One sketch set its sights on Peter Lawford, a celebrated party-goer from the day he arrived in Hollywood and an actor whose performances in some pictures would scarcely show up under a microscope. On the stage built in the Sinatra living room, he sat at a table entertaining a girl while Frank, dressed as a waiter, served drinks to the pair. “Give me the check,” said Peter as the skit ended. “I’ll take care of it.”
Frank’s eyeballs revolved. “You mean you’ll pay?” he gasped as he dropped his tray on Peter’s head and staggered offstage.
When the bigwigs at Columbia heard about the shows, they asked Frank to put on a similar affair at Harry Cohn’s house to celebrate his birthday. It turned out to be quite a party. The guest list included Rita Hayworth, José Iturbi, Al Jolson, and the Sinatra regulars. On the temporary stage, Phil Silvers acted the part of Cohn. Al Levy, Frank’s manager who went on to found Talent Associates, took the role of agent and Frank played himself. “Mr. Cohn,” said Al, introducing Frank, “I have a boy here I think has great talent.”
“Can’t use him,” growled Phil Silvers.
“But at least listen to him. Give him a chance.”
“No. Too Jewish.”
Al (bewildered): “He’s too Jewish?”
“No, you are. Get out of here.” Everybody had a wonderful time ... except Harry Cohn, who didn’t crack a smile.
* * * * *
The woman who came within an ace of wrecking Frank Sinatra sat on my patio fresh from Smithfield, North Carolina. “What do you do down there?” I asked Ava Gardner, as beautiful then as she was frank about how dirt-poor she’d been until Hollywood whistled at her.