The year was 1958, and I was 24. The Clan and the filming of the movie Some Came Running were the beginning of a relationship between Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra and me that endures to this day, and that has always been affectionate and respectful yet not without it’s contradictions. It was because of Frank and his associations that I begun to understand the fundamental questions I needed to ask myself about human friendship, about power and morality. I was growing up in the 20th century, and I happened to be doing it through the eyes and moral requirements of Hollywood.

Frank had seen me on TV, and asked me to do Some Came Running. I already knew Dean, with whom I had made Artists and Models, one of his last films with Jerry Lewis. Dean and Frank had known each other as fellow “Dago” singers, but until Some Came Running, I don’t think Frank was fully aware of Dean’s comic brilliance.

They together with Sammy Davis Jr, were the core of the Clan, a tight group of entertainers that also included Joey Bishop and Peter Lawford. They hung out together and sometimes performed together. The Clan were stage performers as well as movie actors, and they became particularly associated with one place, Las Vegas.

The Clan took me everywhere with them, trailed by these friends who looked like gangsters. The friends adored basking in Frank and Dean’s fame, fame that was earned legitimately. Sam Giancana was recognised in some places, in others he went unnoticed. But when he was recognised, it was with fear.

Sam Giancana was unusually fairly nice to me, although once he gave me a glimpse of what he was capable of. It happened in Mexico City. I had a day off from the film I was making in Mexico, Two Mules For Sister Sara , with Clint Eastwood, and had travelled from the set to Mexico City to see Sammy Davis Jr perform in a club. I went backstage to congratulate Sammy, and Giancana was there. He greeted me, and I shook hands with him. His grip was strong. He glared at me from under hooded lids.

“Pasta ?”, he asked.

“No thanks, Sam,” I’ve had dinner.”

“It’s good”, he continued. I sensed trouble immediately, maybe because he hadn’t let go of my hand. “I want you to have some”.

Much as I always do when somebody tries to force me to do anything, I balked. “Oh yeah?” I challenged. “Well I don’t want to have some”. God I was so green. I hadn’t yet learned the art of of feminine compromise in the face of possible trouble. No wonder the guys didn’t think I was a girl. Well, Sam didn’t either. He grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back, It really hurt.

“Hey”, I yelled. “Quit that. I’m sure your pasta is numero uno, but I’m full.” He twisted harder.

Just then Sammy came out of his dressing room, jangling with gold chains and snappily dressed for the evening. He noticed my pained expression and my ‘disappeared’ arm.

“What the hell are you doing” Sammy asked Giancana.

I shrugged. “He wants me to eat his pasta”, I explained, realising as soon as I said it how foolish it sounded. Sammy suppressed a giggle and glanced at the pasta. He walked over to Sam.

“C’mon, Sam,” he chided gently. “Let the kid go. She doesn’t want any. You know actresses are always on diets”.

Sam smiled that crooked smile of his and twisted my arm harder. I groaned. Sammy touched his arm.

“C’mon Sam. Let go”.

With that, Sam released my arm and slammed Sammy in the stomach with his fist.

“O.K.” he chuckled, “No pasta for either of you”.

Sammy doubled over. He had another show to do that night. I stepped back, horrified. Giancana went to the bar and made himself a drink. Sammy straightened up, took a deep breath, and said to me “Why don’t you come back later?”

Sammy was in pain. My arm was wrenched. The man seemed to be a monster.

Dean and Frank seemed unafraid of anything. They never appeared to weigh the consequences of their actions, and they never looked back. Sometimes I wondered If they had a fear of fear.

There’s a story about Dean that clarifies for me why the mob never really pestered him. By pestering, I mean putting the strong arm on him to play mob-owned joints.

Dean worked the Riobamba Club in New York City. The Riobamba was owned by Louis Lepke, a gangster who was waiting execution on death row for murder. Lepke was considered a hit man for the mob.

Dean befriended Louie’s wife when he knew Louie was in trouble, she ran the Riobamba in Louie’s absence . It didn’t matter to Dean what Lepke’s morals were. Lepke had given him a chance: Dean would reciprocate the friendship with Lepke’s wife. When noone else would associate with her, Dean did. He sat with them when Louie was executed and was there for them afterward. The word got around that Dean was a good guy.

Dean didn’t do this to impress the bosses. As a matter of fact, he ignored the bosses. They, in turn left him alone.

Frank couldn’t control Dean either. Through the years Dean often wouldn’t take Frank’s calls. Frank wanted to socialise, tear up the town.Dean never liked going out at night. He liked to watch television and be alone. Many times I’d heard Dean say, “i can’t go out tonight. I have a girl in my room.” Of course, there was noone waiting for him but his faithful Western or a rerun of Kojak.

