Screwing sinatra, p.1
Screwing Sinatra, page 1
Copyright 2024 by P Moss and Squidhat Press
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed "Attention: Permissions" at address below.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
Editor: Scott Dickensheets
Author Photo: Ginger Bruner
First Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9989872-4-8 (print)
ISBN: 978-0-9989872-5-5 (ebook)
Published by:
Squidhat Press
848 N. Rainbow Blvd. #889
Las Vegas, Nevada 89107
for the gentlemen
Although based upon actual events
that changed America forever,
this book is a work of fiction
CHAPTER 1
Looking exquisite in a canary yellow Oleg Cassini cocktail dress accented with a double strand of perfectly matched pearls, Jacqueline Kennedy walked down the long second-floor corridor of the Sands hotel, excited to surprise her husband, who was in Las Vegas taking a break from campaigning before the eastern presidential primaries. But the surprise backfired when she saw him enter his suite arm in arm with Marilyn Monroe. Taking a moment to compose herself she continued walking. Knocked on the door.
“Room service.”
John Kennedy opened the door, turning white as a sheet as his wife pushed past him.
“Jackie, I can explain,” he stammered. “It’s not what you think.”
She looked at her husband in his boxer shorts and Marilyn sitting on the edge of the bed wearing nothing at all.
“What is it then?”
Again, the stammer.
“Do you think I’ve been blind all these years, Jack? It used to be low hanging fruit like waitresses and chambermaids, but ever since you’ve been hobnobbing with Sinatra and that Rat Pack of his, you’ve stepped up in class.”
“You think I have class?” cooed Marilyn in a wispy voice. “What a sweet thing to say.”
“Marilyn, get dressed and leave my wife and I alone.”
“Why should I leave? You said you love me.”
“He says that to all the girls,” Jackie laughed.
“But this time he really means it. He told me so.”
“Dammit, Marilyn. Will you get the hell out of here!”
Jackie Kennedy looked at the blond bombshell. But instead of seeing the movie star most men dreamed of having their way with, she saw the eyes of a woman who, even with all the adulation, seemed lonely and empty inside.
“Hopefully one day you will meet a man who can see past the obvious,” Jackie said as she sat beside Marilyn on the bed. Tickled her fingers across her cheek. “But it the meantime, don’t you think you deserve to have sex with a Kennedy who can last longer than two minutes?”
“Jackie!”
“I studied a lot more than art history during my year in Paris.”
She brushed her lips against Marilyn’s and after a moment of hesitation, Marilyn kissed her back. Passion quickly escalating.
Any other woman and Jack Kennedy’s dick would have been throbbing, but this was his wife. The mother of his daughter. And she knew it made him sick to watch.
“You’ve made your point, Jackie. Stop this.”
Jackie kissed Marilyn’s neck, her shoulders. Marilyn’s nipples stiffening at the warm breath on her skin.
“Dammit, Jackie. I demand you stop this right now!”
“Shut up and watch, Jack.” Mrs. Kennedy slipped out of her clothes, naked except for a double strand of perfectly matched pearls, then eased Marilyn back on the bed. “Hopefully you’ll learn something.”
CHAPTER 2
The audience hung on every note as Frank Sinatra commanded the sold-out Copa Room at the Sands, belting out the final verse of Lady is A Tramp, only to be disrupted by laughter as a boozed-up Dean Martin carried Sammy Davis, Jr. onto the stage.
“I’d like to thank the NAACP for this award,” Dean slurred, stumbling over the words as he put down the pint-sized song-and-dance man, then grabbed a bottle from the drinks cart that was front and center at every show.
“Dammit, Dean,” scolded Sinatra. “We need to talk about your drinking.”
“What happened? Did I miss a round?”
And so it went. The Rat Pack Summit. Fractured songs and nonstop shtick as Dean — the greatest straight man in showbiz during his years setting up punchlines for Jerry Lewis — now was the one delivering quick-witted comebacks, while aloof comic Joey Bishop was the glue that held it all together. A show born out of serious concert format until Frank caught wild trumpet man Louis Prima’s act at the Desert Inn. He had marveled at the enthusiastic audience reaction to all the looseness and fun and decided to scrap the structure and make every Rat Pack show a party.
Hair beginning to thin as he crept into middle age, Sinatra still looked like a million in his Sy Devore tuxedo as he noticed a cute thirteen-year-old girl sitting with her parents and asked her to stand up.
“What’s your name, doll?”
“Gladys,” she said with a big smile, basking in the spotlight. “Gladys Anderson, and I’m going to be a showgirl when I grow up.”
“I bet you’ll be a knockout,” Sinatra told her, leading the audience in a round of applause. “And there is someone else here tonight who you are going to want to applaud. More than applaud, you’re going to vote for him.”
A spotlight hit the man seated ringside with casino boss Jack Entratter.
“It’s 1960, and he is the right man to lead us into the new decade. Into a future of limitless possibility. The honorable senator from Massachusetts and next president of the United States, John Fitzgerald Kennedy!”
As Kennedy took a bow, Dean elbowed Sinatra. “What did you say his name was?”
