Rickles' Book (13 page)

A
s time went on, President Carter wasn’t the only celebrity dying to meet me. The biggest rock-and-roll star since Elvis had busted out, and my son, Larry, was dying to see him. I pulled some strings and we were off to see Bruce Springsteen.

Since I’m a Vegas kind of guy, I didn’t have any background in big-time rock shows. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know we needed fourteen badges and eighteen wristbands to get past the thirty-two security guards to get to our seats in the VIP area. I didn’t know that the twenty loudspeakers onstage would be blasting out more noise than atomic bombs. I didn’t know that the show would go on for three hours, getting louder by the minute.

Didn’t know that his fans sitting around us would be screaming even before the show started.

Didn’t know that to meet Bruce we’d have to wait outside his dressing room for two hours without food or water.

When we were finally escorted in, I saw this extremely kind and sweet man wearing a bandana around his forehead. He looked like a pirate.

“Great show, Bruce,” I said.

“Hope you’ll come to another one,” he said.

“What?” I said. “I can’t hear you.”

I’d gone deaf.

I
n spite of the volume, I really liked the Springsteen show. I could see why his fans were so loyal. But of course loyalty for me always goes back to Sinatra.

In the eighties, we became even closer. When Frank married his Barbara, he finally found a stable domestic life. They loved entertaining and were fabulous hosts. We loved when we were invited to their place in Palm Springs for the weekend. Everyone called it the Compound.

The Compound was spacious and relaxed. The guest quarters were separate from the main house. Guests were given a beautiful bedroom and private bath. There was a fully stocked kitchen and lots of help to make sure you were comfortable.

After you settled in, Frank called you to the main house, where he’d be listening to music in the den. Drinks were served and the fun began.

One Easter weekend, we were there with three other couples: Veronique and Gregory Peck, Luisa and Roger Moore, and Jolene and George Schlatter.

“Rib Peck,” Frank urged me. “Try to shake him up a little.”

“Captain Ahab,” I said to Greg in my best Peck voice, “the sea is stormy, the sailors are restless.”

Peck, of course, played Ahab in the movie
Moby Dick
.

Greg went along with it, and Frank thought my kibitzing was hilarious.

“More,” Sinatra urged me out of the side of his mouth, “you’re getting to him.”

“Take it easy, Frank. I don’t want to upset the guy.”

“Relax, Rickles,” said Sinatra, “I got you covered.”

“We’ve sighted the whale, sir!” I shouted to Greg. “To the harpoons!”

Greg half-smiled.

Next day, I was lounging by the pool when Frank came over and sat next to me.

“When Peck gets out here,” he said, “this time really lay it on him. It makes him crazy.”

“Gee, Frank,” I replied, “I like the man.”

“Hey, I know Greg,” said Sinatra. “He secretly loves it.”

So like a dummy, to make Frank happy, I continued.

“Captain Ahab!” I shouted as soon as Gregory appeared, his little dog running behind him. “The men are in mutiny. There’s trouble on deck.”

As I got up to give Peck a captain’s salute, his little dog ran under my chair. When I sat down, the dog’s tail got entangled in the chair and he yelped like crazy. I jumped up to free the dog.

“Look at this,” Frank said to Greg, “now the man’s attacking your dog.”

Greg looked at Frank, then looked at me, then picked up his dog and hurried off.

A few days later, Greg sent flowers to me and Barbara and a kind letter of apology for leaving abruptly. But Frank kept saying, “See what you did to Captain Ahab, Don? If his dog dies, you’re in real trouble.”

During the Saturday night dinner Frank said, “I think it’d be nice if we all went to church tomorrow.”

“Frank,” I said, “I’d really prefer to sit by the pool. You may have heard, I’m Jewish.”

“Don’t worry, the priest is a personal friend.”

That night, Sinatra was in an especially good mood and the pre-Easter celebration went on till the wee small hours.

Next morning, we woke up, got dressed and the four of us—me, Barbara and the Moores—walked to the main house to meet Mr. and Mrs. S.

But Mr. S. never showed.

“He’s decided to sleep in,” said his Barbara, “but he wants us all to go.”

We went to the church. We sat in the first pew. We listened to the music. We listened to the sermon. I can’t say I was all that comfortable, but respect is respect.

When it came time to put money in the basket, I dropped in fifty dollars and Roger nodded approvingly.

“You gave for everyone,” said Roger. “Happy Easter, Don.”

How about that? It costs me fifty bucks to be Catholic. And Frank was still in bed singing “My Way.”

T
he Sinatras and the Rickleses also spent time together on the Riviera in Monte Carlo. Frank’s great pal and restaurateur, Jilly Rizzo, was there as well.

“Look, Don,” Jilly told me, “you see how your suite overlooks Frank’s? Well, every morning I’ll come out on his balcony and signal you. If you see me waving a pink handkerchief, that means Frank’s sleeping. Stay where you are. But if I’m waving a white handkerchief, come down and we’ll go to the beach.”

We didn’t know whether we were on vacation or hiding out from the police.

Frank had a private cabana, a big tent covered on every side. I couldn’t see out.

“Hey, Frank,” I said, “I have fans and they can’t see me.”

“We need our privacy,” said Frank.

“You need your privacy. You’re Frank Sinatra. I need someone to wave at me. I need to be recognized.”

“Eat, Bullethead, and cut out the jokes.”

All day, the food kept coming—salami, cheeses, pasta. Enough food to put you in the hospital.

