Gay Tale Net Worth 2023: Money, Salary, B - CelebsMoney

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Frank Satra Has a Cold - Gay Tale - Bt Profile of Satra</tle><meta name="tle" ntent="Frank Satra Has a Cold - Gay Tale - Bt Profile of Satra" /><meta name="scriptn" ntent=""Frank Satra Has a Cold," ran April 1966 and beme one of the most celebrated magaze stori ever published, a pneerg example of what me to be lled New Journalism." /><meta name="keywords" ntent="Frank Satra Has A Cold,gay Tale,bt story,greatt stori" /><meta property="og:type" ntent="webse" /><meta name="theme-lor" ntent="#000000" /><lk href="/_assets/sign-tokens/quire/static/imag/" rel="in" /><meta property="og:se_name" ntent="Esquire" /><meta name="fb:app_id" ntent="171874009543995" property="fb:app_id" /><meta name="article:publisher" ntent=" property="article:publisher" /><meta name="fb:pag" ntent="84169421673" property="fb:pag" /><meta name="twter:se" ntent="@Esquire" /><meta name="google-se-verifitn" ntent="1vf5i9wM7chlCFc_0XI_e-oCfDf4sEvp32sTGKokQ" /><meta property="og:tle" ntent="Frank Satra Has a Cold" /><meta property="og:scriptn" ntent="The fg piece of journalism about Frank Satra, and one of the most celebrated magaze stori ever published." /><meta name="robots" ntent="max-image-preview:large,max-snippet:-1,max-vio-preview:30" /><lk rel="apple-touch-in" href="/_assets/sign-tokens/quire/static/imag/" /><meta property="og:image" ntent="" /><meta property="og:image:width" ntent="1200" /><meta property="og:image:height" ntent="600" /><meta name="thumbnail" ntent="" /><meta name="" ntent="" /><meta name="" ntent=" /><meta name="twter:image" ntent="" /><meta ntent=" property="og:url" /><meta name="to-publish" ntent="evergreen" /><meta property="og:type" ntent="article" /><meta name="twter:rd" ntent="summary_large_image" /><meta name="article:opn" property="article:opn" /><meta ntent="News" property="article:sectn" /><meta ntent="2022-04-18T19:35:13Z" property="article:modified_time" /><meta ntent="2016-05-14T04:00:00Z" property="article:published_time" /><meta name="sailth.excerpt" ntent="In the wter of 1965, wrer Gay Tale arrived Los Angel wh an assignment om Esquire to profile Frank Satra. 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href="/news-polics/a638/ank-satra-has-a-ld-gay-tale/" data-vars-ga-ux-element="Breadcmbs" data-vars-ga-ll-to-actn="Frank Satra Has a Cold" data-vars-ga-outbound-lk=" class="e9l0kn00 css-10asp0m e1c1bym14"><span emProp="name">Frank Satra Has a Cold</span></a><meta emProp="posn" ntent="3" /></li></ol></nav><style data-emotn="css g4r5va">{font-fay:Glanz,Glanz-fallback,Tim,Serif;font-weight:normal;grid-lumn:1/-1;marg-bottom:0.9375rem;marg-top:0.9375rem;}@media(max-width: 48rem){{font-size:2rem;le-height:1.25;}}@media(m-width: 48rem){{font-size:2.625rem;le-height:1.1;}}@media(m-width: 64rem){{font-size:3.125rem;le-height:1.1;}}@media(m-width: 73.75rem){{font-size:3.37499rem;le-height:1.1;}}</style><h1 class="css-g4r5va exadjwu10"><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-0 eagam8p0"></span>Frank Satra Has a Cold<span aria-hidn="te" class="css-0 eagam8p1"></span></h1><style data-emotn="css 2qf7xf">{lor:#515150;font-fay:Lsanne,Lsanne-fallback,Arial,sans-serif;font-weight:normal;marg-bottom:0.625rem;}@media(max-width: 48rem){{font-size:1.0625rem;le-height:1.2;}}@media(m-width: 48rem){{font-size:1.3125rem;le-height:1.2;}}@media(m-width: 64rem){{font-size:1.3125rem;le-height:1.3;}} a{-webk-text-ratn:unrle;text-ratn:unrle;text-ratn-thickns:0.0625rem;text-ratn-lor:#FF3A30;text-unrle-offset:0.25rem;lor:#000000;-webk-transn:all 0.3s ease--out;transn:all 0.3s ease--out;} a:hover{lor:#595959;text-ratn-lor:borr-lk-body-hover;}</style><div class="css-2qf7xf exadjwu8"><p>The fg piece of journalism about Frank Satra, and one of the most celebrated magaze stori ever published.</p></div><style data-emotn="css 18k4ks7">{lor:#161616;font-fay:Lsanne,Lsanne-fallback,Arial,sans-serif;letter-spacg:0.02rem;marg-bottom:0.625rem;paddg-right:0.3125rem;text-transform:upperse;}@media(max-width: 48rem){{font-size:0.70003rem;le-height:1.4;}}@media(m-width: 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class="longform-ntaer ntent-ntaer article-ntaer css-149neno ewisyje2"><style data-emotn="css woto36">{font-fay:Charter,Geia,Tim,Serif;font-size:1.1875rem;le-height:1.6;paddg-left:0rem;paddg-right:0rem;posn:relative;}@media(m-width: 48rem){{paddg-left:3.5rem;paddg-right:3.5rem;}}@media(m-width: 48rem) and (max-width: 61.25rem){{max-width:45.25rem;marg-left:to;marg-right:to;}}@media(m-width: 61.25rem){{paddg-left:0rem;paddg-right:0rem;}}@media(m-width: 73.75rem) and (max-width: 100rem){{paddg-left:0rem;paddg-right:0rem;}}@media(m-width: 90rem){{paddg-left:0rem;paddg-right:0rem;}} em{font-style:alic;font-fay:Charter,Geia,Tim,Serif;} strong{font-fay:Charter,Geia,Tim,Serif;font-weight:bold;}{clear:both;ntent:" ";display:block;font-size:0.7rem;le-height:1.5rem;height:0rem;visibily:hidn;}</style><div class="article-body-ntent article-body longform-body css-woto36 ewisyje7"><style data-emotn="css aeyldl">{font-fay:Charter,Geia,Tim,Serif;font-size:1.1875rem;le-height:1.6;} strong{font-fay:Charter,Geia,Tim,Serif;font-weight:bold;} em{font-style:alic;font-fay:Charter,Geia,Tim,Serif;}</style><p data-no-id="0" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor"><strong data-redactor-tag="strong" data-verified="redactor">In the wter of 1965,</strong> wrer Gay Tale arrived Los Angel wh an assignment om Esquire to profile Frank Satra. The legendary sger was approachg fifty, unr the weather, out of sorts, and unwillg to be terviewed. So Tale remaed L.A., hopg Satra might rever and rensir, and he began talkg to many of the people around Satra—his iends, his associat, his fay, his untls hangers-on<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>and observg the man himself wherever he uld. The rult, "Frank Satra Has a Cold," ran April 1966 and beme one of the most celebrated magaze stori ever published, a pneerg example of what me to be lled New Journalism<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>a work of rigoroly fahful fact enlivened wh the kd of vivid storytellg that had prevly been rerved for fictn. The piece njur a eply rich portra of one of the era's most guard figur and tells a larger story about entertament, celebry, and Ameri self.</em></p><style data-emotn="css 18pb4rg">{borr:0;borr-bottom:th solid black;marg:1.875rem 0;clear:both;}</style><hr data-no-id="1" class="css-18pb4rg et3p2gv0" /><style data-emotn="css am5pt0">{font-fay:Charter,Geia,Tim,Serif;font-size:1.1875rem;le-height:1.6;}{float:left;text-transform:upperse;font-weight:bold;marg-right:0.9375rem;marg-bottom:-0.625rem;marg-top:0;}{font-fay:Glanz,Glanz-fallback,Tim,Serif;font-size:6.25rem;font-weight:normal;le-height:0.75;marg-right:0;paddg:0.6rem 0.75rem 0 0;}@-moz-document url-prefix(){{marg-top:0.625rem;}}@media(max-width: 48rem){{marg-right:0.3125rem;}}@media(m-width: 64rem){{le-height:0.75;}} strong{font-fay:Charter,Geia,Tim,Serif;font-weight:bold;} em{font-style:alic;font-fay:Charter,Geia,Tim,Serif;}</style><p data-no-id="2" class="dropp css-am5pt0 et3p2gv0">Frank Satra, holdg a glass of bourbon one hand and a cigarette the other, stood a dark rner of the bar between two attractive but fadg blons who sat wag for him to say somethg. But he said nothg; he had been silent durg much of the eveng, except now this private club Beverly Hills he seemed even more distant, starg out through the smoke and semidarkns to a large room beyond the bar where dozens of young upl sat huddled around small tabl or twisted the center of the floor to the clamoro clang of folk-rock mic blarg om the stereo. The two blons knew, as did Satra's four male iends who stood nearby, that was a bad ia to force nversatn upon him when he was this mood of sullen silence, a mood that had hardly been unmon durg this first week of November, a month before his fiftieth birthday.</p><p data-no-id="3" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Satra had been workg a film that he now disliked, uld not wa to fish; he was tired of all the publicy attached to his datg the twenty-year-old Mia Farrow, who was not sight tonight; he was angry that a CBS televisn documentary of his life, to be shown two weeks, was reportedly pryg to his privacy, even speculatg on his possible iendship wh Mafia lears; he was worried about his starrg role an hour-long NBC show entled <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Satra<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>A Man and His Mic,</em> which would require that he sg eighteen songs wh a voice that at this particular moment, jt a few nights before the tapg was to beg, was weak and sore and uncerta. Satra was ill. He was the victim of an ailment so mon that most people would nsir trivial. But when gets to Satra n plunge him to a state of anguish, ep prsn, panic, even rage. Frank Satra had a ld.</p><p data-no-id="4" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Satra wh a ld is Pisso whout pat, Ferrari whout fuel<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>only worse. For the mon ld robs Satra of that unsurable jewel, his voice, cuttg to the re of his nfince, and affects not only his own psyche but also seems to e a kd of psychosomatic nasal drip wh dozens of people who work for him, drk wh him, love him, pend on him for their own welfare and stabily. A Satra wh a ld n, a small way, send vibratns through the entertament dtry and beyond as surely as a Print of the Uned Stat, sudnly sick, n shake the natnal enomy.</p><style data-emotn="css gv3b6u">{--data-embed-display:flex;-webk-align-ems:center;-webk-box-align:center;-ms-flex-align:center;align-ems:center;display:-webk-box;display:-webk-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;marg-bottom:0.9375rem;}@media(m-width: 20rem){{clear:both;marg-left:to;marg-right:to;width:100%;}}@media(m-width: 30rem){{clear:both;marg-left:to;marg-right:to;width:100%;}}@media(m-width: 40.625rem){{width:70%;marg-right:1rem;marg-left:0rem;float:left;clear:left;}}@media(m-width: 48rem){{width:70%;marg-right:1rem;marg-left:0rem;float:left;clear:left;}}@media(m-width: 64rem){{width:60%;marg-right:1rem;marg-left:0rem;float:left;clear:left;}}@media(m-width: 73.75rem){{width:60%;marg-right:1rem;marg-left:lc(-30% - 1rem);float:left;clear:left;}}@media(m-width: 75rem){{width:60%;marg-right:1rem;marg-left:lc(-30% - 1rem);float:left;clear:left;}}@media(m-width: 90rem){{width:60%;marg-right:1rem;marg-left:lc(-30% - 1rem);float:left;clear:left;}} a span{right:1rem;} img{width:to;height:85vh;} a{display:-webk-le-box;display:-webk-le-flex;display:-ms-le-flexbox;display:le-flex;posn:var(--posn, relative);} img:not(.ewcw41w1){display:block;width:100%;height:to;-webk-align-self:flex-start;-ms-flex-em-align:flex-start;align-self:flex-start;}</style><div size="large" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="5" class="align-left size-large embed css-gv3b6u e1xqj1sx4"><style data-emotn="css uwraif">{width:100%;display:-webk-le-box;display:-webk-le-flex;display:-ms-le-flexbox;display:le-flex;-webk-flex-directn:lumn;-ms-flex-directn:lumn;flex-directn:lumn;marg-left:to;marg-right:to;-webk-box-pack:center;-ms-flex-pack:center;-webk-jtify-ntent:center;jtify-ntent:center;}</style><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><style data-emotn="css p7qblm">{posn:relative;--posn:absolute;height:to;} img{max-width:100%;height:to;} a{posn:absolute;}</style><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Drs shirt, Collar, Shirt, Hand, Stg, Monochrome, Drk, Monochrome photography, Black-and-whe, Whe-llar worker, " tle="Drs shirt, Collar, Shirt, Hand, Stg, Monochrome, Drk, Monochrome photography, Black-and-whe, Whe-llar worker, " loadg="lazy" width="2000" height="2929" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><style data-emotn="css 1i6sckr">{background:#c92228;bottom:0;paddg:.5rem;right:0;}@media(m-width: 64rem){{paddg:0.39rem;}}</style><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><style data-emotn="css 1l3i1cl">{display:block;height:1rem;width:1rem;}@media(m-width: 64rem){{width:1.063rem;height:1.063rem;}}</style><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><style data-emotn="css 78jldq">{paddg-left:0rem;}</style><div class="css-78jldq e1xqj1sx2"><style data-emotn="css 1am3yn9">{paddg-left:0rem;le-height:1;}</style><figptn class="css-1am3yn9 enfs9c50"><style data-emotn="css 1mcfn5x">{lor:#595959;font-fay:Lsanne,Lsanne-fallback,Arial,sans-serif;paddg-right:0.3125rem;}@media(max-width: 48rem){{font-size:0.70028rem;le-height:1.2;}}@media(m-width: 48rem){{font-size:0.70028rem;le-height:1.2;}}@media(m-width: 64rem){{font-size:0.75rem;le-height:1.3;}}</style><span class="css-1mcfn5x e6iqd2">John Domis</span></figptn></div></div></div><p data-no-id="6" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">For Frank Satra was now volved wh many thgs volvg many people<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>his own film pany, his rerd pany, his private airle, his missile-parts firm, his real-tate holdgs across the natn, his personal staff of seventy-five<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>which are only a portn of the power he is and has e to reprent. He seemed now to be also the embodiment of the fully emancipated male, perhaps the only one Ameri, the man who n do anythg he wants, anythg, n do bee he has money, the energy, and no apparent guilt. In an age when the very young seem to be takg over, prottg and picketg and mandg change, Frank Satra surviv as a natnal phenomenon, one of the few prewar products to whstand the tt of time. He is the champ who ma the big eback, the man who had everythg, lost , then got back, lettg nothg stand his way, dog what few men n do: he uprooted his life, left his fay, broke wh everythg that was faiar, learng the procs that one way to hold a woman is not to hold her. Now he has the affectn of Nancy and Ava and Mia, the fe female produce of three generatns, and still has the adoratn of his children, the eedom of a bachelor, he do not feel old, he mak old men feel young, mak them thk that if Frank Satra n do , n be done; not that they uld do , but is still nice for other men to know, at fifty, that n be done.</p><p data-no-id="7" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">But now, standg at this bar Beverly Hills, Satra had a ld, and he ntued to drk quietly and he seemed away his private world, not even reactg when sudnly the stereo the other room swched to a Satra song, "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morng."</p><div supprsHydratnWarng data-no-id="8" data-embed="pullquote" class="embed css-0 e9hzx6g0"><style data-emotn="css 1eiql25">{text-align:center;marg:0rem;paddg-top:0.9375rem;paddg-bottom:0.9375rem;}</style><blockquote class="css-1eiql25 e1pe3zr91"><style data-emotn="css ow0dpz">{borr:0.3125rem solid #FF3A30;borr-radi:100%;ntent:'';display:block;height:2.1875rem;left:50%;marg:-0.99rem to 0 -1.33rem;posn:absolute;width:2.1875rem;}</style><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-ow0dpz eagam8p0"></span><style data-emotn="css la9czl">{font-fay:Lsanne,Lsanne-fallback,Arial,sans-serif;font-size:1.625rem;le-height:1.2;marg:0rem;}@media(max-width: 48rem){{font-size:1.75rem;le-height:1.2;}}@media(m-width: 64rem){{font-size:2.375rem;le-height:1.2;}} b, strong{font-fay:her;font-weight:bold;} em, i{font-fay:her;font-style:alic;}{ntent:'＂';display:block;font-fay:Lsanne,Lsanne-fallback,Arial,sans-serif;font-size:3.4375rem;le-height:0.72;font-style:alic;paddg:0.3125rem 0.875rem 0 0;}</style><blockquote class="css-la9czl e1pe3zr90">Satra wh a ld is Pisso whout pat, Ferrari whout fuel<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>only worse.</blockquote><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-0 eagam8p1"></span></blockquote></div><p data-no-id="9" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">It is a lovely ballad that he first rerd ten years ago, and now spired many young upl who had been stg, tired of twistg, to get up and move slowly around the dance floor, holdg one another very close. Satra's tonatn, precisely clipped, yet full and flowg, gave a eper meang to the simple lyrics<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>"In the wee small hours of the morng/while the whole wi world is fast asleep/you lie awake, and thk about the girl...."