The three together did a bunch of comedy that had most everybody in stitches, but I have to admit I would rather they’d kept singing. Maybe it was because I’d seen this act-with Bishop and Peter Lawford mixed in-three times, and knew all the “improvisation” was written.
And a lot of it played on Sammy being colored. Racial stuff that was so stupid, they were spoofing it, so hip and cool they could get away with it. Sammy laughed hard, bending over and slapping his thighs, at Frank and Dino’s darkie stuff (mostly Amos ’n’ Andy references), but I always noticed you didn’t actually hear Sammy laughing…
They were doing a “Guys and Dolls” medley when somebody came pushing through the crowd-it was Peter Lawford, also in a tux.
“ Fellas!” he said. “How could you start without me?”
Sammy said innocently, “We were gonna wait, Pete, but nobody could remember what it is you do.”
This got a big laugh, then Sinatra and Martin mugged while Lawford and Davis did a little soft-shoe bit-the expatriate Britisher had after all been a star in musicals at MGM-and finally Lawford held his hands up to the crowd.
“The real reason I waited to come on this late,” he said, with that barely there British accent, “was so I could introduce a new member to our little Summit.”
Sammy said, “Bobby Darin?”
Sinatra raised a fist and gave him a comic glare.
“No, no,” Lawford said, with that nice big winning smile of his. “Ladies and gentlemen, the next president of the United States-and I don’t mean Hugh Hefner…”
Gasps blossomed everywhere as all eyes went to the presidential candidate gliding effortlessly through the crowd in a brown suit with a red tie, straight from some political event, tanned and handsome, his brown bangs slightly tousled. Everyone knew he was in town, campaigning for this crucial state, but his presence here was a surprise.
By the time he reached the little performing area, the applause was ringing in the big old remodeled ballroom. It was dying down when Kennedy said to the pianist, who was doing a jazzy “Hail to the Chief,” “I, uh, want to thank you for your positive outlook.”
When he finally spoke, in that distinctive halting Massachusetts way of his, he was casual and gracious. “I didn’t come around, uh, to spoil the party with a campaign speech. I just want to thank my friend Frank, for, uh, the great work he’s doing. You’ve heard his jingle?”
Laughter and clapping and a few whoops indicated they had-a specialty version of “High Hopes” that was running in radio and TV ads.
With a smile, the candidate turned to Sinatra and said, “You know, uh, Frank I think you may have a future in this recording business.”
Sinatra made a dismissive gesture, but he was beaming.
“And, uh, I have to thank our host, Hugh Hefner. He represents a breath of, uh, fresh air in our rather stale culture… but don’t quote me. Jackie doesn’t approve of the centerfolds.”
As laughter rang, front-row Hef grinned and shrugged, pipe in hand.
“And, uh, Hef… if I may, without embarrassing you… I’d like to thank you for your, uh, generous financial contributions. And all of you very, uh, prosperous-looking individuals, I know my campaign would be grateful for, uh, any help you might still give. We’re coming down to the wire now. And don’t miss the first of, uh, three televised debates, coming soon to a living room near you. Should be exciting. I understand, if things don’t go well for him, Dick Nixon may be, uh, reprising his famous Checkers speech.”
That got a huge laugh. He gave a little wave, and Sinatra and company sang the “High Hopes” rewrite as the presidential hopeful mingled. This was the kind of hip group that gave even the likes of JFK some space. I didn’t see a soul ask for an autograph, and soon he’d disappeared.
I spotted him with Lawford in the sunken bar, where the window on the swimming pool glowed hypnotically with subdued lighting and unsubdued female flesh. A lot of smoke swirled in here, and Lawford had lighted up, but not Kennedy.
The candidate was nestled in a booth, and I knew he had a terribly bad back-sometimes wore a brace-so I motioned for him not to get up, offering my hand to shake, which he did, flashing that famous smile.
“My favorite private eye,” he said. “Is it, uh, true James Bond was based on you?”
“No, it’s just the tux,” I said, and nodded to Lawford, exchanging smiles. “But I would like to get some of his action.”
Kennedy grinned. “Who wouldn’t?”
Absently, flicking ash into a tray, Lawford said, “You know, they offered me that part. Money was poor, and I turned it down. They’re going with an unknown.”
“Too bad for them,” Kennedy said. “Uh, Peter-could I have a word with Mr. Heller?”
“Most certainly,” the actor said good-naturedly, sighing smoke, then sliding out of the booth.
I took his place. A Bunny came over, but Kennedy already had a mixed drink of some kind going; me, too-a vodka gimlet.
“You know, Nate, I, uh, always look forward to seeing you.”
“Why’s that?” I didn’t figure we’d ever exchanged more than a dozen sentences.
“You’re not a bore,” he said, and twitched half a smile. “And you’re not a yes-man. I have so many of those.”
“That’s because you like it that way.”
Which made him laugh. “See? Exactly what I mean. You know, Bobby, uh, thinks the world of you.”
“I like him back. He’s a bulldog. Reminds me of a friend of mine.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
“ Late friend of mine. Eliot Ness.”
“On TV?”
“No, the real man. He was shorter than Robert Stack, but a better actor.”
Kennedy grunted a little laugh. “Funny to think of somebody like that-so much larger than life? Actually existing. Walking around. Just a man, like the rest of us.”
Like the rest of us.
“What can I do for you, Jack?” I felt I could take the first-name liberty-I mean, he wasn’t president yet; and anyway, I was the guy who made his first marriage go away. And I wasn’t even pope.
“You, uh, know how stubborn Bobby is about his, uh, his passion.”
“I’m not sure.” I should have known what he meant, but in my defense, half-naked Playmates nearby were bobbing up and down underwater.
“The, uh, issue you worked with him on, years ago.”
“Organized crime. Teamster corruption. I wouldn’t call it an issue. But your brother’s passionate about it, all right.”
He sipped his drink; his eyes no longer met mine. “Bobby doesn’t always, uh, understand the waters we must swim in.”
Again, in this context, that could be taken wrong. Wasn’t that Miss January?
“What are you saying, Jack?”
Now his gaze rose. If his voice had been any softer, the piped-in jazz would have covered it. “I may need, uh, from time to time, the, uh, help of an intermediary… a liaison… with certain types of individuals.”
“Mobsters, you mean. Isn’t that what Sinatra is for?”
Kennedy’s smile was faint. “Frank’s a good friend, but he, uh… he’s a public figure, and he has a temper, and can be… controversial.”
As in, everybody from Hoboken to Hollywood knew Sinatra had mob ties. That hadn’t stopped the Kennedys from using Frank’s fame to their benefit in this campaign.
I said, “You’re saying you may need to get the occasional message to guys like Johnny Rosselli or Sam Giancana, and may need someone reliable to handle that.”
“Yes. But, uh, Nate, let’s not use specific names.”
I had a sip of gimlet. “If you win this thing, you’ll have the Secret Service, and the FBI, and-”
He held up a hand. “The Secret Service needs, I think, to steer clear of such matters, if possible. And the FBI, uh, well-you’ve had your own run-ins with J. Edgar Hoover, I, uh, understand.”