FRANK SINATRA WAS PISSED.
Why the fuck he’d come to this fairy’s ball, he had no idea. Well, yeah, he had. Mia. Mia wanted to go, she said it would be fun, there’d be lots of people there he knew, it was the place to be. So he’d put up with it—wore a fucking mask, at least for about five seconds, before he ripped it off after some little dick in the crowd outside the hotel had called out, “Hey, Frankie Batman!” He’d rounded up a few acceptable people, like Leland and Pam Hayward, the Bennett Cerfs, Claudette Colbert, that classy old dame, and commandeered a table, handed a waiter a hundred bucks and asked for three bottles of Wild Turkey, and watched as Mia happily danced with some of the younger crowd.
Frank Sinatra, it need not be said, did not dance. Except, on a few memorable occasions, when he was much younger and hungrier, in the movies.
He stayed clear of Betty Bacall; that was an affair that had gone sour. Likewise Slim Hawks Hayward Keith, Leland’s ex. This wasn’t his scene, not all this fancy fag shit like the gilded mirrors and the fucking stupid masks. The room was too big, too crowded, too hot, too full of people he didn’t give a shit about, and who didn’t give a shit about him, and that was something that Frank Sinatra did not put up with, not at all.
But Mia. Mia wanted to come, because she was young and starry-eyed, and look at her now, out on the dance floor dancing the fucking frug or whatever it was, that thing where you threw your arms up in the air like you were having an epileptic seizure, gyrated your whole body, the whole damn thing. That wasn’t dancing. Not in his book. What the fuck was he thinking, marrying a kid like that? But even now, he could hardly take his eyes off her.
He looked at his watch. Two A.M. Not too late to be up but far too late to still be at this silly kid’s costume party. Who dressed up like this anymore? Not him, that was for damn sure. Next time Mia wanted to go to something like this she could—hell. Next time Mia wanted to go to something like this he would just say no. Forget it, kid.
“C’mon,” he said, rounding up the Cerfs and the Haywards. Claudette shook her head, stifled a yawn, and gathered her purse and her gloves. “Let’s leave this joint and go to Jilly’s.”
Jilly’s was his scene; a dark, narrow, smoky piano bar with a quiet back room where he had his own special chair—no one else was allowed to sit in it—at his special table where he could hold forth, be entertained, worshipped, especially by Jilly Rizzo himself. Where all eyes would be on him, and not some swishy little fruit with a lisp.
Frank didn’t even have to call ahead. He knew Jilly’s would be open for him. It always was. It was his place.
“Oh, Francis, no, you’re not going!” Truman was in front of him, wringing his limp little hands. “Stay, stay, do. You know how these things are, once someone like you leaves, the whole party is over. Don’t do that to me!”
“Sorry, Truman. Nice evening. But I’m out of here.” Frank snapped his fingers, Mia skipped over to him and took his arm, somebody gathered up their coats, and he strode out of the ballroom. Behind him, Truman still pleaded.
No dice. Frank Sinatra had been bored, and so he snapped his fingers and left.
And just like that, the party was over.
—
TRUMAN HID HIS DISAPPOINTMENT, fluttered from group to group as they prepared to leave, accepted the gushing compliments, squealed his own, asking everyone, “Wasn’t it grand? Wasn’t it a divine party?”
And they all said yes, yes, of course, it was. You are wonderful, Truman. You are the tops. This was the grandest night ever, the party everyone will be talking about tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
And when at last he escorted Kay, exhausted but quietly happy, back to her room, tiptoed up to kiss her on the cheek and admonish her, “Now, sleep tight, baby doll, and dream of the headlines in the morning!” he went to his own suite, unlocked the door with the heavy gold key, and threw himself on the turned-down bed with a loud sigh.
And it left him, just like that. The good feeling, the triumph, the accomplishment. It left just like Sinatra had, through the door without a backward glance. He felt empty, deflated, defeated. Alone.
Unloved.