<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em> was like so many of his classics, a song that evoked lonels and sensualy, and when blend wh the dim light and the alhol and nite and late-night needs, beme a kd of airy aphrodisiac. Undoubtedly the words om this song, and others like , had put lns the mood, was mic to make love by, and doubtls much love had been ma by all over Ameri at night rs, while the batteri burned down, ttag by the lake, on beach durg balmy summer evengs, seclud parks and exclive pentho and furnished rooms, b cisers and bs and banas<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em> all plac where Satra's songs uld be heard were the words that warmed women, wooed and won them, snipped the fal thread of hibn and gratified the male egos of ungrateful lovers; two generatns of men had been the beneficiari of such ballads, for which they were eternally his bt, for which they may eternally hate him. Neverthels here he was, the man himself, the early hours of the morng Beverly Hills, out of range.</p><p data-no-id="10" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The two blons, who seemed to be their middle thirti, were preened and polished, their matured bodi softly mold wh tight dark sus. They sat, legs crossed, perched on the high bar stools. They listened to the mic. Then one of them pulled out a Kent and Satra quickly placed his gold lighter unr and she held his hand, looked at his fgers: they were nubby and raw, and the pki protd, beg so stiff om arthris that he uld barely bend them. He was, as ual, immaculately drsed. He wore an oxford-grey su wh a vt, a su nservatively cut on the outsi but trimmed wh flamboyant silk wh; his sho, Brish, seemed to be shed even on the bottom of the sol. He also wore, as everybody seemed to know, a remarkably nvcg black hairpiece, one of sixty that he owns, most of them unr the re of an nspicuo ltle grey-haired lady who, holdg his hair a ty satchel, follows him around whenever he performs. She earns $400 a week. The most distguishg thg about Satra's face are his ey, clear blue and alert, ey that wh sends n go ld wh anger, or glow wh affectn, or, as now, reflect a vague tachment that keeps his iends silent and distant. </p><style data-emotn="css 1736von">{--data-embed-display:flex;-webk-align-ems:center;-webk-box-align:center;-ms-flex-align:center;align-ems:center;clear:both;display:-webk-box;display:-webk-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;marg-bottom:0.9375rem;marg-left:to;marg-right:to;width:100%;}@media(m-width: 20rem){{width:100%;marg:0 to 0.9375rem;}}@media(m-width: 30rem){{width:100%;marg:0 to 0.9375rem;}}@media(m-width: 40.625rem){{width:100%;marg:0 to 0.9375rem;}}@media(m-width: 48rem){{width:100%;marg:0 to 0.9375rem;}}@media(m-width: 64rem){{width:100%;marg:0 to 0.9375rem;}}@media(m-width: 73.75rem){{width:100%;marg:0 to 0.9375rem;}}@media(m-width: 75rem){{width:100%;marg:0 to 0.9375rem;}}@media(m-width: 90rem){{width:100%;marg:0 to 0.9375rem;}} a span{right:1rem;} img{width:to;height:85vh;} a{display:-webk-le-box;display:-webk-le-flex;display:-ms-le-flexbox;display:le-flex;posn:var(--posn, relative);} img:not(.ewcw41w1){display:block;width:100%;height:to;-webk-align-self:flex-start;-ms-flex-em-align:flex-start;align-self:flex-start;}</style><div size="medium" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="11" class="align-center size-medium embed css-1736von e1xqj1sx4"><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Lip, Ch, Jaw, Monochrome photography, Monochrome, Black hair, Black-and-whe, Portra, Portra photography, Wrkle, " tle="Lip, Ch, Jaw, Monochrome photography, Monochrome, Black hair, Black-and-whe, Portra, Portra photography, Wrkle, " loadg="lazy" width="2000" height="2896" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><style data-emotn="css swqnqv">@media(m-width: 20rem){{paddg-left:0rem;}}@media(m-width: 30rem){{paddg-left:0rem;}}@media(m-width: 40.625rem){{paddg-left:0rem;}}@media(m-width: 48rem){{paddg-left:0rem;}}@media(m-width: 64rem){{paddg-left:0rem;}}@media(m-width: 73.75rem){{paddg-left:0rem;}}@media(m-width: 75rem){{paddg-left:0rem;}}@media(m-width: 90rem){{paddg-left:0rem;}}</style><div class="css-swqnqv e1xqj1sx2"><figptn class="css-1am3yn9 enfs9c50"><span class="css-1mcfn5x e6iqd2">John Bryson</span></figptn></div></div></div><p data-no-id="12" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Leo Durocher, one of Satra's clost iends, was now shootg pool the small room behd the bar. Standg near the door was Jim Mahoney, Satra's prs agent, a somewhat chunky young man wh a square jaw and narrow ey who would remble a tough Irish placlothman if were not for the expensive ntental sus he wears and his exquise sho often adorned wh polished buckl. Also nearby was a big, broad-shoulred two-hundred-pound actor named Brad Dexter who seemed always to be thstg out his cht so that his gut would not show.</p><p data-no-id="13" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Brad Dexter has appeared several films and televisn shows, displayg fe talent as a character actor, but Beverly Hills he is equally known for the role he played Hawaii two years ago when he swam a few hundred yards and risked his life to save Satra om drowng a ripti. Sce then Dexter has been one of Satra's nstant panns and has been ma a producer Satra's film pany. He occupi a plh office near Satra's executive sue. He is endlsly searchg for lerary properti that might be nverted to new starrg rol for Satra. Whenever he is among strangers wh Satra he worri bee he knows that Satra brgs out the bt and worst people<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>some men will bee aggrsive, some women will bee sctive, others will stand around skeptilly appraisg him, the scene will be somehow toxited by his mere prence, and maybe Satra himself, if feelg as badly as he was tonight, might bee tolerant or tense, and then: headl. So Brad Dexter tri to anticipate danger and warn Satra advance. He nfs to feelg very protective of Satra, admtg a recent moment of self-revelatn: "I'd kill for him."</p><p data-no-id="14" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">While this statement may seem outlandishly dramatic, particularly when taken out of ntext, nohels exprs a fierce fily that is que mon wh Satra's special circle. It is a characteristic that Satra, whout admissn, seems to prefer: All the Way; All or Nothg at All. This is the Sicilian Satra; he perms his iends, if they wish to rema that, none of the easy Anglo-Saxon outs. But if they rema loyal, then there is nothg Satra will not do turn<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>fabulo gifts, personal kdns, enuragement when they're down, adulatn when they're up. They are wise to remember, however, one thg. He is Satra. The boss. Il Padrone.</p><div supprsHydratnWarng data-no-id="15" data-embed="pullquote" class="embed css-0 e9hzx6g0"><blockquote class="css-1eiql25 e1pe3zr91"><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-ow0dpz eagam8p0"></span><blockquote class="css-la9czl e1pe3zr90">The most distguishg thg about Satra's face are his ey, clear blue and alert, ey that wh sends n go ld wh anger, or glow wh affectn, or, as now, reflect a vague tachment that keeps his iends silent and distant.</blockquote><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-0 eagam8p1"></span></blockquote></div><p data-no-id="16" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">I had seen somethg of this Sicilian si of Satra last summer at Jilly's saloon New York, which was the only other time I'd gotten a close view of him prr to this night this California club. Jilly's, which is on Wt Fifty-send Street Manhattan, is where Satra drks whenever he is New York, and there is a special chair rerved for him the back room agast the wall that nobody else may e. When he is occupyg , seated behd a long table flanked by his clost New York iends<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>who clu the saloonkeeper, Jilly Rizzo, and Jilly's azure-haired wife, Honey, who is known as the "Blue Jew"<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>a rather strange rualistic scene velops. That night dozens of people, some of them sual iends of Satra's, some mere acquatanc, some neher, appeared outsi of Jilly's saloon. They approached like a shre. They had e to pay rpect. They were om New York, Brooklyn, Atlantic Cy, Hoboken. They were old actors, young actors, former prizefighters, tired tmpet players, policians, a boy wh a ne. There was a fat lady who said she remembered Satra when he ed to throw the Jersey Observer onto her ont porch 1933. There were middle-aged upl who said they had heard Satra sg at the Rtic Cab 1938 and "We knew then that he really had !" Or they had heard him when he was wh Harry Jam's band 1939, or wh Tommy Dorsey 1941 ("Yeah, that's the song, 'I'll Never Se Aga'<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>he sang one night this dump near Newark and we danced..."); or they remembered that time at the Paramount wh the swooners, and him wh those bow ti, The Voice; and one woman remembered that awful boy she knew then<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>Alexanr Dorogokupetz, an eighteen-year-old heckler who had thrown a tomato at Satra and the bobby-soxers the balny had tried to flail him to ath. Whatever beme of Alexanr Dorogokupetz? The lady did not know.</p><p data-no-id="17" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">And they remembered when Satra was a failure and sang trash like "Mairzy Doats," and they remembered his eback and on this night they were all standg outsi Jilly's saloon, dozens of them, but they uld not get . So some of them left. But most of them stayed, hopg that soon they might be able to ph or wedge their way to Jilly's between the elbows and backsis of the men drkg three-ep at the bar, and they might be able to peek through and see him stg back there. This is all they really wanted; they wanted to see him. And for a few moments they gazed silence through the smoke and they stared. Then they turned, fought their way out of the bar, went home.</p><p data-no-id="18" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Some of Satra's close iends, all of whom are known to the men guardg Jilly's door, do manage to get an rt to the back room. But once they are there they, too, mt fend for themselv. On the particular eveng, Frank Gifford, the former football player, got only seven yards three tri. Others who had somehow been close enough to shake Satra's hand did not shake ; stead they jt touched him on the shoulr or sleeve, or they merely stood close enough for him to see them and, after he'd given them a wk of regnn or a wave or a nod or lled out their nam (he had a fantastic memory for first nam), they would then turn and leave. They had checked . They had paid their rpects. And as I watched this rualistic scene, I got the imprsn that Frank Satra was dwellg simultaneoly two worlds that were not ntemporary.</p><p data-no-id="19" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">On the one hand he is the swger<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>as he is when talkg and jokg wh Sammy Davis, Jr., Richard Conte, Liza Melli, Bernie Massi, or any of the other show-bs people who get to s at the table; on the other, as when he is noddg or wavg to his paisanos who are close to him (Al Silvani, a boxg manager who works wh Satra's film pany; Domic Di Bona, his wardrobe man; Ed Pucci, a 300-pound former football leman who is his ai--mp), Frank Satra is Il Padrone. Or better still, he is what tradnal Sicily have long been lled uomi rispettati<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>men of rpect: men who are both majtic and humble, men who are loved by all and are very genero by nature, men whose hands are kissed as they walk om village to village, men who would personally go out of their way to redrs a wrong.</p><div size="medium" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="20" class="align-center size-medium embed css-1736von e1xqj1sx4"><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Clothg, Coat, Su, Outerwear, Formal wear, Drs shirt, Facial exprsn, Tie, Blazer, Drk, " tle="Clothg, Coat, Su, Outerwear, Formal wear, Drs shirt, Facial exprsn, Tie, Blazer, Drk, " loadg="lazy" width="2197" height="1463" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><div class="css-swqnqv e1xqj1sx2"><figptn class="css-1am3yn9 enfs9c50"><span class="css-1mcfn5x e6iqd2">Bettmann/Corbis</span></figptn></div></div></div><p data-no-id="21" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Frank Satra do thgs personally. At Christmas time, he will personally pick dozens of prents for his close iends and fay, rememberg the type of jewelry they like, their favore lors, the siz of their shirts and drs. When a mician iend's hoe was stroyed and his wife was killed a Los Angel mud sli a ltle more than a year ago, Satra personally me to his aid, fdg the mician a new home, payg whatever hospal bills were left unpaid by the surance, then personally supervisg the furnishg of the new home down to the replacg of the silverware, the len, the purchase of new clothg.</p><p data-no-id="22" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The same Satra who did this n, wh the same hour, explo a towerg rage of tolerance should a small thg be rrectly done for him by one of his paisanos. For example, when one of his men brought him a ankfurter wh tsup on , which Satra apparently abhors, he angrily threw the bottle at the man, splatterg tsup all over him. Most of the men who work around Satra are big. But this never seems to timidate Satra nor curb his impetuo behavr wh them when he is mad. They will never take a swg back at him. He is Il Padrone.</p><p data-no-id="23" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">At other tim, aimg to please, his men will overreact to his sir: when he sually observed that his big orange sert jeep Palm Sprgs seemed need of a new patg, the word was swiftly passed down through the channels, beg ever more urgent as went, until fally was a mand that the jeep be pated now, immediately, yterday. To acplish this would require the hirg of a special crew of paters to work all night, at overtime rat; which, turn, meant that the orr had to be bucked back up the le for further approval. When fally got back to Satra's sk, he did not know what was all about; after he had figured out he nfsed, wh a tired look on his face, that he did not re when the hell they pated the jeep.</p><p data-no-id="24" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Yet would have been unwise for anyone to anticipate his reactn, for he is a wholly unpredictable man of many moods and great dimensn, a man who rponds stantaneoly to stct<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>sudnly, dramatilly, wildly he rponds, and nobody n predict what will follow. A young lady named Jane Hoag, a reporter at Life's Los Angel bure who had attend the same school as Satra's dghter, Nancy, had once been ved to a party at Mrs. Satra's California home at which Frank Satra, who matas very rdial relatns wh his former wife, acted as host. Early the party Miss Hoag, while leang agast a table, accintally wh her elbow knocked over one of a pair of alabaster birds to the floor, smashg to piec. Sudnly, Miss Hoag relled, Satra's dghter cried, "Oh, that was one of my mother's favore..."<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>but before she uld plete the sentence, Satra glared at her, cuttg her off, and while forty other guts the room all stared silence, Satra walked over, quickly wh his fger flicked the other alabaster bird off the table, smashg to piec, and then put an arm gently around Jane Hoag and said, a way that put her pletely at ease, "That's okay, kid."</p><hr data-no-id="25" class="css-18pb4rg et3p2gv0" /><p data-no-id="26" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><strong data-redactor-tag="strong" data-verified="redactor">NOW SINATRA SAID A FEW</strong> words to the blons. Then he turned om the bar and began to walk toward the poolroom. One of Satra's other men iends moved to keep the girls pany. Brad Dexter, who had been standg the rner talkg to some other people, now followed Satra.</p><p data-no-id="27" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The room cracked wh the clack of billiard balls. There were about a dozen spectators the room, most of them young men who were watchg Leo Durocher shoot agast two other aspirg htlers who were not very good. This private drkg club has among s membership many actors, directors, wrers, mols, nearly all of them a good al younger than Satra or Durocher and much more sual the way they drs for the eveng. Many of the young women, their long hair flowg loosely below their shoulrs, wore tight, fanny-ftg Jax pants and very expensive sweaters; and a few of the young men wore blue or green velour shirts wh high llars and narrow tight pants, and Italian loafers.