Rickles' Book (7 page)

H
e was billed as the “Wildest Show in Vegas.” The papers called him the biggest sensation in town. I’m not talking about myself; I’m talking about Louis Prima.

Louie might have been the most successful lounge performer in Vegas history. With singer Keely Smith looking sultry and seductive, with his backup band Sam Butera and the Witnesses blowing their brains out, Louis rocked and rolled every night of the week. He sang, he joked, he carried on with songs like “Just a Gigolo” and “Oh Marie” until the audience was exhausted.

That’s when I came out.

I was second banana during Louis Prima’s long run at the Casbah, the high-profile lounge at the Sahara Hotel.

Every night I asked myself: How can I follow this guy?

Somehow I managed.

Prima had prime time. He was on at 10
P.M.
and off at 11:30. That meant my sets were midnight, 2
A.M.
and 5
A.M.

The setup was strange. Right in front of the stage was a pit where the waiters and bartenders walked back and forth serving food and drinks.

I looked down at someone’s plate and said, “I don’t know how to tell you this, fella, but don’t eat the eggs. The board of health just condemned the kitchen.”

I spotted a girl working on a guy’s ear. “Honey,” I said, “stop blowing in his ear. His tie is going up.”

I watched a guy taking double shots with beer chasers.

“Hey, buddy, keep that up and you’ll think you’re a beaver and start eating the bar.”

At the 5
A.M.
show, if I saw that the lounge was empty, I ran offstage, ran into the casino, stood by one of the crap tables and yelled, “Hold down the noise! I’m trying to do a show in there!” Then I ran back into the Casbah with a new following of fans eager to see what this nut case was screaming about.

Word got back to the hotel boss, Milton Prell, that I was running into the casino and carrying on. “Rickles is a nice kid,” he remarked, “but what kind of problems does he have?”

Problems? What problems?

I was in my mid-thirties and thought I was Mr. Casanova. The girls thought otherwise but still wanted to take care of me. I had that kind of personality. I looked like I was always in need. If they could read my mind, I’d be arrested.

As the fifties rolled into the sixties, one fan in particular became a regular. He stood in the corner of the bar and kibitzed. He could afford to do this because he was headlining in the main room.

Meet Johnny Carson.

I met Johnny doing my first appearance on the
Tonight
show in New York. To the outside world, Carson looked like an all-American kid from Nebraska. But believe me, he was no square. He caught on to me immediately. He looked at the notes his producer had provided about me but never stuck to them. Johnny just let me go.

At the Sahara Hotel, Carson would get off work and relax by having a few drinks at the Casbah. He loved zinging me.

“Hey, Rickles,” he’d say, “when’s Louis Prima coming on?”

“Johnny, do me a favor. Go to the Hilton and light Liberace’s candles.”

“That’s all you got, Rickles? That’s your dynamite stuff?”

“Johnny, do what you do best. Sit behind a desk and annoy your guests.”

With that, Carson walked the length of the bar, stood in front of me, looked me in the eye and mimicked my every move.

“Rickles,” he said, “only a miracle can get you in the main room. And I’ll make sure that miracle never happens.”

The miracle is that Johnny was the one who made it happen. When he got sick and had to cancel his next date, he recommended me to replace him.

You can imagine my reaction.

I wet my pants.

Burgess Meredith takes Rickles to
The Twilight Zone.

T
hat beautiful quote about my role in
The Rat Race
, a movie I did with Tony Curtis and Debbie Reynolds in 1960, does not come from the film critic of the
New York Times
. It doesn’t even come from the
New York Post
. It actually comes from Lou Schwartz, a plumber in Cleveland. Decades after the movie came out, he wrote his review in a film chat line on the Internet. I didn’t read it myself—I don’t even know how to turn on a computer, much less find a chat room—but friends have told me my old movies are getting great reviews in cyberspace. Thank you, Lou.

I played a tough guy in that film, and another bully in an early episode of Rod Serling’s
Twilight Zone
with Burgess Meredith.

Was I afraid of being typecast?

I was afraid of not being cast at all, so, like most actors, I grabbed whatever came along. That’s how I got to play an army soldier on
Wagon Train
, a hit television series.

