By 1982, I was living in Florida, stripped of my professional licenses, with a failed marriage and three children to support. The entertainment industry was flourishing and I was working with some of the hottest, most in-demand acts in the live-performance, middle-of-the-road genre, which encompassed a wide range of traditional popular music, including easy listening, smooth jazz, soft rock, and show tunes. I had the best female singer live on the boards in Liza Minnelli, the best husband-and-wife team in Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé, and the king of them all in Frank Sinatra. It was an incredible opportunity to start my life anew and I was determined not to screw it up.
On a cool, early April afternoon, I stood outside the limo on the tarmac of a private airport in Pittsburgh thinking about how lucky I was. I watched Sinatra’s jet, the Lady Barbara, taxi on the runway. I could see him through the window. I wondered what he would say, what I would say? This was the first time I had seen Sinatra since my life began to unravel.
I was there at Rudin’s request and happy to have been asked. At this point, Sinatra thought of me as his road manager. Rudin wanted to protect Sinatra, so he never told him about the extent of my work, and there’s no doubt in my mind that Rudin continued to help me out, at least partially because he was afraid of what I might say to the feds. He also knew that Sinatra liked me and that I could handle whatever job was thrown my way.
Normally Sinatra was the last to step off the plane, but this day he came off first. As he descended the steps, he pointed his fingers at me like a gun and simply said, “Thanks.” He had many ways of showing gratitude, as I would come to learn, but this was the only time he ever directly said thank you, in all our years together.
Sinatra was an avid newspaper reader and had repeatedly seen my name in the press, accompanied by that infamous photo of him and the guys from Westchester. I assumed he knew what was all over the media—that he and Micky were the target of the investigation. He believed I was a scapegoat for an overzealous prosecutor going after famous names. It was a sense of wrongful persecution that he personally felt keenly and that we both shared. I already knew at this point that Sinatra was a loyal and dedicated friend to everyone he cared for. He hated to see someone taken advantage of and he loved to fight for the underdog and stand up to bullies.
So I wondered, had he helped me convince Tyler and his all-star legal team to handle my appeal and secure that rare second shot at a sentence reduction? I’m sure Sinatra had nothing to do with it personally, but he was a master of making a comment to a well-placed friend and producing results. I don’t believe in coincidences and I didn’t win the lottery. Someone was helping to orchestrate my good fortune.
He approached the car.
“Hi, Boss. It’s great to see you. Did you have a good flight?”
As he came closer to me I thought about how good he looked with his Palm Springs tan. We shook hands. Then he embraced me, like I had occasionally seen him do with close friends. It was a gesture I appreciated. He didn’t have to say a word. I could feel his compassion for me and his sincere gratitude. In the car we discussed business as if nothing unusual had occurred. Everything else was left unsaid and it would be many years before we discussed my time away.
That first night together, I stood in Sinatra’s dressing room at the Civic Arena before the show. He was sipping tea, as was his custom, when he handed me a small, unlined, white piece of paper.
“You did the right thing by moving to Florida. If anybody tries to bother you, if you ever have a problem with anyone, here’s a number. Use it.”
Handwritten on the note was “Matty” and a phone number. I folded it up, put it in my wallet, and forgot about it. It was not a number I ever intended to call.