Living With Miss G (8 page)

Now, Miss G was no fool. Thank God she realized that compromise was
now the name of the game.
“Why officer,” she said sweetly. “How did you know?”
“Well…er…I’ve seen your movies.”
“I do hope you liked them,” said Miss G, giving him her little girl smile.
“Sure did.” There was almost enthusiasm in the young man’s voice. I
hoped Miss G was not going to blow it. She didn’t.
“Well, next time you’re in Hollywood, officer, you might like to come on
the set and see how a film’s made.”
His eyes brightened. “I sure would.”
Now he had backed himself into a problem. We were on police premises.
Official jurisdiction in Carson City must follow the correct procedure. Once,
generations of wagon trains had rolled through there. Men were men and shot
anyone they didn’t like. There were good niggers and bad niggers. I was
determined to be a good nigger. However, we had a track record–speeding,
using insulting language to a police officer, but at least, we hadn’t resisted
arrest…yet!
The young policeman looked at Miss G again, tapped his pencil on his
desk, cleared his throat and said, “Miss Gardner, a speeding offence in Carson
City means that a fine must be paid.” He paused, and then added, “In this case,
we’ve got quite a few prisoners in there,” he nodded his head indicating the cells
through the open door.
“So I see,” said Miss G politely.
“As they’re always short of cigarettes, if you felt you’d like to dole out a
pack of cigarettes a piece, they sure would appreciate that gesture.”
“Why of course, “said Miss G. “Rene, honey, pop in there and count how
many guys there are.”
I thought, can she mean this? She did. So, who was I to spoil this
humanitarian gesture? I walked through the door. The scent inside was certainly
not Christian Dior or Chanel. The faces were, well, challenging—whiskery,
tough, gnarled and silent. A few mouths were open in blank astonishment at the
sight of a small black girl walking into their den, pointing a finger and counting
them. I may have smiled nervously. I can’t remember if my knees were
knocking. I returned with the count—between twelve and fifteen. I didn’t think
a recount was necessary.
Miss G and the young policeman were now engaged in cheerful chatter.
Miss G was also fiddling in her bag and extracting dollar notes. For a horrific
second, I thought she was going to try and bribe the young man, but no.
“Rene, honey,” she said, handing me the money. “This young officer tells
me there is a supermarket right next door. Can you pop along and buy us a few
cartons of cigarettes?”
I popped along and returned laden with boxes of cigarettes. Miss G
followed me into the cell block. There, with a radiant smile, like a welfare
worker handing out loaves of bread to the hungry, Miss G pushed the cartons
through the bars. It seemed to me that the recipients were far happier with
cigarettes than they would have been with freedom. There followed a delighted
uproar.
Miss G and I decided that Carson City certainly possessed an enlightened
system of justice. We shook the young policeman’s hand warmly and drove
away. Outside the Carson City limits, Miss G got straight back up to eighty
again.
“Rene,” she asked, “do you feel tired?”
“Half dead,” I said. “What about you?”
“Me too. Nudge me if I start to fall asleep.”
The sun was bright over the sea when we finally pulled into the drive at
Nichols Canyon. Miss G headed at speed for the bathroom. The phone began to
ring. I picked it up. It was Hank Sanicola, sounding as if he’d just had a heart
attack and was about to have another.
“For Christ’s sake, where’ve you been?” he croaked. “I’ve been ringing
you for hours.”
Of all the fool questions I’d ever heard, that was it. “Where’ve we been,” I
started to shout in fury. But he croaked on.
“Frank’s taken an overdose. The doctor’s here. I’m not certain if he’s
going to live. Come at once!”
Come at once. The idea of a drive back blew my mind. I screamed, “Miss
G, Miss G!”
She came racing out of the bathroom. “What’s up? What is the matter?”
I thrust the phone at her. She took it and stood there, her face going white,
her voice falling to a whisper.
“Yes, we’ll come back. We’ll drive back right away.” She banged the
phone down.
“Rene, an overdose! We’ve got to drive back now!”
I said loudly, “Miss G, we can’t drive back over that terrible road. You’ll
kill us both.”
“Rene, for God’s sake, we’ve got to do something. An overdose. If he’s
taken too much, he’s dead. Hank said he’s got the doctor there, but the doctor’s
not sure he can do anything. Rene, we’ve got to drive back.”
“Miss G, we’ll never make it back. Ring up the airlines. We can get a taxi
to the airport. That’s the quickest way. The most sensible.”
We did and arrived by taxi at the Lake Tahoe house. Hank let us in, saying,
“The doctor’s still here.”
The doctor smiled and said quietly, “It’s all right. He’s sleeping. Yes, you
can go in and see him.”
Miss G came out ten minutes later and took me aside.
“Rene, I could have punched him on the nose. For the first time in our
lives, I could have hit him. He’s lying there, and he’s sleeping very happily. He
wakes up on cue and says in this sad, little voice, ‘Oh, God, I thought you were
gone.’ I could have killed him. He’s the only one who’s had any sleep. You can
be sure he counted exactly how many sleeping pills he took. Hank’s had no
sleep; the doctor’s had no sleep; you and I have had no sleep; even poor little
Rags hasn’t managed to catch a wink. There he is, rested and fine, with a good
appetite. I could have kicked the crap out of him. I really could have.” But, of
course, she didn’t.

