Lady Blue Eyes Read online

  If we weren’t home recovering from a tour, or hosting guests at Easter and just about every holiday, we were on the road so that Frank could continue to entertain his fans. As well as spending long spells in the studio recording new songs, he toured relentlessly in the first few years of our marriage, with more than ninety concert performances in one nine-month period alone. Whenever we could, we’d take Miss Wiggles and Caroline with us—they were the best-traveled dogs in show business. On one tour, we landed at an airport somewhere (probably Shannon) to refuel. When we pulled up to a piece of grass, there were dozens of press photographers waiting. I guess they’d heard Frank would be dropping in and wanted to get a shot. Well, the only shot they got was of Miss Wiggles being carried down the steps by a member of the staff to the grass, where she performed right in front of the cameras. Then she was carried back onto the plane and we took off.

  The schedule was nothing short of energetic. Frank drove the pace during that period (although later it was his management team that pushed him), and everyone had to go with it. As always he wanted me ringside at every concert, so I went with him 99 percent of the time. Even in his seventh decade, his stamina was incredible. People would fall like flies from flu or exhaustion all around him and he’d just keep going, as long as he had “Dr. Daniels,” which he claimed killed all known germs. Not that he drank all the time. Nor did he always drink Jack Daniel’s. He loved European wine and would often drink the best red wines with pasta and meat. He rarely drank water on the grounds that “fish fuck in it,” but he could go on the wagon for weeks at a time, especially if there was a big tour coming up. And he never drank before a show, only afterward.

  Having been the “skinny hundred-pound Dago” from New Jersey who once joked that if he lost any more weight he couldn’t be seen behind the microphone, he began to develop a little middle-aged spread. So he cut out the candy he loved—especially Tootsie Rolls and cherry Life Savers, which he ate by the packet and which would dye his tongue red. For his meals, he’d eat anything he liked, but in child-size portions only. It worked, but dieting seemed to make him even more hyper. On one interminable flight to Tokyo, he didn’t sleep and couldn’t settle, so he walked up and down the plane, talking to people and drinking all night. He gave his concert, then got straight back on the plane and drank and walked all the way home. I don’t know how he did it. I could never have sustained that. Maybe it was the adulation he always received in Japan that kept him going. The Japanese were crazy about him—their women would try to elbow me away from him. That was one country where I was truly grateful for the bodyguard Frank had provided for me at concerts from the day we’d started courting.

  On the road and off, Frank had a team of people looking after his every need, so my chief role was to get the social side of things organized. My husband still needed company after a show, so I’d arrange a dinner somewhere, order a menu of (usually) Italian food, make out a guest list, and figure out the seating plan. We had several secretaries and assistants in an entourage of around ten, so I had plenty of help. Once we arrived in a city, we’d take over an entire wing of a hotel; then I’d get to work finding out who was in town and available. Close friends would be sent our schedule and invited to join us if they could.

  Knowing Frank’s love for having an eclectic mix of people around him, I’d try to find singers and sportsmen, actors and industrialists. I’d research who was new and hot and who was not. When we got to the restaurant, I’d tell everyone where to sit according to my seating plan and just hope I’d gotten the mix right as the wine was being poured and the antipasti served. I’d never sit Frank next to someone he didn’t know or might not like. I did that only once, by accident, in Australia, when he ended up having to make polite conversation with a country singer he didn’t take to at all. That’s when the Mr. Hyde in his character flared up, and boy, I never made that mistake again.

  The responsibility for Frank’s social life wasn’t entirely on my shoulders. Quite often, people would throw dinners in his honor, and so we’d go straight to a party after a show. The one thing Frank would insist on, though, was to be shown the guest list first. We arrived in New York during one nationwide tour to find that our friend Henry Kissinger had gone to a great deal of trouble to organize a party for Frank the following night.

  “How kind, Henry,” I said when he told me. “Thank you so much.”

  But when I saw the guest list, my face fell. On it was the journalist Barbara Walters, and I knew that the minute Frank saw her name, he’d refuse to attend. He used to call her Barbara Wa-Wa because he said she had a speech impediment and she always made everyone she interviewed cry. During one of his acts, he called her “the ugliest broad on TV.” Sure enough, when Frank found out she’d be at the party, he said, “Cancel me.”

