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When it came to celebrities, Frank Sinatra was the biggest, the baddest, the boldest, and the best.
And for the Enquirer in 1975, this was especially so. I soon became aware that Mr. Pope was a voracious fan of Frankie. “The Chairman of the Board” and our Boss had both come up on the tough side of the tracks in New Jersey, they’d both made it big, there were rumors of mafia connections around both men, and Mr. Pope liked to know what Frankie was up to.

I was therefore thrilled and flattered - but also slightly horrified - to be given my first on-the-road assignment covering none other than Frank Sinatra.

Sinatra had been around forever, it seemed, and had gone from boy band singer, to teen heart-throb, to washed-up has-been, to Oscar winning movie star, king of saloon singers, gold record champ, chief of the Rat Pack, playboy, bad boy, cool guy.

He’d retired once and was in the midst of a comeback, labeled “The Noblest Roman of Them All Returns.” Over the years, I’d gotten an inside view into the ways of the Chairman of the Board.

My ex-boss, Rona Barrett, had been an intimate of the Sinatra family, best girlfriends during her youth with Frank’s older daughter, Nancy Sinatra, Jr. In fact, word was that the girlish friendship had been so close that Frank had actually fronted her the money for a down payment on her first Beverly Hills home. It had been the start of her real estate success story, which, incidentally, continued after she dropped off the edge of the gossip world.

But as I began to cover Hollywood, I observed that Frank always managed to cancel out the good things about himself. I discussed this with Rona one day.

“It’s uncanny.” she said in her nasal New Yorky accent, brushing her bulletproof blond hairdo with a perfectly manicured hand. I‘d just brought in the front pages of a couple of papers. “Here it is,” I said. “Sinatra bloodied someone‘s face in a drunken Las Vegas hotel brawl, because the guy tried to take a picture. Look, it‘s on all the front pages.”

What made it so ironic was that Rona had just finished telling me about how Frank flew a dying kid across country in a private jet, paid for all the kid’s medical treatments, footed the family’s bills, and arranged for the child to recover with a round the clock nurse at his side. Rona said, “That, he kept anonymous.”

Now every paper in town had run the picture of Frank punching the guy, replete with obscene gestures, with his face contorted into a graphic mask of pure fury. No one even knew about his good work, but now everyone knew about his foul temper.

Frank hated the press . I’d always known that Frank Sinatra was a genuine fast lane tough guy, that he loved women but liked them in their place, that he always had his coterie of henchmen with him, that he clashed with the press often, and that he especially hated lady reporters.

Once I joined the Enquirer, I was to learn that he wasn’t above having his pals beat up reporters, and that even a lady reporter had better stay out of his way or be prepared for trouble.

During that era when people got away with saying what they really felt, Sinatra freely crowed his opinion about female columnists. Sinatra once had a huge row with D.C. celeb columnist Maxine Cheshire, and had gone on the record to describe her (and presumably all of us) as a bunch of “Two Dollar Whores “ (his words.)

That memory of Frankie’s take on women journalists stuck in my mind in July of 1975, when my byline began appearing on celebrity stories in the National Enquirer.

Fellow reporter Eirik Knutzen and I had just hit the cafeteria three floors below for a quickie lunch. We were making inane jokes as we ambled back into the Enquirer’s spacious ninth floor office suite. We were both in the middle of writing stories, and we separated to go back to our desks. I was looking forward to spending the rest of the afternoon writing up an interview I had had the previous day with “Miss” Peggy Lee. The legendary songbird had revealed for the first time that she was kept alive only with the aid of a large mechanical breathing apparatus that she took everywhere she went. Her respiratory system was totally shot, but the unflappable star had found a way to go on singing.

I had just sat down at my typewriter and was reviewing the notes from my taped interview when our heavyset young bureau chief burst out of his glass enclosure.

Markfield headed straight for me, barking, “Sternig, there you are! I’m sending you out. You’re going to Lake Tahoe on a Sinatra story. It’s only a spec assignment, but the boss REALLY wants it. You’re a broad and I know you can do this one better than anyone. Use all your wiles and tricks.

“Sinatra’s appearing up at Tahoe on the same bill with that goody-goody country guy John Denver. There’s a story there somewhere.”

I’d covered John Denver’s wildly successful career from his first Los Angeles appearance as a wide-eyed cowboy crooning heartfelt hit tunes at the Troubadour. I liked him, his clear Colorado pipes, his reverent nature boy songs. He was old-fashioned, pure and very sincere.

And then of course, there was Sinatra. Everyone knew all about his wee-hour antics on the town, his ribald partying, his chauvinistic bad-boy rat pack, his drinking, his dames, his fights .

“Hmm,” I responded. “You mean like a contrast? Their opposite lifestyles? I’m sure we can count on Sinatra to show up around the casino. He always does.” I cocked my head and stroked my chin. “Smokey barroom Sinatra and his hard-drinking womanizing pals -- and fresh-air Denver with his blue-sky granola gang. That sort of thing?”

Markfield beamed with that quirky little gleam in his eye. “Yeah, yeah. I love it.” I’d only been on staff a month, but I was getting used to “we can do anything” tabloid journalism.

