The love affair—and I’m using that term loosely—between Ava Gardner and Frank Sinatra was doomed from the start. Both stars were emotionally immature with little impulse control. Both were alcoholics, and both had a history of affairs with equally unstable partners.

And so The Voice and The Shape plunged into a tsunami of a relationship and a six-year marriage (1951 – 1957) punctuated by unbridled passion, threats of suicide, and metronomic doses of violence.

In Autumn of 1949 Gardner and Sinatra, not yet lovers, were both guests at the Palm Springs home of producer Darryl F. Zanuck. The liquor flowed, and the two stars locked in on each other like lethal missiles.

Ava said, “You’re still married.”

Frank responded, “No, doll, it’s all over. It is done.”

For hours they drank and flirted. Ava’s career was going through the roof. Her smoldering role as the femme fatale in “The Killers“—one of the best noir movies ever—catapulted her into the Hollywood stratosphere.

For a shoeless farm girl from North Carolina with no father and little education, Hollywood stardom was a dangerous perfume. In a few short years Ava went from being a sensitive, prim and proper virgin to a notoriously promiscuous, hard-drinking woman.

Sinatra’s career was in trouble. His records were not selling and MGM was anxious to drop his contract as his box office appeal faltered. Sinatra did not help himself by being obnoxious and hostile to the media.

Sinatra and Gardner exited Zanuck’s party with a bottle of booze in hand. They clambered into Sinatra’s Cadillac and putting pedal to metal, Sinatra roared into the night.

Driving along they passed the bottle back and forth.

Like two crazy kids, they were going nowhere fast.

Soon, they ended up in the small town of Indio. Sinatra pulled into the main street and parked. There he and Ava kissed and groped under the stars.

Taking a break from their make-out session, Ava tipped back her head for another long gulp of hooch. Sinatra leaned forward, opened the glove compartment and pulled out two .38 Smith & Wesson pistols.

Sinatra took aim at a street light and fired. Glass exploded. He aimed at another street light and hit it on the first shot.

Ava, a country girl who grew up around hunters, cried: “Let me shoot something.”

Sinatra grinned and handed her the second pistol. Whooping like a Confederate soldier Ava Gardner aimed at the twinkling stars and blasted away.

Frank stared at Ava, mesmerized, and he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he had finally found his soul mate. Here was the most beautiful woman in Hollywood shooting up the inexplicable universe.

Ava downed more liquor, squinted down the barrel of the Smith & Wesson and fired into the window of a hardware store.

Ava shot the chambers empty and continued to shriek the rebel yell.

Sinatra put the huge Caddy into gear and headed back to Palm Springs. They didn’t get very far before they heard a police siren.

Two small town cops approached with guns leveled.

Sinatra said to Ava: “Christ, what do these clowns want now?”

A few hours later, as Ava lay unconscious on a wood bench in the police station, a publicist from Los Angeles arrived by chartered plane with a big black bag that he handed over to the cops.

Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner were released. There was no paper trail and no publicity.

Two small town cops enjoyed a comfortable retirement.

In the morning, back in Palm Springs, Ava Gardner’s sister, Bappie, was up having breakfast when Ava returned all rumpled and haggard and smelling like a speakeasy.

Bappie wanted to know where Ava was all night.

Ava replied: “I went out with Frank Sinatra. We had a wonderful time.”

Ava Gardner and Frank Sinatra party hard

My main source for this anecdote is Lee Server’s fine biography Ava Gardner, Love is Nothing.

Legal Disclaimer: Big Hollywood does not condone or recommend this style of dating. We strongly support meaningful conversation over coffee or tea, a night at the movies, respect for private property, and oh yeah, firearm safety.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech

“Thing is, he’s going to kill me.”

“Have you gone to the police?”

“Yes, of course I have.”

“And what happened?”

She shakes her head from side to side, wraps her arms protectively around her chest.

“I got a restraining order against Ned, that’s my ex-boyfriend. But you know what good that is, don’t you?”

“Tell me.”

She inscribes a big zero in the air.

Five Minutes Earlier

It’s a crowded Sunday morning in the Martin B. Retting Gun Shop in Culver City.

There’s the usual cross-section of customers:

Two elderly black women, sisters, who have been robbed countless times by drug-addicts. Ignored by the LAPD, they have no choice but to buy a gun for self-defense. The women wear colorful bonnets. Yup, they dressed up to go gun shopping.

There are a couple of hunters buying high-powered ammunition; they sound like Los Alamos scientists as they discuss the exquisite physics of various exotic slugs. It’s way beyond my comprehension.