  “Cancel you?” I repeated. “But Henry’s been planning this for weeks, and you’re his guest of honor!”

  “I’m going to bed now,” Frank told me with a shrug. “If Henry calls, tell him I’m not available.”

  So dear Henry Kissinger, the best negotiator in the world and a recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize, suddenly found himself negotiating with me—the dummy who knew nothing. “Barbara!” he pleaded. “You’ve got to talk to Fraank. I’ve been planning this party forever. He can’t just cancel on me.”

  “Henry, Frank’s not going if Barbara Walters is there. You will have to disinvite her.”

  “I can’t disinvite Barbara Walters!” Henry cried, appalled.

  “Fine,” I told him. “Then have your party, enjoy yourself, and we’ll get together another time.”

  “But, Barbara, we have to work this out! Maybe I could have her at one end of the room and Frank at the other? He’d never even have to speak to her.” There was desperation in his voice.

  I sighed and told him, “You know Frank. There’s no working out to be done here.” They were not words Henry Kissinger heard very often, I shouldn’t think. He called back at least three more times and the following day even tracked me down to a restaurant where I was having lunch with some girlfriends. “Did you get a chance to talk to Fraank?” he asked.

  “Yes I did, but Frank’s not going unless Barbara Walters isn’t there, and that’s that.” Poor Henry. He had no choice but to disinvite Miss Walters, although God knows how he managed it. Frank and I went to the party, and we both had a most enjoyable evening. I felt so bad for Barbara.

  Several months later we were in Japan, and Henry called us. “Fraank,” he said, excitedly. “I pulled your line! Someone I didn’t want to be with was at a summit I was expected to attend, and I said I wouldn’t go if he was there. Guess what? It worked!”

  I had my own taste of what Henry had gone through when we had the Agnews staying with us at the Compound and the Annenbergs wouldn’t invite them to come to a party they’d invited us to. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t want to get into the reasons, so we had no choice but to leave the Agnews at home. We were in New York on another occasion when President Nixon asked us out to a restaurant. The night before the dinner the Saudi businessman Adnan Khashoggi called to see what our plans were. We’d first met Adnan in Monaco when he invited us onto his yacht for dinner. I had been impressed that there was a gift from Bulgari for every woman at the table. He had a giant-size bed, which all the men were sniggering about, but I told him, “How nice, you can get all your family in there!” He laughed, and from then on, we hit it off. When he called to see what we were up to in New York, without thinking, I invited him along to the Nixon dinner. It was me; I would have loved for it to have been Frank who made the faux pas, but it was me. When I informed Nixon’s people that Adnan was coming, they told me they couldn’t have him there. Apparently, he was too controversial a figure. I’d had no idea and was mortified. I had to call Adnan and ask him to understand. Thank goodness, he did.

  I liked Nixon and met him several times, usually at the White House. I always found him charming and refreshingly unshowy. I was seated next to him onc
e during a meal, and we got chatting about food. He told me of his Quaker childhood on a ranch in Orange County and how much he loved home-cooked food, especially beans. “Why, Mr. President, I love beans too!” I told him. “I have ever since the days my grandmother used to grow them and can them back in Missouri.” After that, beans became our connection. “Barbara,” the president would tell me with a conspiratorial smile every time I saw him, “you and I have got to go out and get that bean dinner together.” Sadly, we never did.

  Frank hadn’t played the famous Caesars Palace in Las Vegas for a while. In January 1977, however, he was invited for a triumphant return.

  We booked one of Frank’s bigger planes to fly us up there on the day of the concert, January 6. His eighty-two-year-old mother, Dolly, loved Las Vegas and especially enjoyed playing the slot machines, which she’d load with coin after coin provided by Frank. He even had a slot machine installed for “Grandma” at home so she could play whenever she wanted. Naturally, Dolly was on the passenger list, along with Mrs. Anna Carbone, a widowed friend from New Jersey who was staying with her at the time and whom Frank had known most of his life.