After the final encore, Frank’s dressing room was where they would usually unwind before invading the casino to kick start a late night of drunken debauchery. Sammy, who Frank had nicknamed Smokey, not because of his dark skin but because he inhaled four packs a day, was there with May Britt, the Swedish stunner who had just wrapped a star turn in the gangster flick Murder Inc. British actor Peter Lawford, who Frank had for no apparent reason nicknamed Charlie, the fifth on-stage member of the Rat Pack and often the target of Sinatra’s practical jokes, straightened his tie in the mirror. Was good looking and admitted it, but his talent was an octave below his ambition.
Married to Kennedy’s sister Pat, it was Lawford who a few years earlier had introduced Frank to Jack, and the two of them — through the common bond of chasing pussy — had become fast friends. And it was Pat who had put up $10,000 to option the story of ex-army buddies who heist five Vegas casinos that would become the movie Ocean’s 11. A project Lawford had hoped would be a starring vehicle for himself, an idea that Warner Brothers quickly shit-canned as the studio instead considered top stars William Holden and Jack Lemmon, unaware that Sinatra had plans to make it into a Rat Pack home movie. And when Frank Sinatra wanted something, he usually got it, turning the serious caper script into a camped-up musical comedy. A movie the Rat Pack shot during the day, before returning to the Copa Room to start the merry-go-round all over again.
“Time for me to cut out, pally,” Dean told Frank as he finished his drink. “Got an early call in the morning.”
“We don’t have to be on the set until after lunch. Have another drink.”
Frank and Dean didn’t hang out all that often as, by the time Sinatra got rolling, Dean was usually heading upstairs to hit the sack. Dean loved the booze and the broads, but his real passion was golf, and he had an eight AM tee time.
As Sinatra poured himself another drink, he was shocked to see Jack Kennedy walk in with his wife.
“Mrs. Kennedy. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Cut the crap, Frank,” she told the man she viewed as nothing more than her husband’s pimp. “I’ve had enough surprises from you tonight.”
“We’re on our way to a late supper,” said Jack, tall and charismatic with a square jaw and impressive head of hair. Thick Boston accent. “Just wanted to stop by and say that I enjoyed the show and to thank you for introducing me to the audience. Hopefully I picked up a few votes.”
“Anything to help you get elected, Jack. Even if it’s one vote at a time.”
“You mean one blonde at a time, don’t you, Frank?” snapped Jackie as she took her husband’s arm and led him out of the dressing room into the casino.
“For God sake, Jackie. Would it have hurt you to be civil to the man? Having my name linked with his is going to get me elected.”
“That greaseball couldn’t get you elected dog catcher. He comes from nothing. No breeding and no class,” she said, walking and talking with her usual measured rhythm. Stopped and looked her husband dead in the eye. “If you hope to have any chance of moving into the White House, you’re going to need me to charm the housewives of America with a look inside what the magazines tell them is a modern-day Camelot. But don’t forget that I can just as easily see to it that you lose.”
“Don’t threaten me, Jackie.”
“I have had more than my share of private disgrace, but you will not humiliate me in front of the entire country.” She backed her husband against a slot machine. “So, if you want to be elected president, keep your dick in your pants. Because if I ever again catch you with Marilyn or if you publicly embarrass me in any way, I swear to God I will castrate you.”
CHAPTER 3
Sinatra thrived on the nonstop action of Las Vegas, but after a three-week run at the Sands was happy to be back home in Palm Springs. Though no matter where he hung his hat, his world never stopped spinning.
“Make sure the hospital bill is paid and he has some cash in his pocket when they send him home,” he told his attorney, Mickey Rudin.
“Consider it done.”
“Anonymously.”
“Of course.”
An oversized ashtray on the low glass coffee table in the living room was slightly out of place, but not for long, as Sinatra, wearing a colorful sport shirt and slacks, was a perfectionist. A place for everything and everything in its place at his two-and-a-half-acre estate on Wonder Palms Road, overlooking the seventeenth fairway of the Tamarisk Country Club. Floor-to-ceiling windows facing the pool. Modern orange furniture, as that was his favorite color. His Best Supporting Actor Oscar for From Here to Eternity on a lighted shelf visible from anywhere in the room.
Since planting his flag in Palm Springs, Sinatra had been embraced by the close-knit desert community and felt a responsibility to continually repay that kindness. Whether it was spearheading the fund drive for a new school or coming to the aid of a stranger, no cause was too big or too small. But his gravel-voiced attorney in the blue pinstripe suit had made the three-hour drive from his Beverly Hills office primarily to discuss settlement of a lawsuit brought by an annoying drunk Sinatra had slugged at a Hollywood nightclub for making lewd remarks about his date.
“The jerk was way out of line, Mickey. I’m not settling.”
“If we take this to court, you’ll lose.”
Sinatra was five foot seven and skinny as a rake, but that had never stopped him from punching out someone twice his size. He flicked his lighter and fired up a Chesterfield, his cigarette of choice since the tobacco company started making with big checks for him to sponsor their product.
“Not a fucking penny.”
“Did you hit him?”
“Of course, I fucking hit him.”
