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I M A G E

MAHONEY,

BALONEY While publicist to the biggest stars in the world, one learns to keep secrets.

Now Jim Mahoney is retired. And talking.

BY GERALD GARDNER PHOTOGRAPHY

BY JACK

HARTIN

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Jim Mahoney and his wife Pat in their La Quinta Country Club home.

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HILOSOPHERS HAVE SAID

that character is fate.

But Jim Mahoney might argue that fate is geography. He grew up in Culver City between two movie studios, the Hal Roach Studios on one side and the Selznick Studios on the other, with MGM down the road.

And movie studios have occupied Mahoney’s eventful life ever since.

And it has been their stars that have bedeviled his days.

Beyond Selznick’s colonnaded executive office building were 40 acres of outdoor sets. Jim and his young pals used to wander through the cowboy set, the New York street, the war-torn Europe set. A boy could go around the world in 20 minutes.

It was a movie studio that first tapped Jim’s entrepreneurial spirit.

When Selznick began shooting Gone With The Wind, Jim bought a crate

of Cokes for four cents a bottle, crawled under the fence and sold them for ten cents apiece to the perspiring crew during the “burning of Atlanta” scene.

Jim’s father was an interior decorator and one Sunday in 1948 he took Jim ostensibly to see a home he had designed. Little did Mahoney realize that he was heading for a job interview and a lifelong career.

“It was a magnificent place,” Jim recalls. “I saw a house with an electrified gate and a speaker phone in the bars. To my left was a huge manicured lawn, to my right a garage with a Rolls, a Jaguar and three motorcycles. And by the pool were two men. One of them was Clark Gable. It was his home.”

The other was Howard Strickling, MGM’s publicity chief. Howard asked Jim what he was studying at college. “Girls,” said Mahoney.

(He was actually studying journalism.) Strickling asked Jim if he liked to write. “No,” said Jim. “Neither do I,” laughed Strickling.

A week later Mahoney had a job in the MGM publicity department and was being shown around the lot — the prop department, makeup, dressing rooms, the barber shop.

Louis B. Mayer said Metro “had more stars than there were in the heavens.” He didn’t exaggerate.

There were two Barrymores (Ethel, Lionel), two Taylors (Robert and Elizabeth), Greer Garson, Gene Kelly, Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland. Last stop on Mahoney’s studio tour was the commissary where a familiar voice called out his name: “Mahoney! Over here! This is your first day. You’re having lunch with me.” It was Clark Gable.

Jim Mahoney spent years writing

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Mingling with the stars (clockwise from upper left): Jack Lemmon; Frank Sinatra, Norman Rockwell and Rockwell’s personal photographer (Frank wanted Rockwell to paint his picture. It fell to Mahoney to set it up.);

publicity for MGM stars and movies.

“I make beautiful pictures about beautiful people,” Mayer said, and Jim polished their images to a high gloss. Photoplay and Modern Screen were the company press and Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper were the company columnists for the company town of Hollywood. In later years, both as a press agent at Rogers & Cowan, tinseltown’s most prestigious P.R. firm, and then as head of his own firm Jim Mahoney & Associates (later MahoneyWasserman), Jim continued to sanitized the flaws of the famous.

Gonzo journalist Hunter Thompson once said, “I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.” And these were just a few of the excesses that Jim Mahoney had to keep out of the papers for his luminous clients. In more recent years Dominick Dunne has explored the dark side of the rich and famous who believed they were above the law. Dunne deplored their dark deeds; Mahoney had a tougher job: He had to launder them.

Longtime client Johnny Carson; Carol Lawrence with then-husband Robert Goulet; Sammy Davis, Jr., Howard Cosell and Flip Wilson.

Cosell was a cherished client whom Mahoney still remembers fondly (“a prince of a man”).

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NE OF THE MOST INCENDIARY OF

those notables was Frank Sinatra. One night Mahoney and Sinatra attended Judy Garland’s opening at the Cocoanut Grove.

Garland had been going through a rough patch. She was no longer the merry teenager skipping along a yellow brick road. Her anxiety that opening night was palpable. The Hollywood “A” crowd was out in force — Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, Henry Fonda, Rock Hudson, Peter Lawford, Sinatra… and Mahoney. Midway through the show, a saucer-eyed 12-year-old girl wandered onto the stage and joined her mother. Judy and daughter Liza Minnelli sang a chorus of the Gershwins’ “Liza.” The applause was thunderous. Hollywood wears its heart on its sleeve for the sentimental and the incestuous.