He handed me my airline tickets and car reservation, and said, “You’re leaving in two hours, and uh, by the way, all the flights into Tahoe are full, so you’ll fly into Reno. And all the rooms are booked at Harrah’s where they’re playing, so you’ll have to find a room somewhere else when you get up there.”

For all my unruffled exterior, my heart was now pounding at the sheer responsibility of getting packed, rushing to make my flight, getting booked in somewhere, and most of all, going out there on company expenses all by myself to score an inside story about one of the toughest stars there ever was, and who incidentally hated female journalists.

I was confronted for the first time with that overwhelming question: “How in the hell am I going to do this?”

Of course, in front of my new boss who thought I was the hottest thing he’d hired in Hollywood, I did not let on, but appeared perfectly cool and collected.

I simply scooped up my tape recorder and notebooks, grabbed the tickets and papers he handed me, told him I’d call him when I got there, and started heading for the door. Suddenly, Alan added, “Wait, Sternig. I want you to take Tracy with you. She’ll be at your disposal to use in any way you need her. She’s the tryout and you’re the staff reporter, so I want you running the story. It’s your show, Sternig. You tell her what to do. Get the story and don’t come home until you do.”

Tracy Cabot had once worked at the notorious scandal rag Confidential, so I knew she’d be a capable accomplice, tryout or not, and I was relieved to know I’d have company, somebody to bounce off of, somebody to connive and scheme through the story with.

As I roared my small yellow Toyota up Crescent Heights, toward my Havenhurst Drive apartment ust off the Sunset Strip, I started formulating the plan. Obviously, knowing how Sinatra hated ladies of the press, we’d need a well-crafted, believable undercover pose. The story was so natural - Vegas high-roller Frankie, and country boy Denver.

OK, so what have we got to work with? I’m long-haired and curvy, with large brown eyes. Sinatra loves babes - so I’ll be a little sexpot fan dying to meet him. Tracy’s more of a plain Jane, smart, kind of matter of fact, with glasses, pitch black hair . We’ll get her into country western garb and set her adoring fan persona upon the Denver brigade.

I raced up the stairs to my apartment, threw open the door and stood in the living room collecting my thoughts. Clothes! Think of all the situations that might come up. I grabbed a suitcase, set it on the bed, and began yanking through my closet to see what would work.

I threw in a pair of tight jeans, a skinny little yellow angora sweater, cropped; a pair of slinky slacks and a fitted top; a silver pleated mini dress with matching silver shoes; a hot pink number; and most important, a sexy backless jumpsuit that left little to the imagination. In an afterthought, I also tossed in a short blond wig. As I grabbed my cosmetics, shoes, and shampoo, the phone rang. It was Tracy. I gave her the plan so she could pack her costume - and we arranged to meet at the airport.

It didn’t take long before I clicked my bag closed, threw my office stuff into a duffle, and grabbed my car keys. I was about to run out the door when I suddenly realized - “Wait a minute. My sister Marylou, her husband, and their seven-year-old son are arriving in two days! Will I be back? They were already on the road and, in those days before cell phones, unreachable. I quickly picked up the mike on my Phone Mate answering machine and programmed a new greeting with a cryptic message for them. They were to get my key from the landlady and make themselves at home in case I wasn’t back yet. Then I called the landlady, described them in detail, and got her cooperation. As I locked the door and ran to the garage, I prayed Marylou would call my phone number before arriving in L.A. and get the message.

I swung my car left down La Cienega Boulevard toward L.A. Airport, and about half-way down Restaurant Row, broke out in a fit of uncertainty. Is this thing really going to happen? I’m flying into Reno. Am I going to find a hotel room, much less Sinatra, Denver, and an inside story about them? Will Sinatra and Denver be hanging out in the casino? Will we get great sources? Will we get next to the stars? Will we pull off our charade? What’ll happen if Sinatra figures out I’m a reporter? What if Marylou doesn’t get my message?

And by the way, from now on, is this going to be my life, just leaving behind all my personal plans to jet off in pursuit of stories? That doesn’t feel good. But I’m getting so much money, they have a right to expect complete devotion. They had made it very very plain from my first week that that’s exactly what they expected. My first weekend on staff I had announced I couldn’t do a Saturday night stakeout because I was giving a dinner party. Alan warned me, “Only because you’re new, Sternig, will that fly this time. In the future, you cancel your plans and you go.”

As I drove across L.A. , the full impact hit me. The future Alan spoke of was here, and I was going. And I felt giddy. I was in the boys’ world now. On the road. Chasing big-name celebrities in a way I never had during my ladylike front-door days with Rona. This was it. I was in charge of a tough assignment and I wasn’t invited. I had my expense account, I had my cash advance, I had my airline ticket and I had my car reservation. Most of all, I had my ingenuity, and that’s what I would need the most. I was exhilarated. I was on an adrenalin rush that was about to become a way of life. My brief was - “Follow Sinatra wherever he goes. Infiltrate his inside circle. Don’t come back until you have the story.”

