Even though I was seven years older and technically her boss, there were times when I’d considered asking her out. But it wouldn’t have been right, working together and all. Besides, I figured she probably would’ve turned me down. She’d most likely see me as just another old guy trying to take advantage of the situation.
The sun descended in the west, pulling down an orange sky as we cruised north on the Santa Ana Freeway, heading for Beverly Hills and the hotel. After a few miles, Rita turned on the radio and we listened to the soft rock hit by the Eagles, “The Best of my Love.” Beautiful faces and loud, empty places…
Next came, “One Hell of a Woman,” by Mac Davis. But when the Barbra Streisand hit, “The Way We Were,” started to play, I popped my Beatles tape into the 8-track. “Hey Jude” blasted from the speakers, seven minutes of perfection. I sang along with the na-na-na part. Rita tapped me on the shoulder, laughing.
Soon we strolled into the Beverly Wilshire lobby.
I turned to the wide-eyed Rita. “Pretty swank, huh?”
“Oh my gosh, when we walked under that arch in front and through the doors it seemed like we were entering an eighteenth century European palace, and now this.” She glanced at the elaborate decor, her gaze settling on the enormous chandler.
“Did you happen to notice the way the doorman looked at me? Like he hadn’t seen a suit from Sears before,” I said, fingering my jacket lapel. “But when he saw you, he smiled and even did a little curtsy.”
“Maybe he liked my new dress.”
“Oh, I think he liked more than that.”
People, mostly in formal attire, were milling about. A few couples meandered toward the entrance of the Grand Ballroom. Sol stood a few feet in front of us holding a drink in one hand and jabbing his finger in some guy’s chest with the other. He hadn’t noticed us yet.
When we moved a little closer I said, “Hey, Sol. Nice place. Hope the food’s as good as the surroundings.”
“Aw, Jimmy, banquet food. What can I say?” He turned to Rita, and for a moment I thought he was going to pass out. “My, God! Is that you, Rita?” His voice became solemn. “You’re not a child anymore, my dear. You look beautiful.”
Rita beamed.
Sol leaned into me and whispered, “Called Bugliosi. Wasn’t in. Left a message.” He then looked up, smiled, and introduced us to the man he’d been talking with. “Rita, Jimmy,” he said in a loud voice, “meet Congressman Del Clausen. He’s going to get to the bottom of this water thing.”
“What water thing?” I said.
“What do you mean what water thing? You know, how the restaurants don’t give you a glass of water anymore unless you ask for it.”
Muted chimes sounded. Rita and I waited while Sol went to refresh his drink. Then the three of us walked through the huge double doors into the Grand Ballroom. The maitre d’, checking our invitations, nodded politely and pointed toward the front of the room. “Table four,” he said. “Down front, close to the stage.”
As we worked our way through the crowd of dignified but noisy people Sol would stop every so often and whisper a few words in the ear of a guest. Gray-haired men, stiff in their formal attire, cast lustful glances at Rita as we threaded our way closer to the stage.
A few feet from our destination, Rita stopped dead in her tracks. She let out a gasp. Her hands started to tremble.
She must have noticed the same thing I did. The table was set for eight and three reserved seats-with name cards resting on the plates-were vacant. The other five people had arrived and were chatting and sipping drinks. It appeared that Rita would be sitting next to the only man there without a female escort: Frank Sinatra.
I noticed something else. The man sitting across from Sinatra was staring at me.
Only it wasn’t a movie star with those cold eyes, it was Raymond Haskell.
CHAPTER 19
I had read that Sinatra had a temper, could be rude, even downright abusive. But not that night. He was gracious, polite, and had a sense of humor reminiscent of his headline Vegas act with the Rat Pack.
Rita had immediately captured Sinatra’s interest and she responded, laughing and flirting without being the least bit self-conscious or shy. Before the food arrived, he took her by the hand and worked the room, introducing Rita to a host of celebrities. And at times throughout the meal he leaned in close and whispered something to her. The wives of the other two men-Haskell and Mickey Rudin-seemed miffed at the admiration she received from the Chairman of the Board, as Sinatra was known. But I don’t think he gave a damn.
With Rita fetching all of Sinatra’s attention, there was scant small talk going on among the rest of us. Mary Carol, Rudin’s wife, tried to be polite and asked me what I thought about Reagan’s chance of winning the upcoming election.
I murmured something impartial. But Sol jumped in. “He hasn’t got a Chinaman’s chance in the primary,” he said. “Ford is the incumbent and Republicans will back the president.”
Adele Haskell, Raymond’s wife, seemed shocked at Sol’s outburst. “President Ford can’t possibly win,” she said. “Not after pardoning Nixon. No, Sol, take it from me, Ronnie will be our candidate.”
Sol pulled a wad of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and slammed the bankroll on the table. “I’ll tell you something else; the Republicans haven’t got a shot in ’76. And I’m willing to back up what I’m saying with cold cash. Teddy Kennedy will be our next president.” He looked at the people sitting there gawking at him with their mouths agape. “Any takers?”
No one accepted, especially after Mickey Rudin said in a commanding voice, “Goddamn it, Sol may have something there. He’s the smartest son-of-a-bitch I know. I wouldn’t touch his bet with somebody else’s dick.” Then he chortled as Mary Carol cringed.
Raymond Haskell didn’t say much and pretended not to notice me. Finally he glanced my way, looking at me as if I were something stuck to the edge of his shoe. I could tell he wasn’t happy with the deal forced on him by Rudin. And it seemed he couldn’t wait to get the meeting with Sol and me out of the way as fast as possible. Especially after Sol alienated almost everyone with his off-the-wall political rhetoric. But hey, that was Sol.
The orchestra played subdued jazz standards, accompanied by Count Basie, during the meal. The men in their tuxes and the women rife with jewels seemed amused.
Although I’ve never been much on politics, I’d been to a couple of Democrat shindigs in the past. But those affairs were nothing like this. Lots of booze, a little grass, and hot dogs grilled on a backyard barbecue with Rock 'n Roll blasting away. The hoi polloi, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, danced the Twist, shaking their booty with reckless abandon. And five bucks, all you can eat. I’d have to say if they took a poll, I’d lean toward the Dems.
Finally Rudin excused himself, hopped up on the stage, and welcomed the man of the hour, Ronald Reagan. He introduced him as a great leader, a humanitarian, and as “The next president of the United States.” Shouts of “Hear hear,” “Bravo,” and applause accompanied the proclamation. Later, Nancy and Ronnie got up and danced, and the throng cheered the Reagans’ quick-step gaiety. I took a quick glance at Adele Haskell as she gazed at the handsome couple moving gracefully about the dance floor. Tears appeared at the corners of her eyes.
At first only a few couples timidly ventured out of their chairs to dance, but when the orchestra struck up a lively waltz by Jerome Kern, the floodgates opened and couples streamed onto the floor, including Rita and Sinatra. I didn’t know she could move the way she did. I had never seen her happier.
Haskell motioned to Sol. He flicked his head toward the back of the room and mouthed, “Follow me.” He climbed out of his chair, tossed his napkin on the table, and started to walk away. Sol and I followed in his wake. With the music and laughter fading, we marched through the doors at the back of the room, and when we did, two bruisers stepped up beside Haskell.