Rickles' Book (15 page)

M
y manager Joe Scandore was one of a kind. He came out of that era when a man’s word was his bond and loyalty was everything. He took me on when I needed a boost. Back when no one but Mom thought I’d ever make it, Joe said, “Don, I’m betting on you.”

Joe had a great presence. He owned the Elegante in Brooklyn. He booked acts. He discovered talent. He cut deals. He was old-school show biz. Like any savvy promoter who came up in the thirties and forties, Joe had connections outside formal show business. That was the way of the world. Without those connections, you never left the dock; with them, you sailed.

When he died in the late eighties, his friends came out to honor him. At his funeral, the Brooklyn cathedral was packed to the rafters. As I sat in my front-row pew, I heard people say, “Hey, there’s Louie Zambatone. When did he get out?”

Some of his friends showed up late and couldn’t get in. These were people who didn’t like being turned away.

A guy named Mike was at the door, and once the church was filled to capacity, he was told to keep everyone else out.

Some of Joe’s friends weren’t happy.

The priest, though, went on with the service, chanting and praying and lighting candles.

Meanwhile, from the back of the church I heard someone shout as the door opened, “Let me in there or I’ll take your cousin by his macaronis and break your uncle’s arms.”

“Let us pray,” said the priest, “for a man of peace, a good friend and a sweet soul whose legacy of good work will live on.”

“I’ll run my car over your daughter’s face,” yelled another gentleman as he was turned away from the door. “Let me in that church or I’ll take your mother’s eyes out.”

“We take time,” said the priest, “to give tribute to a man of integrity, faith and goodwill.”

“You good-for-nothing sausage,” an unhappy guest yelled at Mike, “get off my foot and let me in!”

The verbal jousting went on, but Mike held his ground. Inside, the tributes continued. When services were over and it was time to take Joe to his final resting place, I wondered if those friends who hadn’t gotten in would show up at the cemetery. They did. Staying a few discreet feet behind a motorcycle cop, their Cadillacs and Lincolns were part of the procession. When we got to the grave site, I heard one friendly voice tell Mike, “If you try to keep me out of this service, I’ll bury you.”

C
ertain guys I loved. Certain guys I’ll always love.

Don Adams was one of those guys.

Don and I went back to the very beginnings at the Wayne Room in Washington. We’d known each other for centuries.

Don was a good guy. I made appearances on his TV show,
Get Smart,
along with Jimmy Caan. The three of us became pals, and Don was always pushing me to go to the track.

I’m no gambler, but the track reminds me of my dad, so I have good associations.

One Saturday afternoon, Don dragged me out to Hollywood Park.

“Got a special surprise for you, Rickles,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Look up at the board.”

I saw the name, but I had to be seeing wrong. So I rubbed my eyes and looked again. There it was, plain as day: Listed among the other horses was one called Don Rickles.

Don Adams, a friend to remember.

“You gotta put something on him,” urged Adams.

“Can he run? Is he good?” I asked.

“What do I know?” asked Adams.

“You know everything about the horses,” I said. “I know nothing.”

“You know that Don Rickles is the most beautiful name in the world. That name deserves to have good money riding on it.”

“Anybody betting on Rickles?” I asked around.

“You kidding,” someone answered. “He’s a long shot. My money’s on the favorite.”

“How ’bout you, Adams?” I asked.

“I never say who I’m betting on before I bet.”

“All right,” I said, “I’ll put a couple of bucks on Don Rickles.”

“A couple of bucks!” said Adams. “That’s all you think you’re worth?”

“Fine,” I sighed. “I’ll go crazy. A hundred bucks.”

Don Rickles ran fourth.

While I tore up my ticket, Adams trotted over to the payout window to cash in his winnings. He had the favorite.

“You look unhappy, Don,” said Adams.

“No, I’m thrilled,” I said. “This is just what I needed—a day at the races.”

“I’ll cheer you up,” Adams promised. “Come with me.”

Don took us to the winner’s circle where a garland of flowers was being put around the favorite’s neck.

“Can I borrow these flowers for a second?” Adams asked the owner.

Before the owner could answer, Don took the garland and put it on Don Rickles the horse.

“Don Rickles,” he said to me, “stand next to Don Rickles.”

He snapped a picture.

“Don Rickles,” he said, “now you’re the winner.”

W
hat other movie star would invite you to ridicule him in front of President Clinton?

That’s just what Clint did. It was at the Kennedy Center Honors. Morgan Freeman, Forest Whitaker and I sang and danced on stage, giving tribute to the man we had worked with. I could see by the gleam in Clinton’s eye that he wanted to grab his sax and join us, but the President restrained himself.

I didn’t.