*****************
Tracy and I lucked into an off-strip motel room, just about the last one in town. We felt fortunate even though we had to share. As we unpacked our costumes and roared at the idea of what we were about to do, we discussed strategy. Trying hard to be leaderly, I told my tryout helper, “We’ll go straight to Harrah’s and scope it out for any and all leads. We’ll talk to pit bosses, ladies room attendants, dealers, restaurant hostesses, bartenders and cocktail waitresses - anyone who could be in the know. We’ll try for tickets to the dinner show, or at least the midnight show. And if we get in, we’ll work on meeting entourage members. You know Sinatra always has his bodyguards and hangers-on, and Denver probably has his own gang of pals too. They’ll be our ticket in. You’re the John Denver groupie, I’m the Sinatra groupie. We’ll have to come on avid and fawn about how we’re dying to meet them. Play it as close to the edge as you dare. So will I. If either of us gets in trouble, let’s not be too far apart.”

We hit Harrah’s immediately. On the casino floor, we split up and went our separate ways. In my skin-tight jeans that had “The End” emblazoned in nailheads across the seat, I wiggled and flirted my way up to the first pit boss I saw staring at me. He obviously thought I was kind of cute, and when I asked, he decided to be a hero and let me in on Sinatra’s whereabouts.

The pit boss - whose name I gathered from his badge was Paul - informed me that if I really had the hots to see Frankie boy, he always dined between shows in the Summit restaurant on the top floor of Harrah’s. Paul told me Sinatra always had his entourage around, including comic Pat Henry who opened his show, and assorted “guys.” These guys, he pointed out, were always wandering around the casino and could be easily identified because they’d all been given sky blue satin team jackets commemorating the Sinatra/Denver pairing at Harrah’s. He said, “Look over there. There’s one of them now. See that jacket? Everyone in the entourage will be wearing one just like it. Oh, and they like to hang out over there in the Hideaway Bar in the afternoons and after Sinatra’s midnight show. Sinatra always comes in and joins them for a round or two, so you’re sure to meet him if you just go in there about two AM and sit at the bar. He’ll notice you, sweetheart, he’ll notice you.”

I goo-goo’d and gah-gah’d over this windfall of information, and thanked Paul profusely, winking at him and tweaking his arm in gratitude. “Maybe I could talk to you again tomorrow and let you know how I did.”

“You do that, sweetheart. I’ll be right here.” His eyes were on his tables, players, and dealers, and also on my nail-studded behind as I walked away. I wanted to make sure he’d remember me and tell me what he knew as Sinatra’s game plans unfolded. I looked back over my shoulder and shamelessly blew him a pouty little air kiss.

I hurried over to the lounge where Paul told me da boys hung out, just to get the lay of the land. I did this instinctively, but learned over the next years always to scope out these locales before the celebs were actually in situ, so as to know where the exits, corners, ladies rooms, paths to the outside and possible safe hiding spots were, just to have the blueprint in my mind.

While I was standing there gazing around, a heavyset man suddenly loomed in the entrance. He had thick curly black hair, a babyface, and the thickest, curliest eyelashes I had ever seen on a man. He looked through me, intently scanning the room for someone, then walked back out into the casino. He had on a sky blue satin jacket with the Sinatra/Denver/Harrah’s logo emblazoned on the back. I memorized his appearance.

After a thorough wander through the Hideaway, I sidled up to the bar, and with a naive inflection in my voice, asked the bartender, “Does Sinatra really come in here at night?”

He smiled and said, “He sure does - and he always sits right over there in that corner booth with his gang.”

I could hardly believe my snowballing good luck. Perfect. Now I knew exactly where I hoped I’d also be sitting, in the company of Sinatra and Entourage before this was all over.

I wondered how Tracy was faring and re-entered the brightly lit casino. My eyes were still adjusting from the dim of the lounge when I nearly ran into her. She was smiling broadly and very excited. “What? What? What?” I quizzed. “OK, he had a girl in his suite, she gave him a blow job, he paid her what an IBM executive would earn in a week!”

“Omigod! John Denver??” I gasped incredulously.

“No, not Denver! YOUR boy! Sinatra!”

“Lord, that’s incredible information! Who’s giving you that? How in the heck can we put it in print? “ The words tumbled out of Tracy’s mouth. “It was the maitre d’ in the Summit restaurant.” The Summit! That was the dining room on top of the hotel where I already knew we would be dining that night, in our plan to bump into Sinatra. “Tracy, did he give you any details?”

She said, “He told me this chick was standing in the cancellation line and one of Sinatra’s guys noticed her, picked her up, and took her to the show. Later, they were all partying and she caught Sinatra’s eye. He took a liking to her, and eventually she disappeared with him. She gave him the blow job and came away with a queen’s ransom. The girl came by and showed the maitre d’ the cash.”

It seemed a good omen for our getting close to Sinatra, even though we had no intention of getting that close. Right then, I didn’t worry about how I’d put such racey stuff into my copy. But Tracy and I congratulated ourselves on the morning’s progress.

“OK,” I said, “Since you’ve met the maitre d’, why don’t you go back up and tell him your girlfriend loves Sinatra and she heard he dines up there between shows so we want to make dinner reservations for tonight. Get him to give us a table right next to Frankie’s.” Tracy’s eyes lit up.

“Is that true? Every night?”

“Yup. I got it from a pit boss,” I told her.

“Great. A great dinner, and on the Enquirer to boot!” With that, she headed off toward an elevator, disappearing in the casino throng.

Right after she left me, another blue satin jacket went by - and this one stopped me in my tracks. I instantly recognized the man topping Sinatra’s inner retinue, the man known as Sinatra’s best friend. It was the tough-talking, swaggering, high-rolling Jilly Rizzo.

