"No problem," I said. "I'll get you seats."
"There will be eighteen of us," he said.
"What do you mean, eighteen of you?" I asked. "Who's eighteen?"
"Well, you know, my arranger, my public relations people, my this, my that…"
I said, "Look, Gordon, I was very clear about this. No creative input. You'll blow the whole deal."
"No, I understand," he said. "They just want to see Elvis."
Okay.
After the show, Gordon came backstage. We were talking. He said, "You know, Jerry, I would love to meet Elvis. Just say hello."
"Okay, I'll bring you over."
Elvis walked out of his dressing room, smiling, exhilarated.
I said, "Elvis, this is Gordon Mills. The man I told you about, that situation we're going to do."
I had explained the plan to Elvis. He was fine with it, one, because it would mean a lot of money, and two, because nothing would change.
Elvis said, "Oh, yes, Mr. Mills, it's a great pleasure to meet you, sir. Jerry told me all about this, it sounds like a terrific thing. Very excited about it."
Then Gordon said-and here's the kicker; it still kills me, all these years later-"You know, Elvis, I wanted to talk to you about the capes you wear in the show. I have some ideas."
They talked for a minute, Gordon gesticulating, Elvis, head down, like a boxer in the corner, nodding, "Yes, sir," "Yes, sir," "Yes, sir."
Elvis then said, "Can you excuse me, Mr. Mills?" and went into his dressing room.
Gordon turned to me, smiling, and said, "Oh, that went well! What a charming man!"
A second later, one of Elvis's guys came over and whispered in my ear: "Jerry, Elvis wants to see you right away."
That was the end of Gordon Mills.
There's something to be learned from this story. It shows how, even if you have the greatest script in the world, it won't work if the actors don't play their parts.
The Colonel and I were like father and son. We loved each other, but fought all the time. He used to get up early on the road, five, five-thirty in the morning, then go down to the free buffet. He would smoke his cigar and eat bacon and eggs surrounded by the lackeys who hung on his every word. I usually sat with them, but one morning-this was later-I woke up cranky and decided to eat alone. I got my food, walked by the Colonel's table, sat by myself in the corner.
He called over, "What are you, some kind of a big shot?"
I ignored him.
He said, "Hey, can't you hear me, big shot?"
I said, "What, am I bothering you?"
You were never supposed to challenge the Colonel in front of his people. He believed it undermined his authority.
He shouted, "What's wrong with you?"
"I'm eating my breakfast," I told him. "I want to be alone."
"Oh, you want to be alone?" he said. "Good. Be alone. You're fired!"
"I'm fired? No problem. You owe me a million dollars for this tour so far. Let me have my million bucks, and I'm gone."
Of course, I did not want to get fired, but I knew he would never give me a million dollars.
He stormed over to my table. "All right, big shot, follow me."
He acted like he was taking me to his room for the payout. We got up there, a stuffy motel suite, bed unmade, clothes everywhere. He walked to the bureau, opened the swinging doors and there, inside, he had made up a shrine to the Buddha. There were candles and incense set around a gold sculpture of Buddha, with his belly and grinning face and grand fleshy ears. The Colonel started lighting the candles.
"What the hell is happening?" I asked.
"We have to ask the Buddha what to do," he said.
He rubbed the Buddha's belly. He was such a con man. He said, "Tell me, O great Buddha, do you think we should keep Jerry Weintraub? Or should we let him go?"
He closed his eyes, as if he were meditating, communicating with the sages, then said to me, "The Buddha hasn't made up his mind yet."
The Colonel mumbled something, leaned in as if he was listening, then said, "It's the opinion of the Buddha that if you apologize in front of the boys all will be forgotten and it will be as it was before."
"I'm not apologizing," I said. "Tell that to the Buddha."
"You're not apologizing?"
"That's right. Tell the Buddha."
The Colonel closed his eyes, mumbled, nodded.
"The Buddha is very angry," he told me. "The Buddha says, 'Take Jerry Weintraub to the airport.' "
He blew out the candles and closed the cabinet. We went down to the van. The boys rode along. We got on the highway. I had my luggage and everything. We drove through town, past the arena. The Colonel was watching me, waiting for me to buckle. I did not buckle. I stared straight ahead. We saw the first signs for the airport. "All right, all right," he said. "Pull over."
The van stopped; the Colonel jumped out.
"Come on," he told me. "We need to talk."
He said, "Look, Jerry. You have to apologize. You have to say you were wrong. In front of everybody. All these boys work for me, and what you are doing can destroy everything."
"But I wasn't wrong," I told him. "I just wanted to have my breakfast alone."
"It's important to me that you apologize," he said. "Do it for me and later on I will do something for you."
"Fine," I told him. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to say that you are sorry, that you made a mistake, and that you shouldn't have done what you did."
"But I didn't do anything."
"It doesn't matter. Just say it."
We got back into the van and went to the arena. When we got out, with all the boys standing around, the Colonel said, "Jerry has something he would like to say."
"I am sorry," I told them, "I made a mistake, I should not have done what I did, and I will never do it again."
But I used that promise, the Colonel's price-"Do it for me and later on I will do something for you"-many times over the years. There is a lesson in this: Let the other guy save face with his people, but keep score.
Years later, the Colonel was living in Las Vegas, working as an advisor to Hilton Hotels. He was a great man, and still he died like most men die, little by little, then all at once. He had a stroke on January 21, 1997. He was eighty-seven years old. I was a pallbearer at his funeral and gave a eulogy, paying my respects to one of the last great showmen, and, more important, to a mentor and a true friend.
Old Blue Eyes
Working with Elvis made me rich, taught me show business, made me a player. I did not have to hustle quite as much. Once you've established yourself, you can, to some extent, let business find you. You become a beacon, a door into a better life. "Can you do for me what you did for Elvis?" In other words, people seek you out.
One afternoon, as I was reading through contracts, or whatever-I mean, who can remember?-the telephone rang.
"Hello."
"Is this Jerry Weintraub?"
"Yes."
The voice on the other end touched a sweet spot in the back of my brain. I knew it, but was not sure from where.
"Jerry, you and I need to talk business."
"Who is this?"
"Frank Sinatra."
"Oh, come on," I said. "Who is it really?"
"This is Frank Sinatra, Jerry, but I want you to call me Francis."