Dean and Me: A Love Story (18 page)

He just wouldn’t shut his mouth ...

“How do I know?” I said. “We don’t talk to each other. Just get me out of my commitments and I’ll be happy.”

“But, Jer— ”

I cut him off. And I didn’t let up until Lew promised to hold a meeting with Paramount, and to tell Dean what I’d decided.

In the meantime, my partner (who was getting more press-savvy by the minute) answered me in the newspapers. On August 3, he told a UPI reporter, “To me, this isn’t a love affair. This is big business. I think it’s ridiculous for the boy to brush aside such beautiful contracts.”

Again with “the boy.” I was going to be thirty in a few months, for Christ’s sake! Anyway, I got my meeting, all right, and I didn’t have to wait for Lew Wasserman to tell Dean what I’d decided—Dean was right there. The parley took place on Monday morning, August 8, in Y. Frank Freeman’s office at Paramount, and besides Y. Frank and Martin and Lewis, Lew, Wallis, and our lawyer, Joe Ross, were all present. Another heavy sit-down at Paramount, and, once again, very serious business.

It was the first time Dean and I had seen each other in over two months, since before our separate trips to Hawaii and the Catskills. There was no hugging. I eyed him warily, but he was all smiles and cool assurance. I knew there was something cooking under there, but I also knew my partner well enough to realize that he’d be damned if he was going to show any weakness to
me
.

We sat around a big conference table, and while Y. Frank’s secretary, Sydney, filled our water glasses—for some reason, my mouth was very dry—Y. Frank and Lew and Wallis and Joe proceeded, one after another, to explain to us just how inextricably tied up the two of us were, with our contracts and with each other. After a while their voices turned into a hum in my head that repeated the same message over and over:
You’re
stuck, boy—stuck good and proper. For now, anyway
. As the businessmen talked, I kept stealing glances over at Dean, who was squinting coolly in his cigarette smoke. He hadn’t touched his water.

Jack Keller announced to the press, and the press announced to the world, that Dean and I had reconciled. The truth, of course, was more complicated. My partner and I were beginning to speak to each other again, and my emotions were wildly mixed: On the one hand, I couldn’t shake the childish hope that, just like a fairy tale, everything would be all better. On the other hand, I knew that Martin and Lewis’s days were numbered. I thought of something that my dad had told me: “You and Dean have been the greatest shooting star in the history of show business. Recognize that it tails off. But don’t wait until it’s gone before deciding, ‘Well, let’s do something.’ Uh-uh. You gotta do it while the star is still cresting.”

You want to see brilliant faking with a not-so-subtle psychological sub-text? Watch the
Colgate Comedy Hour
we did that September, where I play a goofy quiz-show contestant who has to be isolated in a tank of water so he won’t hear the answers. Dean, of course, is the master of ceremonies, and
he keeps pushing my head under water
. He won’t stop! Could he possibly be getting some sadistic pleasure from this? “Wait,” I finally say, bobbing up and gasping for air. “Haven’t you heard? The feud is over!”

The studio audience screamed with laughter.

There was another reason the two of us were stuck together. Soon after I had returned from the Brown’s fiasco, I’d been met with more bad news: a letter from the Internal Revenue Service using the very attention-getting phrase “tax evasion.” The IRS claimed that Dean and I owed them $650,000 in back taxes. And unfortunately, when I had my accountants check and double-check the matter, it turned out that the IRS was right.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. Despite the money that was rolling in, almost all of it was rolling right back out again: Both Dean and I were running very high overheads—mansions, servants, cars, offices, staffs—and I knew that neither of us had that kind of cash lying around.

Moreover, we were not really speaking to each other.

So I did the only thing I could think of: I went to Y. Frank Freeman for help.

The “Y” stood for Young, and Y. Frank was from a fine old Atlanta family that had managed to hold on to its money. How a well-off and cultivated Georgia boy had managed to find his way west and make good in the motion-picture business is a saga in itself. In fact, along with four other men, including his East Coast counterpart, Barney Balaban, and founder and chairman Adolph Zukor, he ran Paramount Studios.