Two Marines on leave are stocking up on rugged, combat-ready clips for their side-arms. Semper Fi.

There’s also a young Hispanic apartment manager who lives in a high-crime area. His wife just had a baby—Mazal Tov!—and he wants to protect his family from the local “desperadoes.”

I’m waiting my turn.

Protagonist

And so is a young woman who absolutely sticks out in the gun shop. She’s wearing a cream colored linen baby doll with blue grosgrain trim; on her feet, pink flip-flops that pop off alabaster skin. Her hair is the color of golden Kansas wheat. Mid-twenties, she’s an iconic all-American beauty who makes me flash to memories of a truly insane childhood crush: Tuesday Weld as Thalia Menninger on The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis.

Looking as if she’s on the edge of a meltdown, she paces, glances nervously at the display cases lined with gleaming rows of pistols and revolvers. She makes a move to exit the gun shop, then returns, as if yanked by a fishing reel.

“Excuse me, do you, do you know about guns?”

She’s even got that vulnerable, tremulous Tuesday Weld pitch to her voice.

And she is talking to yours truly.

“A bit.”

“I’m terrified of guns.”

I hold out my hands as if checking for rain.

“Sounds crazy, I know, thing is—do you think the salesmen are going to be much longer?”

“There’s tons of paperwork if you buy a gun.”

Her eyes dart about, then she just looks at me straight-on:

“Thing is, he’s going to kill me.”

Antagonist

That’s when she tells me about Ned; the evil, the obsessive, the ex-boyfriend.

Ned is a stalker, a human virus who has infected every aspect of her life.

She speaks of restraining orders:

“The thing about them is that people like Ned always find a way around them. He’s there on my computer. He’s a computer guy, for Chrissakes. He knows when I start going out with a new dude and he makes sure to tell the new one all sorts of trash about me. And d’you think the dude sticks around? No one wants that level of drama. I’ve moved twice already and he always finds me. Ned’s always there. Sometimes I wake up at night, go to my window and I’m telling you he’s watching me. Hey, I’m sorry for unloading on you. You must think I’m such a loser chick.”

“It’s fine. I feel awful for you. But it’s good you’re taking steps to protect yourself. It’s admirable. Men like Ned count on women being scared and defenseless.”

She pauses. Looks down at the display of guns.

Conflict

“I can’t believe I’m here. I’ve been against guns and violence my whole life.”

I let this pass. Now is not the time for a self-righteous lecture.

Intertitle: UTOPIA IS THE OPIATE OF LIBERALS.

“Did Ned threaten you, physically, I mean?”

“Said I belong to him and no one else. That’s about it. But I know what he means.”

“What did the police say?”

“The last cop, as he was leaving, whispered for me to get a gun.”

I tell her that owning a gun isn’t sufficient. She has to take safety classes, self-defense classes. She has to know what she’s doing. From the counter, I grab a handful of NRA brochures and press them into her hands. I make her promise that she’ll sign up as soon as she gets her gun in ten days.

“Ten days?” she says.

Nodding, I explain:

“First you have to take a test, here in the store, a written test. They’ll give you a booklet to study. Then you get a certificate making you eligible to buy a weapon in California. After you purchase the gun there’s a ten-day waiting period until you take possession.”

“But why?”

“Background check. To make sure you’re not a felon, a psychopath, an illegal immigrant, a terrorist, a drug addict. It’s the law.”

Once again, she wraps her arms around her chest, as if trying to keep her heart inside her body.

“Ned’s really smart—a psychozoid like you wouldn’t believe.”

Rising Tension

I do not ask her why she went out with Ned in the first place. The answer is obvious: psychopaths are clever at disguising their pathologies. Evil is seductive.

“You’re going to be okay. I know you are.”

She shrugs, scans a row of pistols.

“Are those good?”

“Those are .45 automatics. Probably too much gun for you. I’d recommend a simple revolver. Probably a Smith & Wesson J frame, a .38. But we’ll see what the salesman have to say, they are the experts here, okay?”

She manages a thin smile, her first since I’ve met her.

“Cool.”

“One piece of advice, even before you buy a gun, and this is important.”

“Yeah?”

“Lose the flip-flops.”

She looks down at her feet, curls her toes, lacquered a hot psychedelic pink.

“Huh?”

“You can’t run or maneuver in those things. Get in the habit of wearing a good solid pair of running shoes.”

“Oh, right, right. What was I thinking?”

