“She played hardball, but I couldn’t blame her. I’ve never blamed her. She’d been a good wife. She was the mother of his children. She had every right to fight for him, for their marriage. She’d stuck by Frank through thick and thin. That’s something I should say in the book, by the way.
“I stayed right out of it. But she must have hated my guts. She wouldn’t withdraw her objections to his Nevada divorce until he paid off his back alimony. He owed about forty thousand dollars. She wanted a further payment when she got a California divorce. She threatened to take over Frank’s Palm Springs place unless he paid up. That was about the only asset the poor darling had left.
“As I said, his voice had gone. The bobby-soxers had moved on. His career had nosedived. Mine was on the up, thank Christ. The studio was starting to pay me decent money at last. I got a hundred and forty grand for Show Boat, even though the bastards finally dubbed my voice for the musical numbers. It was still less than they got for loaning me out, but I wasn’t complaining, and it kept us afloat—in more ways than one! We were both drinking far too much. Jesus, we were really knocking it back, and fighting all the time. Jesus, did we fight—and make up!
“Anyway, that’s the time we made this stupid pact never to write our memoirs. ‘Those news bums love memoirs,’ Frank said. ‘You give them a pot to piss in and they’ll pour it over your head the first chance they get.’
“Some of the papers offered damned good money for Frank to tell our story. A tabloid, the New York Daily Mirror I think it was, or it might have been one of the syndicates, I forget now, but they offered more than he got for Meet Danny Wilson, a crappy little movie he’d just made with Shelley Winters. He needed the money badly, but he told them to get lost. He had principles, I’ll give him that.”
“It’s been forty years, Ava. Frank’s not going to hold you to it after all this time, is he?” I said.
“He’s never written his memoirs,” she said.
“Maybe he’s never had to,” I reminded her of her present difficulties.
“You’re not listening to me, baby. Frank was flat broke when we tied the knot. The poor darling was on his ass. His voice had gone. His records weren’t selling. His movie contract had been dropped. His confidence was shot.
“I don’t know where those stories came from that the Mafia was taking care of him. They should have been. But the fucking so-called Family was nowhere to be seen when he needed them. It really ticks me when I read how generous the Mob was when he was on the skids. But I was the one paying the rent when he couldn’t get arrested. I was the one making the pot boil, baby. It was me!”
It was wonderful copy. I was sorry when she said she was tired and put the phone down. I think she was crying.
ED WAITED UNTIL THE end of our lunch and had signaled for the check before he told me his news.
“Have you read Kitty Kelley’s biography of Frank Sinatra?”
“Not yet,” I told him.
“You must read it. It’s full of interesting stuff about Ava.”
“I will,” I promised.
After a long silence, he said: “You don’t know the story Ava tells about the size of Frank’s penis?”
“No,” I said.
“He’s very blessed.”
“I must read it.”
“You must. I’m astonished you haven’t read it. It’s an Ava classic. She’s very graphic.”
“I’ll read it tonight,” I said.
“Dick Snyder says he wants you to ask her about it.”
“Dick wants me to ask Ava about the size of Frank Sinatra’s cock?” I repeated dully.
“He’s very keen that we use it in the book.”
“How the hell can I put a question like that to her, Ed?”
“You’ll think of something,” he said. “You’re the writer.”
18
There were five messages on my answerphone when I got home. Three of them were from Ava. The first one said, “Got the new chapter. Let’s talk, honey. Call me.” The second one, timed one hour later, said, “Where the hell are you? Call me, fahcrissake.” The final message, at 5:15 P.M., sounded more conciliatory: “It’s Ava. Call me when you get in, please. I don’t understand your note. Jesus Christ, when have I bawled you out about anything, honey?”
“How much longer is this fucking book going to take, baby?” did cross my mind, but I let it go. I was still worried about Dick Snyder’s request that I ask her to repeat the story about the size of Frank Sinatra’s cock. Without appearing puerile or overly inquisitive, there seemed to be no polite way of bringing up the subject. It was a three-pipe problem all right.
Ava was still irate when she called again just before six. “I’ve been trying to get you all afternoon,” she said crossly. “Where the hell have you been, baby?”
“I had lunch with Ed. He says hi.”
“It was a goddamn long lunch. I’m surprised you can find the time.”
It was clearly not the moment to ask her about the size of Frank Sinatra’s dick. It still seemed to me bad form to ask anytime. “Have you read the copy I sent you?” I said pleasantly. I didn’t want to get into an argument about how long I took for lunch, but I saw the funny side of her irritation. Anyway, she changed the subject.
“Do I really swear that much?” This was the third time she had questioned me about the accuracy of the dialogue I wrote for her. She seemed genuinely puzzled. “I don’t swear that much, do I?”
“I’m afraid you do, Ava.”
“Maybe I swear a little when I’m angry,” she said. I knew she couldn’t really believe that, and her solemn tone made me laugh.
“Why are you laughing?” she asked.
“Ava, I’ve quoted you verbatim.”
“You make me sound like a goddamn tramp,” she said petulantly.
“Last time you said I made you sound like a fishwife,” I said, and laughed to let her know I wanted to keep it friendly.
There was a puzzled silence in which I knew she was making up her mind whether to be angry or amused. “We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?” she finally said with a laugh I had not expected. It was her husky, smoker’s laugh. It was disarming and sexy.
“Once or twice,” I said.
“Well, it won’t do, honey. It won’t do at all. I want you to clean up the obscenities for the book. We don’t need that shit at all.”
“I think it would be a mistake, Ava,” I said.
“Why do you think that?” she asked sharply.
It was the kind of question Peter Viertel had warned me about. When they were making The Sun Also Rises, in which she played Hemingway’s Lady Brett Ashley, he told me: “I’d show her the script, she’d ask something innocuous like, ‘Would Lady Brett say that line?’ or ‘Does Lady Brett need to say anything here? Jake [Barnes, the narrator and hero of The Sun Also Rises, played by Tyrone Power] will understand from her look what she’s thinking. There will be no need to spell it out.’
“And suddenly she’s embroiled you in an almighty argument about the script, or about the book you’re trying to write for her. You can’t reason with her because she never approaches anything intellectually. She is the most intuitive woman I know. About roles, about men, about anything—her decisions are made totally without any reasoning at all.”
She gets away with it, he’d said, because she expects men to fall in love with her. And usually they do, he’d added.