</p><div size="medium" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="28" class="align-center size-medium embed css-1736von e1xqj1sx4"><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Monochrome, Style, Light, Monochrome photography, Black-and-whe, Backlightg, Lens flare, Portra, " tle="Monochrome, Style, Light, Monochrome photography, Black-and-whe, Backlightg, Lens flare, Portra, " loadg="lazy" width="3000" height="2009" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><div class="css-swqnqv e1xqj1sx2"><figptn class="css-1am3yn9 enfs9c50"><span class="css-1mcfn5x e6iqd2">CBS Photo Archive</span></figptn></div></div></div><p data-no-id="29" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">It was obv om the way Satra looked at the people the poolroom that they were not his style, but he leaned back agast a high stool that was agast the wall, holdg his drk his right hand, and said nothg, jt watched Durocher slam the billiard balls back and forth. The younger men the room, acctomed to seeg Satra at this club, treated him whout ference, although they said nothg offensive. They were a ol young group, very California-ol and sual, and one of the olt seemed to be a ltle guy, very quick of movement, who had a sharp profile, pale blue ey, blondish hair, and squared eyeglass. He wore a pair of brown rduroy slacks, a green shaggy-dog Shetland sweater, a tan sue jacket, and Game Warn boots, for which he had recently paid $60.</p><p data-no-id="30" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Frank Satra, leang agast the stool, snifflg a b om his ld, uld not take his ey off the Game Warn boots. Once, after gazg at them for a few moments, he turned away; but now he was foced on them aga. The owner of the boots, who was jt standg them watchg the pool game, was named Harlan Ellison, a wrer who had jt pleted work on a screenplay, <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">The Osr.</em></p><p data-no-id="31" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Fally Satra uld not nta himself.</p><p data-no-id="32" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Hey," he yelled his slightly harsh voice that still had a soft, sharp edge. "Those Italian boots?"</p><p data-no-id="33" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"No," Ellison said.</p><p data-no-id="34" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Spanish?"</p><p data-no-id="35" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"No."</p><p data-no-id="36" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Are they English boots?"</p><p data-no-id="37" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Look, I donno, man," Ellison shot back, owng at Satra, then turng away aga.</p><p data-no-id="38" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Now the poolroom was sudnly silent. Leo Durocher who had been poised behd his cue stick and was bent low jt oze that posn for a send. Nobody moved. Then Satra moved away om the stool and walked wh that slow, arrogant swagger of his toward Ellison, the hard tap of Satra's sho the only sound the room. Then, lookg down at Ellison wh a slightly raised eyebrow and a tricky ltle se, Satra asked: "You expectg a storm?"</p><p data-no-id="39" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Harlan Ellison moved a step to the si. "Look, is there any reason why you're talkg to me?"</p><p data-no-id="40" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"I don't like the way you're drsed," Satra said.</p><p data-no-id="41" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Hate to shake you up," Ellison said, "but I drs to su myself."</p><p data-no-id="42" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Now there was some mblg the room, and somebody said, "Com'on, Harlan, let's get out of here," and Leo Durocher ma his pool shot and said, "Yeah, 'on."</p><p data-no-id="43" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">But Ellison stood his ground.</p><p data-no-id="44" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Satra said, "What do you do?"</p><p data-no-id="45" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"I'm a plumber," Ellison said.</p><p data-no-id="46" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"No, no, he's not," another young man quickly yelled om across the table. "He wrote <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">The Osr.</em>"</p><p data-no-id="47" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Oh, yeah," Satra said, "well I've seen , and 's a piece of crap."</p><p data-no-id="48" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"That's strange," Ellison said, "bee they haven't even released yet."</p><p data-no-id="49" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Well, I've seen ," Satra repeated, "and 's a piece of crap."</p><p data-no-id="50" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Now Brad Dexter, very anx, very big oppose the small figure of Ellison, said, "Com'on, kid, I don't want you this room."</p><p data-no-id="51" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Hey," Satra terpted Dexter, "n't you see I'm talkg to this guy?"</p><p data-no-id="52" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Dexter was nfed. Then his whole attu changed, and his voice went soft and he said to Ellison, almost wh a plea, "Why do you persist tormentg me?"</p><p data-no-id="53" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The whole scene was beg ridiculo, and seemed that Satra was only half-ser, perhaps jt reactg out of sheer boredom or ner spair; at any rate, after a few more exchang Harlan Ellison left the room. By this time the word had gotten out to those on the dance floor about the Satra-Ellison exchange, and somebody went to look for the manager of the club. But somebody else said that the manager had already heard about <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>and had quickly gone out the door, hopped his r and drove home. So the assistant manager went to the poolroom.</p><div supprsHydratnWarng data-no-id="54" data-embed="pullquote" class="embed css-0 e9hzx6g0"><blockquote class="css-1eiql25 e1pe3zr91"><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-ow0dpz eagam8p0"></span><blockquote class="css-la9czl e1pe3zr90">"I don't want anybody here whout ats and ti."</blockquote><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-0 eagam8p1"></span></blockquote></div><p data-no-id="55" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"I don't want anybody here whout ats and ti," Satra snapped. </p><p data-no-id="56" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The assistant manager nodd, and walked back to his office.</p><hr data-no-id="57" class="css-18pb4rg et3p2gv0" /><p data-no-id="58" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><strong data-redactor-tag="strong" data-verified="redactor">IT WAS THE MORNING AFTER.</strong> It was the begng of another nervo day for Satra's prs agent, Jim Mahoney. Mahoney had a headache, and he was worried but not over the Satra-Ellison cint of the night before. At the time Mahoney had been wh his wife at a table the other room, and possibly he had not even been aware of the ltle drama. The whole thg had lasted only about three mut. And three mut after was over, Frank Satra had probably fotten about for the rt of his life<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>as Ellison will probably remember for the rt of his life: he had had, as hundreds of others before him, at an unexpected moment between darkns and dawn, a scene wh Satra.</p><p data-no-id="59" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">It was jt as well that Mahoney had not been the poolroom; he had enough on his md today. He was worried about Satra's ld and worried about the ntroversial CBS documentary that, spe Satra's protts and whdrawal of permissn, would be shown on televisn ls than two weeks. The newspapers this morng were full of hts that Satra might sue the work, and Mahoney's phon were rgg whout pse, and now he was plugged to New York talkg to the <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Daily News</em>'s Kay Garlla, sayg: "..'s right, ma a gentleman's agreement to not ask certa qutns about Frank's private life, and then Cronke went right ahead: 'Frank, tell me about those associatns.' That qutn, Kay<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>out! That qutn should never have been asked...."</p><p data-no-id="60" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">As he spoke, Mahoney leaned back his leather chair, his head shakg slowly. He is a powerfully built man of thirty-seven; he has a round, ddy face, a heavy jaw, and narrow pale ey, and he might appear pugnac if he did not speak wh such clear, soft scery and if he were not so meticulo about his cloth. His sus and sho are superbly tailored, which was one of the first thgs Satra noticed about him, and his spac office oppose the bar is a red-muff electril shoe polisher and a pair of brown woon shoulrs on a stand over which Mahoney n drape his jackets. Near the bar is an tographed photograph of Print Kennedy and a few pictur of Frank Satra, but there are none of Satra any other rooms Mahoney's public-relatns agency; there once was a large photograph of him hangg the receptn room but this apparently bised the egos of some of Mahoney's other movie-star clients and, sce Satra never shows up at the agency anyway, the photograph was removed.</p><p data-no-id="61" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Still, Satra seems ever prent, and if Mahoney did not have legimate worri about Satra, as he did today, he uld vent them<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>and, as worry aids, he surrounds himself wh ltle mementos of moments the past when he did worry. In his shavg k there is a two-year-old box of sleepg tablets dispensed by a Reno dggist<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>the date on the bottle marks the kidnappg of Frank Satra, Jr. There is on a table Mahoney's office a mounted wood reproductn of Frank Satra's ransom note wrten on the aforementned ocsn. One of Mahoney's mannerisms, when he is stg at his sk worryg, is to tker wh the ty toy tra he keeps ont of him<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>the tra is a souvenir om the Satra film, <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Von Ryan's Exprs</em>; is to men who are close to Satra what the PT-109 tie clasps are to men who were close to Kennedy<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>and Mahoney then proceeds to roll the ltle tra back and forth on the six ch of track; back and forth, back and forth, click-clack-click-clack. It is his Queeg-thg.</p><p data-no-id="62" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Now Mahoney quickly put asi the ltle tra. His secretary told him there was a very important ll on the le. Mahoney picked up, and his voice was even softer and more scere than before. "Y, Frank," he said. ", Frank...."</p><p data-no-id="63" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">When Mahoney put down the phone, quietly, he announced that Frank Satra had left his private jet to spend the weekend at his home Palm Sprgs, which is a sixteen-mute flight om his home Los Angel. Mahoney was now worried aga. The Lear jet that Satra's pilot would be flyg was intil, Mahoney said, to the one that had jt crashed another part of California. </p><hr data-no-id="64" class="css-18pb4rg et3p2gv0" /><p data-no-id="65" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><strong data-redactor-tag="strong" data-verified="redactor">ON THE FOLLOWING</strong> Monday, a cloudy and unseasonably ol California day, more than one hundred people gathered si a whe televisn stud, an enormo room domated by a whe stage, whe walls, and wh dozens of lights and lamps danglg: rather rembled a gigantic operatg room. In this room, wh an hour or so, NBC was schled to beg tapg a one-hour show that would be televised lor on the night of November 24 and would highlight, as much as uld the limed time, the twenty-five-year reer of Frank Satra as a public entertaer. It would not attempt to probe, as the forthg CBS Satra documentary allegedly would, that area of Satra's life that he regards as private. The NBC show would be maly an hour of Satra sgg some of the hs that rried him om Hoboken to Hollywood, a show that would be terpted only now and then by a few film clips and mercials for Budweiser beer. Prr to his ld, Satra had been very exced about this show; he saw here an opportuny to appeal not only to those nostalgic, but also to munite his talent to some rock-and-rollers<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em> a sense, he was battlg The Beatl. The prs releas beg prepared by Mahoney's agency strsed this, readg: "If you happen to be tired of kid sgers wearg mops of hair thick enough to hi a crate of should be rehg, to nsir the entertament value of a vio special tled <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Satra<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>A Man and His Mic</em>...."</p><p data-no-id="66" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">But now this NBC stud Los Angel, there was an atmosphere of anticipatn and tensn bee of the uncertaty of the Satra voice. The forty-three micians Nelson Riddle's orchtra had already arrived and some were up on the whe platform warmg up. Dwight Hemn, a youthful sandy-haired director who had won praise for his televisn special on Barbra Streisand, was seated the glass-enclosed ntrol booth that overlooked the orchtra and stage. The mera crews, technil teams, secury guards, Budweiser ad men were also standg between the floor lamps and meras, wag, as were a dozen or so ladi who worked as secretari other parts of the buildg but had sneaked away so they uld watch this.</p><p data-no-id="67" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">A few mut before eleven o'clock, word spread quickly through the long rridor to the big stud that Satra was spotted walkg through the parkg lot and was on his way, and was lookg fe. There seemed great relief among the group that was gathered; but when the lean, sharply drsed figure of the man got closer, and closer, they saw to their dismay that was not Frank Satra. It was his double. Johnny Delgado.</p><style data-emotn="css d9wkvk">{--data-embed-display:flex;-webk-align-ems:center;-webk-box-align:center;-ms-flex-align:center;align-ems:center;clear:both;display:-webk-box;display:-webk-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;marg-bottom:0.9375rem;marg-left:to;marg-right:to;width:100%;}@media(m-width: 20rem){{marg:to lc(50% - 50vw) 0.9375rem;width:100vw;}}@media(m-width: 30rem){{marg:to lc(50% - 50vw) 0.9375rem;width:100vw;}}@media(m-width: 40.625rem){{marg:to lc(50% - 50vw) 0.9375rem;width:100vw;}}@media(m-width: 48rem){{marg:to lc(50% - 50vw) 0.9375rem;width:100vw;}}@media(m-width: 64rem){{marg:to lc(50% - 50vw) 0.9375rem;width:100vw;}}@media(m-width: 73.75rem){{marg:to lc(50% - 50vw) 0.9375rem;width:100vw;}}@media(m-width: 75rem){{marg:to lc(50% - 50vw) 0.9375rem;width:100vw;}}@media(m-width: 90rem){{marg:to lc(50% - 50vw) 0.9375rem;width:100vw;}} a span{right:1rem;} img{width:to;height:85vh;} a{display:-webk-le-box;display:-webk-le-flex;display:-ms-le-flexbox;display:le-flex;posn:var(--posn, relative);} img:not(.ewcw41w1){display:block;width:100%;height:to;-webk-align-self:flex-start;-ms-flex-em-align:flex-start;align-self:flex-start;}</style><div size="large" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="68" class="align-center size-large embed css-d9wkvk e1xqj1sx4"><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Mic, Mician, Mil stment, Pop mic, Darkns, Snapshot, Monochrome, Black-and-whe, Electronic mil stment, Mil stment accsory, " tle="Mic, Mician, Mil stment, Pop mic, Darkns, Snapshot, Monochrome, Black-and-whe, Electronic mil stment, Mil stment accsory, " loadg="lazy" width="3000" height="567" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><style data-emotn="css 1gccgwy">@media(m-width: 20rem){{paddg-left:1rem;}}@media(m-width: 30rem){{paddg-left:1rem;}}@media(m-width: 40.625rem){{paddg-left:1rem;}}@media(m-width: 48rem){{paddg-left:1rem;}}@media(m-width: 64rem){{paddg-left:1rem;}}@media(m-width: 73.75rem){{paddg-left:1rem;}}@media(m-width: 75rem){{paddg-left:1rem;}}@media(m-width: 90rem){{paddg-left:1rem;}}</style><div class="css-1gccgwy e1xqj1sx2"><figptn class="css-1am3yn9 enfs9c50"><span class="css-1mcfn5x e6iqd2">John Domis</span></figptn></div></div></div><p data-no-id="69" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Delgado walks like Satra, has Satra's build, and om certa facial angl do remble Satra. But he seems a rather shy dividual. Fifteen years ago, early his actg reer, Delgado applied for a role <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">From Here to Eterny.