Jilly stood about five-feet-ten, with enormous shoulders and a rubbery broad face . His large head sat atop a bull neck. He had white-grey, slicked-back, thinning hair - and once you saw him, you didn’t forget him. I’d seen him around Las Vegas many times while covering opening nights for Rona. But I also knew that face very well from seeing him in the background of every Sinatra papparazzi shot. The pair of them were inseparable.

Even indoors, he was wearing wire-rimmed sunglasses - the kind that change to darker tones as you move from shade to sunlight. The lenses in Jilly’s glasses were rose-colored.

Jilly talked tough. He was motioning to an Italian-tailored gent, “Lemme take care-a ya.” I pretended to be reading a stand-up sign, and moved closer. His conversation was punctuated by crude jokes and raucous lurid laughter.

Jilly had been Frank’s personal bodyguard for many years until becoming his all-around companion and factotum. He rarely smiled, and as one Sinatra aide put it, “Jilly takes shit from no one. Jilly is in control and the boys all look up to him. He’s the top banana.”

I felt that at that moment, the better part of valor was again to be as invisible as possible, so I looked down, hiding my face, and looked away from him. I didn’t think he noticed me. After listening as long as I dared, I slithered unobtrusively out of his path.

As soon as I was sure Jilly had left the area, I went over to a young security guard and began conversing. “I’m a HUGE Sinatra fan and I want to get close to him. How do I do it?”

To my amazement, he responded, “If a girl wanted to get close to the Sinatra crowd, all she’d really have to do would be to wear something low-cut, bend over a lot, and rub up against Pat Henry. He’s a sucker for women. He’s insatiable. He has a never-ending parade of women, some who want to be near him, and some who are going for the higher stakes of Sinatra himself.” I felt myself blushing a little bit. It seemed so tawdry, so easy.

Just then, Tracy came back down with a thumbs up for our dinner reservations. We were booked between shows in the Summit Restaurant on top of Harrah’s, the same as Frank Sinatra. Our reservation was for nine fifteen PM. His was ten o’clock.

Back in our hotel room, Tracy and I placed a call to Markfield to give him the dirt. He was elated.

I took out my little backless number, and Tracy got dressed in her country girl getup - a long prairie skirt and a pair of cowboy boots. She had a little string tie around her neck.

I put the finishing touches on my makeup. Plenty of mascara and bright red lips. I practiced my jiggle in front of the mirror. Tracy twirled in her prairie skirt. Then we got in the car and left for Harrah’s.

*****
It was nearly nine fifteen as I drew our non-descript rental car up toward the hotel’s canopy entrance. We’d have time before Frankie and da boys arrived - to get settled in the restaurant, scope the layout and exits, check out the ladies room, and if there was time, chat up waiters, bartenders, and anyone else who could help.

I inched the car forward, as we were last in a long line of cars waiting for valet parking, then glanced nervously at my watch. “This may take a while,” I said to Tracy. “Maybe you’d better go on up to the Summit and let them know we’re here. I’ll be right up.”

Tracy popped out of the car, and a minute later when the valet got to me, I swung my legs to the pavement and stepped into the windy evening. Silently, I cursed the breeze for mussing my hair - and as I walked briskly into the casino, I used the mirrored wall on the right to adjust not only my hairdo, but also my flimsy outfit.

I had to admit, my gownless evening strap looked grrreat, but I would have to check throughout the evening that the halter front was tied tightly enough around my neck so that my breasts didn’t accidentally escape.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, my boarding school background popped to mind. An involuntary smile crossed my face as I envisioned my years in uniform, maintaining silence in the halls, wearing my white gloves, walking into chapel singing the traditional songs our strict nuns had taught us. “Reverend Mother would have cardiac arrest if she saw me right now,” I chuckled. “She wouldn’t believe this in a million years.” I had been the perfect little soldier of obedience, the perfect blue-ribbon girl, the perfect pious epitome of purity. Maybe that’s why it was so much fun now to play this role.

I scurried to the bank of elevators and carefully stepped in. Somewhat breathless from my lobby sprint, I pushed PH for Penthouse, and stepped back against the railing, only to feel a pair of eyes moving across my body, and finally resting on my face.

“Hiya, doll. You are a bee-ootiful doll.”

I blushed, batted my eyes, and what I saw made my heart pound. The guy was wearing a sky blue satin jacket.

He was short, wiry, Italian-looking. and had a cocky kind of swagger. I took note of his aviator sunglasses, large jewelry, forceful energy, and the barely detectable toupee that nestled amidst his graying black hair. Even the part looked very natural.

“I seen you running across the casino, so I held the elevator for you,” he leered.

“Well, thanks,” I drawled.

As the elevator went ding and the doors slid towards each other, he noted, “You’re heading to the Summit, huh doll?”

“Why yes I am. My girlfriend and I have dinner reservations, ‘cause we heard Frank Sinatra comes up between shows. I’m a VERRRRY big fan.”

“You are, are ya? Well, it just so happens, I’m having dinner with your idol in a little while.”

My mouth dropped and I demurely clasped my hands in front of my chest. The truth was, it was more than I could have hoped for. “No. You’re lying.”

