Screwing sinatra, p.2
Screwing Sinatra, page 2
George set a tray of coffee and pastries on the table between them. Asked if they wanted anything else.
“Maybe Sambo has some dishes to do,” Kennedy said, motioning to George.
Apologetically Frank told George to please give them some privacy. Made small talk but the old man was having none of it and got straight to the point.
“America is not ready to put a Catholic in the White House, and Jack needs your help.”
“I’ve been committed to Jack’s candidacy since the beginning.”
“He isn’t focused. The night before the New Hampshire primary, instead of shaking hands with voters, Jack was cavorting with you and your Rat Pack at the Sands.”
“And he won in a landslide,” Frank said, taking a sip of his coffee then lighting a Chesterfield.
“You are deliberately missing the point, which is that you are an enabler,” complained the old man. “My son is a war hero. Handsome with a Life magazine cover family. But it pains me to say that Jack would rather chase women with you than become president of the United States.”
Frank wanted to smile but thought better of it.
“It will all be different when Bobby runs,” continued Joe Kennedy, thinking ahead.
“Bobby? He’s still a kid.”
“Thirty-five, and he’s the one with the ambition. More importantly, the drive, as there is nothing he won’t do to get what he wants and knows that it’s never too early to start. Already building his national profile by going after racketeers as lead attorney of the Senate McLellan Committee. Making a name for himself by taking a hard stance against organized crime for when it’s his turn to run.”
“A Kennedy dynasty?”
“Jack, Bobby, then it will be Teddy’s turn.” The old man straightened his glasses precisely. “But before any of it can happen, Jack is going to need Outfit help in West Virginia.”
“Bobby called Sam Giancana a giggly little girl at those nationally televised racket hearings, then triggered government surveillance that has made his life a living hell every day since. So, if you think the boss of the Outfit is going to help any Kennedy you are out of your mind.”
“Humphrey has a big lead in West Virginia, and we need union help to win the primary.”
“Why would any union help Jack after Bobby tore Teamsters president Jimmy Hoffa a new asshole at the same hearings?”
“Forget the Teamsters. It’s the United Mine Workers Union we need. The Outfit controls that union, and with a little pressure can flip their support our way.”
“What’s so important about a small state like West Virginia?”
“If Jack can prove to the Democratic Party power brokers that he can win in a heavily Protestant state, he will all but lock up the nomination. Then in November, assuming things play out according to polling projections, to put Jack in the White House all Sam will need to do is deliver Illinois. And since he already controls Chicago, that should be a certainty.”
“The only certainty is that Sam won’t help you.”
“Allow me to remind you I have known Sam Giancana since he was hijacking beer trucks in the twenties.”
“A relationship that Bobby, Jack’s campaign manager, put the kibosh on, which is why you need to use me as a go between. But I can tell you right now that he will tell you to piss in your hat.”
“Sam Giancana did not rise to become the top man in the Outfit by passing up golden opportunities.”
“So far, this opportunity is sounding completely one-sided.” Sinatra exhaled a stream of smoke causing the old man to squint. “What’s in it for Sam?”
“Once Jack is elected, all Senate and FBI inquiries into racketeering will stop, including all wiretap surveillance.”
“No matter how far back you and Sam go, he will never trust any Kennedy after Bobby tried to make a monkey out of him on TV.”
“I guarantee that Bobby will do his part to hold up the family’s end of the bargain. I need you to tell Sam he can trust the Kennedys because I say he can trust the Kennedys.”
“You had better hope so.”
“During Prohibition I witnessed Sam Giancana murder men for less, so rest assured that my sons will do exactly as I tell them.”
“Why are you pushing so hard, Mr. Ambassador? Is it because you don’t think that as things stand Jack can win the presidency?”
“Jack is going to win.”
“Then why is fixing the election so important to you?”
“Call it insurance, Francis.”
“Or is it you don’t want to sweat out an honest game when it’s so much easier to deal from the bottom of the deck?”
CHAPTER 5
“What’s good here?” Sinatra asked the man seated with him in the corner booth of a neighborhood spaghetti joint on the north side of Chicago.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Then why did we make the drive?”
“Because since the McLellan hearings the Feds have my phone tapped. All my broads’ phones are tapped and even the phones at restaurants where I usually eat. I carry a roll of dimes in my pocket because the only way I can talk to anybody is on a goddam payphone. That’s why,” complained Sam Giancana, a gruff-looking man in his fifties whose exquisitely tailored silk suit cost as much as a new Eldorado. Who collected antique silver tea services and Dresden figurines. But behind the refinement was a vicious killer responsible one way or another for over 200 murders.
The conversation paused as Giancana was served a glass of red wine and Sinatra his usual Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, then the most powerful gangster in America continued to grouse once the waiter was out of earshot.
“Who knows where else that weasel Bobby Kennedy has microphones planted,” he complained, glancing at his bodyguard, who kept an eye on things from a stool at the end of the bar. “And how many waiters and bartenders have been bribed to keep their eyes and ears open?”
Gone was the pal quick with a laugh who enjoyed a good time. In his place Sinatra saw a man imprisoned by paranoia.
