His Way_ The Unauthorized Biography of Frank Sinatra - Kitty Kelley [205]
Dexter insisted on phoning the U.S. ambassador in Madrid, and Frank vented his rage on the police.
“What the hell is this?” he yelled. “You cops are just like the gestapo. I’ll be damned if I’ll be treated like a criminal because some broad throws a glass in my face. Get the goddamned ambassador on the phone.”
They were released after being questioned over and over again about the incident at the bar. When the police prefect demanded 25,000 pesetas ($416), Dexter objected strenuously, but Frank said he’d pay any amount of money to get out of that jail. When producer Saul David paid the fine, they were released.
Forbidden to return to the hotel to pack their belongings, they were escorted by the police directly to the airport, put on a jet, and flown to Paris, where they checked into the George V Hotel.
“I’ll never go back to that fucking country again,” Frank said. “I hate those dirty Fascist bastards.”
The next day, they flew to New York and stayed in Frank’s apartment on the East Side. To celebrate his return home, Frank invited a few friends, including Brad and Jimmy Van Heusen, to dinner at the Colony restaurant, where Gene, the captain, always gave him the best table in the house. After a few drinks, Frank started glowering at the Portuguese waiter, who he thought was Spanish. A few more drinks and he was convinced that the waiter was from the Malaga police force. He turned to Dexter.
“Look at that son of a bitch,” he said. “He looks just like the prefect of police. Look at him.”
Dexter agreed that the waiter possessed the same saturnine features that came out of the Spanish Inquisition, but he wasn’t convinced he was part of Spain’s secret police force.
“What are you talking about?” Frank yelled. “This guy is from Malaga and he’s spying on us. Look at the way the son of a bitch is looking at me. Look at him watching our every move!”
In full fury, Frank flagged the captain and said, “I don’t want this bastard around here. I don’t want him serving this table. I want him out of here. This guy is no good. He’s a spy. Get him out.”
To emphasize his point, Frank stood up and tipped the table over, splashing drinks and crashing plates and glasses to the floor, which sent shards of china and crystal flying. Food splattered in all directions. A squad of waiters hustled to hunt down the rolls scattered around the room, while the captain solicitously assured Frank that he would replace the waiter immediately.
“Poor Gene shunted everyone out of the room and sent in a whole new crew to take care of our table,” said Dexter, laughing as he recalled the incident. “Sometime later, when we were back in California, I read in the paper that Spain was celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of the benevolent reign of Francisco Franco. I showed the article to Frank, and we both laughed about it. Then he called his secretary, and said, ‘I want to send a telegram. Send it to Francisco Franco in Spain with a copy to the Secretary of State in Washington, D.C., and the American ambassador to Spain, Robert Forbes Woodward: ‘Congratulations on the twenty-fifth year of your benevolent regime in leading the people of Spain. Now drop dead. Frank Sinatra.’ ”
The cast and crew of Von Ryan’s Express returned to Hollywood in October 1964 for thirty days of interior shooting at Twentieth Century Fox. A bewitching nineteen-year-old girl with long golden hair appeared every day at the door of the sound stage in a gauzy nightgown that fell to her ankles. The sun streamed through the sheer gossamer of her gown, outlining her slender form. Half waif, half siren, she brightened considerably as Frank walked on the set, but she remained standing at the door, backlighted by the sun.
“He arrived, and I thought, ‘What a super looking man,’ and that’s how it began for me,” said Mia Farrow, the innocent-looking waif who ushered in the most violent period of Frank