</em> He was hired, fdg out later that he was to be Satra's double. In Satra's latt film, <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Asslt on a Queen,</em> a story which Satra and some fellow nspirators attempt to hijack the <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Queen Mary,</em> Johnny Delgado doubl for Satra some water scen; and now, this NBC stud, his job was to stand unr the hot televisn lights markg Satra's spots on the stage for the mera crews.</p><p data-no-id="70" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Five mut later, the real Frank Satra walked . His face was pale, his blue ey seemed a b watery. He had been unable to rid himself of the ld, but he was gog to try to sg anyway bee the schle was tight and thoands of dollars were volved at this moment the assemblg of the orchtra and crews and the rental of the stud. But when Satra, on his way to his small rehearsal room to warm up his voice, looked to the stud and saw that the stage and orchtra's platform were not close together, as he had specifilly requted, his lips tightened and he was obvly very upset. A few moments later, om his rehearsal room, uld be heard the poundg of his fist agast the top of the piano and the voice of his acpanist, Bill Miller, sayg, softly, "Try not to upset yourself, Frank."</p><p data-no-id="71" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Later Jim Mahoney and another man walked , and there was talk of Dorothy Kilgallen's ath New York earlier that morng. She had been an arnt foe of Satra for years, and he beme equally unplimentary about her his nightclub act, and now, though she was ad, he did not promise his feelgs. "Dorothy Kilgallen's ad," he repeated, walkg out of the room toward the stud. "Well, gus I got to change my whole act."</p><p data-no-id="72" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">When he strolled to the stud the micians all picked up their stments and stiffened their seats. Satra cleared his throat a few tim and then, after rehearsg a few ballads wh the orchtra, he sang "Don't Worry About Me" to his satisfactn and, beg uncerta of how long his voice uld last, sudnly beme impatient.</p><p data-no-id="73" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Why don't we tape this mother?" he lled out, lookg up toward the glass booth where the director, Dwight Hemn, and his staff were stg. Their heads seemed to be down, focg on the ntrol board.</p><p data-no-id="74" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Why don't we tape this mother?" Satra repeated.</p><p data-no-id="75" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The productn stage manager, who stands near the mera wearg a headset, repeated Satra's words exactly to his le to the ntrol room: "Why don't we tape this mother?"</p><p data-no-id="76" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Hemn did not answer. Possibly his swch was off. It was hard to know bee of the obscurg reflectns the lights ma agast the glass booth.</p><p data-no-id="77" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Why don't we put on a at and tie," said Satra, then wearg a high-necked yellow pullover, "and tape this...."</p><p data-no-id="78" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Sudnly Hemn's voice me over the sound amplifier, very lmly: "Okay, Frank, would you md gog back over...." </p><p data-no-id="79" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Y, I would md gog back," Satra snapped. </p><p data-no-id="80" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The silence om Hemn's end, which lasted a send or two, was then aga terpted by Satra sayg, "When we stop dog thgs around here the way we did them 1950, maybe we..." and Satra ntued to tear to Hemn, nmng as well the lack of morn techniqu puttg such shows together; then, possibly not wantg to e his voice unnecsarily, he stopped. And Dwight Hemn, very patient, so patient and lm that one would assume he had not heard anythg that Satra had jt said, outled the openg part of the show. And Satra a few mut later was readg his openg remarks, words that would follow "Whout a Song," off the large idt-rds beg held near the mera. Then, this done, he prepared to do the same thg on mera.</p><p data-no-id="81" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Frank Satra Show, Act I, Page 10, Take 1," lled a man wh a clapboard, jumpg ont of the mera<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>clap<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>then jumpg away aga.</p><p data-no-id="82" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Did you ever stop to thk," Satra began, "what the world would be like whout a song?... It would be a pretty dreary place.... Giv you somethg to thk about, don't ?..."</p><p data-no-id="83" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Satra stopped.</p><p data-no-id="84" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Exce me," he said, addg, "Boy, I need a drk."</p><p data-no-id="85" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">They tried aga.</p><p data-no-id="86" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Frank Satra Show, Act I, Page 10, Take 2," yelled the jumpg guy wh the clapboard.</p><p data-no-id="87" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Did you ever stop to thk what the world would be like whout a song?..." Frank Satra read through this time whout stoppg. Then he rehearsed a few more songs, once or twice terptg the orchtra when a certa stmental sound was not que what he wanted. It was hard to tell how well his voice was gog to hold up, for this was early the show; up to this pot, however, everybody the room seemed pleased, particularly when he sang an old sentimental favore wrten more than twenty years ago by Jimmy Van Hsen and Phil Silvers<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>"Nancy," spired by the first of Satra's three children when she was jt a few years old.</p><p data-no-id="88" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">If I don't see her each day</em></p><p data-no-id="89" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">I miss her....</em></p><p data-no-id="90" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Gee what a thrill</em></p><p data-no-id="91" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Each time I kiss her....</em></p><p data-no-id="92" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">As Satra sang the words, though he has sung them hundreds and hundreds of tim the past, was sudnly obv to everybody the stud that somethg que special mt be gog on si the man, bee somethg que special was g out. He was sgg now, ld or no ld, wh power and warmth, he was lettg himself go, the public arrogance was gone, the private si was this song about the girl who, is said, unrstands him better than anybody else, and is the only person ont of whom he n be unashamedly himself.</p><div size="medium" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="93" class="align-center size-medium embed css-1736von e1xqj1sx4"><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Face, Event, Drkware, Drk, Formal wear, Su, Tie, Tableware, Monochrome, Stemware, " tle="Face, Event, Drkware, Drk, Formal wear, Su, Tie, Tableware, Monochrome, Stemware, " loadg="lazy" width="2000" height="1320" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><div class="css-swqnqv e1xqj1sx2"><figptn class="css-1am3yn9 enfs9c50"><span class="css-1mcfn5x e6iqd2">John Domis</span></figptn></div></div></div><p data-no-id="94" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Nancy is twenty-five. She liv alone, her marriage to sger Tommy Sands havg end divorce. Her home is a Los Angel suburb and she is now makg her third film and is rerdg for her father's rerd pany. She se him every day; or, if not, he telephon, no matter if be om Europe or Asia. When Satra's sgg first beme popular on rad, stimulatg the swooners, Nancy would listen at home and cry. When Satra's first marriage broke up 1951 and he left home, Nancy was the only child old enough to remember him as a father. She also saw him wh Ava Gardner, Juliet Prowse, Mia Farrow, many others, has gone on double dat wh him....</p><p data-no-id="95" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">She tak the wter</em></p><p data-no-id="96" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">And mak summer....</em></p><p data-no-id="97" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Summer uld take</em></p><p data-no-id="98" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Some lsons om her....</em></p><p data-no-id="99" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Nancy now also se him visg at home wh his first wife, the former Nancy Barbato, a plasterer's dghter om Jersey Cy whom he married 1939 when he was earng $25 a week sgg at the Rtic Cab near Hoboken.</p><div supprsHydratnWarng data-no-id="100" data-embed="pullquote" class="embed css-0 e9hzx6g0"><blockquote class="css-1eiql25 e1pe3zr91"><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-ow0dpz eagam8p0"></span><blockquote class="css-la9czl e1pe3zr90">He was sgg now, ld or no ld, wh power and warmth, he was lettg himself go, the public arrogance was gone, the private si was this song about the girl who, is said, unrstands him better than anybody else, and is the only person ont of whom he n be unashamedly himself.</blockquote><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-0 eagam8p1"></span></blockquote></div><p data-no-id="101" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The first Mrs. Satra, a strikg woman who has never remarried ("When you've been married to Frank Satra..." she once explaed to a iend), liv a magnificent home Los Angel wh her younger dghter, Ta, who is seventeen. There is no bterns, only great rpect and affectn between Satra and his first wife, and he has long been wele her home and has even been known to wanr at odd hours, stoke the fire, lie on the sofa, and fall asleep. Frank Satra n fall asleep anywhere, somethg he learned when he ed to ri bumpy roads wh band b; he also learned at that time, when stg a tuxedo, how to pch the troer creas the back and tuck the jacket unr and out, and fall asleep perfectly prsed. But he do not ri b anymore, and his dghter Nancy, who her younger days felt rejected when he slept on the sofa stead of givg attentn to her, later realized that the sofa was one of the few plac left the world where Frank Satra uld get any privacy, where his famo face would neher be stared at nor e an abnormal reactn others. She realized, too, that thgs normal have always elud her father: his childhood was one of lonels and a drive toward attentn, and sce attag he has never aga been certa of solu. Upon lookg out the wdow of a home he once owned Hasbrouck Heights, New Jersey, he would ocsnally see the fac of teen-agers peekg ; and 1944, after movg to California and buyg a home behd a ten-foot fence on Lake Tolu, he disvered that the only way to pe the telephone and other tsns was to board his paddle boat wh a few iends, a rd table and a se of beer, and stay afloat all afternoon. But he has tried, sofar as has been possible, to be like everyone else, Nancy says. He wept on her weddg day, he is very sentimental and sensive....</p><hr data-no-id="102" class="css-18pb4rg et3p2gv0" /><p data-no-id="103" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><strong data-redactor-tag="strong" data-verified="redactor">WHAT THE HELL</strong> are you dog up there, Dwight?"</p><p data-no-id="104" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Silence om the ntrol booth.</p><p data-no-id="105" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Got a party or somethg gog on up there, Dwight?"</p><p data-no-id="106" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Satra stood on the stage, arms fold, glarg up across the meras toward Hemn. Satra had sung Nancy wh probably all he had his voice on this day. The next few numbers ntaed raspy not, and twice his voice pletely cracked. But now Hemn was the ntrol booth out of munitn; then he was down the stud walkg over to where Satra stood. A few mut later they both left the stud and were on the way up to the ntrol booth. The tape was replayed for Satra. He watched only about five mut of before he started to shake his head. Then he said to Hemn: "Fet , jt fet . You're wastg your time. What you got there," Satra said, noddg to the sgg image of himself on the televisn screen, "is a man wh a ld." Then he left the ntrol booth, orrg that the whole day's performance be scbbed and future tapg postponed until he had revered.</p><hr data-no-id="107" class="css-18pb4rg et3p2gv0" /><p data-no-id="108" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><strong data-redactor-tag="strong" data-verified="redactor">SOON THE WORD SPREAD</strong> like an emotnal epimic down through Satra's staff, then fanned out through Hollywood, then was heard across the natn Jilly's saloon, and also on the other si of the Hudson River the hom of Frank Satra's parents and his other relativ and iends New Jersey.</p><p data-no-id="109" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">When Frank Satra spoke wh his father on the telephone and said he was feelg awful, the elr Satra reported that he was also feelg awful: that his left arm and fist were so stiff wh a circulatory ndn he uld barely e them, addg that the ailment might be the rult of havg thrown too many left hooks durg his days as a bantamweight almost fifty years ago.</p><p data-no-id="110" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Mart Satra, a ddy and tattooed ltle blue-eyed Sicilian born Catania, boxed unr the name of "Marty O'Brien." In those days, those plac, wh the Irish nng the lower reach of cy life, was not unmon for Italians to wd up wh such nam. Most of the Italians and Sicilians who migrated to Ameri jt prr to the 1900's were poor and unted, were exclud om the buildg-tras unns domated by the Irish, and were somewhat timidated by the Irish police, Irish prits, Irish policians.</p><p data-no-id="111" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">One notable exceptn was Frank Satra's mother, Dolly, a large and very amb woman who was brought to this untry at two months of age by her mother and father, a lhographer om Genoa. In later years Dolly Satra, posssg a round red face and blue ey, was often mistaken for beg Irish, and surprised many at the speed wh which she swung her heavy handbag at anyone utterg "Wop."</p><p data-no-id="112" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">By playg skillful polics wh North Jersey's Democratic mache, Dolly Satra was to bee, her heyday, a kd of Cathere Medici of Hoboken's third ward. She uld always be unted upon to liver six hundred vot at electn time om her Italian neighborhood, and this was her base of power. When she told one of the policians that she wanted her hband to be appoted to the Hoboken Fire Department, and was told, "But, Dolly, we don't have an openg," she snapped, "Make an openg."</p><p data-no-id="113" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">They did. Years later she requted that her hband be ma a pta, and one day she got a ll om one of the polil boss that began, "Dolly, ngratulatns!"</p><p data-no-id="114" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"For what?"</p><p data-no-id="115" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Capta Satra."</p><p data-no-id="116" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Oh, you fally ma him one<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>thank you very much."</p><p data-no-id="117" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Then she lled the Hoboken Fire Department.</p><p data-no-id="118" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Let me speak to Capta Satra," she said. The fireman lled Mart Satra to the phone, sayg, "Marty, I thk your wife has gone nuts." When he got on the le, Dolly greeted him:</p><p data-no-id="119" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Congratulatns, Capta Satra!"