Here’s the setup: Albert Salmi and I are trail masters. We’re supposed to drive an ammunition wagon pulled by four hungry horses down a hill to save an encampment from attacking Indians.

“I’m not a horseman,” I tell Ted Post, the director. “I’m a Jew from Jackson Heights. The last horse I saw was pulling a buggy in Central Park.”

“We’ll have a blind driver sitting behind you,” Post assures me. (“Blind driver” means that the man will be off-camera.) “He’ll be holding the reins. He’ll take charge.”

A half-hour later, I see that the blind driver is half-blind. I get the feeling he likes his liquor.

“Don’t worry, Don,” says Albert, “these TV people know what they’re doing.”

We’re doing all this on the Universal lot that, in those days, included a large section of dirt roads. The road we’re riding leads down to one of the main gates of the studio.

Albert and I climb on board. I ride shotgun. Albert takes the fake reins. The blind driver takes the real reins. The man is not in good shape. We could be in serious trouble.

Post says, “Action!”

The horses don’t move. The blind driver doesn’t move.

“Get those horses going!” yells Post.

The blind driver snaps the reins with the strength of someone unfolding a dinner napkin. The horses still don’t move. They’re too busy slobbering. A couple of the extras dressed as Indians start whooping it up. The horses couldn’t care less.

Finally the Indians start throwing pebbles at the horses.

“Hey,” I yell, “don’t get ’em mad. You trying to kill us?”

Suddenly the horses take off with a vengeance. They’re foaming at the mouth.

Thank God we have the blind driver. But where is he? I look behind me and see that he’s taking a nap.

Meanwhile, we’re storming down the hill a hundred miles an hour. There’s no stopping these horses. The camera crew scatters out of the way.

Albert looks at me, I look at Albert. We don’t have a clue of how to stop these crazed animals.

We’re fast approaching the Universal gates where the security guards are frantically waving their arms and screaming, “Stop them! Stop the horses!”

“Whoooa!” Albert yells.

“Whoooa!” I yell.

The four mad horses don’t understand English. They’re breathing like they got asthma. They’re racing through the gates and charging down the city street with me and Albert bouncing up and down like balloons, two shmucks in Old West army outfits.

Cars veer out of the way and screech to a halt. Pedestrians scream in fright. Buses slam on their breaks. Finally, the horses get tired and stop in front of a Mobil station.

Me and Albert, grateful that our lives have been spared, let out a sigh of relief.

A big burly cop in a white helmet and aviator sunglasses climbs off his motorcycle and menacingly approaches our wagon.

Looking me dead in the eye, the officer says without a hint of humor, “Okay, who’s the wise guy?”

S
inatra was the Sands.

He ran the place.

Those were the days of the Rat Pack in Vegas. I never received an official membership card, but Frank made me feel part of the fun. He invited me to the party.

The party took different forms. All of them, of course, were designed by Frank, master party-planner and prankster.

The pranks were always directed at others. It seems I was a popular target. It was Frank’s court. Frank was the king, and we were happy to be court jesters. Sometimes the jesting came when you least expected it.

I’m onstage at the Casbah Lounge at the Sahara Hotel.

By now, I’ve been playing the lounge a couple of years. I’ve built up a little reputation. For the first time, they’ve even slapped on a cover charge. It’s only five bucks, but it makes me feel good. I’m no longer free. You have to buy me.

Things are going good.

I’m on stage. I see a fella hugging and squeezing his girl. Looking down at him, I say, “What, are you nuts? Take a look at her!”

I’m ribbing a guy who’s big as a beach ball. “Hey buddy, there’s a new thing out there. It’s called a diet.”

Suddenly, I see two state troopers walk on stage.

“Mr. Rickles,” says the first trooper. “You’ll have to come with us.”

The audience is taken aback. They don’t know what the hell is happening. Neither do I. Then the crowd starts laughing. Before I know it, I’m led offstage, escorted through the casino and whisked into a sheriff’s car. Sirens blaring, we race over to the Sands, where I’m taken to Sinatra’s table. Frank is sitting with Dean Martin and a trio of gorgeous gals.

“Anything wrong, Don?” asks Sinatra.