“I never lie about the big stuff.”

I blinked with wide eyes and sighed profusely.

“I’ll tell you what,” said the man. “I’ll find you at your table and bring you over, how’d you like that? Is your girlfriend as cute as you are?”

I tried to titter as air-headedly as possible, and said, “You’ll have to judge that for yourself. She loves John Denver almost as much as I love Frank Sinatra.”

“Well, dis is your lucky night,” the man said, throwing another predatory leer my way.

The elevator ding’d again and stopped on eight. “Hey, this is my stop. I gonna grab a shower so I be sweet for ya, doll,” intoned the wiry little man, talking like Dean Martin. “I’ll see you up there. When you get there, you tell the maitre d’ da Spider said to take good care-a-ya. On second thought, I’ll find you and take good care-a-ya myself.”

Da Spider stepped off, then held the door open from the outside and poked his head back in. “Hey wait - What’s your name?”

“Barbara,” I cooed.

“Barbara. Brown eyes. Bee-oootiful,” he said in a deep growl, and the elevator doors shut.

“Yes!” I silently gloried. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I’d stepped right into the elevator with one of Sinatra’s lascivious henchmen. Right into the Spider’s web, I thought. And if this spider knew who I really was, I’d be dispatched as quickly as a gnat. I knew I’d have to use his web carefully, so he himself - and not me - would get stuck in it.

If Mama could see me now.

Up on top in the Summit Restaurant, all was soft lights and sweet music. Tuxedoed waiters scurried from table to table, fashionable diners clinked their silverware, the lights of Tahoe twinkled below, the solicitous maitre d’ greeted me.

“I have a nine fifteen reservation,” I said, “joining another lady who’s already here. I’m the big Sinatra fan, remember? and I do hope our table is near his. Spider said you’d take good care of us.”

With a glimmer of immediate recognition when I mentioned Spider, he smiled, “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed,” and led me right to a window table, where Tracy sat sipping a glass of white wine. Our spot was next to a long table set for eight. We both tittered and acted sappy. The maitre d’ seemed to get a kick out of it.

As soon as he walked away, I spilled the news to Tracy about meeting Spider in the elevator. “Bingo, bingo, bingo,” I whispered to her, sliding forward in my chair.

We both had to watch it so that our girlish glee didn’t attract undue attention. The elation of success filled me as I thought of how this thing was coming together. But there was still a long way to go - and a Spider’s web to get into and safely back out of.

It wasn’t long before Spider arrived in a heavy cloud of Polo cologne, surrounded by the Sinatra entourage. It slightly electrified me, when among them, I saw the burly guy with the eyelashes, the one I’d seen scanning the Hideaway Bar earlier. I hadn’t had time to take in his whole appearance that afternoon, but now I couldn’t avoid noticing his long, wavy black hair, slicked back with hair oil and puffed into a greaser-type bouffant. This really was Sinatra’s gang. And these were all very distinctive looking guys. I detected suspiciously gun-looking bulges beneath the expensively cut tuxedos of several of them.

As soon as he spotted me, Spider excused himself from his group and smarmed his way straight to my table. “Barbara, Barbara, Barbara,” he crooned.

“Hello again,” I smiled, looking up from under heavily mascara’d doe eyes. “So you really are with Frank Sinatra,” I batted.

“That’s his table right over there, sweetheart,” said Spider, nodding his head towards the table for eight.

“By the way,” I said, “Spider, this is Tracy. Tracy, this is Spider. Tracy loves John Denver.”

With goo-goo eyes, Tracy played her role to the hilt. “Oooooh, do you know him?” she gushed.

“All in due time, sweetheart,” promised Spider. “Right now, we’re waiting to see if Frank comes up for dinner. If he doesn’t, you’ll come over and eat with us. And you DO look like dessert. See, he doesn’t like any broads at the table between shows - just da boys.

Under the table, I felt Tracy’s foot kicking mine hard. Just in case she had any doubts, it was now amply clear my encounter with da Spider had been no illusion. Spider hunched his short wiry frame over our table and smiled his cocky smile that began on one side of his face and never quite made it to the other side. He was about 45, and his banter was the banter of the streets.

“So goils, I want ya to meet some of da boys. I be back,” he said, in that bad Dean Martin imitation.

We ordered and ate an appetizer. In a short time, true to his word, Spider slid back to our table. The message had apparently been delivered to da boys that Sinatra was having dinner in his suite between shows that night and wouldn’t be up.

Spider came and ceremoniously pulled my chair out for me, leading me and Tracy toward the beseated inner circle of Ol’ Blue Eyes’ entourage. We were about to meet Da Boys.

At the head of the table was Pat Henry, the raunchy comic who always opened Sinatra’s shows. Pat was very good-looking in a tough guy sort of way. He gave off bored, kind of antsy vibes. Next to him was the blubbery guy with the slick hair and the eyelashes. A couple of other underworldly looking characters hunched over their salads.

“Girls, meet Pat,” Spider intro’d, and Pat nodded with bored disinterest. “And this here’s Frankie Eyelashes.” No one could deny the nickname was apropos. Frankie showed no signs of recognizing me, thank God, but looked up through those thick eyelashes out of large bloodshot orbs and managed a wan smile.