“Why don’t you turn the tables and bug Bobby?” Frank suggested, only half kidding.
“I had Jimmy Hoffa bug his house and his office back when this bullshit first started, and all I found out was the punk is a big nothing. Almost never drinks, doesn’t screw around on his wife or even swear. What kind of dirt can you dig up on a motherfucker who doesn’t even swear? He’s the most boring son of a bitch who ever drew breath.” He looked around the restaurant. “Check out all the people staring at us from other tables.”
“I’m famous,” Sinatra said, lighting a cigarette.
“I’m not.”
“Says the man whose name is in the newspaper more often than it isn’t.”
“How do we know the Feds didn’t follow us here? That fag prick Hoover is providing all the FBI manpower the weasel asks for. Anything to fuck with the Outfit.” Giancana lit a cigar and plugged it into the corner of his mouth. “This is a real problem, Frank. Not just for me but for all the bosses. A problem that makes it tough for any of us to do business.”
“A problem I can fix.”
“I love you like a brother, Frank” said the gangster, holding up his hand to show off a star sapphire pinky ring that had been a gift from Sinatra. “But if we can’t fix this, you sure as fuck can’t.”
Sinatra loved gangsters. Loved their world. Everything about them since 1942, when Willie Moretti jammed a gun in Tommy Dorsey’s mouth to make him release Frank from his contract with the band. But as much as Giancana and some of the other high-profile Outfit guys allowed him to get close, it was never all the way. He was not one of them. But if he could play a key part in pulling off the biggest heist in American history, the White House, maybe he would be. He spelled out Joe Kennedy’s offer.
“Why the fuck do you think we’re eating here instead of the place that makes the best red sauce in Chicago? That old man’s asshole son. That’s why. The weasel who tried to crack me open on national television.”
“Joe says he can control Bobby.”
“That old man can’t even control his bladder.”
“He says that once Jack is in office, all government harassment will stop and you can go back to doing business as usual.”
“He’s a liar, Frank. And a coward who sent you because he’s afraid to face me.”
“The two of you go all the way back to Prohibition.”
“He made a fortune bringing scotch over the water from Europe. Good scotch nobody else could get because he had society connections through his wife’s family, but he stayed clear of the action and was never within ten miles of a raid. Not once getting his hands dirty, and you can’t trust a man who won’t get his hands dirty.”
As they ate manicotti both agreed was not too bad, Sinatra opened his wallet and showed off recent snapshots of his kids. Giancana talked about a couple hot numbers he had lined up for them later, then threw out an idea he had been kicking around about opening a Vegas-style supper club and showroom outside Chicago city limits in unincorporated Cook County. A location far from the action that seemed on the surface to be a bad idea, but Giancana had a keen business sense, once prompting the compliment from Meyer Lansky that he was the only Italian who handled money like a Jew. Then the gangster circled back.
“If Joe Kennedy really is on the square about stopping all the government harassment, it would be a huge win for the Outfit. How do you read the old man, Frank?”
“Getting Jack into the White House means more to him than anything else in this world.”
Giancana took a sip of wine then thought for a moment.
“Joe Kennedy knows he’s a dead man if he crosses me. Which leads me to believe that, with so much at stake, maybe this time he can be trusted.”
“Then I’ll tell him it’s a deal.”
“Not so fast, Frank.”
CHAPTER 6
“Joe Kennedy has always been a one-way asshole.”
“No fucking way we do business with the Kennedys after that weasel Bobby attacked us at those Senate hearings.”
“We need to put all that in the past,” Giancana told a gathering of Outfit bosses, a cigar plugging the side of his mouth as he stood in front of a window in a corner suite at the Drake Hotel overlooking Lake Michigan
“Are you fucking serious, Sam?” yelled Carlos Marcello, boss of New Orleans. “That punk called you a giggling little girl on television for the whole country to see.”
“And when the time comes, he’ll pay for it. But right now, what’s more important is we’re fighting a losing battle.” Giancana polished his watch with his handkerchief, allowing the point to sink in. “And if the Outfit is going to survive, we need to be smart and look to the future.”
“Things were good before those fucking hearings,” griped Santo Traficante from Miami. “Now I can’t even talk to my broad on the phone without some Fed pulling his pud while he listens in.”
“The harassment is not going to stop until we do something to stop it,” said Giancana. “And right now, I don’t see any other way to take the heat off than to get in bed with the Kennedys.”
Organized crime bosses from all over the map were not convinced, so Giancana kept pushing.
“Bottom line is if we get Jack Kennedy elected, he’s agreed to stop coming after us.”
“What about his weasel brother’s investigation of the Teamsters?” demanded a voice from Detroit. “The unions are our bread and butter.”
“I’ll make it part of the deal that the Feds lay off Hoffa’s Teamsters and all the other unions.”
“What’s to stop the Kennedys from welshing on the deal after we get Jack elected?”
“Yeah, Sam. Those rat bastards can’t be trusted.”
“They cross us, and I’ll take every one of those Irish pricks down to the bayou and feed them to the gators,” yelled Marcello.
“Why don’t we just back Nixon?” said Traficante. “He’s been doing business with us for years. Got us some government contracts and doesn’t try to screw the unions.”