Frank’s other attempts at suicide, real or faked, during this period were
more than simply frightening. I thought they might be lethal, not only to him but
to other people. They were induced by two main causes—his deep depression
and his constant fear that Miss G would abandon him.

I remember her words, “I’m the goat. I’m the only one available for Frank
to take out his frustrations on. Nobody else cares whether he blows his brains
out or takes an overdose. I care. He knows that it would blow me apart and that I
will always protect him. Hell, it’s destroying me too.”

Professionally and financially, Frank was at rock bottom. MGM had
terminated his contract, and no one in that business seemed to have a part for
him—ever. His contract with Columbia Records was still secure because his
good friend Mannie Sacks still headed it. In 1946 Frank’s records had been
selling at the rate of ten million a year, but now their sales had fallen sharply.
The Tin Pan Alley gossip confirmed that days of singers like Frank were never
going to reach the same peak again.

When Frank had first been locked out of the house by Nancy on the
instructions of her lawyers, it was plainly a legalistic device, for Frank knew that
his marriage to Nancy was over. He lived in his office in L.A. where Hank
Sanicola helped out. I also have to say that it seemed to me that Miss G’s
jealousy of most of Frank’s movements had intensified.

As anticipated, tempers were flaring, nerve-endings stretched and battles
between Miss G and Frank always likely to occur, especially when they went
out to enjoy a quiet dinner together. Some girl sitting a few yards away would be
slightly startled to find she had Frank Sinatra sitting only a few yards away and
would throw a few admiring glances in his direction. Often, Frank intercepted
the glances and might smile back or nod. What else could he do? Scowl? Put his
tongue out? Hide his head in a paper bag? Occasionally some cutie in a low
neckline with goo-goo eyes would arrive at the table murmuring something
about an autograph. The look in her eyes suggested she and Frank might once
have spent time together or that she was prepared to do that now. As Frank in
the past had indeed indulged in such affairs, his defenses were not all that
secure.

Inevitably, on such occasions Miss G would not say a word, but her face
would register an Easter Island stone statue reaction. She might wait for the
homeward journey or even until they reached home before firing off the first
angry accusations. Sometimes she simply grabbed her bag, left the table and
headed for the exit, leaving poor Frank saying, “Now Ava, Ava honey…wait.”

Following such an exit on one occasion when they were staying at the
Hampshire House Hotel in New York prior to Frank opening at the Copacabana,
one of the most spectacular and widely publicized rows took place. When Miss
G was telling me her side of the story, she couldn’t even remember what the row
had been about. Out of the restaurant she stormed to catch a taxi back to the
Hampshire House Hotel.