</p><div size="large" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="120" class="align-left size-large embed css-gv3b6u e1xqj1sx4"><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Vtage clothg, Monochrome, Portra, Retro style, Tuxedo, " tle="Vtage clothg, Monochrome, Portra, Retro style, Tuxedo, " loadg="lazy" width="2000" height="2678" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><div class="css-78jldq e1xqj1sx2"><style data-emotn="css 8h7i7x">{width:0;m-width:100%;paddg-top:0.625rem;letter-spacg:0.02rem;font-fay:Lsanne,Lsanne-fallback,Arial,sans-serif;font-size:0.875rem;le-height:1.3;} em, i{font-fay:her;font-style:alic;}</style><div class="css-8h7i7x e1xqj1sx1">Frank Satra pictured at age 6.</div></div></div></div><p data-no-id="121" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Dolly's only child, christened Francis Albert Satra, was born and nearly died on December 12, 1915. It was a difficult birth, and durg his first moment on earth he received marks he will rry till ath<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>the srs on the left si of his neck beg the rult of a doctor's clumsy forceps, and Satra has chosen not to obscure them wh surgery.</p><p data-no-id="122" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">After he was six months old, he was reared maly by his grandmother. His mother had a full-time job as a cholate dipper wh a large firm and was so proficient at that the firm once offered to send her to the Paris office to tra others. While some people Hoboken remember Frank Satra as a lonely child, one who spent many hours on the porch gazg to space, Satra was never a slum kid, never jail, always well-drsed. He had so many pants that some people Hoboken lled him "Slacksey O'Brien."</p><p data-no-id="123" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Dolly Satra was not the sort of Italian mother who uld be appeased merely by a child's obedience and good appete. She ma many mands on her son, was always very strict. She dreamed of his beg an aviatn engeer. When she disvered Bg Crosby pictur hangg on his bedroom walls one eveng, and learned that her son wished to bee a sger too, she beme furiated and threw a shoe at him. Later, fdg she uld not talk him out of <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>"he tak after me"<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>she enuraged his sgg.</p><p data-no-id="124" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Many Italo-Amerin boys of his generatn were then shootg for the same star<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>they were strong wh song, weak wh words, not a big novelist among them: no O'Hara, no Bellow, no Cheever, nor Shaw; yet they uld munite bel nto. This was more their tradn, no need for a diploma; they uld, wh a song, someday see their nam Como...Frankie none uld see better than Frank Satra.</p><p data-no-id="125" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Though he sang through much of the night at the Rtic Cab, he was up the next day sgg whout a fee on New York rad to get more attentn. Later he got a job sgg wh Harry Jam's band, and was there Augt of 1939 that Satra had his first rerdg h<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em> "All or Nothg at All." He beme very fond of Harry Jam and the men the band, but when he received an offer om Tommy Dorsey, who those days had probably the bt band the untry, Satra took ; the job paid $125 a week, and Dorsey knew how to feature a volist. Yet Satra was very prsed at leavg Jam's band, and the fal night wh them was so memorable that, twenty years later, Satra uld rell the tails to a iend: ".. b pulled out wh the rt of the boys at about half-past midnight. I'd said good-bye to them all, and was snowg, I remember. There was nobody around and I stood alone wh my suse the snow and watched the taillights disappear. Then the tears started and I tried to n after the b. There was such spir and enthiasm that band, I hated leavg ...."</p><p data-no-id="126" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">But he did<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>as he would leave other warm plac, too, search of somethg more, never wastg time, tryg to do all one generatn, fightg unr his own name, fendg unrdogs, terrorizg top dogs. He threw a punch at a mician who said somethg anti-Semic, poed the Negro e two s before beme fashnable. He also threw a tray of glass at Buddy Rich when he played the dms too loud.</p><style data-emotn="css 1mtk2uq">{--data-embed-display:flex;-webk-align-ems:center;-webk-box-align:center;-ms-flex-align:center;align-ems:center;display:-webk-box;display:-webk-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;marg-bottom:0.9375rem;}@media(m-width: 20rem){{clear:both;marg-left:to;marg-right:to;width:100%;}}@media(m-width: 30rem){{clear:both;marg-left:to;marg-right:to;width:100%;}}@media(m-width: 40.625rem){{width:70%;marg-left:1rem;marg-right:0rem;float:right;clear:right;}}@media(m-width: 48rem){{width:70%;marg-left:1rem;marg-right:0rem;float:right;clear:right;}}@media(m-width: 64rem){{width:60%;marg-left:1rem;marg-right:0rem;float:right;clear:right;}}@media(m-width: 73.75rem){{width:60%;marg-left:1rem;marg-right:lc(-30% - 1rem);float:right;clear:right;}}@media(m-width: 75rem){{width:60%;marg-left:1rem;marg-right:lc(-30% - 1rem);float:right;clear:right;}}@media(m-width: 90rem){{width:60%;marg-left:1rem;marg-right:lc(-30% - 1rem);float:right;clear:right;}} a span{right:1rem;} img{width:to;height:85vh;} a{display:-webk-le-box;display:-webk-le-flex;display:-ms-le-flexbox;display:le-flex;posn:var(--posn, relative);} img:not(.ewcw41w1){display:block;width:100%;height:to;-webk-align-self:flex-start;-ms-flex-em-align:flex-start;align-self:flex-start;}</style><div size="large" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="127" class="align-right size-large embed css-1mtk2uq e1xqj1sx4"><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Collar, Photograph, Formal wear, Coat, Blazer, Overat, Vtage clothg, Retro style, Trench at, Button, " tle="Collar, Photograph, Formal wear, Coat, Blazer, Overat, Vtage clothg, Retro style, Trench at, Button, " loadg="lazy" width="2134" height="3067" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><div class="css-78jldq e1xqj1sx2"><div class="css-8h7i7x e1xqj1sx1">Dolly Satra wh son, Frank. October 1945.</div></div></div></div><p data-no-id="128" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Satra gave away $50,000 worth of gold cigarette lighters before he was thirty, was livg an immigrant's wilst dream of Ameri. He arrived sudnly on the scene when DiMagg was silent, when paisanos were mournful, were quietly fensive about Hler their homeland. Satra beme, time, a kd of one-man Anti-Defamatn League for Italians Ameri, the sort of anizatn that would be unlikely for them bee, as the theory go, they rarely agreed on anythg, beg extreme dividualists: fe as soloists, but not so good a choir; fe as hero, but not so good a para.</p><p data-no-id="129" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">When many Italian nam were ed scribg gangsters on a televisn show, <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">The Untouchabl,</em> Satra was loud his disapproval. Satra and many thoands of other Italo-Amerins were rentful as well when a small-time hoodlum, Joseph Valachi, was brought by Bobby Kennedy to promence as a Mafia expert, when ed, om Valachi's ttimony on televisn, he seemed to know ls than most waers on Mulberry Street. Many Italians Satra's circle also regard Bobby Kennedy as somethg of an Irish p, more dignified than those Dolly's day, but no ls timidatg. Together wh Peter Lawford, Bobby Kennedy is said to have sudnly gotten "cky" wh Satra after John Kennedy's electn, fettg the ntributn Satra had ma both fundraisg and fluencg many anti-Irish Italian vot. Lawford and Bobby Kennedy are both spected of havg fluenced the late Print's cisn to stay as a hoe gut wh Bg Crosby stead of Satra, as origally planned, a social setback Satra may never fet. Peter Lawford has sce been dmmed out of Satra's "summ" Las Vegas.</p><p data-no-id="130" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Y, my son is like me," Dolly Satra says, proudly. "You cross him, he never fets." And while she nces his power, she quickly pots out, "He n't make his mother do anythg she don't want to do," addg, "Even today, he wears the same brand of unrwear I ed to buy him."</p><p data-no-id="131" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Today Dolly Satra is seventy-one years old, a year or two younger than Mart, and all day long people are knockg on the back door of her large home askg her advice, seekg her fluence. When she is not seeg people and not okg the kchen, she is lookg after her hband, a silent but stubborn man, and tellg him to keep his sore left arm rtg on the sponge she has placed on the armrt of a soft chair. "Oh, he went to some terrific fir, this guy did," Dolly said to a visor, noddg wh admiratn toward her hband the chair.</p><p data-no-id="132" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Though Dolly Satra has eighty-seven godchildren Hoboken, and still go to that cy durg polil mpaigns, she now liv wh her hband a betiful sixteen-room hoe Fort Lee, New Jersey. This home was a gift om their son on their fiftieth weddg anniversary three years ago. The home is tastefully furnished and is filled wh a remarkable juxtaposn of the p and the worldly<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>photographs of Pope John and Ava Gardner, of Pope Pl and Dean Mart; several statu of sats and holy water, a chair tographed by Sammy Davis, Jr. and bottl of bourbon. In Mrs. Satra's jewelry box is a magnificent strand of pearls she had jt received om Ava Gardner, whom she liked tremendoly as a dghter--law and still keeps touch wh and talks about; and hung on the wall is a letter addrsed to Dolly and Mart: "The sands of time have turned to gold, yet love ntu to unfold like the petals of a rose, God's garn of God love you th all eterny. I thank Him, I thank you for the beg of one. Your lovg son, Francis...."</p><p data-no-id="133" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Mrs. Satra talks to her son on the telephone about once a week, and recently he suggted that, when visg Manhattan, she make e of his apartment on East Seventy-send Street on the East River. This is an expensive neighborhood of New York even though there is a small factory on the block, but this latter fact was seized upon by Dolly Satra as a means of gettg back at her son for some unflatterg scriptns of his childhood Hoboken. </p><p data-no-id="134" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"What<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>you want me to stay your apartment, that dump?" she asked. "You thk I'm gog to spend the night that awful neighborhood?"</p><p data-no-id="135" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Frank Satra got the pot, and said, "Exce me, Mrs. Fort Lee."</p><p data-no-id="136" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">After spendg the week Palm Sprgs, his ld much better, Frank Satra returned to Los Angel, a lovely cy of sun and <style data-emotn="css umdwtv">{-webk-text-ratn:unrle;text-ratn:unrle;text-ratn-thickns:.0625rem;text-ratn-lor:#FF3A30;text-unrle-offset:0.25rem;lor:her;-webk-transn:background 0.4s;transn:background 0.4s;background:lear-gradient(#ffffff, #ffffff 50%, #d5dbe3 50%, #d5dbe3);-webk-background-size:100% 200%;background-size:100% 200%;}{lor:#000000;text-ratn-lor:borr-lk-body-hover;-webk-background-posn:100% 100%;background-posn:100% 100%;}</style><a href="/liftyle/sex/advice/a9353/bt-sex-posns/" class="css-umdwtv et3p2gv0">sex</a>, a Spanish disvery of Mexin misery, a star land of ltle men and ltle women slidg and out of nvertibl tense tight pants. </p><p data-no-id="137" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Satra returned time to see the long-awaed CBS documentary wh his fay. At about ne p.m. he drove to the home of his former wife, Nancy, and had dner wh her and their two dghters. Their son, whom they rarely see the days, was out of town. </p><p data-no-id="138" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Frank, Jr., who is twenty-two, was tourg wh a band and movg cross untry toward a New York engagement at Bas Street East wh The Pied Pipers, wh whom Frank Satra sang when he was wh Dorsey's band the 1940's. Today Frank Satra, Jr., whom his father says he named after Frankl D. Roosevelt, liv mostly hotels, d each eveng his nightclub drsg room, and sgs until two a.m., acceptg gracly, bee he has no choice, the evable parisons. His voice is smooth and pleasant, and improvg wh work, and while he is very rpectful of his father, he discs him wh objectivy and an ocsnal tone of subdued cks.</p><p data-no-id="139" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Concurrent wh his father's early fame, Frank, Jr. said, was the creatn of a "prs-release Satra" signed to "set him apart om the mon man, separate him om the reali: was sudnly Satra, the electric magnate, Satra who is supernormal, not superhuman but supernormal. And here," Frank, Jr. ntued, "is the great fallacy, the great bullsh, for Frank Satra is normal, is the guy whom you'd meet on a street rner. But this other thg, the supernormal guise, has affected Frank Satra as much as anybody who watch one of his televisn shows, or reads a magaze article about him....</p><p data-no-id="140" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Frank Satra's life the begng was so normal," he said, "that nobody would have gused 1934 that this ltle Italian kid wh the curly hair would bee the giant, the monster, the great livg legend.... He met my mother one summer on the beach. She was Nancy Barbato, dghter of Mike Barbato, a Jersey Cy plasterer. And she meets the fireman's son, Frank, one summer day on the beach at Long Branch, New Jersey. Both are Italian, both Roman Catholic, both lower-middle-class summer sweethearts<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em> is like a ln bad movi starrg Frankie Avalon. . . .</p><p data-no-id="141" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"They have three children. The first child, Nancy, was the most normal of Frank Satra's children. Nancy was a cheerlear, went to summer mp, drove a Chevrolet, had the easit kd of velopment centered around the home and fay. Next is me. My life wh the fay is very, very normal up until September of 1958 when, plete ntrast to the rearg of both girls, I am put to a llege-preparatory school. I am now away om the ner fay circle, and my posn wh has never been rema to this day.... The third child, Ta. And to be ad hont, I really uldn't say what her life is like...."</p><div size="medium" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="142" class="align-center size-medium embed css-1736von e1xqj1sx4"><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Footwear, Leg, People, Photograph, Child, Monochrome, Style, T-shirt, Drs, Monochrome photography, " tle="Footwear, Leg, People, Photograph, Child, Monochrome, Style, T-shirt, Drs, Monochrome photography, " loadg="lazy" width="2331" height="3000" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><div class="css-swqnqv e1xqj1sx2"><div class="css-8h7i7x e1xqj1sx1">The Satra Fay.</div></div></div></div><p data-no-id="143" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The CBS show, narrated by Walter Cronke, began at ten p.m. A mute before that, the Satra fay, havg fished dner, turned their chairs around and faced the mera, uned for whatever disaster might follow. Satra's men other parts of town, other parts of the natn, were dog the same thg. Satra's lawyer, Milton A. Rud, smokg a cigar, was watchg wh a keen eye, an alert legal md. Other sets were watched by Brad Dexter, Jim Mahoney, Ed Pucci; Satra's makp man, "Shotgun" Brton; his New York reprentative, Henri Ge; his haberdasher, Richard Carroll; his surance broker, John Lillie; his valet, Gee Jabs, a handsome Negro who, when entertag girls his apartment, plays rerds by Ray Charl. </p><p data-no-id="144" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">And like so much of Hollywood's fear, the apprehensn about the CBS show all proved to be whout foundatn. It was a highly flatterg hour that did not eply probe, as mors suggted would, to Satra's love life, or the Mafia, or other areas of his private provce. While the documentary was not thorized, wrote Jack Gould the next day's New York Tim, " uld have been." </p><p data-no-id="145" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Immediately after the show, the telephon began to rg throughout the Satra system nveyg words of joy and relief<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>and om New York me Jilly's telegram: "WE RULE THE WORLD!"