The mythology of the Clan began with Some Came Running . We all enjoyed working together so much that with Frank’s prodding we couldn’t stop.When I worked with them I usually played a cameo part in some stupid Mob-caper Vegas movie, and they’d give me a car or something as a salary. That was fine with me. It was fun and totally madcap.

When we made pictures at the same time that the Clan was appearing in Vegas, there was an energy there that has never been duplicated since. Two shows a night, seven days a week, for three months...while shooting a picture. No one got any sleep. Granted these pictures were not award winners- Robin and the Seven Hoods, Oceans Eleven etc, but the spontaneous humour on the stage and the set was unparalleled. The director never knew what was going to happen or how a scene would be played on a given day. But it didn’t matter. And at night the world came to Vegas to see Dean, Frank , Sammy, Joey Bishop and Peter Lawford., and whenever they could inveigle me to the stage- me.

Today Vegas is a family resort town, with rides and circuses and cotton candy. It doesn’t exist for the same reasons anymore. The glamour of it’s power hierarchy is gone now. There’s no danger, therefore no vicarious pleasure. Vegas doesn’t need stars anymore. It can’t afford stars. So it has has no intimate, spontaneous interaction. Frank plays on his own. Dean doesn’t work anymore. Sammy is gone, and everyone else is old. The Boys have essentially moved from public view, exacting their brutal demands from governments and drug runners. Drugs were not part of our world in these days: even crime was cleaner.

The Clan tried to recapture the antics of yesteryear one last time by making Cannonball Run 2 not far from Vegas. in 1983. It was a disgrace, of course, Frank worked only half a day, and that was too long for him. He did one take and left. It looked as though he were never there at all.

Dean had deteriorated. I hadn’t seen him in year’s, and he seemed withered, drawn, with greyish pallor. I noticed he put five spoons of sugar in each cup of coffee. With my new sense of health awareness, I chided him for it and said he’d better quit. The next day he emptied a 5 pound bag of sugar inside my trailer. Sammy tried to be funny, which wasn’t necessary. Just dressed in his costume he was hilarious (he was a priest).

In 1988, Dean Frank and Sammy went out on the road in the Together Again tour, a show Mort Viner arranged for them. They believed they could re-create the old days. Booze, broads, bands, and madness. But things had changed. Dean was now 71. And an old 71 at that. Frank had always been more active in every way, older in years but younger in spirit.

From the moment the tour began, it was clear that the differences in energy between Dean and Frank would be a problem. I was hearing the stories from Mort. In Oakland, their first date, Frank wanted to go out after the show and have some fun. Dean was tired and wanted nothing but to sit and watch television. Frank pushed his chair over. Dean did a pratfall and made Frank laugh, but Dean was upset.

They went on to play Vancouver and Seattle and Frank became more insistent that the old days could be re-created. He began to make cruel jokes onstage and badger Dean unmercifully. Dean couldn’t use his “i’ve got a broad in my room” line anymore when frank wanted him to go out at night. He just told Frank the truth. “I don’t want to go, dago”, he said ”i just want to go to my room and watch TV and fall asleep.” Frank couldn’t take that. “What ‘re you doing this for, then?”, he yelled. “C’mon, get your ass outta that chair”.
Dean didn’t move. He never liked being ordered around. He fell silent. That made Frank mad. He picked up Dean’s plate of sphagetti and dumped it on his head. Dean did a Buster Keaton and sat stone still. That made Frank laugh. Frank thought Dean was being funny, but he wasn’t. Dean was making up his mind to walk...again.

There were 3 shows in a row in Chicago, which Dean was willing to complete. But on the last night Mort arranged for a private plane to take Dean back to California, where he checked into a hospital to make it look good. Dean needed some rest anyway.

Dean and Frank had just come to the end of their road, just as Dean and Jerry had. Frank called to enquire how Dean was doing, but Dean never took the calls.

Dean left our entertainment industry in much the same way as he had come in: quiet, stoic, resolved to be left alone, essentially uninvolved with the passions of life and work. He was a menefreghista, the definition of which is one who simply didn’t give a f..., and because of that the was happy now. I miss him more than I can say.

Frank couldn’t bear to observe Dean’s deterioration. But the more he pursued Dean, the more Dean retreated. Frank went in the opposite direction. He knew in his heart that If he let go for a moment he’d die. He still needed to be appreciated, adored, and acknowledged.