Frank_ The Voice - James Kaplan [203]
“I remarked to Nate, I said that name is familiar,” Frank recalled. “Yes, he said, that’s the guy you think it is. He started to tell me something of the history of this man. I was a boy and remember when his trial was on and remember reading about it …”
That night, according to Sinatra, was the last time he ever saw Luciano.
Nellis shook his head. “There has been stated certain information to the effect that you took a sum of money well in excess of $100,000 into Cuba,” he said.
“That is not true.”
“Did you give any money to Lucky Luciano?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you ever learn what business they were in?”
“No,” Frank said. “Actually not.”
“Where did you get started in the entertainment business?” Nellis asked.
“In a small club in Hoboken; I must have been around seventeen.”
“What’s your attraction to all these underworld characters?”
“I don’t have any attraction for them,” Frank said. “Some of them were kind to me when I started out, and I have sort of casually seen them or spoken to them at different places, in nightclubs where I worked, or out in Vegas or California.”
“Do you know Frank Costello?”
“Just to say hello. I’ve seen him at the Copa and at the Madison, and once we had a drink at the Drake where I stay when I’m in New York.”
“What about Joe Doto?”
“I’ve met him,” Sinatra said. “He’s the one they call ‘Adonis,’ right?”
“Right. How well do you know him?”
“No business,” Frank said. “Just ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye.’ ”
“Well, what about the Jersey guys you met when you first got started?” Nellis asked.
“Let me tell you something, those guys were okay,” Frank replied. “They never bothered me or anyone else as far as I know.” He was wringing his hands now—almost as though he were washing them. “Now,” Frank said, “you’re not going to put me on television and ruin me just because I know a lot of people, are you?” His famous voice was wavering a little. Nellis couldn’t help feeling a little thrill of power.
“Nobody wants to ruin you, Mr. Sinatra,” the lawyer said waspishly. “I assure you I would not be here at five in the morning at your lawyer’s request so that no newsmen could find out we’re talking to you if we intended to make some kind of public spectacle of any appearance before the committee.”
Frank wasn’t placated. His voice rose and tightened. “Well, look,” he said. “How in hell is it going to help your investigation to put me on television just because I know some of these guys?”
Nellis shook his head impatiently. “That will be up to Senator Kefauver and the committee,” he said. Then he softened ever so slightly. “Right now, if you’re not too tired, I want to continue so we can see whether there’s any basis for calling you in public session. Let’s get back to what I was asking you about. And I will ask you specifically: Have you ever, at any time, been associated in business with Moretti, Zwillman—”
“Who?” Frank asked.
“Abner Zwillman of Newark,” Nellis said. “They call him ‘Longy.’ Or Catena, Lansky, or Siegel?”
“Well, Moore, I mean Moretti, made some band dates for me when I first got started, but I have never had any business dealings with any of those men.”
“But you know Luciano, the Fischettis, and all those I have named?”
“Just like I said; just in that way.”
The sky outside the dirty windows was still black. “What is your attraction to these people?” Nellis repeated.
“Well, hell, you go into show business, you meet a lot of people,” Frank said. “And you don’t know who they are or what they do.”
The lawyer’s eyes flashed behind the circular lenses. “Do you want me to believe that you don’t know the people we have been talking about are hoodlums and gangsters who have committed many crimes and are probably members of a secret criminal club?”
Sinatra had to stifle a smile. Club. That was rich. Like the Turk’s Palace, with secret handshakes and orange and black silk jackets. Well, it was a little like that, actually.