“My roommates,” said Spider with a raucous laugh. “It’s happenin’ in our suite, you KNOW dat.” I couldn’t imagine just what was happenin’.

We gave slight smiles at each introduction. “Funny nicknames,” I ventured.

“Yeah, well Pat gave all us old classmates our nicknames. The whole gang’s not here, ya know. We got other guys with nicknames. Joe Tomatoes, Lefty da Brush, Willy da Broom.

“Anyhow, dis here’s Tony Navarro - Tony, say hello to da goils. “

Tony was a guy so dour-looking you’d believe he’d just lost his last friend.

“And that’s Charlie.”

Charlie had a very strangely-shaped head.

“Pat, we just call Pat. Boys, meet Barbara Brown Eyes. And Colorado Tracy.”

These guys were experts at looking women over. Their eyes checked out our vital stats, then they all gestured and shifted and made room for us at the table. Tracy sat down next to Eyelashes, and of course, Spider scooted my chair very close to his own.

Now the men were getting their entrees, and Spider called the waiter over to get menus for us too. “Sorry we couldn’t bring you over before, baby. Frank was supposed to come up for dinner with da boys, but he changed his mind.”

Trying hard not to show it, I took complete mental notes, hoping for more detail. I had my tape recorder somewhere in my purse, but this wasn’t the time to fish around and attempt to turn it on.

Pat Henry suddenly chimed in, “Yeah, The Old Man’s eating in his dressing room with the Denver kid. I can’t believe they’re hitting it off. What a hayseed goofball.” Did I detect a note of proprietary jealousy?

Tracy now stepped easily into her role, suddenly transforming herself into a wide-eyed little-girl type, oohing, aahing and gushing, “John Denver? He’s eating with John Denver? Oh, I just love him. Don’t you think he’s so great?“

Pat Henry just rolled his eyes.

Spider insisted we order the most expensive things on the menu, and as we dined, sexual innuendo flowed like hair oil. Pat Henry told one dirty joke after the other, and da boys nearly creamed themselves laughing. Glances were shot in our direction with every ribald reference, already taking for granted what was supposedly to come for da Spider, and perhaps Eyelashes.

The best wines were ordered, caviar, heart of palm, filet mignon, whatever anyone wanted, and it all went on a tab. It was a private glimpse into the way things work every night when you’re part of Sinatra’s gang.

I noticed that Tracy was getting on famously with Eyelashes. She burbled, “Ooooh, Frankie EYE-lashes. What a cute name.” She paused. “Why’d they name you THAT?”

I watched Eyelashes’ face go blank, then he shot a “Can you believe this dumb broad?” look toward one of his compadres across the table, after which da boys just howled.

At one point, Pat Henry discussed with Spider Sinatra’s orders for new clothes . “OK, I just talked to the Old Man. Go to the men’s shop at Caesar’s when you get home. Get a forty-four suit, yellow, and a beige, and ship it to the Waldorf Astoria. He wants to buy two outfits.” Spider replied, “Do we have to buy dem?” Pat shot back, “Of course you gotta buy them. You can’t steal ‘em, can you? Ship ‘em COD to Pat Henry, Waldorf Towers, New York. I’ll get ‘em to Frank.” Would my Boss want even this tidbit? Probably.

As we lingered over espresso and New York cheesecake (Sinatra’s favorite), Pat Henry got fidgety and pushed his chair back. “OK, I’m going down to the Racebook. I got my tips for tomorrow. You know, I won six doubles today. It bugged the shit outa me that they have a thousand dollar limit on payoffs in there. First coupla bets I laid down, I never knew about that limit. Then I won an exacta and went up to collect my thousand-fifty-five, and they’d only give me a grand. It’s just a good thing I didn’t lay down more than a hundred, because if I’d bet five hundred, for instance, I woulda lost thousands, not knowing about that thousand buck maximum. I woulda been steamin’ cuz I woulda bet it all myself, insteada having each of da boys lay down a C-note for me, and collecting all around.”

Henry seemed to be going on and on and on and I didn’t really understand what he was talking about, but da boys hung on his every word, like pearls of wisdom. He seemed to me like a schoolboy with a mean streak. He was definitely top banana amongst the minions.

“OK, I’m gone. Got to bet, then get into my tux. We start right on time, midnight. You boys comin’ to the show tonight?”

Spider spoke for them all. “Nah, we’re going to cruise the casino, take our goils gambling, then head for the Hideaway. We’ll catch you in dere later, Pat.” Pat turned and walked toward the elevator, ultra cool, mugging and gesturing to the maitre d’ and hostess as he departed.

“Oooh, Spider, would you take us to see Frank’s show at midnight? Did Pat mean that? I just know we’d have the best seats in the house if you take us.”

“Tell ya what, doll. I’ll arrange with Jilly to get you ringside - and then you’ll meet me in the Hideaway after, how’s dat? And den when Frank comes in to shoot the breeze wid us, you’ll meet him. He’ll probably remember you from ringside. We’ll all be sitting wid him in da booth. How’s that, you little fox? But you better stick with da Spider and not go after Frank,” he said, tweaking me in the ribs.

Da boys guffawed. Evidently, as I’d been told, a lot of girls used them to get close to the Old Man.

