was a whole wall of sound, though it wasn’t all jazz as I would have guessed, but albums and albums of classical music.
The closets were in perfect order, with all the clothes organized by color, fabric, and style. Most of the colors were orange (his favorite) or black. I figured the guy wanted to come off like a tiger. There were more sweaters than I’d ever seen, cashmere, mohair, lamb’s wool, alpaca, you name it. And as for shoes, Imelda Marcos had nothing on Frank Sinatra. He had a whole closet just for shoes, dozens of wingtips predominating, with a good number of elevators. No wonder he seemed taller than his given five seven. There were also a lot of hats, which seemed odd for casual Los Angeles, but because of a receding hairline, hats had become his thing, just as they were Humphrey Bogart’s. It was clear from his wardrobe that he had been keeping his eye on Bogart, because a lot of Sinatra’s clothes were identical to Bogart’s. The biggest surprise in the apartment was theindustrial supply of Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum. I had no idea the man was a gum chewer, like his original teenage fans, but he was.
What I did, waiting for my new boss to arrive, was to go shopping and prepare him a great dinner. I figured, with him being Italian, I should cook Italian, so I made baked clams, spaghetti marinara, veal marsala, zabaglione, the works that I had learned in my travels. After working for hours, I had everything ready at seven o’clock. Everything, that is, except Frank Sinatra. Eight o’clock, nine
3
From Eternity to Here
O NE of the nicest things about Swifty Lazar was that he didn’t hold a grudge, at least not if the person who had done him wrong was more powerful than he was. I thought I’d never be able to face Lazar at the apartment house, but the next time I saw him he was all smiles. He took Frank’s “stealing” me with the same good humor he took Frank’s walling up his closet. Not one snide remark, like “I hope you’re satisfied.” Or “I hope you’re enjoying these Jersey goombahs as much as you did Noël Coward.” Or “I’m leaving for Switzerland tomorrow and Irwin Shaw is so disappointed you won’t be making it to the slopes with us.” He could have, but he didn’t. He put on a great face, though he did seem a little lost for a long time, going through a lot of new help. The main reason he didn’t complain was that Frank Sinatra, with the huge success of Eternity, was quickly getting just ashot as he had been cold, and I’m sure Lazar wanted to work this former “loser” into one of his big deals.
My first day working for Frank was very exciting. When I opened his apartment door, I was surprised he needed a valet at all, the place was so immaculately neat. I knew he had tried a Filipino houseboy a few months before, but the fellow hadn’t lasted a week. Sinatra wanted someone who spoke his language. The five-room, two-bedroom unit was a shrine to Ava Gardner. There were pictures of her everywhere, in the bathrooms, in the closet, on the refrigerator. There were a couple of framed photographs of his children and of his parents but none of his ex-wife Nancy. Aside from one bookcase, almost all biographies (Washington, Lincoln, both Roosevelts, Booker T. Washington, and a lot of Italians—Columbus, da Vinci, Machiavelli, Garibaldi, Mussolini), most of his possessions were records and clothes. There was a whole wall of sound, though it wasn’t all jazz as I would have guessed, but albums and albums of classical music.
The closets were in perfect order, with all the clothes organized by color, fabric, and style. Most of the colors were orange (his favorite) or black. I figured the guy wanted to come off like a tiger. There were more sweaters than I’d ever seen, cashmere, mohair, lamb’s wool, alpaca, you name it. And as for shoes, Imelda Marcos had nothing on Frank Sinatra. He had a whole closet just for shoes, dozens of wingtips predominating, with a good number of elevators. No wonder he seemed taller than his given five seven. There were also a lot of hats, which seemed odd for casual Los Angeles, but because of a receding hairline, hats had become his thing, just as they were Humphrey Bogart’s. It was clear from his wardrobe that he had been keeping his eye on Bogart, because a lot of Sinatra’s clothes were identical to Bogart’s. The biggest surprise in the apartment was theindustrial supply of Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum. I had no idea the man was a gum chewer, like his original teenage fans, but he was.
What I did, waiting for my new boss to arrive, was to go shopping and prepare him a great dinner. I figured, with him being Italian, I should cook Italian, so I made baked clams, spaghetti marinara, veal marsala, zabaglione, the works that I had learned in my travels. After working for hours, I had everything ready at seven o’clock. Everything, that is, except Frank Sinatra. Eight o’clock, nine
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