</p><hr data-no-id="146" class="css-18pb4rg et3p2gv0" /><p data-no-id="147" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><strong data-redactor-tag="strong" data-verified="redactor">THE NEXT DAY, STANDING</strong> the rridor of the NBC buildg where he was about to rume tapg his show, Satra was discsg the CBS show wh several of his iends, and he said, "Oh, was a gas."</p><p data-no-id="148" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Yeah, Frank, a helluva show." </p><p data-no-id="149" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"But I thk Jack Gould was right <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">The Tim</em> today," Satra said. "There should have been more on the man, not so much on the mic...."</p><p data-no-id="150" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">They nodd, nobody mentng the past hysteria the Satra world when seemed CBS was zerog on the man; they jt nodd and two of them lghed about Satra's apparently havg gotten the word "bird" on the show<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>this beg a favore Satra word. He often quir of his croni, "How's your bird?"; and when he nearly drowned Hawaii, he later explaed, "Jt got a ltle water on my bird"; and unr a large photograph of him holdg a whisky bottle, a photo that hangs the home of an actor iend named Dick Bakalyan, the scriptn reads: "Drk, Dickie! It's good for your bird." In the song, "Come Fly wh Me," Satra sometim alters the lyrics<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>".. say the words and we'll take our birds down to Apul Bay...."</p><p data-no-id="151" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Ten mut later Satra, followg the orchtra, walked to the NBC stud, which did not remble the slightt the scene here of eight days ago. On this ocsn Satra was fe voice, he cracked jok between numbers, nothg uld upset him. Once, while he was sgg "How Can I Ignore the Girl Next Door," standg on the stage next to a tree, a televisn mera mounted on a vehicle me rollg too close and plowed agast the tree.</p><p data-no-id="152" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Kee-rist!" yelled one of the technil assistants.</p><p data-no-id="153" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">But Satra seemed hardly to notice .</p><p data-no-id="154" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"We've had a slight accint," he said, lmly. Then he began the song all over om the begng.</p><p data-no-id="155" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">When the show was over, Satra watched the ren on the monor the ntrol room. He was very pleased, shakg hands wh Dwight Hemn and his assistants. Then the whisky bottl were opened Satra's drsg room. Pat Lawford was there, and so were Andy Williams and a dozen others. The telegrams and telephone lls ntued to be received om all over the untry wh praise for the CBS show. There was even a ll, Mahoney said, om the CBS producer, Don Hewt, wh whom Satra had been so angry a few days before. And Satra was still angry, feelg that CBS had betrayed him, though the show self was not objectnable.</p><p data-no-id="156" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Shall I drop a le to Hewt?" Mahoney asked. </p><p data-no-id="157" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Can you send a fist through the mail?" Satra asked.</p><p data-no-id="158" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">He has everythg, he nnot sleep, he giv nice gifts, he is not happy, but he would not tra, even for happs, what he is....</p><p data-no-id="159" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">He is a piece of our past<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>but only we have aged, he hasn' are dogged by domticy, he isn' have punctns, he don' is our flt, not his....</p><p data-no-id="160" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">He ntrols the men of every Italian rtrant Los Angel; if you want North Italian okg, fly to Milan....</p><p data-no-id="161" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Men follow him, imate him, fight to be near is somethg of the locker room, the barracks about </p><p data-no-id="162" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">He believ you mt play big, wi, expansively<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em> the more open you are, the more you take , your dimensns epen, you grow, you bee more what you are<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>bigger, richer....</p><p data-no-id="163" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"He is better than anybody else, or at least they thk he is, and he has to live up to ." <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>Nancy Satra, Jr.</p><p data-no-id="164" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"He is lm on the outsi<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>wardly a ln thgs are happeng to him." <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>Dick Bakalyan</p><p data-no-id="165" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"He has an satiable sire to live every moment to s fullt bee, I gus, he feels that right around the rner is extctn." <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>Brad Dexter </p><div supprsHydratnWarng data-no-id="166" data-embed="pullquote" class="embed css-0 e9hzx6g0"><blockquote class="css-1eiql25 e1pe3zr91"><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-ow0dpz eagam8p0"></span><blockquote class="css-la9czl e1pe3zr90">He has everythg, he nnot sleep, he giv nice gifts, he is not happy, but he would not tra, even for happs, what he is....</blockquote><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-0 eagam8p1"></span></blockquote></div><p data-no-id="167" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"All I ever got out of any of my marriag was the two years Artie Shaw fanced on an analyst's uch." <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>Ava Gardner</p><p data-no-id="168" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"We weren't mother and son<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>we were buddi." <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>Dolly Satra</p><p data-no-id="169" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"I'm for anythg that gets you through the night, be prayer, tranquilizers or a bottle of Jack Daniel." <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>Frank Satra</p><hr data-no-id="170" class="css-18pb4rg et3p2gv0" /><p data-no-id="171" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><strong data-redactor-tag="strong" data-verified="redactor">FRANK SINATRA WAS TIRED</strong> of all the talk, the gossip, the theory<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>tired of readg quot about himself, of hearg what people were sayg about him all over town. It had been a ted three weeks, he said, and now he jt wanted to get away, go to Las Vegas, let off some steam. So he hopped his jet, soared over the California hills across the Nevada flats, then over and of sert to The Sands and the Clay-Patterson fight.</p><p data-no-id="172" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">On the eve of the fight he stayed up all night and slept through most of the afternoon, though his rerd voice uld be heard sgg the lobby of The Sands, the gamblg so, even the toilets, beg terpted every few bars however by the pagg public addrs: "...Telephone ll for Mr. Ron Fish, Mr. Ron a ribbon of gold her hair.... Telephone ll for Mr. Herbert Rothste, Mr. Herbert Rothste...memori of a time so bright, keep me sleepls through dark endls nights...."</p><div size="large" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="173" class="align-left size-large embed css-gv3b6u e1xqj1sx4"><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Logo, Monochrome, Signage, Monochrome photography, Black-and-whe, Electronic signage, Whe-llar worker, Neon sign, Tuxedo, " tle="Logo, Monochrome, Signage, Monochrome photography, Black-and-whe, Electronic signage, Whe-llar worker, Neon sign, Tuxedo, " loadg="lazy" width="889" height="1140" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><div class="css-78jldq e1xqj1sx2"><figptn class="css-1am3yn9 enfs9c50"><span class="css-1mcfn5x e6iqd2">Bob Willoughby</span></figptn></div></div></div><p data-no-id="174" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Standg around the lobby of The Sands and other hotels up and down the strip on this afternoon before the fight were the ual prefight prophets: the gamblers, the old champs, the ltle cigar butts om Eighth Avenue, the sportswrers who knock the big fights all year but would never miss one, the novelists who seem always to be intifyg wh one boxer or another, the lol prostut assisted by some talent om Los Angel, and also a young bte a wrkled black cktail drs who was at the bell pta's sk cryg, "But I want to speak to Mr. Satra."</p><p data-no-id="175" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"He's not here," the bell pta said.</p><p data-no-id="176" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Won't you put me through to his room?"</p><p data-no-id="177" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"There are no msag gog through, Miss," he said, and then she turned, unsteadily, seemg close to tears, and walked through the lobby to the big noisy so crowd wh men terted only money.</p><p data-no-id="178" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Shortly before seven p.m., Jack Entratter, a big grey-haired man who operat The Sands, walked to the gamblg room to tell some men around the blackjack table that Satra was gettg drsed. He also said that he'd been unable to get ont-row seats for everybody, and so some of the men<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>cludg Leo Durocher, who had a date, and Joey Bishop, who was acpanied by his wife<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>would not be able to f Frank Satra's row but would have to take seats the third row. When Entratter walked over to tell this to Joey Bishop, Bishop's face fell. He did not seem angry; he merely looked at Entratter wh an empty silence, seemg somewhat stunned.</p><p data-no-id="179" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Joey, I'm sorry," Entratter said when the silence persisted, "but we uldn't get more than six together the ont row."</p><p data-no-id="180" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Bishop still said nothg. But when they all appeared at the fight, Joey Bishop was the ont row, his wife the third.</p><p data-no-id="181" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The fight, lled a holy war between Mlims and Christians, was preced by the troductn of three baldg ex-champns, Rocky Marciano, Joe Louis, Sonny Liston<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>and then there was "The Star-Spangled Banner" sung by another man om out of the past, Eddie Fisher. It had been more than fourteen years ago, but Satra uld still remember every tail: Eddie Fisher was then the new kg of the baron, wh Billy Eckste and Guy Mchell right wh him, and Satra had been long unted out. One day he remembered walkg to a broadstg stud past dozens of Eddie Fisher fans wag outsi the hall, and when they saw Satra they began to jeer, "Frankie, Frankie, I'm swoong, I'm swoong." This was also the time when he was sellg only about 30,000 rerds a year, when he was dreadfully misst as a funny man on his televisn show, and when he rerd such disasters as "Mama Will Bark," wh Dagmar.</p><p data-no-id="182" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"I growled and barked on the rerd," Satra said, still horrified by the thought. "The only good did me was wh the dogs."</p><p data-no-id="183" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">His voice and his artistic judgment were credibly bad 1952, but even more rponsible for his cle, say his iends, was his pursu of Ava Gardner. She was the big movie queen then, one of the most betiful women the world. Satra's dghter Nancy rells seeg Ava swimmg one day her father's pool, then climbg out of the water wh that fabulo body, walkg slowly to the fire, leang over for a few moments, and then sudnly seemed that her long dark hair was all dry, miraculoly and effortlsly back place.</p><p data-no-id="184" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Wh most women Satra dat, his iends say, he never knows whether they want him for what he n do for them now<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>or will do for them later. Wh Ava Gardner, was different. He uld do nothg for her later. She was on top. If Satra learned anythg om his experience wh her, he possibly learned that when a proud man is down a woman nnot help. Particularly a woman on top.</p><div size="medium" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="185" class="align-center size-medium embed css-1736von e1xqj1sx4"><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Table, Style, Monochrome, Tableware, Black-and-whe, Monochrome photography, Conversatn, Plate, Tie, Whe-llar worker, " tle="Table, Style, Monochrome, Tableware, Black-and-whe, Monochrome photography, Conversatn, Plate, Tie, Whe-llar worker, " loadg="lazy" width="2786" height="2834" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><div class="css-swqnqv e1xqj1sx2"><div class="css-8h7i7x e1xqj1sx1">Frank Satra and Ava Gardner.</div><figptn class="css-1am3yn9 enfs9c50"><span class="css-1mcfn5x e6iqd2">Hulton Archive</span></figptn></div></div></div><p data-no-id="186" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Neverthels, spe a tired voice, some ep emotn seeped to his sgg durg this time. One particular song that is well remembered even now is "I'm a Fool to Want You," and a iend who was the stud when Satra rerd relled: "Frank was really worked up that night. He did the song one take, then turned around and walked out of the stud and that was that...."</p><p data-no-id="187" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Satra's manager at that time, a former song plugger named Hank Sanila, said, "Ava loved Frank, but not the way he loved her. He needs a great al of love. He wants twenty-four hours a day, he mt have people around<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>Frank is that kd of guy." Ava Gardner, Sanila said, "was very secure. She feared she uld not really hold a he went chasg her to Ai, wastg his own reer...."</p><p data-no-id="188" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Ava didn't want Frank's men hangg around all the time," another iend said, "and this got him mad. Wh Nancy he ed to be able to brg the whole band home wh him, and Nancy, the good Italian wife, would never pla<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>she'd jt make everybody a plate of spaghetti."</p><p data-no-id="189" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">In 1953, after almost two years of marriage, Satra and Ava Gardner were divorced. Satra's mother reportedly arranged a renciliatn, but if Ava was willg, Frank Satra was not. He was seen wh other women. The balance had shifted. Somewhere durg this perd Satra seemed to change om the kid sger, the boy actor the sailor su, to a man. Even before he had won the Osr 1953 for his role <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">From Here to Eterny,</em> some flash of his old talent were g through<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em> his rerdg of "The Birth of the Blu," his Riviera-nightclub appearance that jazz crics enthiastilly praised; and there was also a trend now toward L.P.'s and away om the quick three-mute al, and Satra's ncert style would have palized on this wh or whout an Osr.</p><p data-no-id="190" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">In 1954, totally mted to his talent once more, Frank Satra was selected Metronome's "Sger of the Year," and later he won the U.P.I. disc-jockey poll, unseatg Eddie Fisher<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>who now, Las Vegas, havg sung "The Star-Spangled Banner," climbed out of the rg, and the fight began.