After the show, the audience crushed in on the little girl. Sinatra and Mahoney were congratulating Liza when suddenly a heavyset man

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in a loud sport coat approached the girl. “It didn’t work, kid,” he sneered. “Take some advice.

You need a little more training before you step out in front of a paying crowd.” And with that he turned on his heel. Liza’s eyes filled with tears as she digested the callous putdown.

Sinatra’s jaw tightened. “Keep an eye on that guy,” he said to Mahoney.

“Don’t lose him. I want to congratulate Judy.”

Mahoney followed Sport Coat out to the Ambassador lobby, down a long corridor, toward a bank of bathrooms. A moment later, Sinatra rejoined his press agent.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“In the john.”

Sport Coat came out of the lavatory. Frank Sinatra sauntered by him, and as he did, the singer drew back his arm and buried his fist deep into the man’s belly. He went down, screaming in pain.

“Let’s get something to eat,” said Sinatra.

“You go ahead, Frank,” Jim said.

“I’ll stick around to see what happens.”

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“Meet you at Patsy’s,” said Ol’ Blue Eyes and vanished.

Sport Coat was still groaning as a crowd of diners and security guards converged on his body.

“What happened?” Mahoney asked a guard who had been questioning the man on the carpet.

The guard shrugged.

“He doesn’t know what hit him.

Doesn’t have a clue. It all happened too fast.”

Mahoney sighed contentedly and left for Patsy’s.

L

MARVIN WAS ANOTHER explosive star who was Mahoney’s client. As an action star no one could touch him; as a human being no one wanted to touch him, at least not any press agent. Only Mahoney could take him on.

On their frequent trips together to New York to promote Marvin’s movies, Jim would avoid the actor as much as possible. “Lee was a magnet for trouble,” he recalls.

EE

“If there was trouble within a fourblock radius, it would find Lee or he would find it.”

To keep a healthy distance between himself and his unpredictable client, Jim hired an off-duty cop named McDermott to drive the actor around New York.

If trouble erupted, McDermott would contain the fallout and let Mahoney sleep in peace. One evening Mahoney and Marvin were in Manhattan promoting Lee’s new movie. Marvin and his drinking buddy, cigar-chomping columnist Jimmy Breslin, had gone out for the night and Mahoney had retired to the Regency Hotel suite he shared with Marvin.

The phone awoke Jim in the morning. He heard a gruff voice.

“Is Mr. Marvin in? This is Officer Muldoon.”

Jim went into his defensive posture.

“Mr. Marvin is out right now.

I think he’s in church.”

“We have a situation,” said the officer. “There’s a lady in the

(Clockwise, from upper left): A sultry Susan Hayward; Traveling with Ava Gardner; A power brunch of power brokers Jim set up for Col. Tom Parker, seated at the head of the table.

(Incidentally, do you recognize the

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man to Mahoney’s left? It’s Club member Don Cravens!); Being charmed

by Kim Novak; Early mentor Clark Gable.

As a boy, Jim got a taste of Hollywood glamour when he accompanied his decorator dad to Gable’s home.

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hospital. She has Mr. Marvin’s raincoat and his wallet. Her mother wants to file charges against Mr. Marvin.” The young woman had been found early that morning on the sidewalk outside the Regency Hotel wearing just the raincoat.

“I’m coming over and wait for Mr. Marvin,” continued Officer Muldoon. “I’ll talk to him when he gets back from church.”

Mahoney hung up the phone and began a feverish search through the suite. Clothes were strewn about the living room, a woman’s nylons, panties and a flimsy bra. Mahoney winced. He went into Lee’s bedroom and found the star stretched on the bed in a drunken stupor, naked as the day he was born. There was a knock on the door of the suite.

It was the hotel manager, very proper, very angry. He knew about the lady in the raincoat.

“Mr. Marvin will have to vacate the suite,” he said. “The hotel cannot tolerate this kind of behavior.”

Mahoney had to think fast. The best defense is always a good offense.

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“What are you talking about?” he said, stalling until he came up with the most effective strategy. Years of experience accelerated the process.

He continued without missing a beat. “Hold on,” he began. “The lady left the suite; she waltzes out wearing Mr. Marvin’s raincoat and his wallet. What kind of security do you have in this place? The press will love this story.”

“Nevertheless…” said the hotel manager.

“Now, listen. Mr. Marvin is in bed right now and hasn’t the slightest idea what’s going on.” Which was arguably true, since the actor was out cold. The manager weighed the situation. He agreed that the press should be kept out of it. At which point Officer Muldoon arrived.