We dined with our wives. As the hour got late, though, the wives decided to retire while Frank urged the boys on.

He had his driver take us to the palace where Prince Albert of Monaco lived. Frank had me and Jilly get out of the car and start shouting, “Can the prince come out and play?”

The guards tried to keep a straight face. But once they saw it was Sinatra, they would get Albert. Albert, always accompanied by a security guard, loved to hang out with Frank. Who didn’t?

We hit all the jet-set spots.

Next thing you know, it’s three in the morning and we find ourselves sitting in the corner of an empty club listening to a piano player sing “As Time Goes By.” I think I’m in the “Play it again, Sam” scene of
Casablanca
.

“The sound’s wrong,” says Sinatra. “The guy’s singing great, but his loudspeakers are too close together.”

Frank has me and Jilly standing on ladders rehanging the speakers.

“Two inches to the left,” he tells me. “An inch to the right,” he tells Jilly.

He’s finally pleased with the sound but ready to move on. Next stop is the Hotel de Paris. We’re sitting at a beautiful bar facing a huge bay window. Suddenly a storm comes up; lightning is flashing across the sky.

“Get out there,” says Frank, “and tell the paparazzi to stop taking my picture.”

“It’s pouring rain, Frank,” we say. “It’s lightning.”

“Get out there and tell them!”

Jilly and I run out in the rain and tell the lightning to stop taking Frank’s picture.

Next morning, the white hankie is waving and we’re invited to breakfast. Frank’s at the beach. He’s in his white trousers, white shirt, blue blazer and captain’s hat tilted to the side. Standing on a rock, he looks like he stepped out of a page from
Gentlemen’s Quarterly
. Suddenly a wave hits the rock and splashes on Frank’s beautiful outfit. Sinatra gets crazy and blames us.

That night he invites us to dinner at the restaurant on the balcony of the Hotel de Paris. We’re all decked out.

But at the next table, a guy’s wearing a short-sleeve shirt and no jacket.

Frank whispers to Jilly, “This guy’s not properly dressed. Ask him to leave.”

Jilly goes over and somehow convinces the guy to change tables, out of Frank’s sight.

“It’s taken care of,” says Jilly when he returns.

“Great,” says Frank, “’cause I was about to smack him.”

Believe me, Sinatra wasn’t about to do it, but he felt good when he said it.

Our last day on the Riviera with Frank and Barbara.

“Special treat,” says Sinatra, “we’re taking you to a garden party at the palace.”

My Barbara and I are delighted. The palace grounds, high on a hill overlooking the Monaco Harbor, are magnificent. The sun’s shining and the crowd is wall-to-wall royalty.

Of course, I don’t know who’s who. This one’s a count; that one’s a countess; this one’s father owns Portugal; that one’s uncle fell into a bucket of oil money.

During high tea, we’re served a lovely assortment of pastries.

I’m on my best behavior.

Seated next to me is a distinguished-looking woman. I figure her for a duchess.

“I’m Don Rickles,” I say. “Nice to meet you, madam.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Rickles. My name is Estée Lauder.”

“Wow,” I say, “I thought you were a sign.”

My Barbara gives me a look, but Estée Lauder gives me a laugh.

Our Riviera trip has a fairy-tale ending: We all live happily ever after.

F
rank was good enough to introduce me to Prince Albert.

Bob Hope introduced me to Princess Margaret.

It happened in London. Hope emceed a show to entertain the Princess at the Grosvenor House. The Newharts were there. So were Telly Savalas, Sean Connery and Jack Hawkins. It was a gala event.

Newhart kept warning me. “The English have a different sense of humor,” he said. “So I suggest you take it easy.”

Hope was even more nervous. When he introduced me, he apologized like crazy, saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, Don Rickles is a different kind of comic. He might say something that sounds insulting, but he doesn’t mean it. Don’t take it personally.”

“I understand the Queen Mum takes in laundry,” I said when I get on stage. “She realizes your country owes us a lot of money. I understand that Queen Elizabeth and her husband what’s-his-name are renting out two rooms in the palace. It’s a damn shame it’s come to this.”

After the show, I was sitting with Hope when the Princess’s special guard with white gloves approached our table.

“The Princess would like to see you,” he said.

I stood up and Hope prepared to go with me.

“Just Mr. Rickles,” said the guard.

As I was escorted to the private booth, I wondered whether my act had gone over with her.

“Your majesty,” I said.

“Please, call me ma’am. You were very entertaining, Mr. Rickles, but you were so quick that certain remarks got by me.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Next time I’ll slow down.”

“I’d appreciate that,” she said. “What would you like to drink?”

“Vodka, please.”

“Excellent. I’m having a double gin.”

I smiled inwardly. This was my kind of lady.

The drinks came.

“May I offer a toast to England, ma’am?” I asked.

“To England indeed.”

The Princess got a little chatty.

“I understand that your mother is eighty-three years old,” she said.

“She is.”

“Well, my mum is also eighty-three.”

“That’s a nice coincidence, ma’am.” My God, I think to myself, she’s talking about the Queen Mother!

“I also understand that your mother suffers from emphysema.”

“Unfortunately,” I said.

“Unfortunately my mother also suffers from emphysema.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

“They tell me your mother has a beautiful place in Florida.”

“Yes, she does.”

“God bless your mother,” said the Princess. “And God bless mine. She also has a beautiful place right down the street.”

“The only difference, ma’am, is that your mother’s place has a flag on the roof.”

“Roy, don’t ever say Dean can’t sing.”