I almost tore up the letter as soon as I’d read it because of its last paragraph: “Maybe it will make a good Sunday piece for you. If you think so, then please don’t start to edit it. These are my thoughts, and if you want to pass them on to your readers, let them stand as is.” I haven’t edited; I’ve quoted, but not all five pages. Life’s too short for that, and you probably wouldn’t read them, anyway.
Though he’s proud to be a Democrat, he’s uneasy about being called a “Clansman.” The Clan consists of the men with which this mixed-up, lonely talent has surrounded himself—Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Joey Bishop, Peter Pentagon Lawford.
“I hate the name of Clan,” Frank once said.
“Did you ever look the word up in a dictionary?” I said. “It means a family group that sticks together, like the Kennedys you’re so fond of. They’re the most clannish family in America. I don’t like Rat Pack, but there’s nothing wrong with the name of Clan.”
What is wrong with the Clan and the Leader, as his gang have christened Frank, is the pull they both have over young actors who would give their back teeth to be IN. Membership dues include generally behaving like Mongols from the court of Genghis Khan.
The Clan was riding high the night Eddie Fisher opened his night-club act at the Ambassador Hotel here, before the Cleopatra debacle got under way. I was in New York at the time. Frank and his henchmen took over and mashed Eddie’s performance. “This was a disgusting display of ego,” snorted Milton Berle, sitting in an audience that included comedians like Jerry Lewis, Danny Thomas, and Red Buttons, any one of whom, if he’d tried, could have joined in and made the Clan look silly. Elizabeth Taylor, on Eddie’s side that night, raged: “He may have to take it from them, but I don’t. One day they’ll have to answer to me for this.”
Steve McQueen was one young actor I managed to extricate from the Clan. I took him under my wing when he was driving racing cars around like an astronaut ready for orbit. “You could kill yourself when you were single, and it was only your concern. But you’ve got a family and responsibilities now. Think of them.” Between his wife and myself, we got him away from overpowered automobiles.
I took to Steve as soon as I saw him in “Wanted Dead or Alive.” I liked his arrogant walk, the don’t-give-a-damn air about him. So did Frank. When he sent Sammy Davis, Jr., into temporary exile for indiscreet talk to a newspaper about other Clansmen, Frank had Sammy’s part in Never So Few rewritten for Steve. When Frank is in a movie, he becomes casting director, too.
He took Steve on a junket to New York when the picture ended, and Steve took along a big bundle of Mexican firecrackers, which he cherishes. He hadn’t previously been any kind of drinker, but in Frank’s crowd you drink. From the tenth floor of his hotel Steve had a ball tossing lighted firecrackers into Central Park. When the police ran him to earth, it took all of Frank’s influence to keep him out of jail.
As a peace offering, Steve had a live monkey delivered to my office in advance of his return. He wasted his time. I don’t like monkeys, so I gave it away and summoned Steve for some Dutch-aunt lecturing when he got back. “I know all about your trip. You were loud, boorish, and probably drunk. You have to make up your mind whether you’ll have a big career as Steve McQueen or be one of Frank Sinatra’s set. Think it over.”