I lead her to the glass case that holds the wheel guns, weapons that are simple to load, easy to handle, jam-proof. And, you better believe: lethal.

She scans the display. She seems overwhelmed.

Finally, she looks up at me and says: “What’s to stop Ned from killing me in the next ten days?”

I have no answer.

Resolution, Not So Much, For This is, Unfortunately, Reality

Hours later, I tell my wife Karen about the conversation. In the background FOX Cable News is reporting the brutal murder of a pregnant woman. The chief suspect is her ex-boyfriend, an evil piece of human garbage with a history of stalking women.

“I’m terrified I’m going to wake up one day and see that she’s been murdered. Maybe I should have done more.”

“What more could you have done?”

Shrugging, I admit I have no idea.

But Ned is out there, obsessively dreaming, watching, waiting for the right moment — to make her his own.

The Cornered Cat is an excellent resource for women who wish to learn about self-defense and firearms. Highly recommended.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech

I’m pretty sure the mob outside is dead serious about breaking in and getting down to some serious violence.

Not to mention liberating some pretty major karats. At the reception, I noticed huge diamonds whose glitter could induce seizures; watches: at least a dozen Cartier Tanks; I could not count the Rolex Oysters, and no doubt there’s enough loose cash to make your average L.A. rioter reasonably satisfied. This is, after all, an affluent Hollywood crowd.

Armed & Dangerous With a Swiss Army Knife—Just Kidding

I have to protect my family.

In my pocket, as always, a little Swiss Army Knife.

“I’ve never yet seen an eyeball who felt that the Swiss Army Knife was not a dangerous weapon.”

This charming and somewhat gruesome comment, advice really, was given to me by my Israeli buddy, a grizzled tank commander who, one drunken evening, cheerily listed for yours truly all the common, everyday objects that have lethal potential. My friend was a big fan of the ordinary Swiss Army Knife and its zillions of nifty attachments.

So: it is pitch black, rioters are gathering outside the DGA building, and to make matters even worse, women and children in the lobby are yelling, sobbing—every moist and yucky sound imaginable—in panic.

I feel like announcing:

“People, shrieking does not help. Really it doesn’t.”

But, why bother? It’s a mob mentality and there is no reasoning with such people. Unless maybe you’re Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird.

Which I am not.

Anyhoo.

I’m busy formulating a plan, trying to figure out a way to escape this building before the rioters break in, before they figure out a way of crashing through one of the numerous doors.

Interpolation:

Karen does not scream or yell.

Unnaturally calm is the love of my life. Even as stones—where do the rioters get rocks?—thwack sharply against the front doors, Karen does not even flinch.

It’s almost eerie. Basically, everyone else is losing their collective minds, but Karen’s expression just builds into this magnificent wall of serene composure. Her posture goes taut, as if a steel rod is welded into her spine and molding her into an incredibly cute Marine.

Ten-chun!

I have this really weird urge to lift her sleeve and seek out the Semper Fi tattoo. And then there’s her lovely face. All the open and generous softness has receded and been replaced by a look of, well, the only way to describe her expression is —

Napoleon at Austerlitz

— have you ever seen those military paintings of 17th Century generals? You know those huge canvases where you get to see a full battle, say Austerlitz, or Waterloo, thousands of men are fighting, dying, blood and guts strewn about, rearing horses with eyes wide as saucers, but the general, the reason for the painting in the first place, well, he’s usually sitting on his white horse, on a hill, watching the battle, and his expression conveys, determination, resolve, bravery, a self-assurance that says to the viewer: Look, believe me, I know exactly what I’m doing.

Anyway, that’s what Karen looks like tonight.

End Interpolation:

“Karen,” I whisper, “I think we should get to the car and get out of here.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

I’ve been in love with Karen since third grade and have come to the realization that she’s one part Antigone and all Patton.

“Everybody, everybody! Attention, please! We cut the lights. We don’t want them to be able to see inside. Do you understand? We shut down the power. Not them.”

There is a collective buzz as a rent-a-cop repeats this vital announcement.

“What are we supposed to do now?” People shout.

“We’ve called the police,” comes the weak reply.

More nervous buzzing.

“Please, ladies and gentlemen, just wait for the police to arrive.”

I’m thinking: famous last words.

Offspring #2 is still in my arms, still glued to my hip, and though seven-years old, she has regressed and jammed her thumb in her mouth; she trembles mightily, as if freezing. I can actually hear her teeth chattering.

Karen and I edge our way to the staircase; we are not going to wait for the police. We are not going to sit here like victims.