“But he hasn’t done a goddam thing to stop the McLellan Committee or the wire taps.”
“Because as vice president he doesn’t have a lot of power, but that will change once his ass is in the Oval Office.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Giancana roared back. “But with Kennedy we have the old man’s word that Jack will play ball.”
“I’d feel a lot more comfortable if it was Jack’s word,” said Traficante. “At least we have a track record with Nixon. Backing him is the safe play.”
“The Outfit did not grow to become bigger than General Motors by playing it safe!” Giancana yelled at the men in the room. “We use power to crush our enemies, and it’s made every one of us rich. We’ve never backed down from a fight, and we’re not going to fucking start now!”
“We hear what you’re saying, Sam. But . . .”
“I don’t need your fucking approval to go ahead with this deal. I called you here because it’s important for the future of the Outfit that we are all in agreement. To make you guys see that when we get Jack elected, not only will the heat be off, he’ll be in our pocket. We already own governors and congressmen, isn’t it about time we owned a president?”
His point hit home, and the room quickly united.
“I’m glad you all agree,” said Giancana. “So, this is what’s going to happen. You are going to walk out of this hotel and leave Chicago like you were never here. Then I’m going to sit down with Joe Kennedy.”
Traficante stood to emphasize a point.
“Just make sure that cocksucker understands that nobody ever welshed on the Outfit and lived to tell about it.”
CHAPTER 7
“What do colored people want, George?” Jack Kennedy asked as Sinatra’s valet served him an icy daiquiri under an umbrella by the pool at Wonder Palms.
“What do you want, Senator?”
“It’s Jack. Call me Jack.”
“What do you want, Jack?”
“I want to fuck every girl in California,” he smiled as, through the green lenses of his trademark tortoise shell sunglasses, he checked out a couple girls sunning on lounge chairs. Grateful that his wife hated Frank, preferring to remain at home with their young daughter Caroline which left him free to screw all the girls he wanted without having to sneak around.
“With a campaign platform like that, Senator, you can’t lose.”
“Jack, goddam it. Call me Jack or I’ll send you back to Mississippi.”
“I’m from Louisiana. In Mississippi they eat Catholics, which means they hate you a lot worse than they hate me.”
“What are you two kibbitzing about?” Sinatra asked as he sat down.
“Discussing my campaign platform,” said Kennedy as he lit an H. Upmann petit corona. “Right, George?”
“That’s right, Senator.”
“Jack, goddam it.”
As George went about his business, Sinatra saw Kennedy ogling the girls.
“They’re just decoration. The real talent will be here in a few minutes.” Then he got serious. “And speaking of the campaign . . .”
“My father told me you’ve come on board to help get out the primary vote.”
“Did he tell you everything?”
“You can assure Sam Giancana that I will honor the deal.” He gave his friend a pat on the back. “And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’re doing. With Humphrey polling well in the east, I need all the help I can get.”
“I’m all in, Jack. Not just working the phones and calling in favors, I’m going out on the campaign trail to meet the voters face to face.”
“Bobby and Dad think your image as a swinger will have a negative effect, but I think a healthy dose of Hollywood star power is just what my campaign needs.” Kennedy thought ahead and smiled. “Once I’m in the White House we can have orgies on Air Force One. I’ll even make you ambassador to Lynchburg, Tennessee, where you can drink Jack Daniel’s straight from the tap.”
“Let’s get this party started!” called out Jimmy Van Heusen as he made an entrance with three girls on each arm. Always three girls on each arm.
Jack Kennedy eye-fucked a big-titted blonde, having none of it when Frank recommended a petite redhead instead.
“Maybe later, Frank,” he said, ready to tear into the blonde like a twister through a trailer park.
“Have you ever screwed a girl with a shaved pussy?”
Jack gave the redhead a closer look.
“Really?”
“Ring a ding ding!”
Jack thought back to when Frank had told him that Juliette Prowse, who starred with him in the recent movie Can Can, had a shaved pussy that had sent him into orbit. Forgot about the blonde as if she wasn’t even there.
Sinatra watched Kennedy spring into action. Hello. I’m Jack. Bedroom. Zero to sixty in the blink of an eye. George served his boss a drink.
“From the look on your face when you were talking with Jack, I get the feeling you don’t like him very much.”
“I like him fine, Mr. S.”
“Sit down, George. And don’t bullshit me,” Sinatra said as he rearranged a vase of orange gladiolas. “We’ve been together for seven years and I can read you like a book.”
“A president who cheats on his wife can’t be trusted not to cheat the country.”
“All presidents cheat on their wives, and America is doing just fine.”
“Senator Kennedy is supposed to be different. He goes out of his way to put on a very liberal front but, reading between the lines, I think the apple might not have fallen far from the tree.”
Frank knew Jack carried the heavy burden of his father’s expectations, but also that he was his own man.
“Jack is nothing like his father.”
“Maybe and maybe not. But he’s supposed to be our hope for the future. For a better America. And as a Negro man I need that hope, not to be stuck under the thumb of another president who is more interested in pussy than he is in my right to use a public toilet.”
“Jack is different. It’s a new decade.”
