Dean and Me_ A Love Story - Jerry Lewis [84]
A lot of the time, Y. Frank and I would just sit in his office and rap about the industry and the people in it. And more than once he expressed his displeasure with Bing Crosby, who was a very closed man, even with his sons. I always thought Bing was so insecure that he had no fun, and a man that can’t have fun can’t have love.
But back to our tax problem. After exhausting all other possibilities (including the fantasy of approaching Hal Wallis for a loan, which I instantly realized was insane), I went to see Y. Frank. Knowing that I had a short break from shooting and was due back on the set, he was waiting for me in his office. The moment I sat down, he could tell from my body language that I was in some kind of trouble.
“Nothing can be that bad, Jerry!” he said.
“I’m afraid this one is, Mr. Freeman,” I said.
He smiled. “‘Mr. Freeman’?” he said, in those wonderfully warm Southern tones. “What happened to ‘Y. Frank’?”
“Excuse me, Y. Frank, but this is gonna be tough.”
“Just spit it out and get it over with,” he said kindly. “I’m not about to bite you, son.”
And so I told him the story, and mentioned the amount that the IRS was demanding from Dean and me.
He whistled. “That is a big number.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “It sure is.”
He frowned. “Even though I’m positive that Martin and Lewis will be good for that amount and much more in the coming months, you know that Paramount Pictures Corporation has a policy—”
My heart was sinking. “I see,” I said.
“—that has never been broken, making it impossible for any officer of the company to make a loan in dollars to anyone.” He frowned. “That’s strictly a corporate matter,” Y. Frank said. “Nothing personal.”
“I understand.”
“Personally, though, I’ve always been impressed by the way you’ve honored your commitments.”
“Well, you know how much they mean to me, Y. Frank.”
He looked me in the eye. “I tell you what I’m going to do, Jerry. I’m going to write you a check for the $650,000, as a personal loan from me to you—as long as you can tell me when you’ll pay me back!”
Once I got my breath back, I said, “Y. Frank, if you give me sixty days, which comes out to ... let me see, September 13,1955, at 3:55 P.M., I can pay you in full. And you have my personal guarantee that I will pay you in full, and it won’t be one minute late.”
I knew we had percentages on our last four pictures coming in, equal to slightly more than the $650,000—and Y. Frank knew it, too. “I’ll skip tea that day and be here waiting for you,” he said. Smiling, of course.
On September 13 at 3:30 P.M. I was in Y. Frank Freeman’s outer office, waiting to be announced. I hadn’t wanted to go in the back way. Sydney pushed the button on her intercom and said, “Mr. Freeman,” but before she could utter another word, Y. Frank’s voice came through the intercom speaker, saying, “That must be Jerry Lewis. Have him come in!”
I entered the office, holding a certified check for $650,000.
“You’re early,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Freeman, I know how busy you are.”
“It’s twenty-five minutes till 3:55. Do you realize what kind of interest you can pick up in twenty-five minutes, Mr. Lewis?”
I was trying hard to keep a straight face. “Would you please take this check so I can go back to work?”
He put his arm around my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “Jerry, you did right. You kept your bond.”
“How did you know it was me out there, Y. Frank?” I asked.
He picked up his desk calendar and showed me the notation for September 13. “Jerry Lewis here today at 3:55 P.M.,” it read. “I never doubted for a minute that you’d show up,” he told me.
A couple of weeks later, Mr. Freeman phoned me, sounding slightly embarrassed. “Jerry, I don’t mean to seem like I’m calling in a favor, but I could really use your help,” he said. He told me he was the chairman for a benefit to be given in early November at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles for his pet charity, the City of Hope, an organization for underprivileged children. Would Dean and I be willing to perform?
Absolutely, I told him, knowing in my heart of hearts