Natalie over to the apartment for cocktails soon after Mr. S won his Oscar. She had her kid all dolled up, total jailbait, in a form-fitting black party dress, and Mr. S went for it in a big way. Nothing dirty-old-mannish, he was never like that. He played them cuts from his upcoming album, provided career suggestions, refused to let me serve Natalie an alcoholic drink until her mother allowed it. I made her a martini, which seemed to go with her outfit. She drank two and would have had a third had Mr. S not jokingly called a limit. I’ve never seen anyone so supportive as he was of Natalie’s and her mother’s ambitions. In the next week, after those cocktails, Natalie began coming over after her studio school, without her mom, for “singing lessons.” Mr. S would send me away when she was there. “I don’t want you to testify,” he joked. He wanted to be “In like Flynn,” but he didn’t want to be ruined for it.
Natalie was much more than a fling. Their secret affair went on forseveral years, off and on, until she reached the age of consent, and even beyond that until she took up with Robert Wagner. Mr. S truly cherished her, and whatever went on in private, he was also a father to her more than her own father, very protective, advising her about all the many men who would come after her. In Frank’s world casting was the sincerest form of flattery. He liked Natalie so much he put her, at age nineteen, in his 1957 movie about racism, Kings Go Forth, in which she plays a mulata living in WWII France in a love triangle with two GIs played by Sinatra and Tony Curtis, whom Frank always called by his real name “Bernie.” Because of my own background from New Orleans, where half the city was of mixed race, I was Mr. S’s informal technical advisor on that film. For all her many charms, I hate to say that Natalie was the least convincing black girl I ever met. We’d joke about it, calling her the “Black Russian.”
Mr. S was also instrumental in encouraging Natalie’s marriage to Robert Wagner, one of the handsomest young actors in Hollywood. If anyone looked like the town’s dream couple, they were it. It was surprising that Mr. S liked Bob Wagner so much, he was such a pretty boy. I had met him as a young caddy at the Brentwood Country Club, carrying the clubs for Clifton Webb, the elegant British star of Laura, who was one of the reigning queens of Hollywood’s gay world. Webb got Bob the powerful gay agent Henry Willson, who had made stars out of Rock Hudson, Tab Hunter, and Sal Mineo. Eventually, Willson also represented Natalie, who was one of his rare female clients.
Mr. S would bait even his straightest friends for the slightest “fag” mannerism, like the way they’d hold a cigarette or use a French word, or affectation, like ordering wine instead of hard liquor with dinner, real-men-don’t-eat-quiche stuff. Anything that smacked of worldliness, culture, or sophistication was a “fag thing.” Despite Bob’s association with Webb and Willson, and despite his urbane manner, Mr. Sgave him a pass on all that, and years later even gave him his blessing to get engaged to his daughter Tina, and when that didn’t work, he forgave him, and gave him another blessing to wed surrogate daughter Jill St. John.
“What do you think of Bob, George?” Mr. S asked me one day.
“He’s a nice guy,” I replied.
Mr. S shook his head. “George,” he said. “‘He’s a nice guy’ is not a valid answer to my question.”
I didn’t like being put on the spot like that. I didn’t want to insult anybody. Yet I knew Mr. S counted on me to be honest with him. Mr. S did most of his “serious” talking to his girlfriends. With the guys it mostly drunken insults and awful jokes and puns. Was he being serious with me? “Bob could be too pretty for his own good,” I blurted out. “What would people say if you looked like that?” I realized I had jammed my foot in my mouth.
There was a long, scary
Natalie was much more than a fling. Their secret affair went on forseveral years, off and on, until she reached the age of consent, and even beyond that until she took up with Robert Wagner. Mr. S truly cherished her, and whatever went on in private, he was also a father to her more than her own father, very protective, advising her about all the many men who would come after her. In Frank’s world casting was the sincerest form of flattery. He liked Natalie so much he put her, at age nineteen, in his 1957 movie about racism, Kings Go Forth, in which she plays a mulata living in WWII France in a love triangle with two GIs played by Sinatra and Tony Curtis, whom Frank always called by his real name “Bernie.” Because of my own background from New Orleans, where half the city was of mixed race, I was Mr. S’s informal technical advisor on that film. For all her many charms, I hate to say that Natalie was the least convincing black girl I ever met. We’d joke about it, calling her the “Black Russian.”
Mr. S was also instrumental in encouraging Natalie’s marriage to Robert Wagner, one of the handsomest young actors in Hollywood. If anyone looked like the town’s dream couple, they were it. It was surprising that Mr. S liked Bob Wagner so much, he was such a pretty boy. I had met him as a young caddy at the Brentwood Country Club, carrying the clubs for Clifton Webb, the elegant British star of Laura, who was one of the reigning queens of Hollywood’s gay world. Webb got Bob the powerful gay agent Henry Willson, who had made stars out of Rock Hudson, Tab Hunter, and Sal Mineo. Eventually, Willson also represented Natalie, who was one of his rare female clients.
Mr. S would bait even his straightest friends for the slightest “fag” mannerism, like the way they’d hold a cigarette or use a French word, or affectation, like ordering wine instead of hard liquor with dinner, real-men-don’t-eat-quiche stuff. Anything that smacked of worldliness, culture, or sophistication was a “fag thing.” Despite Bob’s association with Webb and Willson, and despite his urbane manner, Mr. Sgave him a pass on all that, and years later even gave him his blessing to get engaged to his daughter Tina, and when that didn’t work, he forgave him, and gave him another blessing to wed surrogate daughter Jill St. John.
“What do you think of Bob, George?” Mr. S asked me one day.
“He’s a nice guy,” I replied.
Mr. S shook his head. “George,” he said. “‘He’s a nice guy’ is not a valid answer to my question.”
I didn’t like being put on the spot like that. I didn’t want to insult anybody. Yet I knew Mr. S counted on me to be honest with him. Mr. S did most of his “serious” talking to his girlfriends. With the guys it mostly drunken insults and awful jokes and puns. Was he being serious with me? “Bob could be too pretty for his own good,” I blurted out. “What would people say if you looked like that?” I realized I had jammed my foot in my mouth.
There was a long, scary
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