Having another drink in her room and fuming, she was lonely and
unhappy. Wasn’t there anybody she could turn to for help and advice? Yes,
there was somebody—Artie Shaw. She had heard that he was in New York and
staying in his apartment. They were divorced but still friends, and Artie was
great at solving problems. She knew that Frank hated him, but what did that
matter?

It was now close to midnight, but Miss G had never been fussy about
ringing her friends or enemies at any time of day or night. She fished her looseleaf notebook out of her bag and got Artie’s number. He was still up.

“Why hallo, Ava. How are you? Advice? At this time of night? Sure. I’ve
got a friend here, but you’re not far away. Why don’t you grab a taxi and come
across for a nightcap? Good, see you in ten minutes.” Miss G picked up her bag
and was ready to go.

Now comes the funny bit. Miss G left her loose-leaf notebook open at the
page where Artie’s name and number were written beside the phone.
Carelessness? Forgetfulness? In a hurry because of her recent row with Frank? I
looked Miss G straight in the eye when she reached this point in her story, and
she gave the whole game away with her innocent smile. How else could a lady
promote another fight?

Miss G arrived at Artie’s flat and found that the “friend” was a girlfriend,
and that both she and Artie were wearing their dressing gowns and had either
just gotten out of bed or were about to get into it. Artie provided drinks, and they
chattered away for about an hour before the front doorbell rang. Artie’s slight
frown signified, “Who could be calling at this time of night?” as he went to
answer. Miss G was not totally surprised when she heard him say, “Why hallo
Frank. Hallo Hank. Come on in and have a drink.”

She was surprised that he had brought Hank with him. Who better to
handle this little matter than the sophisticated and urbane Artie. What was more
innocent than this little family group chatting together over a drink? Frank had
made a fool of himself. He was humiliated.

The two of them came in. They looked like gangsters out of a B-movie:
two hoodlums, raincoats, and ark trilbies, hands deep in their pockets as if they
were clutching revolvers. No smiles. Determined chins. A real Jimmy Cagney
scenario. Now Miss G realized she had overplayed her hand. She was a little
scared. They looked around, observed the girl in her dressing gown, also Artie in
his. Both men were slightly embarrassed realizing they’d bombed. Hank raised
his eyes to heaven.