It was nearly eleven-forty when we all got up, strolled across the restaurant, and rode the lift back down to the casino. Spider went to a white phone and paged Jilly Rizzo. He’d apparently used a special code name to show it was he calling Jilly, because it only took a second for Jilly to get on the line. I could hear Spider mumbling something about a babe, and I caught, “So take care-a her for me, my man.”

Spider hung up, turned to me and said, “OK, he’ll be by the showroom entrance in five minutes, to the right of the show line. You know what Jilly looks like, don’t you, sweetheart? He’ll take you in. I’d go wit ya, sweetheart, but I seen the show a million times and I gotta meet someone for baccarat. Don’t stand me up now -- the Hideaway right after da show.

“Don’t you ever worry about that,” I said, squeezing his stiffly powerful bejeweled hand. “I’ll be there.

“And Spider...” I added, moving closer to him and planting a perfumed kiss on his cheek, “....thanks.”

“Gwan, get outa here - go find Jilly,” he said, feigning annoyance, but loving it.

We raced across the casino to the showroom, and there, as promised, stood Jilly Rizzo, he of the rose-colored glasses. Since the last time I saw him, I had miraculously become connected.

“I’m Barbara, the girl Spider just called you about.”

Jilly didn’t crack a smile. “Yeah, come on wit me.” He took my arm and led me through a curtained doorway into the darkened showroom, Tracy bringing up the rear. It was packed; I didn’t even see one empty seat. To boot, the aisles were filled with a slowly moving crowd, nearly shoulder to shoulder. I was amazed at how this Red Sea of humanity just parted as Jilly led us in. Waiters stepped aside, aisles magically opened. The most famous Sinatra pal of them all led us directly to two empty front row seats right below the stage. We couldn’t have been any closer unless we’d been sitting on Frank Sinatra’s lap.

I turned to Jilly to say thanks, but before I could utter a word, he had grabbed the waiter, mumbled something in his ear, then walked briskly away.

Lights in the South Shore Room went dim. The table captains all went to the back of the showroom to count how many twenty, fifty and hundred dollar bills they had in their pockets. The people sitting around us, who’d pressed those bills into the captain’s palms for better seats, went hushed.

A low, sexy female voice resonated through the room’s speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen - welcome to the South Shore Room and the Frank Sinatra Show. And now - PAT HENRY!”

Out from stage left prowled the tough-guy comic with whom we’d just been brushing elbows in the Summit Restaurant. He grabbed the mike and started pacing around the stage in front of the still-closed curtain, delivering his rapid-fire, somewhat off-color routine.

We had a couple of water glasses on our table, and Pat came over to us, reached down and grabbed one of them, pleading, “Hey, I’m so dry I can’t stand it. What’s in here,” he asked me. I shrugged, wondering if he recognized me and Tracy from upstairs. He continued, “You play a classy joint and whadda they give you -- ice cubes with holes in them. I should know about ice cubes with holes. I was married to one for eighteen years.”

Boom boom. Everyone laughed - except a heavyset, fortyish lady sitting near us, who hadn’t had quite enough to drink. She clapped her hand over her mouth and murmured, “How crude! He’s not even funny.” Her opinion aside, Frank Sinatra had thought for many years that he was funny, and that’s really all that counted. Pat cleaned it up a little. “Nixon had his good points. At least he kept us out of Ireland. Now we got Ford. With Ford, at least if he gets sick, we can always get parts.” The shocked lady liked that one. Pat did about twenty minutes.

I watched as Henry strode offstage, wondering what would happen the next time I saw him. Whatever it was, I figured it would be before morning. Immediately, the curtain opened and a large platform started moving forward. On it sat the orchestra, playing slow, lilting, soft jazz strains of “Where or When.”

Suddenly, from amidst the musicians, up stepped none other than Sinatra. Flicking his hand in the direction of Pat Henry’s exit, he joshed, “Get him off!” Frank smiled and winked, I thought, right at me.

He went right into a swing version of “Where or When,” and then segued directly to the next song.

From my front row seat, I could see that his round cufflinks were gold and enamel, that his well-cut boots were black and Italian, and that he had some kind of black goo applied to the bald spots on his head.

It was a special color-matched paint created to hide his hairlessness while he was performing. This was 1975, before he took to wearing a toupee, and I knew from a story I’d written that Sinatra had had his makeup man, Shotgun Britton, invent this trick. Shotgun was good. He’d created all the elaborate makeup for “Planet of the Apes,” and he knew what he was doing. Nobody beyond the first row would have dreamed. Unfortunately for Frank, however, the Enquirer was in the front row, and we’d be sure to tell everyone else. I knew The Boss would love that personal little grooming detail, and would want it written in somewhere.

The once-skinny matinee idol from Hoboken looked puffy. His gut stuck out and his tuxedo shirt strained against its studs. The moves were the same as I’d seen in old movies and TV shows, but now slowed down by the extra pounds.

I noticed that Sinatra’s face was pitted near his ears. From my ringside seat just below the stage, I could see EVERYTHING. I could see his shoeshine and the rings on his fingers. I could see a special shadow makeup applied on his cheek to hide an area of puffiness. I could see that his eyes really were a “wow” shade of blue. I could hear his labored breath when he bent down. I could even see the hand-stitching on his expensive tux. I figured I’d better make mental notes of all these details, no matter how silly or minute, just like Pat Henry’s bon mot about the yellow suit.

