The Hotel de Paris was a lavish, five-star hotel located feet away from the grand entrance of the Place du Casino, Monaco’s legendary gambling establishment, made famous in James Bond films. The ochre marble entrance to the casino was majestic, but for the most part, Sinatra was past his gambling days. The hotel was everything you would expect of a playground of princes, oligarchs, and billionaires. The stunning foyer was filled with crystal chandeliers and relief sculptures on the walls and ceilings. The suites were equally luxurious, furnished in brocades and tassels.
The terrace of Sinatra’s suite had panoramic views of Monaco. We sat on the balcony, sipping coffee, overlooking two-hundred-foot yachts lined up in the exclusive harbor. We could see the fountain at the main entrance to the casino. It was luxury living at its best and came with the requisite luxury price tag. Sinatra was pissed about his previous housing and Rudin was not happy with the impact this move would now have on our bottom line. The change of accommodations required more than a change in the location of our luggage. It meant the travel arrangements would have to be revised. This was to be our new base for all the concert venues and it became the catalyst for everything that would soon go wrong in the Sinatra-Rudin relationship.
We would take off and land in Nice. The trip to the Nice airport was nineteen miles on a hilly, winding, two lane road, with breathtaking views of the sea. It was only nineteen miles but it could take an hour in traffic and Sinatra hated being in a car for that long. A decade earlier Prince Rainier had built a small heliport with a single helipad so you could chopper to Nice Côte d’Azur Airport in nine minutes. For Sinatra, that was the only way to go, provided there were blue skies.
For our first concert in Bari, the weather was clear, so we took the chopper to the plane to visit. Jilly was excited about the trip. He grew up in lower Manhattan but his family was from Bari, so this was big for him.
Practically everywhere in the world we went, Jilly had friends, and Bari would prove to be no exception. From the plane I saw the small port city of Bari on the Adriatic, in the Puglia region of southern Italy. We came in for the landing and I realized that if there was one Italian more famous than Frank Sinatra in Bari, it was Jilly Rizzo. As we taxied on the runway, we saw dozens of locals, fishermen, and old women in peasant dresses holding signs saying “Benvenuto a Casa, Jilly,” or “Welcome Home, Jilly.”
“What’s this, your fan club?” Sinatra said. Jilly smiled.
We disembarked and Jilly stood on the steps waving his hands like a mayor on a float in a parade. Down on the tarmac, Jilly greeted his friends and there were plenty of hugs and kisses. He didn’t linger for long.
“What, are you a politician now?” Sinatra said in the car.
Jilly didn’t say a word. He wasn’t teary-eyed, but you could see by his expression that he was very touched by the outpouring of friendship. I think he was even happier that the Boss witnessed it all. Frank knew that Jilly had friends everywhere, but having him see it firsthand was a source of great pride for Jilly and an affirmation that he was a valuable asset to Sinatra.
If you knew Jilly, chances are you were crazy about him. I never met a person who knew Jilly who didn’t love him, except possibly Barbara and of course those who had wound up on his bad side. Frank didn’t go anywhere without Jilly, so he was always around. He even went to a private White House reception with them, the day after President Reagan’s inauguration.
At one point, Jilly said to Sinatra, “Let’s get out of here. We can’t make any money here,” and then he turned to the president and said, “Hey, Mr. President, when you’re in New York come by Jilly’s and let’s have a drink.”
Sinatra cracked up. He loved to tell that story. President Reagan had known Jilly for years and wasn’t offended, but you can imagine that Barbara must have been appalled. I believe that she really liked Jilly, but he didn’t fit into the social elite that she wanted her and Sinatra to associate with. Over time, she began to cut Jilly out of the social picture, which was terribly hurtful to both Frank and Jilly. Frank went along with it because he didn’t want to rock the boat, so when we were on tour it was especially important to Sinatra that he was always with his most trusted friend and confidant. Sinatra loved Jilly specifically because he wasn’t fancy, and he loved to needle him and remind him of his humble beginnings.
“Hey, Jilly,” Sinatra said as we drove through the streets of Bari. “Whatever happened to that kid you threw through the window when you were bartending in the Village?”
“Come on, Frank. The kid was fine. What was I supposed to do? There’s a bunch of wiseguys at the bar and the kid was being disrespectful.”
“Procrastinator, he called you,” Frank teased.
“I carry a dictionary now,” Jilly said.
Frank laughed.
Yes, as the story went, in his younger days, Jilly threw a guy through a window because he called him a procrastinator, and Jilly, not being an educated man, assumed it was an insult. What he lacked in education he made up for in loyalty and veracity. In addition to being in charge of Sinatra’s security, Jilly was a reliable sounding board. He didn’t gossip and Sinatra knew that when he told Jilly something it was between the two of them. Sinatra appreciated his discretion and felt he could be himself around Jilly. He felt protected emotionally and physically.
Sure, Jilly was capable of rough stuff, but if you weren’t there to cause trouble or bother Sinatra, Jilly was as respectful and as kindhearted as they came. One look at Jilly and you didn’t want to mess with him. The truth was, he was a teddy bear on the inside but looked like a grizzly on the outside. Even I felt protected with Jilly close at hand. I was always happy to have him around and knew he was there to help out in most any jam.