  Our flight was due to leave at noon because he was playing two shows that night and needed plenty of time to get ready. At the last minute, Dolly—who could be as difficult as ever when she wanted to be—decided that she would prefer to come later. Frank thought nothing of it and chartered a twin-engine Learjet we used often to fly Dolly and Mrs. Carbone to Vegas at around four o’clock that afternoon.

  After a bumpy plane ride on an overcast day and with the weather worsening, we arrived in Las Vegas at around one o’clock. When we got to Caesars, we couldn’t help but laugh at the marquee, which said simply, HE’S BACK! Once we settled into our suite, I took a nap. I knew we were going to have a late night, so I wanted to look my best. About an hour into my snooze, Frank burst into the bedroom, and the first thing I noticed was that he had a cigarette in his hand and it was shaking. “Grandma left at five but she’s not here yet,” he told me, his eyes strange. “They can’t find her plane on the radar … Barbara, she’s nowhere on the damn screen!”

  I looked into Frank’s face. I saw his fear, and I felt my own. Taking his hands in mine, I told him, “Darling, your mother’s a tough old bird, and I’m sure she’s going to be all right. Please don’t worry. If anyone can survive, she can.” I could tell from his expression that he had already started to give up hope, so I slid off the bed, dropped to my knees, and began to pray. My husband sat on the edge of the bed and watched me, his lips mouthing his own silent prayer. Dolly and I may have had our differences in the past, but we’d overcome them and truly made our peace. We had spent so much time together that we’d become friends. I knew how important she was to Frank; he was devoted to her. I couldn’t imagine how he would cope if she were to die in some unexpected and horrible way.

  “Let’s cancel and fly home, darling,” I told him. “There’ll probably be good news by the time we get there.”

  “No,” he said abruptly. “I’ll do the show.”

  As the time drew near for Frank’s first performance, he sat in a corner of our suite in a deep, impenetrable depression. The longer he went without any news, the deeper he sank. I didn’t think for one moment that he could go on that night, but to my amazement, he suddenly got up, walked down to his dressing room, pulled on his tux, and swept to the theater. There was a pall of gloom among his staff and crew backstage, but up there in front of the lights, Frank was all that his devoted fans wanted him to be.

  I took my place at the front and watched in open admiration as this consummate pro refused to disappoint his audience. Dolly would have wanted him to go on. He knew that. I knew it. But I don’t know how he managed it; he must have sung those songs by rote. The people sitting all around me applauding wildly would never have suspected a thing was wrong until perhaps the moment he began “My Funny Valentine”—a song he usually dedicated to me—and his emotions crowded his throat. As soon as he had taken his final bow, he strode off the stage and told his manager, “We’re going home.” The second show was canceled as we filed into the motorcade to the airport and flew straight back to Palm Springs. Looking down over the mountains where Dolly’s plane was probably lying broken, I closed my eyes and whispered one of her favorite prayers.

  Back at the Compound, Frank barely said a word for two days. He sat on a couch in a corner by the bar and stared into space. It was really eerie. He didn’t want to talk to anybody, not even me. I’d walk past every hour or so, catch his eye, and give him a smile, but his eyes wouldn’t even flicker. Whenever he was quiet, I knew we were in trouble, but I’d never seen him that quiet before. People—family members, those with news of the ongoing search—would come in and talk to him, but he barely responded. I’d let them say their piece, and then I’d shoo them away. Nobody was going to break that ice, not even Dolly’s favorite priest, Father Geimer, who came to perform a Mass. I’d never seen Frank grieving before, but I knew from Jilly that this was exactly how he’d behaved when his father, Marty, died, and after he lost Marilyn Monroe and Jack Kennedy was killed. I also knew that, once he’d spent enough time alone to figure it all out in his head, he’d get up and get on. I was right.