The show was incredible. Ol’ Blue Eyes still had it, all right. The whole room was transfixed. He moved and caressed and pored over each song and got deep inside the music as if it were a woman he adored. I thought to myself, “Now I understand why he’s such a star.” You just could not fault him musically. His own involvement in each song clutched and held you almost breathless.

After each number, his face just glowed. He’d comment, “That’s such a pretty, pretty song.” Or “That’s a great song, isn’t it?” It struck me that Frank Sinatra wasn’t just a pushy Hollywood prima donna. He was a music genius and he loved it. The phrasing was still there; he was exciting to watch. I stared and inadvertantly caught his eye many times during the show. I thought, “God, I hope he’ll remember my face later.”

Then Frankie paused and toasted the audience with a sip of his usual - vodka rocks with a twist.

Suddenly, from the left wing, in walked John Denver. He was holding a huge glass of milk. Sinatra’s audience went berserk. As the youthful Denver stood next to thick-set Frankie, Sinatra looked even heavier. Denver started kidding, “I beg your pardon for interrupting, but I wanted to tell you I got everything ready for the hike. You said you don’t go out in the daylight, so I got a path all lit up.”

Sinatra played along. “What do we do for refreshment?”

“I got a bar every fifty yards, Frank - and a pretty girl with not only drinks, but an oxygen tank.”

“Get my hat. We’ll go now,” chimed Sinatra to laughs.

Denver proferred the milk. “I don’t want you to drink this now, because it’s pretty potent. It’s got wheat germ oil in it, and honey, and protozoic protein.”

Sinatra grimaced. “I just discovered. Milk ain’t for every body.”

Denver marched off, turned, and yelled, “See ya on the hike.”

This would all fit great in my story of contrasts. I wondered what Sinatra was really thinking as he listened to the tumultuous cheers. Two women in back kept screaming, “JOHN DENVER, JOHN DENVER, JOHN DENVER,” and finally Sinatra airily spat, “Shaddap!

“I’ll make him Sicilian before I’m through widdhim,” he smiled. He paused, then said, “He’s cute. He looks like a butch Barbie doll. But I gotta teach him how to drink and fool around. Actually, it’s dangerous being on the bill with him. I hear he’s very critical of the press.”

Ha ha, Frank. Truth was, of course, that Denver loved the press and vice versa - and, as everyone knew, Sinatra himself was the guy with the contentious media relations. Sinatra’s little stage joke gave me a bit of a chill - here I was, front and center, a reporter, female to boot (remember Sinatra’s famous “two dollar whore” line?), seated in his own house seats by his own #1 henchman Jilly, scheduled to meet up later with his other henchman and maybe even himself, fully intending to get the dish, the whole dish, and nothing but the dish. And right from the horse’s mouth. And undercover. And for the National Enquirer.

If Mom ever knew. If Frank ever knew.

I drank in every detail, knowing I’d soon have to write it all. Mr. Pope would love the way I was so close to the edge, not to mention the stage. Mr. Pope wouldn’t care about Sinatra’s performing magic. I knew I’d get the question, “Why did he come out of retirement?” Mr. Pope would want to know if Frankie was broke, a has-been, or just horny. And I’d have the answers from the star’s own inner circle.

I’d already gotten some of it at dinner. Da Spider had told me, “Sinatra dried up sitting around retired. He needs all dat love he gets from the audience. See, one person, two people, a whole entourage, cannot satisfy his needs. An audience of twelve hundred people every night, dat’s the only thing dat can. He gives love in his show. He aint’ so good at giving it one on one. I don’t think I wanna be around if he ever really has to retire. He’ll be a junkie widout a fix.”

Up on stage, Frank looked toward Denver’s exit. “GO ON A HIKE? Me? When I got a guy carrying me to the john?” The audience howled. They loved Sinatra’s surrender to dissipation.

When the show ended and the lights came up, our bill was brought to our table and the waiter whispered to me, “Just sign it. Compliments of Jilly.”

****
We sat at our table, marvelling at what had just happened, as twelve hundred people surged toward the exit. Why push and shove, when we had Spider and Frankie Eyelashes waiting expectantly for us outside. They weren’t going anywhere this evening without us babes.

Finally, we strolled out and into the casino. It was full and bright and noisy with the clank of dropping coins, as we headed in the direction of the Hideaway Bar to meet Da Boys.

But first, I detoured into the ladies room, that bastion of total privacy. I went into an end stall, securely bolted the door, and opened my bag. Inside was my small portable cassette recorder. It was my prize new acquisition, one of the first hand-held Walkman-size tape recorders on the market. I’d ordered it from a catalog, and since joining the Enquirer, I went nowhere without it. It had a condensor mike on top, and was little bigger than the cassette it held.

I piled all the stuff in my purse under it, so that the recorder sat right at the top of the bag, just below where the zipper opened. I made sure it was solidly perched there, then zipped the bag just enough to hide the recorder but secretly expose the mike.

Voila! Ready to roll tape, I came back out and rejoined Tracy. Just before we got to the Hideaway entry, I reached into my bag and pushed the “record” button. I was rolling tape as we came in and spotted Da Boys. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it must show, and I just hoped I could keep my act together........………….