“Say that in front of a jury and you’ll end up paying five times as much as we can settle for now.” Mickey took a sip of iced tea. “That temper of yours is going to be the end of you one day, Frank. You probably can’t even remember how many photographers you slugged for harassing Ava.”
Plenty, Sinatra remembered, as he and ex-wife number two had been tabloid fodder for years.
“Sometimes you have to realize you can’t win the fight and move on.”
“Not a fucking penny.”
“Let it go, Frank. Settle the suit and enjoy a few days relaxing here at home.”
And what a home it was, with vaulted ceilings, formal dining room, several guest suites and a fully equipped dark room to accommodate the master’s hobby as an amateur shutterbug. Tennis court. Pool heated for late night frolic. Even a separate building he called the funhouse where he pursued his passion for model railroading with an elaborate set up that could run six trains at once, one of them passing through a miniature replica of his hometown, Hoboken, New Jersey.
Sinatra considered Mickey Rudin the smartest man he knew, and his lawyer had rewarded that trust over the years by protecting his interests and steering him away from deals that seemed too good to be true. So, he agreed to settle the suit, but never took his foot off the gas, as for Frank Sinatra life was a nonstop party of booze and broads. He was the king of midnight but also worked tirelessly. Ocean’s 11 had wrapped, and two more film projects were on tap. Constantly recording, he released albums on his Reprise label, as well as cranking out long players by a roster of other radio mainstays. Plus, new Rat Pack shows were booked at the Sands through the end of the year.
“Stick around, Mickey. I’m having a few people over tonight.”
“Next time, Frank. I’ve got to get back for dinner with a new client.”
“Cancel it.”
“It’s important.”
“That cute trick from Vegas you like will be here.”
Mickey Rudin smiled. “I guess the dinner isn’t that important.”
CHAPTER 4
Jimmy Van Heusen was a three-time Academy Award winning composer, but his real talent was wrangling beautiful women. Whether they be Hollywood starlets or working girls from Vegas, the party never really got started until Jimmy showed up. Like flipping a switch, a casual evening with a few friends would morph into a wing ding with champagne and Nat King Cole on the reel-to-reel the second he walked through the door with the female party favors.
Sinatra was a wine and dine romantic, but sometimes wanted it quick and easy, valuing the fair exchange provided by hookers since he did not have to deal with them emotionally. Cash as quid pro quo for a few laughs and some sport fucking. Still, he treated hookers like ladies, lighting cigarettes and topping off their champagne, often saying he preferred an honest working girl to a conniving starlet. Looking upon sex as more than just a physical pleasure, he was positive it made him sing better. Made him looser and more confident. And when Jimmy, his neighbor and pal, showed up with a half-dozen stunners from Vegas, he was raring to go.
Frank’s valet, George Jacobs, kept glasses full as the men joked, the women dazzled and Mickey Rudin quickly disappeared to one of the guest bedrooms with the cute little trick he had blown off his client dinner for. But the guest of honor was a fish out of water. A seventy-year-old fossil wearing a conservative suit and tie with round-rimmed glasses and hair you could count. A man who, even in the middle of a booze and broads free for all, Frank addressed with respect as Mr. Ambassador.
Joe Kennedy was Boston Irish. Harvard educated and had married the mayor’s daughter. Had taken aim at a career in banking but veered quickly toward the wrong side of the law, enticed by the big money to be made as a bootlegger during Prohibition. Smuggling illegal alcohol earned him the bankroll he used, with the aid of inside information, to short sell stocks and amass a fortune during the 1929 Wall Street crash that brought on the Great Depression. Money he used in 1938 to buy himself the U.S. ambassadorship to the United Kingdom. Set his sights on the presidency, but it was a political career cut short when he went on record as saying that Hitler was just a blowhard and not a threat to anyone. So, twenty years later he set his sights on buying the White House for his son.
George was likable. Mid-thirties with an easy smile, but as he served Joe Kennedy a highball, the ambassador looked at him with disgust.
“Is there something wrong with your drink, sir?”
“For God sake, Francis,” Kennedy grumbled. “Can’t you get any white help?”
Sinatra and his trusted valet both let the insult slide, knowing that the Kennedy patriarch had invited himself to be Frank’s house guest for a reason. Something important. So, Frank kept the conversation light as he sipped his usual Jack Daniel’s over ice and waited to find out what it was. Lit the ambassador’s cigar and asked which of the girls he fancied.
“One is as good as another,” said Kennedy, who had a reputation for treating hookers like shit. Not all that different from his son-in-law Peter Lawford who often liked it whips and chains kinky with colored streetwalkers. “Just make sure there is a whore in my room when I retire for the evening.”
Which for the old man was soon, making quick work of the hooker then snoring through the merriment of a wing ding that carried on into the wee hours.
Bright sunlight beamed through the windows as Sinatra welcomed the new day, finding Joe Kennedy, in a starched collar and three-piece suit, waiting impatiently on the living room sofa.
“Good morning, Mr. Ambassador,” greeted Frank with a cheery smile, wearing a colorful sport shirt and slacks as he made himself comfortable across from the old man. “Would you like some breakfast?”
“It’s almost noon for God sake.”