  After two days of grieving, I walked past him once more, gave him my smile, and made a stupid face, expecting the same response as before. This time was different. “Are you crazy?” he asked, grimacing. Then he suddenly stood up and asked me to get hold of his chief pilot, Johnny Spots, who’d flown us to Vegas on the night Dolly disappeared. “Bring a helicopter,” he told Johnny. “We’re going to search for Grandma.” In one of the Civil Air Patrol helicopters that had already been searching for Dolly for days, Frank, Johnny, and a pilot named Don Landells flew up over the San Bernardino Mountains, scouring a huge area. There was deep snow on the highest peaks, confirming that the weather had closed in that night. They flew back and forth over the bleak, wintry terrain, but all they spotted was the branch of a tree that had been broken halfway up the 11,500-feet-high Mount San Gorgonio. That’s where Johnny Spots showed tremendous wisdom. He had the pilot fly Frank home, and then they went back to where he’d seen the broken branch. Instead of going down the mountain, they flew higher up, because Johnny knew that any pilot would try to get over the peak. That’s when they found the wreckage, slammed into the side of the mountain at 9,500 feet. I will always be grateful to Johnny for going back alone. I couldn’t imagine how it would have affected Frank if he’d found his mother’s body.

  The news came in late that night. The plane had broken up on impact and everybody was dead. One of the rescue teams in the area was diverted to retrieve the remains of Dolly, Mrs. Carbone, the pilot, and the copilot. They brought the bodies back down to a morgue in Palm Springs. The authorities called the house to ask someone to come and identify them. Mickey Rudin said he would go, but then he said he couldn’t. Frank didn’t want to go, and neither did any of his kids. Jilly couldn’t face it either—he’d known Dolly for most of his life; she was like a mother to him. When I realized that nobody else was prepared to go, I volunteered. That was not an easy task. It was horrible for me, but even more horrible for poor Frank.

  At the Rosary recited for Dolly at the St. Louis Catholic Church in Cathedral City on January 12, attended by more than five hundred mourners, the Church of the Desert Choir sang her favorite song, “Hello, Dolly!” as well as “Ave Maria.” Dolly was buried a week later in the Desert Memorial Park in Cathedral City next to Marty, whose coffin Frank had moved from New Jersey when his mother came to Palm Springs. Frank clung to my hand and couldn’t take his eyes off his mother’s flower-decked casket as it was carried in by Jilly, Dean Martin, and Jimmy Van Heusen, among others. It was an intensely moving service attended by some of Frank’s oldest friends, including Barbara Stanwyck, Jimmy Stewart, and Loretta Young, but it finally drew a curtain over what had been such a traumatic episode.

  As we ate Italian food in Dolly’s honor after the f
uneral, I was just so grateful that her body had been found. Frank may have been sixty-one years old, but he was still an orphan who needed to know that his mother was at rest, next to Marty, close enough for him to visit. As Frank himself said, Dolly could finally “sleep warm.”

  Life went on after Dolly’s death, just as it always had. Frank canceled two weeks of performances and we flew to Barbados to spend some time at the place we loved, but performing was Frank’s therapy and he needed to get back on the stage. It was also what his mother would have expected, for there had surely never been a woman more proud of her son.

  Driven by that thought, Frank arranged it so that our next few years were spent almost exclusively on the road. He also performed at numerous benefits, did fund-raisers for Ronald Reagan, recorded several new songs, and fulfilled commitments at Caesars in Vegas and Harrah’s in Lake Tahoe. He gave a lauded performance in the TV movie Contract on Cherry Street. Never once forgetting his bride, he took me on vacations to Barbados and Monaco between legs of the tour. Some of his finest performances that year were in the smaller clubs, like the Latin Casino in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, places he chose deliberately to give people a chance to see and hear him on a more intimate level. He’d make a point of ensuring that tickets to any concert of his be scaled in price so that ordinary people could afford them. Not that there weren’t some incredible venues as well. Flying around the world in a plane he named Barbara Ann, I watched my husband perform in front of the Acropolis in Athens, the Colosseum in Rome, and the Sphinx in Egypt.

  It was on that trip to Egypt, with Bobby along with us, that we probably had the best time (although sadly I did catch hepatitis B from the water and thought I was going to die). President Anwar Sadat was married to a beautiful lady called Jehan. She had a birthday coming up, and Anwar asked her what she wanted. “I’m not going to say, because you’ll never give it to me,” she told him with a sigh. This went on for several weeks until finally he said, “Tell me what you want!”