“Mr. President and Mrs. President,” I said. “I am here tonight because of you. I couldn’t care less about Clint.

“Why do I make fun of you, Clint?” I asked. “Because you have no personality.”

I ended by confessing the truth: I love the guy. He can write, act and direct.

Now if he’d only stop giving boxing lessons at the girls’ gym…

B
ig production.

Big director: Marty Scorcese.

Big writer: Nicholas Pileggi.

Big cast: Robert De Niro, Sharon Stone, Joe Pesci, James Woods, Alan King.

Big deal for me: De Niro runs the casino and I’m his number-one man. I’m with him night and day.

The big deal happens in the nineties when a lot of good things start happening to me. Of course, good things happened in the eighties—and the seventies, sixties and fifties for that matter. The business has always been good to me. But when I approached seventy, I couldn’t help wondering whether the jobs would dry up. Thank God, they didn’t.

The
Casino
gig was great. I was excited to be working with all these Academy Award winners. No one does gangster films better than Scorcese. And because Vegas had been my territory for many decades, I felt comfortable on the set.

“It isn’t so much what you say that makes you right for this part, Don,” said Marty. “It’s who you are.”

I wasn’t sure I should take that as a compliment, but I did.

As shooting began, I played it loose. I started kidding from the outset.

“When you direct me, Marty,” I said, “could you stand on a chair so I can see you? If it helps, I’ll get a telephone book to put under your feet.”

First day of shooting had some brief dialogue between me and De Niro. I was standing right next to Bob but acted like I couldn’t understand him.

“Could you ask Bob to speak more clearly,” I said to Marty.

I heard someone in the crew sarcastically whisper, “Lots of luck.”

The scene went on and I tried to get in the mood, but I couldn’t stop kibitzing. It’s fun to rib De Niro because, fine actor that he is, he takes everything seriously.

“He’s mumbling, Marty,” I told Scorcese. “The man has won every acting award in America, France and Bulgaria, and he’s mumbling. I can’t understand him. Can you understand him?” I asked the lighting man who shook his head no. “Can you understand that mumbling?” I asked the cameraman who also said no. “How about you?” I asked the wardrobe girl. “Can you understand him?” She went along with me and shook her head no.

“We got a problem here, Marty,” I said. “We got an actor who’s ruining your eighty-million-dollar picture. Is there a speech teacher on the set? We have an award-winning actor who’s lousing up the movie.”

In one scene, Pesci beat me up with a telephone. He got so carried away that when Marty yelled “Cut!” Pesci went looking for a gun.

If you see the movie, I’m in dozens of scenes, but I hardly speak.

“What’s wrong?” I asked Marty. “So far I say nothing.”

“I see you more as a presence rather than a talker.”

“That’s a twist,” I said. “A silent Rickles. But will the world buy it?”

The world didn’t seem to mind. The movie was a hit. I even got good reviews. Around the same time, I got another good role. No, it wasn’t Shylock in
The Merchant of Venice
or King Lear.

It was Mr. Potato Head.

An entire career, and I end up with two toys.

T
he sky’s blue, the ocean’s calm.

I’m at our beach house, just taking it easy.

John Lasseter, a director of animated movies, is on his way to see me. I figure it’s gotta be something big.

When John arrives, he says, “Don, I’m here to test your voice.”

“Test my voice, what for?”

He says he’s doing
Toy Story
.

“Count me out,” I say.

“You haven’t heard about the part,” John argues.

“I don’t do Popeye,” I say.

“It’s not Popeye.”

“I don’t do Olive Oyl.”

“It’s not Olive Oyl.”

“I don’t do Snoopy.”

“You couldn’t do Snoopy if you wanted to.”

“I don’t want to,” I say. “I don’t want to do Pocahontas’ brother.”

“Don, listen to me.”

“John, leave me alone, will you? I’m trying to keep my name alive here. You want to turn me into Mickey Mouse.”

“This movie’s going to be huge.”

“So is my ego, and my ego says I need to be seen, not just heard.”

“Will you let me describe the part?” John asks.

“Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“It’s Mr. Potato Head.”

“Terrific. But I’m not sure I can handle the dramatic demands.”

“Mr. Potato Head is a sarcastic wise guy. Think you can handle that?”

That got me thinking.

When the film came out and broke all kinds of box office records, I stopped thinking. I became a hero to a whole generation of children. Even today my own grandchildren aren’t impressed that I’ve played Vegas for fifty years, but they are impressed that their Pop-Pop is Mr. Potato Head.

Soon after the premiere, I called John and asked him, “When’s
Toy Story 2
coming up?”

“Soon,” he said.

“Great,” I said. “Count me in. I’ve always wanted to do kids’ movies.”