Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [97]
Another memorable night was the Fourth of July just after Frank had won an important victory testifying to Congress about his supposed ties to shady characters and horseracing. We went to New Jimmy’z to celebrate and were sitting at one of the long banquettes near the indoor water feature that led to the pier on the shore. A photographer politely asked Frank if she could take his picture, and he told her, “Sure, baby, take as many as you want.” Just as she was about to click the shutter, someone on the opposite banquette shoved her so that she fell onto the table, scattering drinks. Words were exchanged, but nothing more happened until later, when Frank, Jilly, and a few others went out onto the pier to set off cherry bombs and firecrackers to show their American patriotism.
Some of those sitting on the opposite banquette complained that our group was too rowdy (which I’m sure they were). Among them was Hélène Rochas of the perfume house, who almost jumped out of her skin when a firecracker exploded near her. She was with a socialite named Kim d’Estainville, who picked up a half-empty bottle of vodka and threw it at us. It landed on our table, bounced off, and hit me full on the side of my head.
Bobby was the first on his feet, even though I didn’t want him to get involved. He rushed over to d’Estainville, who was sandwiched between others with no easy way to get out. “Did you just throw a bottle at my mother?” Bobby demanded.
“What are you going to do about it?” d’Estainville replied.
“Get out of there and apologize!” Bobby insisted.
“Why, kid? Are you going to make me?” he said.
Before Bobby could respond, the lumpen shape of Jilly Rizzo flew with surprising grace toward the banquette. Monsieur d’Estainville didn’t know what had hit him as he was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and yanked to his feet.
This can’t be good, I thought, and I was right; a huge fight erupted. Everyone was throwing punches, even Frank. Tables, chairs, and lamps were flying all around me. To calm my nerves, I sat perfectly still drinking my martini and praying that nothing else would hit me. When people started taking pictures, Frank grabbed one of the cameras, pulled the film out, and threw it into the water. He then peeled off a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to the photographer as compensation. Needless to say, Monsieur d’Estainville ended up getting wet too.
Almost as soon as the trouble had begun, though, it was over. I finished my martini, Frank straightened his jacket, Jilly cracked his knuckles, and we grabbed our coats and went back to the hotel. The following morning there was a knock on the door, and four armed officers walked in asking for Jilly, who—they’d been informed—was the instigator of the fracas. Like in a scene from a Marx Brothers movie, Jilly hid, his feet sticking out beneath the heavy silk drapes, while the police conducted a quick search and left without finding him. Sitting on the couch with a bag of ice pressed to my head, watching the whole drama unfold, I suddenly knew what it must have felt like to be a gangster’s moll.
Prince Rainier heard about the fight the following morning and came to ask us about it. “What in the hell happened?”
We tried to explain and I showed him my bruise, but he just shook his head. “You were in Monte Carlo, Frank, and not some backstreet joint in New York!” he chided.
Frank, Bobby, and I would spend time at the Grimaldi Palace with Grace and Rainier, swimming or playing games, or we might go with them to their summer home in the hills above Monaco at a place called Roc Agel. Grace adored Frank, and the feeling was mutual. They had a wonderful friendship, and not just because he often performed in her gala. That was always such a highlight, though, held at the Sporting Club right on the water and ending in the most spectacular fireworks display.
Cary Grant made sure he was in one of the