Y. Frank Freeman was like no studio executive I had ever met or have encountered since: He was a white-haired gentleman of the old school, who lived by the principle that a man’s word is his bond. In a town full of sharks, he actually believed in the handshake. Since our first days with Hal Wallis, I’d shaken hands with Y. Frank on a number of York Productions matters that, at any other studio, would have kept squadrons of lawyers busy for weeks. The suits at Paramount would have loved to get thousands of pages in ironclad legalese holding Martin and Lewis to account if we did anything that even smelled as if it conflicted with the studio’s interests. But Y. Frank trusted us because I shook his hand, and Dean and I did nothing to abuse that trust.

Y. Frank and I had a special relationship, one I was very careful to nourish and protect. He allowed me to enter his office whenever I wanted, no appointment necessary, through a private entrance that opened onto the back lot. When he was entangled in business that had nothing to do with me, I could always see it in his face. “Not now, Y. Frank?” I’d say.

“Give me fifteen and come back,” he’d answer.

A lot of the time, Y. Frank and I would just sit in his office and rap about the industry and the people in it. And more than once he expressed his displeasure with Bing Crosby, who was a very closed man, even with his sons. I always thought Bing was so insecure that he had no fun, and a man that can’t have fun can’t have love.

But back to our tax problem. After exhausting all other possibilities (including the fantasy of approaching Hal Wallis for a loan, which I instantly realized was insane), I went to see Y. Frank. Knowing that I had a short break from shooting and was due back on the set, he was waiting for me in his office. The moment I sat down, he could tell from my body language that I was in some kind of trouble.

“Nothing can be that bad, Jerry!” he said.

“I’m afraid this one is, Mr. Freeman,” I said.

He smiled. “‘Mr. Freeman’?” he said, in those wonderfully warm Southern tones. “What happened to ‘Y. Frank’?”

“Excuse me, Y. Frank, but this is gonna be tough.”

“Just spit it out and get it over with,” he said kindly. “I’m not about to bite you, son.”

And so I told him the story, and mentioned the amount that the IRS was demanding from Dean and me.

He whistled. “That is a big number.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “It sure is.”

He frowned. “Even though I’m positive that Martin and Lewis will be good for that amount and much more in the coming months, you know that Paramount Pictures Corporation has a policy—”

My heart was sinking. “I see,” I said.

“—that has never been broken, making it impossible for any officer of the company to make a loan in dollars to anyone.” He frowned. “That’s strictly a corporate matter,” Y. Frank said. “Nothing personal.”

“I understand.”

“Personally, though, I’ve always been impressed by the way you’ve honored your commitments.”

“Well, you know how much they mean to me, Y. Frank.”

He looked me in the eye. “I tell you what I’m going to do, Jerry. I’m going to write you a check for the $650,000, as a personal loan from me to you—as long as you can tell me when you’ll pay me back!”

Once I got my breath back, I said, “Y. Frank, if you give me sixty days, which comes out to ... let me see, September 13,1955, at 3:55 P.M., I can pay you in full. And you have my personal guarantee that I
will
pay you in full, and it won’t be one minute late.”

I knew we had percentages on our last four pictures coming in, equal to slightly more than the $650,000—and Y. Frank knew it, too. “I’ll skip tea that day and be here waiting for you,” he said. Smiling, of course.

On September 13 at 3:30 P.M. I was in Y. Frank Freeman’s outer office, waiting to be announced. I hadn’t wanted to go in the back way. Sydney pushed the button on her intercom and said, “Mr. Freeman,” but before she could utter another word, Y. Frank’s voice came through the intercom speaker, saying, “That must be Jerry Lewis. Have him come in!”

I entered the office, holding a certified check for $650,000.

“You’re early,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Freeman, I know how busy you are.”

“It’s twenty-five minutes till 3:55. Do you realize what kind of interest you can pick up in twenty-five minutes, Mr. Lewis?”

I was trying hard to keep a straight face. “Would you please take this check so I can go back to work?”

He put his arm around my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “Jerry, you did right. You kept your bond.”

“How did you know it was me out there, Y. Frank?” I asked.

He picked up his desk calendar and showed me the notation for September 13. “Jerry Lewis here today at 3:55 P.M.,” it read. “I never doubted for a minute that you’d show up,” he told me.