</p><p data-no-id="191" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Floyd Patterson chased Clay around the rg the first round, but was unable to reach him, and om then on he was Clay's toy, the bout endg a technil knockout the twelfth round. A half hour later, nearly everybody had fotten about the fight and was back at the gamblg tabl or lg up to buy tickets for the Dean Mart-Satra-Bishop nightclub route on the stage of The Sands. This route, which clus Sammy Davis, Jr. when he is town, nsists of a few songs and much cuttg up, all of very rmal, very special, and rather ethnic<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>Mart, a drk hand, askg Bishop: "Did you ever see a Jew jsu?"; and Bishop, playg a Jewish waer, warng the two Italians to watch out "bee I got my own group<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>the Matzia."</p><p data-no-id="192" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Then after the last show at The Sands, the Satra crowd, which now numbered about twenty<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>and clud Jilly, who had flown om New York; Jimmy Cannon, Satra's favore sports lumnist; Harold Gibbons, a Teamster official expected to take over if Hoffa go to jail<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>all got to a le of rs and head for another club. It was three o'clock. The night was young.</p><p data-no-id="193" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">They stopped at The Sahara, takg a long table near the back, and listened to a baldhead ltle edian named Don Rickl, who is probably more tic than any ic the untry. His humor is so , such bad taste, that offends no one<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em> is too offensive to be offensive. Spottg Eddie Fisher among the dience, Rickl proceed to ridicule him as a lover, sayg was no wonr that he uld not handle Elizabeth Taylor; and when two bsmen the dience acknowledged that they were Egyptian, Rickl cut to them for their untry's policy toward Israel; and he strongly suggted that the woman seated at one table wh her hband was actually a hooker.</p><p data-no-id="194" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">When the Satra crowd walked , Don Rickl uld not be more lighted. Potg to Jilly, Rickl yelled: "How's feel to be Frank's tractor?... Yeah, Jilly keeps walkg ont of Frank clearg the way." Then, noddg to Durocher, Rickl said, "Stand up Leo, show Frank how you sli." Then he foced on Satra, not failg to mentn Mia Farrow, nor that he was wearg a toupee, nor to say that Satra was washed up as a sger, and when Satra lghed, everybody lghed, and Rickl poted toward Bishop: "Joey Bishop keeps checkg wh Frank to see what's funny."</p><p data-no-id="195" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Then, after Rickl told some Jewish jok, Dean Mart stood up and yelled, "Hey, you're always talkg about the Jews, never about the Italians," and Rickl cut him off wh, "What do we need the Italians for<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>all they do is keep the fli off our fish."</p><p data-no-id="196" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Satra lghed, they all lghed, and Rickl went on this way for nearly an hour until Satra, standg up, said, "All right, 'on, get this thg over wh. I gotta go."</p><p data-no-id="197" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Shaddup and s down!" Rickl snapped. "I've had to listen to you sg...."</p><p data-no-id="198" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Who do you thk you're talkg to?" Satra yelled back. </p><p data-no-id="199" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Dick Haym," Rickl replied, and Satra lghed aga, and then Dean Mart, pourg a bottle of whisky over his head, entirely drenchg his tuxedo, pound the table.</p><p data-no-id="200" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Who would ever believe that staggerg would make a star?" Rickl said, but Mart lled out, "Hey, I wanna make a speech."</p><p data-no-id="201" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Shaddup."</p><p data-no-id="202" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"No, Don, I wanna tell ya," Dean Mart persisted, "that I thk you're a great performer."</p><p data-no-id="203" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Well, thank you, Dean," Rickl said, seemg pleased.</p><p data-no-id="204" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"But don't go by me," Mart said, ploppg down to his seat, "I'm dnk."</p><p data-no-id="205" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"I'll buy that," Rickl said.</p><hr data-no-id="206" class="css-18pb4rg et3p2gv0" /><p data-no-id="207" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><strong data-redactor-tag="strong" data-verified="redactor">BY FOUR A.M. FRANK SINATRA</strong> led the group out of The Sahara, some of them rryg their glass of whisky wh them, sippg along the siwalk and the rs; then, returng to The Sands, they walked to the gamblg so. It was still packed wh people, the roulette wheels spng, the crapshooters screamg the far rner.</p><p data-no-id="208" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Frank Satra, holdg a shot glass of bourbon his left hand, walked through the crowd. He, unlike some of his iends, was perfectly prsed, his tuxedo tie precisely poted, his sho unsmudged. He never seems to lose his digny, never lets his guard pletely down no matter how much he has dnk, nor how long he has been up. He never sways when he walks, like Dean Mart, nor do he ever dance the aisl or jump up on tabl, like Sammy Davis.</p><div size="medium" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="209" class="align-center size-medium embed css-1736von e1xqj1sx4"><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Drs shirt, Collar, Coat, Su, Outerwear, Formal wear, Blazer, Tie, Bow tie, Whe-llar worker, " tle="Drs shirt, Collar, Coat, Su, Outerwear, Formal wear, Blazer, Tie, Bow tie, Whe-llar worker, " loadg="lazy" width="3000" height="1990" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><div class="css-swqnqv e1xqj1sx2"><figptn class="css-1am3yn9 enfs9c50"><span class="css-1mcfn5x e6iqd2">CBS Archive</span></figptn></div></div></div><p data-no-id="210" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">A part of Satra, no matter where he is, is never there. There is always a part of him, though sometim a small part, that remas Il Padrone. Even now, rtg his shot glass on the blackjack table, facg the aler, Satra stood a b back om the table, not leang agast . He reached unr his tuxedo jacket to his troer pocket and me up wh a thick but clean wad of bills. Gently he peeled off a one-hundred-dollar bill and placed on the green-felt table. The aler alt him two rds. Satra lled for a third rd, overbid, lost the hundred.</p><p data-no-id="211" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Whout a change of exprsn, Satra put down a send hundred-dollar bill. He lost that. Then he put down a third, and lost that. Then he placed two one-hundred-dollar bills on the table and lost those. Fally, puttg his sixth hundred-dollar bill on the table, and losg , Satra moved away om the table, noddg to the man, and announcg, "Good aler."</p><p data-no-id="212" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The crowd that had gathered around him now opened up to let him through. But a woman stepped ont of him, handg him a piece of paper to tograph. He signed and then he said, "Thank you."</p><p data-no-id="213" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">In the rear of The Sands' large dg room was a long table rerved for Satra. The dg room was fairly empty at this hour, wh perhaps two dozen other people the room, cludg a table of four unrted young ladi stg near Satra. On the other si of the room, at another long table, sat seven men shoulr-to-shoulr agast the wall, two of them wearg dark glass, all of them eatg quietly, speakg hardly a word, jt stg and eatg and missg nothg.</p><p data-no-id="214" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The Satra party, after gettg settled and havg a few more drks, orred somethg to eat. The table was about the same size as the one rerved for Satra whenever he is at Jilly's New York; and the people seated around this table Las Vegas were many of the same people who are often seen wh Satra at Jilly's or at a rtrant California, or Italy, or New Jersey, or wherever Satra happens to be. When Satra ss to de, his tsted iends are close; and no matter where he is, no matter how elegant the place may be, there is somethg of the neighborhood showg bee Satra, no matter how far he has e, is still somethg of the boy om the neighborhood<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>only now he n take his neighborhood wh him.</p><p data-no-id="215" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">In some ways, this quasi-fay affair at a rerved table a public place is the clost thg Satra now has to home life. Perhaps, havg had a home and left , this approximatn is as close as he r to e; although this do not seem precisely so bee he speaks wh such warmth about his fay, keeps close touch wh his first wife, and sists that she make no cisn whout first nsultg him. He is always eager to place his furnure or other mementos of himself her home or his dghter Nancy's, and he also is on amiable terms wh Ava Gardner. When he was Italy makg <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Von Ryan's Exprs,</em> they spent some time together, beg pursued wherever they went by the paparazzi. It was reported then that the paparazzi had ma Satra a llective offer of $16,000 if he would pose wh Ava Gardner; Satra was said to have ma a unter offer of $32,000 if he uld break one paparazzi arm and leg.</p><div supprsHydratnWarng data-no-id="216" data-embed="pullquote" class="embed css-0 e9hzx6g0"><blockquote class="css-1eiql25 e1pe3zr91"><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-ow0dpz eagam8p0"></span><blockquote class="css-la9czl e1pe3zr90">When Satra ss to de, his tsted iends are close; and no matter where he is, no matter how elegant the place may be, there is somethg of the neighborhood showg bee Satra, no matter how far he has e, is still somethg of the boy om the neighborhood<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>only now he n take his neighborhood wh him.</blockquote><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-0 eagam8p1"></span></blockquote></div><p data-no-id="217" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">While Satra is often lighted that he n be his home pletely whout people, enablg him to read and thk whout terptn, there are ocsns when he fds himself alone at night, and not by choice. He may have dialed a half-dozen women, and for one reason or another they are all unavailable. So he will ll his valet, Gee Jabs.</p><p data-no-id="218" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"I'll be g home for dner tonight, Gee."</p><p data-no-id="219" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"How many will there be?"</p><p data-no-id="220" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Jt myself," Satra will say. "I want somethg light, I'm not very hungry."</p><p data-no-id="221" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Gee Jabs is a twice-divorced man of thirty-six who rembl Billy Eckste. He has traveled all over the world wh Satra and is voted to him. Jabs liv a fortable bachelor's apartment off Sunset Boulevard around the rner om Whiskey à Go Go, and he is known around town for the assortment of isky California girls he has as iends<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>a few of whom, he nces, were possibly drawn to him ially bee of his closens to Frank Satra.</p><p data-no-id="222" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">When Satra arriv, Jabs will serve him dner the dg room. Then Satra will tell Jabs that he is ee to go home. If Satra, on such evengs, should ask Jabs to stay longer, or to play a few hands of poker, he would be happy to do so. But Satra never do.</p><hr data-no-id="223" class="css-18pb4rg et3p2gv0" /><p data-no-id="224" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><strong data-redactor-tag="strong" data-verified="redactor">THIS WAS HIS SECOND</strong> night Las Vegas, and Frank Satra sat wh iends The Sands' dg room until nearly eight a.m. He slept through much of the day, then flew back to Los Angel, and on the followg morng he was drivg his ltle golf rt through the Paramount Pictur movie lot. He was schled to plete two fal scen wh the sultry blon actrs, Virna Lisi, the film <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Asslt on a Queen.</em> As he manvered the ltle vehicle up the road between the big stud buildgs, he spotted Steve Rossi who, wh his edy partner Marty Allen, was makg a film an adjog stud wh Nancy Satra.</p><p data-no-id="225" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Hey, Dag," he yelled to Rossi, "stop kissg Nancy."</p><p data-no-id="226" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"It's part of the film, Frank," Rossi said, turng as he walked.</p><p data-no-id="227" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"In the garage?"</p><p data-no-id="228" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"It's my Dago blood, Frank."</p><p data-no-id="229" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Well, ol ," Satra said, wkg, then cuttg his golf rt around a rner and parkg outsi a big drab buildg wh which the scen for Asslt would be filmed.</p><p data-no-id="230" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Where's the fat director?" Satra lled out, stridg to the stud that was crowd wh dozens of technil assistants and actors all gathered around meras. The director, Jack Donohue, a large man who has worked wh Satra through twenty-two years on one productn or other, has had headach wh this film. The script had been chopped, the actors seemed rtls, and Satra had bee bored. But now there were only two scen left<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>a short one to be filmed the pool, and a longer and passnate one featurg Satra and Virna Lisi to be shot on a simulated beach.</p><p data-no-id="231" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The pool scene, which dramatiz a suatn where Satra and his hijackers fail their attempt to sack the <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Queen Mary,</em> went quickly and well. After Satra had been kept the water shoulr-high for a few mut, he said, "Let's move , fellows<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>'s ld this water, and I've jt gotten over one ld."</p><p data-no-id="232" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">So the mera crews moved closer, Virna Lisi splashed next to Satra the water, and Jack Donohue yelled to his assistants operatg the fans, "Get the wav gog," and another man gave the mand, "Agate!" and Satra broke out song. "Agate rhythm," then quieted down jt before the meras started to roll.</p><p data-no-id="233" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Frank Satra was on the beach the next suatn, supposedly gazg up at the stars, and Virna Lisi was to approach him, toss one of her sho near him to announce her prence, then s near him and prepare for a passnate ssn. Jt before begng, Miss Lisi ma a practice toss of her shoe toward the prone figure of Satra sprawled on the beach. As she tossed her shoe, Satra lled out, "H me my bird and I'm gog home."</p><p data-no-id="234" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Virna Lisi, who unrstands ltle English and certaly none of Satra's special vobulary, looked nfed, but everybody behd the mera lghed. She threw the shoe toward him. It twirled the air, land on his stomach.</p><p data-no-id="235" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Well, that's about three ch too high," he announced. She aga was puzzled by the lghter behd the mera.</p><p data-no-id="236" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Then Jack Donohue had them rehearse their l, and Satra, still very charged om the Las Vegas trip, and anx to get the meras rollg, said, "Let's try one." Donohue, not certa that Satra and Lisi knew their l well enough, neverthels said okay, and an assistant wh a clapboard lled, "419, Take 1," and Virna Lisi approached wh the shoe, tossed at Frank lyg on the beach. It fell short of his thigh, and Satra's right eye raised almost imperceptibly, but the crew got the msage, sed.</p><p data-no-id="237" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"What do the stars tell you tonight?" Miss Lisi said, liverg her first le, and stg next to Satra on the beach.