Artie tried to diffuse the situation. “Now take your coats off boys, and I’ll
fix you a drink.”
Conversation had leaked away. They stood near the open door. They
exchanged glances. Hank raised his eyes to heaven again and received no help.
Their only way out was through the door, and they took it. Artie blew out his
breath and said, “In that case, let us have another drink.” He made no further
comment on what had happened. His sweet little girlfriend was bemused and
wondered what the hell was going on. Miss G got a taxi back to the Hampshire
House and went back to their suite. It consisted of two large bedrooms divided
by a large sitting room. Ostensibly Miss G and Bappie were sharing one, and
Frank was alone in the other. Very cozy.
Strangely enough, on that notorious night practically the whole of
Hollywood seemed to be sharing the Hampshire House Hotel with our loving
couple. All of them seemed to have been awakened by that sobering single
revolver shot. David Selznick, producer of
Gone With The Wind
and plainly no
friend of Frank’s, allegedly heard two shots and remarked maliciously, “I hope
the bastard shot himself.”
Kirk Douglas states in his autobiography that he was in bed asleep but had
been awakened earlier by a beautiful woman sitting on the edge of his bed—a
woman he recognized as Ava Gardner. Gallantly, sensing she was in trouble, he
led her back to his doorway and gently ushered her out. Miss G was absolutely
certain she had never been in a bedroom with Kirk—ever!
Other actors sleeping in the Hampshire House had other versions. None
were very logical.
The truth of the matter was that Miss G returned home and found Bappie
snoring politely in the other single bed. She hadn’t been there for more than a
minute or two when the telephone rang and it was Frank. In an anguished voice
he said, “I can’t stand it anymore. I’m going to kill myself.”
A second later a terrific bang almost blew Miss G’s receiver apart. She
knew he had done it. With a scream of panic which woke Bappie up—the shot
hadn’t—Miss G rushed from their bedroom across the living room and into
Frank’s room. He wasn’t dead. He was holding the still smoking revolver and
looking rather surprised at the hole he’d blown in the mattress. It was Frank’s
idea of a cry for help.
Hank Sanicola remembered the occasion with far more emotion. He hadn’t
heard the shot either. He was awakened by a phone call from Frank. “For
Christ’s sake, get up here now. Get this mattress out of the way.” Hank dutifully
raced up the back stairs and carried it back to his room. Frank looked wide-eyed
and said innocently, “Shot? What shot?” A few dollars scattered in various
directions completed the smoke screen.
The near suicide dramas were far from over. The next occasion was in
Palm Springs. Miss G had been spending a few days there with Frank. She
returned unexpectedly. I knew something was wrong. I let her finish her drink.
“What happened this time?”
“The usual row, and I stormed off to the bathroom to collect my things and
leave.” I nodded sympathetically. I knew that scenario well.
“As you know, Rene, Frank always keeps that damned revolver in a drawer
by the side of his bed. As I came out of the bathroom into the bedroom, there’s
Frank sitting on the edge of the bed with this revolver pointed at his temple.
Without knowing what I was doing, I ran at him and made a grab for his hand. I
got the gun by the barrel and tore it away from him. Probably the most stupid
thing I’ve ever done, because it might have gone off and blown his head off. I
just acted instinctively. Frank leapt at me. We both tumbled to the floor in a
wrestling match and rolled across the floor to the stone fireplace. You remember
it, Rene? Well, the gun hit the stone.”
“I remember it,” I said.
“I’m screaming at him telling him I think he’s a phony and angrily I
shoved the gun away. Oh my God, it reacted like a snake…bang! The bullet
went ricocheting around the stone fireplace and whizzed out again making a
two-inch hole in a solid wooden door. I knew I was wrong. There was nothing
phony about that gun.”
She paused and gave me a half-hearted smile. “It would have been funny if
it hadn’t been so dangerous. You see, Jimmy Van Heusen was staying with us.”
I knew and liked Jimmy. He had definite appetites for booze and girls, but
he was one of the finest songwriters of those years.
Miss G continued, “Jimmy was on the other side of the house, but he heard
the shot and came running along the corridor. He flung open the door, not
remembering that he’d just jumped out of bed and was stark naked. He looked
around and smiled, saying quietly, “Just wanted to know what the shooting
match was all about. And then he left.”
I remember Miss G telling me, “It was before we were married, and Frank
was certain we were going to break up. He was depressed—depressed about me,
depressed about the fact that no one seemed to want him during his visit to New
York. He brooded all the way back from New York to Chicago. He should have
continued on to L.A., but he got off in Chicago and rang me up. God, was he in
a state. ‘Ava,’ he cried, ‘I can’t stand this any longer. I’m going to throw myself
off the train before I reach Los Angeles.’”
“I shouted, ‘For Christ’s sake!’ but he had hung up. You know, Rene,
those days I believed him. Later I knew I should have yelled, ‘I’m not Lady Bat
Woman. I can’t come flying low over the tracks from Los Angeles to Chicago
looking for your dismembered body.’”
She paused and went on. “Sounds funny now. It wasn’t funny then. Rene, I
can hardly remember now how often it happened. He almost succeeded in
knocking off one of his best friends, Mannie Sacks, when he was staying with
him in Mannie’s New York apartment. Frank turned on the gas determined to
end it all. Fortunately Mannie woke up, smelled gas and turned it off.”
Later in our lives Miss G would sit back and try and work out what had
gone wrong. Miss G knew they suffered from a commonplace lover’s
complaint—they couldn’t live without each other and couldn’t live with each
other either. They thought living in happy sin without Frank’s divorce from
Nancy would solve their problems. It didn’t. They thought after they got married
a holy bliss would envelop them. It didn’t. Somehow they had to work out their
own salvation.