The lady had been released from the hospital and her mother had decided not to file charges.

“Well, Mr. Marvin doesn’t bear a grudge,” Mahoney said. “We will not press charges.”

The hotel manager was delighted.

The police were assuaged.

“By the way,” said Mahoney, “we’re in town to promote Mr. Marvin’s new movie. I’d like to get you guys tickets to the premiere. And also your friends at the precinct house.”

“I understand how these things happen,” said Muldoon. “I used to be in show business.”

W

DISNEY HAD THE BEST WAY to treat actors. If he didn’t like an actor, he just tore him up. Burt Lancaster was a star who might have ignited the Disney treatment.

He was not a client of Mahoney’s but Burt knew about Jim’s talent for handling impending disgrace. Jim was on the fourth hole of Bel Air Country Club when he saw a caddy tearing across the fairway in a golf cart. He had the feeling the cart was bringing trouble. Had Sinatra held ALT

up a bank? Had Eddie Fisher eloped with Greta Garbo?

“Burt Lancaster wants to see you within the hour,” panted the boy.

Jim sunk a four-foot putt and headed for the swashbuckler’s office.

He found the actor gorging on hunks out of a Burger King lunch at a huge mahogany desk. “I’m told you can keep things out of the papers,” said Lancaster. Jim nodded warily.

“I’m being sued for a million dollars for punching someone out,” said Lancaster.

“What’s his name?”

“It’s not a he, it’s a she.”

Lancaster named a petite actress with whom he was making a movie on location in Canada. Burt and his co-star were rehearsing a scene that called for a verbal spat. She suggested it might work better if she slapped him in the face. Burt disagreed and spoke to the director.

He didn’t like being slapped. Burt Lancaster thought the matter settled.

But when they shot the scene, the actress slapped his face.

“So what did you do?” Jim asked.

“I knocked her on her ass.”

“Then what happened?”

“She got up and I knocked her on her ass again.”

Mahoney considered the fact that this kind of story would be catnip for the tabloids. The editors of the New York Post and Daily News would be howling with joy. The National Enquirer would stop the presses.

“I’ll take care of it.”

Jim then called the actress’ lawyer, Henry Bushkin, who was also a lawyer for Johnny Carson who was a client of Mahoney’s. They worked out a settlement. Jim met with Lancaster again. “I’ve worked it out, Burt. You write a letter of apology and make a donation to the actress’ favorite charity and the whole thing is history.”

“Apology! I’m not giving any apology!”

“Let me draw up the letter,” said Mahoney. “It’ll be OK.” Mahoney set to work drafting a

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note that was not too apologetic. But suddenly he received another frantic call from Lancaster. Jim appeared again opposite the mahogany desk.

“Look at this!” snapped Lancaster and sailed a sheet of paper at him. It was a letter from the actress’ husband. He was in Paris and his Gallic temper was inflamed.

“Sir — I hereby challenge you to a duel. To save my honor. You beat my wife. You must accept to fight with me or I will consider you a coward.”

Mahoney threw down the letter and laughed.

“Hell, Burt, you’ve never lost a duel.”

“Are you nuts Mahoney?

Those were movies! This guy wants to kill me.”

The husband knew that Lancaster would be on a plane to Paris the following week to make another film.

Burt Lancaster feared that the irate Frenchman would be waiting at Orly with a choice of weapons.

“I’ll take care of it,” Mahoney said. “Relax and enjoy yourself in Paris. I’ll even have someone meet you at the airport.”

And Mahoney did take care of it.

It was a typical Hollywood ending.

A sword or a pistol never menaced Burt Lancaster. Neither did he have to face a million-dollar lawsuit.

Neither did he face attacks from feminist groups that disapprove of men who beat up women. Neither did reporters and paparazzi assail him with questions about why the heroic star had punched a woman in the face. It all went away.

But no good deed goes unpunished.

Six months later Jim was at Pebble Beach at the Bing Crosby tournament.

And Burt Lancaster was there hitting balls on the driving range.

He saw Mahoney and charged over. Was he grateful for the mess Mahoney had gotten him out of?

Was he pleased? Hardly. Lancaster glared at him: “Nobody was at the f**king airport!”

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OW TYPICAL OF HOLLYWOOD STARS’ ingratitude. Jim recalls another experience, this time with actor Peter Falk.

Falk was nearly unknown when he was chosen for the role of Abe “Kid Twist” Reles in the mobster movie, Murder, Inc., but his “people” thought Falk’s performance in the film Oscar-worthy. “A definite long shot,” Mahoney says. But Jim was assigned the task to campaign for the one-eyed actor’s chances and, with laser like intensity, went to work and landed him the nomination.