</p><p data-no-id="238" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"The stars tell me tonight I'm an idt," Satra said, "a gold-plated idt to get mixed up this thg...."</p><p data-no-id="239" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Cut," Donohue said. There were some microphone shadows on the sand, and Virna Lisi was not stg the proper place near Satra.</p><p data-no-id="240" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"419, Take 2," the clapboard man lled.</p><p data-no-id="241" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Miss Lisi aga approached, threw the shoe at him, this time fallg short<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>Satra exhalg only slightly<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>and she said, "What do the stars tell you tonight?"</p><p data-no-id="242" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"The stars tell me I'm an idt, a gold-plated idt to get mixed up this thg...." Then, acrdg to the script, Satra was to ntue, ".. you know what we're gettg to? The mute we step on the ck of the <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Queen Mary,</em> we've jt tattooed ourselv," but Satra, who often improvis on l, reced them: ".. you know what we're gettg to? The mute we step on the ck of that mother's-ass ship...." </p><div size="large" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="243" class="align-right size-large embed css-1mtk2uq e1xqj1sx4"><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Leg, Human body, Hat, Standg, Whe, Style, Drs, Interactn, Fashn, Vtage clothg, " tle="Leg, Human body, Hat, Standg, Whe, Style, Drs, Interactn, Fashn, Vtage clothg, " loadg="lazy" width="2000" height="2447" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><div class="css-78jldq e1xqj1sx2"><div class="css-8h7i7x e1xqj1sx1">Virna Lisi and Frank Satra on the set of "Asslt on a Queen". 1966.</div></div></div></div><p data-no-id="244" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"No, no," Donohue terpted, shakg his head, "I don't thk that's right."</p><p data-no-id="245" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The meras stopped, some people lghed, and Satra looked up om his posn the sand as if he had been unfairly terpted.</p><p data-no-id="246" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"I don't see why that n't work..." he began, but Richard Conte, standg behd the mera, yelled, "It won't play London."</p><p data-no-id="247" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Donohue phed his hand through his thng grey hair and said, but not really anger, "You know, that scene was pretty good until somebody blew the le...."</p><p data-no-id="248" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Yeah," agreed the meraman, Billy Daniels, his head poppg out om around the mera, " was a pretty good piece...."</p><p data-no-id="249" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Watch your language," Satra cut . Then Satra, who has a geni for figurg out ways of not rhootg scen, suggted a way which the film uld be ed and the "mother" le uld be rerd later. This met wh approval. Then the meras were rollg aga, Virna Lisi was leang toward Satra the sand, and then he pulled her down close to him. The mera now moved for a close-up of their fac, tickg away for a few long sends, but Satra and Lisi did not stop kissg, they jt lay together the sand wrapped one another's arms, and then Virna Lisi's left leg jt slightly began to rise a b, and everybody the stud now watched silence, not sayg anythg until Donohue fally lled out:</p><p data-no-id="250" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"If you ever get through, let me know. I'm nng out of film." </p><p data-no-id="251" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Then Miss Lisi got up, straightened out her whe drs, bshed back her <a href="/entertament/terviews/g1311/hot-blons/" class="css-umdwtv et3p2gv0">blon hair</a> and touched her lipstick, which was smeared. Satra got up, a ltle se on his lips, and head for his drsg room.</p><p data-no-id="252" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Passg an olr man who stood near a mera, Satra asked, "How's your Bell & Howell?"</p><p data-no-id="253" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The olr man sed.</p><p data-no-id="254" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"It's fe, Frank."</p><p data-no-id="255" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Good."</p><p data-no-id="256" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">In his drsg room Satra was met by an tomobile signer who had the plans for Satra's new ctom-built mol to replace the $25,000 Ghia he has been drivg for the last few years. He also was awaed by his secretary, Tom Conroy, who had a bag full of fan mail, cludg a letter om New York's Mayor John Ldsay; and by Bill Miller, Satra's pianist, who would rehearse some of the songs that would be rerd later the eveng for Satra's newt album, <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Moonlight Satra.</em></p><p data-no-id="257" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">While Satra do not md hammg up a b on a movie set, he is extremely ser about his rerdg ssns; as he explaed to a Brish wrer, Rob Douglas-Home: "Once you're on that rerd sgg, 's you and you alone. If 's bad and gets you cricized, 's you who's to blame<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>no one else. If 's good, 's also you. Wh a film 's never like that; there are producers and scriptwrers, and hundreds of men offic and the thg is taken right out of your hands. Wh a rerd, you're ...."</p><p data-no-id="258" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">But now the days are short</em></p><p data-no-id="259" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">I'm the tumn of the year</em></p><p data-no-id="260" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">And now I thk of my life</em></p><p data-no-id="261" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">As vtage we</em></p><p data-no-id="262" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">From fe old kegs....</em></p><p data-no-id="263" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">It no longer matters what song he is sgg, or who wrote the words<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>they are all his words, his sentiments, they are chapters om the lyril novel of his life. </p><p data-no-id="264" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Life is a betiful thg</em></p><p data-no-id="265" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">As long as I hold the strg....</em> </p><p data-no-id="266" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">When Frank Satra driv to the stud, he seems to dance out of the r across the siwalk to the ont door; then, snappg his fgers, he is standg ont of the orchtra an timate, airtight room, and soon he is domatg every man, every stment, every sound wave. Some of the micians have acpanied him for twenty-five years, have gotten old hearg him sg "You Make Me Feel So Young."</p><p data-no-id="267" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">When his voice is on, as was tonight, Satra is ecstasy, the room be electric, there is an excement that spreads through the orchtra and is felt the ntrol booth where a dozen men, Satra's iends, wave at him om behd the glass. One of the men is the Dodgers' pcher, Don Drysdale ("Hey, Big D," Satra lls out, "hey, baby!"); another is the profsnal golfer Bo Wger; there are also numbers of pretty women standg the booth behd the engeers, women who se at Satra and softly move their bodi to the mellow mood of his mic: </p><p data-no-id="268" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Will this be moon love</em></p><p data-no-id="269" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Nothg but moon love</em></p><p data-no-id="270" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Will you be gone when the dawn</em></p><p data-no-id="271" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Com stealg through....</em></p><div supprsHydratnWarng data-no-id="272" data-embed="pullquote" class="embed css-0 e9hzx6g0"><blockquote class="css-1eiql25 e1pe3zr91"><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-ow0dpz eagam8p0"></span><blockquote class="css-la9czl e1pe3zr90">It no longer matters what song he is sgg, or who wrote the words<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">—</em>they are all his words, his sentiments, they are chapters om the lyril novel of his life.</blockquote><span aria-hidn="te" class="css-0 eagam8p1"></span></blockquote></div><p data-no-id="273" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">After he is fished, the rerd is played back on tape, and Nancy Satra, who has jt walked , jos her father near the ont of the orchtra to hear the playback. They listen silently, all ey on them, the kg, the prcs; and when the mic ends there is applse om the ntrol booth, Nancy s, and her father snaps his fgers and says, kickg a foot, "Ooba-eba-boobe-do!"</p><p data-no-id="274" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Then Satra lls to one of his men. "Hey, Sarge, thk I n have a half-a-cup of ffee?"</p><p data-no-id="275" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Sarge Weiss, who had been listeng to the mic, slowly gets up.</p><p data-no-id="276" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Didn't mean to wake ya, Sarge," Satra says, sg.</p><p data-no-id="277" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Then Weiss brgs the ffee, and Satra looks at , smells , then announc, "I thought he'd be nice to me, but 's really ffee...."</p><p data-no-id="278" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">There are more s, and then the orchtra prepar for the next number. And one hour later, is over.</p><p data-no-id="279" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">The micians put their stments to their s, grab their ats, and beg to file out, sayg good-night to Satra. He knows them all by name, knows much about them personally, om their bachelor days, through their divorc, through their ups and downs, as they know him. When a French-horn player, a short Italian named Vcent DeRosa, who has played wh Satra sce The Lucky Strike "H Para" days on rad, strolled by, Satra reached out to hold him for a send.</p><p data-no-id="280" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Vicenzo," Satra said, "how's your ltle girl?"</p><p data-no-id="281" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"She's fe, Frank."</p><p data-no-id="282" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Oh, she's not a ltle girl anymore," Satra rrected himself, "she's a big girl now."</p><p data-no-id="283" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Y, she go to llege now. U.S.C."</p><p data-no-id="284" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"That's great."</p><p data-no-id="285" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"She's also got a ltle talent, I thk, Frank, as a sger."</p><p data-no-id="286" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Satra was silent for a moment, then said, "Y, but 's very good for her to get her tn first, Vicenzo."</p><p data-no-id="287" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Vcent DeRosa nodd.</p><p data-no-id="288" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Y, Frank," he said, and then he said, "Well, good-night, Frank."</p><p data-no-id="289" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Good-night, Vicenzo."</p><p data-no-id="290" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">After the micians had all gone, Satra left the rerdg room and joed his iends the rridor. He was gog to go out and do some drkg wh Drysdale, Wger, and a few other iends, but first he walked to the other end of the rridor to say good-night to Nancy, who was gettg her at and was planng to drive home her own r.</p><p data-no-id="291" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">After Satra had kissed her on the cheek, he hurried to jo his iends at the door. But before Nancy uld leave the stud, one of Satra's men, Al Silvani, a former prizefight manager, joed her.</p><p data-no-id="292" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Are you ready to leave yet, Nancy?"</p><p data-no-id="293" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Oh, thanks, Al," she said, "but I'll be all right."</p><p data-no-id="294" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">"Pope's orrs," Silvani said, holdg his hands up, palms out.</p><p data-no-id="295" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Only after Nancy had poted to two of her iends who would rt her home, and only after Silvani regnized them as iends, would he leave.</p><hr data-no-id="296" class="css-18pb4rg et3p2gv0" /><p data-no-id="297" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><strong data-redactor-tag="strong" data-verified="redactor">THE REST OF THE MONTH</strong> was bright and balmy. The rerd ssn had gone magnificently, the film was fished, the televisn shows were out of the way, and now Satra was his Ghia drivg out to his office to beg ordatg his latt projects. He had an engagement at The Sands, a new spy film lled <em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">The Naked Runner</em> to be shot England, and a uple more albums to do the immediate months ahead. And wh a week he would be fifty years old....</p><p data-no-id="298" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Life is a betiful thg</em></p><p data-no-id="299" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">As long as I hold the strg</em></p><p data-no-id="300" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">I'd be a silly so-and-so</em></p><p data-no-id="301" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">If I should ever let go...</em></p><div size="medium" data-embed="body-image" data-no-id="302" class="align-center size-medium embed css-1736von e1xqj1sx4"><div class="css-uwraif e1xqj1sx3"><div class="css-p7qblm ewcw41w0"><img alt="Eyebrow, Jaw, Monochrome, Monochrome photography, Black, Automotive lightg, Wdshield, Black-and-whe, Automotive parkg light, Automotive mirror, " tle="Eyebrow, Jaw, Monochrome, Monochrome photography, Black, Automotive lightg, Wdshield, Black-and-whe, Automotive parkg light, Automotive mirror, " loadg="lazy" width="3000" height="1919" dg="async" data-nimg="1" style="lor: transparent; width: 100%; height: to;" siz="100vw" srcSet=" 640w, 980w, 1120w, 1200w, 1920w" src="" class="css-0 exi4f7p0" /><a target="_blank" rel="noopener" href="//" class="ptert css-1i6sckr e1c1bym14"><img data-dynamic-svg src="/_assets/sign-tokens/e/static/ins/social/" loadg="lazy" alt="ptert in" height="to" width="to" class="css-1l3i1cl ewcw41w1" /></a></div><div class="css-swqnqv e1xqj1sx2"></div></div></div><p data-no-id="303" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Frank Satra stopped his r. The light was red. Pestrians passed quickly across his wdshield but, as ual, one did not. It was a girl her twenti. She remaed at the curb starg at him. Through the rner of his left eye he uld see her, and he knew, bee happens almost every day, that she was thkg, It looks like him, but is ?</p><p data-no-id="304" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0">Jt before the light turned green, Satra turned toward her, looked directly to her ey wag for the reactn he knew would e. It me and he sed. She sed and he was gone.</p><p data-no-id="305" class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><strong data-redactor-tag="strong" data-verified="redactor"><a href="/news-polics/g114/greatt-stori/" target="_blank" class="css-umdwtv et3p2gv0"><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor">Read more</em></a><em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor"> of the greatt </em>Esquire<em data-redactor-tag="em" data-verified="redactor"> stori ever published— their entirety.</em></strong></p><style data-emotn="css 2ok9l4">{marg-top:1.875rem;borr-top:th solid #595959;}</style><div data-jam-id="thor-b" class="css-2ok9l4 e13rjwo40"></div><style data-emotn="css ciejky">{clear:both;marg-top:1.25rem;}</style><div id="journey-le" class="css-ciejky e1cslvxz0"></div><style data-emotn="css 79elbk">{posn:relative;}</style><div class="css-79elbk eg8z2o90"><div class="css-79elbk e1tp40ll1"><div data-anchor-id="P0-0" class="css-0 e1tp40ll0"></div></div><style data-emotn="css 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