“Not at all, Frank. Who needs a job at the Sahara anyway?”

Sinatra looks up and smiles. “I figured as much.”

For a half-hour or so, we have a few drinks and many laughs. This is fine, but I hope I have a job waiting for me. Sinatra keeps the vodka coming, and I don’t know how to say, “Frank, I don’t want another drink. Can I go now?”

“Relax, Bullethead,” Sinatra says. “Have one for the road.”

“No thanks, Frank. I gotta go. I gotta start pushing your new album.”

I’m still at the Sahara at the Casbah Theater, but my status grows, at least a little.

Frank’s in Vegas this weekend, and I’m hoping he’ll show up.

The minute I get on stage, my stomach fills with butterflies. I look out at the front row and there’s Frank, Dean and Sammy. What a treat!

Before I can say “Good evening,” though, they take out newspapers, open them in front of their faces and start to read. I can’t see them; they can’t see me. The audience howls. And I still haven’t said a word.

Finally, I say, “You guys will do anything to keep your names alive.”

Down come the papers. The boys are pleased. Their routine is a hit. Up and down the strip, people are talking about nothing else. The Rat Pack racks up another one on Rickles.

A week has passed since the newspaper bit. Frank comes to one of my shows with Dean Martin and his close pal Jilly Rizzo. They take a ringside table; they’re ready for Rickles.

I’m a little nervous, but here goes nothing.

“Jilly,” I say, “how does it feel walking in front of Frank’s car checking for grenades?”

Dean gets up and yells, “Rickles, you’re always talking about the Jews. Why don’t you talk about the Italians?”

“The Italians are great. How am I going to get a haircut without them?”

Just when I’m about to do a little number on why Frank has lost his voice, in walks a group of hefty guys who give me the distinct feeling they’re from Chicago. They don’t exactly look like the Boys’ Choir.

Before they can sit down, I say, “Hi, guys, make yourself comfortable,” and go into my famous machine-gun-fire mime, taking aim right at them: “Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!”

I don’t check to see whether they’re laughing. But it doesn’t matter because Sinatra is.

“That’s it,” says Frank. “I’m getting out of here.”

“Take it easy, Frank,” I shoot back. “I have to listen when you sing.”

“Jokes aside, kid, who’s your favorite singer?”

“The truth, Frank? Dick Haymes.”

Dean makes his way to the stage, swaying as he goes.

“I got something to say,” says Dean.

“Great. The pope speaks,” I say.

“Don Rickles is the funniest man in show business.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

“But don’t go by me,” he adds, “I’m drunk.”

The hot spot is the steam room at the Sands. It’s Rat Pack central. Every evening at five, Frank calls the troops into the steam room. He gives us each our own personalized robe. Mine has a rhino head on the back. Don’t ask why.

Inside the steam, just when we’re relaxed, a firecracker goes off under the marble bench where Sammy or Dean or Peter is sitting. Frank’s also a master at giving hotfoots. In the steam room, anything goes.

I feel relatively safe in there because Frank enjoys giving me a hard time in public, not in private. In private, Frank’s the most personable guy you’d ever want to know. He loves discussing baseball and boxing.

“Don’s a terrific comic,” he announces one day when the Pack has been in the steam for a few minutes. Our robes are neatly hung, and we’re sitting around discussing matters of state, our bodies covered only by towels.

“Don’t you think Don’s a terrific comic?” Frank asks Dean.

“You betcha, pally,” says Dean.

I get the feeling something’s up.

“Don’s so funny,” says Sinatra, “that it’s cruel of us to keep him to ourselves. There are dozens of people sitting out there by the pool who’ve never heard him. They need his humor. They need our Don right now.”

Before I can beg for mercy, Frank and his friendly pack grab my towel and push me out the front door of the steam room. A few feet away is the pool area where a horde of tourists have a bird’s-eye view of my naked body.

What can I do?

What can I say?

“I swear, folks, it’s only a joke.”

Frantically, I pound on the steam room door, begging the boys to let me in. Finally they do. I rush to put on my rhino robe and take a seat on a warm bench in the corner.

I’m safe…as long as Sinatra doesn’t have other plans for me.