A couple of weeks later, Mr. Freeman phoned me, sounding slightly embarrassed. “Jerry, I don’t mean to seem like I’m calling in a favor, but I could really use your help,” he said. He told me he was the chairman for a benefit to be given in early November at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles for his pet charity, the City of Hope, an organization for underprivileged children. Would Dean and I be willing to perform?

Absolutely, I told him, knowing in my heart of hearts that Dean would agree to this—must agree to this—after the colossal hole Mr. Freeman had just dug us out of.

“How do I know, Mr. Lewis, that I can depend on you and your partner to be there?” asked Y. Frank.

“Mr. Freeman, you can rest assured that Martin and Lewis will be at your benefit. Don’t worry about it, we’ll do your crappy little show.”

He laughed happily, but after we hung up, I started to get that feeling in the pit of my stomach again. It had only been four months since I’d agreed to something big without my partner’s say-so, and look how that had turned out. When was I going to learn?

I ran over to Dean’s dressing room on the Paramount lot. His smile when he opened the door was complicated: I could see affection, suspicion, and caution, all rolled into one expression. “Hey, pal,” I said, “I hate to okay this without your approval, but something important has come up.”

“Is it a contract?”

“Sort of.”

“Okay, then sign it. You’ll do it anyhow.” The TV in the dressing room was on, of course—with a Western on, of course—and Dean sat back down, watching the screen.

“No, this is a little different,” I said. “Y. Frank needs our help at the poor-children’s benefit on November tenth.”

“Sure, he’s got it.”

The answer had come too fast, too easily. His attention was divided. I sat in a chair next to his and spoke deliberately. “Dean, hold on, now,” I said. “This doesn’t involve money or contracts. This is Y. Frank, the guy who kept our cars from getting repossessed. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

One eye was still on the TV screen. “Hey, man—I told you. It’s okay.”

“Well, I’m gonna ask you to do something for me so I can rest easy,” I said. “I want you to stick your big grubby Italian paw in mine and agree that you’ll do the benefit for Y. Frank.”

And Dean gave me that big hand, saying, “Jerry, for Chrissakes, I know how important this is. You got it.”

I let out a big breath. It felt like the first time I’d relaxed in months.

It was Thursday afternoon, November 10, and I was starting to get my usual preperformance butterflies, part excitement, part nerves, only today there were more butterflies than usual, because my partner was off the radar screen. He wasn’t in his dressing room, he wasn’t at home, he didn’t seem to be at the Lakeside Country Club. When we were on the road, I always knew exactly where Dean was, but when we were back in L.A., it was a very different story. He might have been anywhere at all— having a business meeting, driving in his car, engaging in a bit of hankypanky. It was a big city.

And so I did the best I could, writing him a note reminding him about the benefit, and having three copies made. The original went by messenger to his dressing room at Paramount; the copies went to Jeannie, to Mack Gray, and to Lakeside Country Club. I kept myself as busy as I could for the rest of the day, then drove down to the Shrine Auditorium.

There was no sign of Dean at the Auditorium, and it was looking like there wasn’t going to be any. I
hoped
he would show up at the last minute, with a big smile on his face, telling me he’d just been taking a nap—but I
knew
that was the old days. The backstage loudspeaker blared: “Martin and Lewis, you’re on next!”

I rushed to the wings, where I stood next to Bing Crosby and watched along with him as Red Skelton tore down the house.

“Where’s the sleepy one?” Bing asked.

I blinked and told a bald-faced lie. “He’s not well—he’s at home,” I said.

“I wish Hope would do that!” Bing said.

Then Red was off, to huge applause, and the announcer was saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis!”

I walked out from the wings. I’d always gone on first, but never alone. And tonight I was alone and scared.
Just go on and do
, my brain told me.
Just go on and do.

As I entered the spotlight, excitement began to replace some of my fear. I opened my mouth, and this is what came out: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen—I’m so glad to be here, and I wish I could share that with my partner, but I can’t, because he isn’t here. It happened about six-thirty this evening, while he was dressing—he was taken suddenly drunk!”