On the evening of the Oscars, Mahoney and Falk sat together awaiting the results in the Supporting Actor category.

“And the winner is Peter…” They held their breath… “Ustinov!”

(For Spartacus.)

Falk turned to Mahoney and said simply, “You’re fired.”

Mahoney pulls a book from his library, Falk’s autobiography, wherein Falk describes the events.

Is Mahoney mentioned, is his hard work getting Falk the nod praised, is there any sign of gratitude from the actor?

Mahoney shrugs. “The way Falk tells the story in the book, my name isn’t even mentioned. Peter just wrote that ‘a press agent’ helped him get the nomination!”

P

LAYWRIGHT JEAN

KERR ONCE SAID, “Movie stars are just ordinary mixed-up people with press agents.”

But Mahoney would disagree.

There is nothing ordinary about movie stars. There is something very special about the arrogance and bad behavior of some of them. Perhaps it is the wave of unconditional love that washes over them and leads them to think there is nothing they can’t do, no rule they can’t flout.

A combination of fame and wealth seems to give you the feeling that you can do anything to anybody.

But after a lifetime of putting a high gloss on celebrated people, Jim

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Mahoney may be forgiven if he is glad to put the hustle and bustle behind him. Perhaps he has seen one too many stars knock a woman to the ground or pass out in bed or sucker-punch a lout.

Jim Mahoney is a man of enormous charm and ingenuity who spent a lifetime under the pressure of Hollywood, keeping movie stars out of the tabloids and/or out of jail.

Strip away the phony tinsel of Hollywood and you find the real tinsel. And Mahoney was sick of the tinsel and the looming scandals.

“I’m still a little nervous every time the phone rings,” he says from his comfortable golf-course-side home in La Quinta. “I’m afraid the call is bringing on some new crisis.”

But these mornings there is no phone. In the next two hours he’ll play 18 holes, be back in front of his house with his adoring (and adorable) wife Pat and have his exercise for the day.

Most would agree that Mahoney deserves a chance to observe the view from the 18th hole. In case of emergency, don’t call.

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Life with Frank:

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IS LONG ASSOCIATION WITH

the legenary Frank Sinatra would take publicist Jim Mahoney over peaks and down valleys for nearly 15 years.

It was Sinatra, after all, who prodded Jim to escape the L.A. Hearst paper in the late ’50s (“get out of that hokey [newspaper] business”), get into public relations and go to work for Frank when he had a show at ABC-TV. After the show went south, Frank suggested that Jim apply for a job at Rogers & Cowan.

“Tell ’em I want you there,” he said.

(Mahoney got the job. Duh.) And when Jim decided to go off on his own (after handling such superstars as Frank, Gary Cooper and Alan Ladd at R&C), it was Sinatra who set him up with his first clients — repping Frank’s restaurant Puccini’s and Dean Martin’s Dino’s Lodge (known to lay folks as the

location for the TV private-eye series 77 Sunset Strip).

And when Jim told Frank he didn’t even have an office, Sinatra said, “You can work out of my office at the William Morris agency.

Heck, I’m never there.”

Mahoney was right in the thick of things, also, during the famous kidnapping of Frank Sinatra, Jr. At right, in Sinatra’s own handwriting, are the kidnappers’ ransom demands, totaling $240,000.

Jim vividly recalls how Frank’s friend Jack Entratter, owner of The Sands hotel in Las Vegas, arrived at their suite at the Mapes Hotel in Reno. Entratter shed his topcoat and revealed a vest containing 10 pockets. Each pocket held $5,000.

And it was Jim Mahoney who was selected to deliver the loot. (The kidnappers were caught and jailed.)

Above: In Sinatra’s handwriting, written while on the phone with his son’s kidnappers, is the detailed list of the way the money was to be divided.

Every detail was seen to, including instructions to the courier — Mahoney himself. What the kidnappers planned to do with the dimes and quarters is a mystery.

Left: Frank Sinatra, Jr. and his mother Nancy (center) meet the press following his release.

Jim Mahoney keeps a watchful eye over Frank Jr.’s shoulder.

Right: LeRoy Neiman is a longtime friend of Mahoney’s.

In some of Neiman’s more famous paintings of bar scenes, Jim’s face has been known to appear.

Here is LeRoy’s portrait of Jim, drawn during a lunch at New York’s Tavern on the Green.

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PHOTO BY MARC BALDWIN

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