We are going to make our way down to the parking garage, jump into the car, and drive home. We are going to take our fate in our own hands.

The cavalry, I’m pretty sure, and with all apologies to John Ford, is not coming to the rescue.

The Police Are Coming—But Not Really

“Where are you going?”

A rent-a-cop is posted at the staircase.

“To our car,” I tell him.

“That’s not a good idea, sir.”

“We think it is.”

“We’ve called the police.”

“Where are they?”

He says nothing.

“How long before they come?”

“Any minute.”

I gesture to the rioters doing their hostile little dances outside the DGA building:

“What happens when they start throwing Molotov cocktails?”

Rent-a-cop takes a deep breath.

“The police are coming,” he insists.

“Excuse me, we’re going to our car. You can’t stop us.”

The rent-a-cop has about 200 lbs.—all muscle—on yours truly and I’m terrified that he’s going to challenge me.

Thank G-d, he steps aside, murmurs something about not being responsible for our safety.

No kidding.

Poor guy. He’s trying to do his job, but he no longer knows what his job is.

Robert’s Rules for Driving Through a Riot

1. Do not stop for anyone or anything.

2. Not even to help someone. My first responsibility is to my family.

3. If rioters try to blockade the car, drive straight through.

4. If the car stalls, don’t leave the car.

5. Unless the car is on fire.

These rules flash through my mind in a split second.

The Fashionable and Magic Backpack

The stairwell is pitch black. Not good. In fact, it’s bad, very bad.

Suddenly, a golden beam of light slices through the velvety darkness.

“Look,” says Ariel, “Mommy has a flashlight.”

The children are delighted.

Me too.

Karen carries an extremely cool and very feminine leather backpack. It’s something of a joke in the family that the backpack is magic. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, it’s gonna be in the backpack.

Except for a pistol.

Sigh.

Cautiously, looking for signs of the rioters hiding in the garage, we make our way to the car. I’ve definitely seen too many movies. I almost declare: The coast is clear.

I snap Offspring #2 into her car seat. Ariel, 11, also sits in the back with his younger sister. He is pale with fear and confusion. I touch his arm and murmur: “Everything is going to be fine.”

Ariel gives a weak smile and nods his head.

Our children trust us to protect them.

The burden of parenthood has never felt more grave.

Starting up the engine, I realize that I am drenched in sweat, my shirt clings to my body.

Karen reaches into the glove compartment, pulls out the Thomas Guide to Los Angeles.

“We may have to find a different route home,” she says.

“Right.”

Using commencement-of-production bonus money from my last film, we bought a Lexus outfitted with a massive eight cylinder engine. It was a good move. The Lexus is a gas guzzler, but who cares. It’s our Centurion.

And as we cruise up the ramp, my breath catches in my throat for there are a dozen rioters milling about the exit.

Oh man, am I going to be able to put pedal to metal and plow through a bunch of real live human bodies?

My Israeli friend, the tank officer, had something like sixteen kills in a Sinai tank battle during the 1973, Yom Kippur War. When I complimented him on this huge kill ratio he waved it off and said:

“It’s no big deal killing an Egyptian tank. They have this habit of hunkering down and using their tanks as artillery platforms. All wrong. Picking them off was a bit too easy. Remember, always fight an offensive battle. Most people are cowards so if you keep coming at them, chances are they will retreat.”

Okey-dokey.

Louise Brooks, ready for a riot.

Next Week: Part III, Gauntlet. In which we manage to escape from the parking garage, only to discover that the route home is, um, a minefield.

To read Part I of Hollywood is Burning, please click here.

Note: I’m frequently asked how I’m able to remember incidents in such detail, including dialogue, from so many years ago? It’s simple. I do not rely on my memory. I have been keeping a detailed diary for over 20 years. This post, as so many others, is based on my diaries. If there are gaps in my entries, I check with Karen. She was also keeping a diary, plus Karen has a phenomenal memory.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech

Karen and I lock every door in the house, shut tight the windows, we move through the house switching off all the lights.

 
L.A. Burns. Not a SFX scene from a movie.

Gazing from our bedroom window, we watch orange flames lick at the darkness, pillars of black smoke climbing into the sky. We can actually smell the acrid odor of burning rubber.

“Look how close they are,” says Karen.

“Just past La Cienega. Maybe eight blocks away.”

Karen gives me a long penetrating gaze:

“What do we do if they come here?”

My mind is racing away. The truth is, we are defenseless. Unless I get crazy inventive like Dustin Hoffman in Straw Dogs.

