can dream,” I said.
Dean banged the table with his palm, making me jump. “Dreaming is for loafers who never do anything. I don’t have time for dreams,” he said. “I want action. I want a car and a home and all the things you get when you get there. If you don’t push through the crowd, you’ll be stuck here your whole life.”
I had never heard him talk this way. I didn’t know how to respond. “Well,” I finally said. “I bet my impression of Sinatra will be better tonight than it ever was before.”
But Dean was barely listening. His gaze had drifted to some far-off place. . . .
By our fourth week at the Copa, we’d introduced so many celebrities from the stage that it was getting ridiculous. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re thrilled and honored to have in our audience tonight... Mr. Yul Brynner! Miss Ethel Merman! Mr. Lee J. Cobb!”
But there was one celebrity we hoped for beyond all others: Frank Sinatra. It was right around then that Frank was beginning to get in some very public hot water about Ava Gardner, as well as his supposed Mob associations. As to the latter, I’ll maintain till the end of my days— which of course will be a long, long time from now—that in the 1940s and ’50s, before the Mob lost its hold on nightclubs and Vegas, it was literally impossible for an entertainer, any entertainer, not to deal with them. I also maintain that they were a class of men who could, under their own particular set of rules, be very honorable. Dean and I had our own strategies for handling the wiseguys. As for Frank, maybe he romanticized them a little. Maybe he hobnobbed a bit too much. But ultimately, he was always his own man.
The next five years wouldn’t be good to Frank. But just then no one was a bigger or brighter star, and one night there he was, ringside at our show at the Copacabana!
Everyone in the place knew that Sinatra was sitting dead center. I was starting to give my “Ladies and gentlemen” speech when he popped up and said, “They know I’m here!” That got a big laugh. He strolled to the mike, looking ultra-natty in a dark suit and tie, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, in case you’re just occasional visitors to the world of nightclubs, I want to tell you a little something about what you’ve seen up here tonight. Now, I’ve been around the block once or twice”—he smiled as he got his laugh—“but I have to tell you that in terms of sheer showmanship, I’ve never seen the likes of the performance these two guys have done for you.” This got a big round of applause, and after a minute, Frank smiled and said, “All right. All right, already.”
The clapping died down. “Anyway,” Frank said, “I just want to tell you that these guys are going straight off into the stratosphere. They will be the biggest stars in our business.”
As the Copa Girl photographer snapped a picture of the three of us, the applause began again. I was thrilled at Frank’s graceful speech—all the more since I had never met him at that point. Dean had talked to him once, briefly, after he’d filled in for Sinatra at the Riobamba. But the moment that Frank came up, I could see something strange happen, just for a second, to my normally unflappable partner: He got rattled. It was only for a second, and only the man who was closer to Dean Martin than anyone else would be capable of seeing it, but it happened. The moment was so big that for a split second Dean simply couldn’t get his mind around it.
Fifteen years later, and long after our breakup, I snuck into the Sands with a few pals to watch the Rat Pack perform.
Frank, Dean, Sammy, Joey Bishop, and Peter Lawford were headlining the midnight show. And I was at a table a discreet distance from the stage, along with Buddy Lester, Harold J. Stone, and my bandleader, Dick Stabile. I didn’t want Dean to know I was there... only because I knew how I’d have felt if the shoe had been on the other foot: nervous and uncertain. Why
Dean banged the table with his palm, making me jump. “Dreaming is for loafers who never do anything. I don’t have time for dreams,” he said. “I want action. I want a car and a home and all the things you get when you get there. If you don’t push through the crowd, you’ll be stuck here your whole life.”
I had never heard him talk this way. I didn’t know how to respond. “Well,” I finally said. “I bet my impression of Sinatra will be better tonight than it ever was before.”
But Dean was barely listening. His gaze had drifted to some far-off place. . . .
By our fourth week at the Copa, we’d introduced so many celebrities from the stage that it was getting ridiculous. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re thrilled and honored to have in our audience tonight... Mr. Yul Brynner! Miss Ethel Merman! Mr. Lee J. Cobb!”
But there was one celebrity we hoped for beyond all others: Frank Sinatra. It was right around then that Frank was beginning to get in some very public hot water about Ava Gardner, as well as his supposed Mob associations. As to the latter, I’ll maintain till the end of my days— which of course will be a long, long time from now—that in the 1940s and ’50s, before the Mob lost its hold on nightclubs and Vegas, it was literally impossible for an entertainer, any entertainer, not to deal with them. I also maintain that they were a class of men who could, under their own particular set of rules, be very honorable. Dean and I had our own strategies for handling the wiseguys. As for Frank, maybe he romanticized them a little. Maybe he hobnobbed a bit too much. But ultimately, he was always his own man.
The next five years wouldn’t be good to Frank. But just then no one was a bigger or brighter star, and one night there he was, ringside at our show at the Copacabana!
Everyone in the place knew that Sinatra was sitting dead center. I was starting to give my “Ladies and gentlemen” speech when he popped up and said, “They know I’m here!” That got a big laugh. He strolled to the mike, looking ultra-natty in a dark suit and tie, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, in case you’re just occasional visitors to the world of nightclubs, I want to tell you a little something about what you’ve seen up here tonight. Now, I’ve been around the block once or twice”—he smiled as he got his laugh—“but I have to tell you that in terms of sheer showmanship, I’ve never seen the likes of the performance these two guys have done for you.” This got a big round of applause, and after a minute, Frank smiled and said, “All right. All right, already.”
The clapping died down. “Anyway,” Frank said, “I just want to tell you that these guys are going straight off into the stratosphere. They will be the biggest stars in our business.”
As the Copa Girl photographer snapped a picture of the three of us, the applause began again. I was thrilled at Frank’s graceful speech—all the more since I had never met him at that point. Dean had talked to him once, briefly, after he’d filled in for Sinatra at the Riobamba. But the moment that Frank came up, I could see something strange happen, just for a second, to my normally unflappable partner: He got rattled. It was only for a second, and only the man who was closer to Dean Martin than anyone else would be capable of seeing it, but it happened. The moment was so big that for a split second Dean simply couldn’t get his mind around it.
Fifteen years later, and long after our breakup, I snuck into the Sands with a few pals to watch the Rat Pack perform.
Frank, Dean, Sammy, Joey Bishop, and Peter Lawford were headlining the midnight show. And I was at a table a discreet distance from the stage, along with Buddy Lester, Harold J. Stone, and my bandleader, Dick Stabile. I didn’t want Dean to know I was there... only because I knew how I’d have felt if the shoe had been on the other foot: nervous and uncertain. Why
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