fiftyish guy in glasses eyeing her the way a dog does a squirrel. He was some kind of associate editor at the magazine.
“How did they get that idea?” I asked.
He ignored my sarcasm, or maybe didn’t pick up on it over the loud music. There was considerable chatter, as well-we were near the endless buffet table. Food smells were pleasant. Bunnies were circulating taking drink orders.
I said, “I had a few people over the other night myself. Would have called you but I’m particular.”
“You don’t think I know I’m the luckiest human being in the world?” He painted the air with his pipe smoke. “But I’m also doing the world, this modern world, a favor-people who work hard should get to play hard. You get one time around this merry-go-round, and if you don’t make the most of it, who do you have to blame?”
“Now you’re a philosopher.”
“This is a new decade, Nate. Pretty soon we’re going to have a new president.” He grinned, and his eyes danced with manic delight. “I think we know who that’s going to be.”
“Nixon’s ahead in the polls.”
“Tricky Dick won’t win. What Playboy represented in the fifties was my personal dream-sexual pleasure, material abundance, without guilt. But now it’s time to break down other barriers-take civil rights, for example…”
Shrill, giddy laughter and applause rode over Hef’s speech, and “The Twist” ground to a halt. Tonight’s guests of honor had arrived, fresh from the Near North Side’s Chez Paree-Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis, Jr. (Joey Bishop and Peter Lawford weren’t on the Chez bill), moving past the suits of armor down into the living room, stopping to talk to men they knew and girls they wanted to know. Somebody was doing the fingers-in-the-teeth whistle: Hef’s bouncy blonde.
Everybody crowded around a little performance area adjacent to a piano, bass, and drums, where a trio of musicians awaited, and without preamble, the Summit (they didn’t call themselves the Rat Pack) went into an abbreviated version of its Vegas show.
First Dean went out to sing while the other two faded back to a nearby liquor cart. After drunkenly asking what all these people were doing in his room, the big well-tanned handsome crooner, in a tux with loose crossover tie, did a lighthearted “Volare,” then several song parodies (“You made me love you… you woke me up to do it”). He was delivering a straight “June in January” when Davis, sans tux jacket, strode over, mimicking Martin’s ex- partner Jerry Lewis (“ Deeeeeeean !”) and Dino responded accordingly (“Jer-you’ve changed! But at least you’re still Jewish…”). The two walked off arm in arm and Sinatra took their place.
It was always a surprise how small Frank was, and even more surprising how quickly you forgot that when he sang. His tux tie was still snugged in place, but he was loose as he did a jazzy “Chicago,” getting the expected wild response, then “Luck Be a Lady,” which played surprisingly well without a big band.
Then Dean carried Sammy out in his arms and presented him to Sinatra as a token of appreciation from the NAACP, and this got howls, particularly from Sammy.
The little Negro-and he made a giant out of Sinatra-was probably the most talented of them, and he sang a very earnest “Hey There” (a hit of his) and then “Birth of the Blues,” doing some flashy dancing. Finally he went into “The Lady Is a Tramp” and had lapsed into a Sinatra impression when the other two came out and shut him down.
The three together did a bunch of comedy that had most everybody in stitches, but I have to admit I would rather they’d kept singing. Maybe it was because I’d seen this act-with Bishop and Peter Lawford mixed in-three times, and knew all the “improvisation” was written.
And a lot of it played on Sammy being colored. Racial stuff that was so stupid, they were spoofing it, so hip and cool they could get away with it. Sammy laughed hard, bending over and slapping his thighs, at Frank and Dino’s darkie stuff (mostly Amos ’n’ Andy references), but I always noticed you didn’t actually hear Sammy laughing…
They were doing a “Guys and Dolls” medley when somebody came pushing through the crowd-it was Peter Lawford, also in a tux.
“ Fellas!” he said. “How could you start without me?”
Sammy said innocently, “We were gonna wait, Pete, but nobody could remember what it is you do.”
This got a big laugh, then Sinatra and Martin mugged while Lawford and Davis did a little soft-shoe bit-the expatriate Britisher had after all been a star in musicals at MGM-and finally Lawford held his hands up to the crowd.
“The real reason I waited to come on this late,” he said, with that barely there British accent, “was so I could introduce a new member to our little Summit.”
Sammy said, “Bobby Darin?”
Sinatra raised a fist and gave him a comic glare.
“No, no,” Lawford said, with that nice big winning smile of his. “Ladies and gentlemen, the next president of the United States-and I don’t mean Hugh Hefner…”
Gasps blossomed everywhere as all eyes went to the presidential candidate gliding effortlessly through the crowd in a brown suit with a red tie, straight from some political event, tanned and handsome, his brown bangs slightly tousled. Everyone knew he was in town, campaigning for this crucial state, but his presence here was a surprise.
By the time he reached the little performing area, the applause was ringing in the big old remodeled ballroom. It was dying down when Kennedy said to the pianist, who was doing a jazzy “Hail to the Chief,” “I, uh, want to thank you for your positive outlook.”
When he finally spoke, in that distinctive halting Massachusetts way of his, he was casual and gracious. “I didn’t come around, uh, to spoil the party with a campaign speech. I just want to thank my friend Frank, for, uh, the great work he’s doing. You’ve heard his jingle?”
Laughter and clapping and a few whoops indicated they had-a specialty version of “High Hopes” that was running in radio and TV ads.
With a smile, the candidate turned to Sinatra and said, “You know, uh, Frank I think you may have a future in this recording business.”
Sinatra made a dismissive gesture, but he was beaming.
“And, uh, I have to thank our host, Hugh Hefner. He represents a breath of, uh, fresh air in our rather stale culture… but don’t quote me. Jackie doesn’t approve of the centerfolds.”
As laughter rang, front-row Hef grinned and shrugged, pipe in hand.
“And, uh, Hef… if I may, without embarrassing you… I’d like to thank you for your, uh, generous financial contributions. And all of you very, uh, prosperous-looking individuals, I know my campaign would be grateful for, uh, any help you might still give. We’re coming down to the wire now. And don’t miss the first of, uh, three televised debates, coming soon to a living room near you. Should be exciting. I understand, if things don’t go well for him, Dick Nixon may be, uh, reprising his famous Checkers speech.”
That got a huge laugh. He gave a little wave, and Sinatra and company sang the “High Hopes” rewrite as the presidential hopeful mingled. This was the kind of hip group that gave even the likes of JFK some space. I didn’t see a soul ask for an autograph, and soon he’d disappeared.
I spotted him with Lawford in the sunken bar, where the window on the swimming pool glowed hypnotically with subdued lighting and unsubdued female flesh. A lot of smoke swirled in here, and Lawford had lighted up, but not Kennedy.
The candidate was nestled in a booth, and I knew he had a terribly bad back-sometimes wore a brace-so I motioned for him not to get up, offering my hand to shake, which he did, flashing that famous smile.
“My favorite private eye,” he said. “Is it, uh, true James Bond was based on you?”
“No, it’s just the tux,” I said, and nodded to Lawford, exchanging smiles. “But I would like to get some of his action.”
Kennedy grinned. “Who wouldn’t?”
Absently, flicking ash into a tray, Lawford said, “You know, they offered me that part. Money was poor, and I turned it down. They’re going with an unknown.”
“Too bad for them,” Kennedy said. “Uh, Peter-could I have a word with Mr. Heller?”
“Most certainly,” the actor said good-naturedly, sighing smoke, then sliding out of the booth.