“After this is all over,” I vow, “I’m going to buy a pistol.”

Karen says: “How about a shotgun?”

Dissolve:

Two Hours Earlier:

The rioters are surging towards the front doors of the theater. They are shouting, but the glass doors are so thick we cannot hear what they’re screaming. But one look is all we need, faces are twisted into expressions of raw hatred. The mob looks intent on some serious violence. Though, I do glimpse a few kids laughing, milling about aimlessly and in apparent good cheer. Hey, maybe this is just a community street festival.

We’re at a screening for a new movie. It’s a Hollywood premiere and charity event for, get this, inner city youth.

I’m friends with the executive producer.

“Bring Karen and the kids,” the producer chirps on the phone,“it’s a kid-friendly movie, there’s gonna be a reception, and really Robert, it’s gonna be fab-u-lous.”

And so: because this producer is my friend and I want to support her movie, and because I’m a Hollywood screenwriter and personal relationships grease the wheels of the business, and because the producer is a player and admires my work, I schlep Karen, Ariel, eleven, and Offspring #2, seven-years-old, to the screening slash charity benefit in the DGA building on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood.

What could possibly go wrong at a swanky premiere?

Inner City Youth Are Outside—But Not For Long

It is a Wednesday evening, April 29, 1992. The Rodney King tape has been running like an eternal loop on every network 24/7.

The film, a real stinker, at long last, cuts to its final fade to black. Everyone is now mingling in the reception area. Guests congratulate the producer, director and stars, assuring them that the film is: ”Great, just great,” and “the best work you’ve ever done,” all the expected and acceptable lies we tell each other.

Suddenly a chill sweeps through the room.

Something is happening.

It’s happening outside.

I step towards the large plate glass doors of the theater. The security men, two burly rent-a-cops, deeply alarmed, start locking the row of doors.

Snap, click.

Snap, click.

Snap, CRACK!

Mesmerized, I stare as something hard bounces off the thick glass. There is a tiny white wound.

“Step back from the doors,” the security men call out in surprisingly firm voices.

I stay put. I want to see what’s happening.

“Please, step away from the doors,” they plead as more guests press forward trying to glimpse the fearful gathering outside.

I see it happening. A classic shot unwinding in slow motion: the mob swarms towards the DGA building, towards us: a thick wave of fury marching with a terrible velocity towards this cocoon of—there’s no way around this—Hollywood liberals.

Sheesh, talk about a target-rich environment.

It’s almost funny.

Here we are, inside, raising charity for inner city youth, and —

— and the inner city youth are outside trying to get in.

Not, mind you, to express their ever-lasting appreciation for our spectacular generosity. Nope, hard as it is to believe, but it looks as if the objects of our charity would like to lynch us.

Or maybe burn us to death.

Almost funny. But not quite.

Hey, This is Just Like the Movies, Only Not Really

Abruptly, we are plunged into darkness.

And as if on cue, a woman screams, just like in the movies.

Offspring #2 leaps into my arms.

Trembling like a frightened rabbit, she stutters:

“D-d-d-addy, what’s happening?”

Karen grips my arm:

“Robert?”

Ariel squeezes my hand, and asks:

“What happened to the lights?”

I’m thinking: Um, Do I really look like I have the answers?

A rent-a-cop calls out: “We turned off the lights so they can’t see inside. It’s a safety precaution.”

I sense panic spreading like a virus through the crowd.

During the 1973 Yom Kippur War I had a long and detailed conversation with an Israeli officer, an incredibly brave and highly decorated tank commander, who explained why Israel always beat the Arabs in war:

“We maneuver, we remain flexible, creative and liquid. The Arabs have a fatal tendency to fall back into a defensive posture. You cannot win a battle or a war when your position is static. We shoot and scoot. We keep moving, we probe the enemy’s flanks and then move in for the kill.”

Excellent advice.

We are trapped in the lobby and outside a mob of rioters are moving in, surrounding the building.

Time to go Israeli.

Next Week: Part II: The Get-a-Way. In which Los Angeles devolves into anarchy, and the police are revealed to be helpless, hopeless and useless.

Note: I’m frequently asked how I’m able to remember incidents in such detail, including dialogue, from so many years ago? It’s simple. I do not rely on my memory. I have been keeping a detailed diary for over 25-years. This post, as so many others, is based on my diaries. If there are gaps in my entries, I check with Karen. She was also keeping a diary, plus Karen has a phenomenal memory.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech