Mick Sinatra: For Once In My Life (3 page)

 
“How much time do we have?” They hurried into
the overcrowded dressing room.

“Three
minutes tops,” Betsy said.
 
“First Call’s
already come.”

“Damn,” Roz
said as she slung off her satchel and she and Betsy hurriedly pulled out her
leotards.
 
“We won’t have time to
rehearse our number.”

“No time at
all,” Betsy said.
 
“But we’ve got it
down.
 
We’ve rehearsed enough.”

“Rehearsed
enough?” Roz was alarmed.
 
“Bite your
tongue.
 
You can never rehearse enough.”

Betsy
smiled.
 
“Yes, Mother.”

“I’m
serious.”

“Whatever
you say Mother.
 
Now hurry up.”

Roz smiled
and shook her head as she struggled into those tight-ass tights.
 
Betsy was only four years younger than Roz,
but she acted as if she were decades younger.
 
She was a beautiful blonde, with her hair framed the way Marilyn Monroe
wore her hair: short with big curls.

But it had
been a struggle for Betsy too.
 
She
turned to porn to help pay her bills and tried to recruit Roz, but Roz would
never go there.
 
She had many offers from
slick photographers who insisted she had the perfect body for it, but she
turned them down cold.
 
Nobody was
exploiting her body that way.
 
These were
do or die days for Roz too, but she was determined to get out of this, win or
lose, with her self-respect intact.

The door to
the dressing room opened swiftly, the Last Call was issued, and all of the
girls, at least fifty strong, began hurrying like cattle toward the waiting
area of the theater: they waited in the wings.

Roz and
Betsy pulled up the rear, holding hands, saying a private prayer, but at least
they were there.
 
They had placed themselves
in position to at least get a shot at it.
 
Now they nervously, anxiously, prayerfully waited until they were
called.

Inside the
theater, in the aisle near the second row, Broadway Director Barry Acker was
upset about unauthorized script changes by his playwright.
 
He was doing all he could to contain his
fury.
 
“I don’t want clouds,” he said.
“How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“They are
enhancements, Barry.”

“No, they
are not, Neal.
 
They cheapen the
production.”
 
Then Barry frowned.
 
“You aren’t the set director anyway.
  
What’s with you and clouds?
 
Why are you adding clouds?”

“It won’t
cheapen anything,” Neal, the playwright, insisted.
 
“And I added them because I’m convinced they
will give more atmosphere to the showstopper.
 
It doesn’t have enough punch. It doesn’t have enough ambience.”

“And clouds
will take it over the top?
 
Get real,
Nealton!
 
We’re going to keep this
simple.
 
The story, the songs, speak for
themselves.
 
No gimmicks.”

“Gimmicks?
 
So you’re saying my suggestion is gimmicky?”

“Clouds?
 
What do you think?
 
Next thing I know you’ll want puppies and
rainbows and stars on the side posts.
 
Come on!”

Neal was
about to fire back.
 
He was a respectable
playwright after all with just as much success under his belt as Barry had.
 
But then he looked away from Barry when he
saw a figure approaching.
 
A very
attractive figure.
 
He smiled.
 
“Well now.
 
This is more like it.
 
Look at the
fine specimen that just walked into this establishment.”

Barry looked
too.
 
When he saw that it was Mick
Sinatra coming their way, he smiled grandly.
 
“Micky,” he yelled.
 
“Come on
down!”

Neal was
surprised.
 
He looked at Barry.
 
“You know him?”

“Yeah, I
know him.
 
We go way back.”

“Introduce
me.”
 
Neal had excitement in his
voice.
 
“I’ll do anything you say if you
introduce me.”

Barry looked
at his playwright as if he had lost his mind.
 
“Are you nuts?”

“I might
be.”
 
Neal was still looking at the
approaching figure.
 
Still licking his
lips.

“That man only
swings one way,” Barry made clear, “and it’s not in your direction.”

Neal was
offended.
 
“Well you don’t have to be
nasty about it,” he said.
 
But he knew
Barry too.
 
He not only had clout on
Broadway, he could be vindictive.
 
He
left Barry’s side and moved over to the front row, where nearly a dozen men,
all producers and crew members, sat reviewing various technical aspects of
their upcoming production.
 
They were
also waiting for the auditions to begin.

Mick
Sinatra, in a pale brown double-breasted suit, walked down the aisle that led
to the front of the theater with the swag of a man who could have owned the
joint.
 
Barry shook his head.
 
He’d kill to have a look that strong.

“My friend,”
Mick said as he arrived, with a grand smile on his own face, and he and Barry
gave each other a combination shake/one-arm hug.

“How the
hell have you been?” Barry asked him.
 
“I
didn’t think you’d show up.”

“How could I
not?
 
Your office called to remind me
three times.”

Barry
laughed.
 
“It’s just that you come to town,
you handle your business, you leave town.
 
But you never drop by to see your old friend.
 
When I’m in Philly, I always come see
you.
 
Always.
 
But when you’re in New York?
 
Never.
 
I have to track you down.”

He didn’t
have to do shit, Mick thought, but he let it slide.
 
Barry was actually a man he liked and
respected.

“So how the
hell have you been?” Barry asked again.
 
He was genuinely concerned.
 
Their
relationship was one-sided, Barry would be the first to admit that.
 
But it was a fact: he loved Mick like a
son.
 
“Are you doing good, or not so
good?”

“I’m doing
better than you,” Mick said with a smile.
 
“This is a fucking hole in the wall.
 
What happened?”

Barry
laughed.
 
“Just for auditions, don’t blow
a gasket,” he said.
 
“I’m Jewish, I know
how to get things done.
 
On opening night
we’re going to be in the Shubert for your information.
 
This is just for auditions.
 
So I’m fine.
 
But you, on the other hand.”
 
Then
Barry’s look turned serious.
 
And his
voice lowered.
 
“I hear the Feds have
been asking around.
 
I hear they don’t
think you’re as legit as you claim to be and they’re trying to put the squeeze
on your people.
 
Is there cause for
concern, Michello?”

“No cause
whatsoever,” Mick said confidently.
 
“I’m
used to the scrutiny.
 
I’ll hold up.
 
Don’t worry about it.”

“But I worry
about
you
.
 
We go back a long way, my friend.
 
Agnes worries about you.”

Mick
smiled.
 
Barry and his wife were among
his closest friends, but that didn’t mean they were close.
  
That didn’t mean he discussed his business with
him.
 
“Tell Aggie I’m fine, alright?”

“I’ll tell
her, but she will still worry.
 
But I’ll
tell her.”
 
Then he placed his hand on
Mick’s shoulder.
 
“Now come, sit down.
 
Let’s talk.”

They headed
for the second row, in the center aisle of the theater.
 
“How long will you be in town?” Barry asked
as they sat down.

“Not
long.
 
A few days.
 
Checking on a few things.”

“Your
businesses?”

“My
businesses.”

“The Feds
are asking around.”

“That you
already told me.”

Barry looked
at him with genuine concern.
 
He stared
at him.
 
“You look tired.”

Mick smiled
weakly.
 
He did feel under pressure.
 
Only a good friend could recognize it.

“You don’t
fool me, my good friend,” Barry added.

Mick didn’t
discuss the matter, because even Barry could be an enemy in friend’s clothing,
but he nodded his appreciation anyway.

“Come to
dinner tomorrow night,” Barry suggested.
 
“That’ll give you a much deserved break.
 
Agnes will love to see you again, and I’ll love to break bread with you
like the old days.
 
And you know how my
wife can be.
 
She’ll set you up with a
good girl.
 
She knows this very nice
girl.”

Mick shook
his head.
 
“Stop it.”

“But you
need the love of a good woman, Micky, that’s your problem.
 
You’re always alone.
 
I see you with a girl today, then she’s gone
tomorrow.”

“My choice.”

“But that
does not make it a good choice.
 
Think
about it, Michello.
 
The women you date
are not keepers.
 
They are, and excuse my
French, whores.”

Mick
laughed.

“They are!”
Barry insisted.
 
“High class whores, yes,
but whores.
 
But a good woman is more
precious than all the gold you could ever acquire.
 
Like Aggie.
 
She’s a golden lady.
 
All we do is
laugh.”

“Laugh,
hun?”

“I kid you
not,” Barry said.
 
“That’s all we
do.
 
You find a woman who keeps you
laughing, and you’ve found a precious thing.
 
More precious than life itself.”

“Yeah,” Mick
asked, “but can she fuck?”

At first
Barry laughed, assuming it was a joke.
 
But Mick wasn’t joining in.
 
He
used women for sex, not for any emotional attachment, and they used him the
same way.
 
There were times when he
slipped up, and got himself involved in a longer term situation, but not one of
those slipups worked out.
 
He was beyond
cautious now.

Barry knew
it too.
 
And his smile left.
 
“There’s more to life,” he said, “than bed
action.
 
Bed action women are a dime a
dozen, my friend.
 
And I should
know.
 
I have my share.
 
What am I stone?
 
I fuck around, same as any man.
 
But a good woman, a wife, isn’t for bed
action.
 
She’s for representation.
 
She represents you.”

“Oh yeah?”
Mick was obviously uninterested.

“I’m serious
here, Mick.” Then Barry frowned.
 
“I
don’t get you.
 
Don’t you want that love
that only a good, God fearing woman can give to you?
 
Aren’t you tired of being alone?
 
Every man wants to be loved.”

Mick wanted
it too.
 
Perhaps more desperately than
most.
 
But he’d resigned himself to a
harsh truth: it wasn’t going to happen for him.

“You can
have that perfect lady, Mick.
 
It can
happen.”

“But it
won’t.
 
Not for me.”

Barry looked
at him.
 
“Why the hell not?”

“To be loved
you have to be lovable,” Mick said bluntly.
 
“I am not lovable.
 
I do not wish
to be lovable.
 
I am not a man put on
this earth to be loved.”