John Wayne Asked Frank Sinatra to Be Quiet Three Times- But His Responde Was Unacceptable

June, 1966. Frank Sinatra throws a party in his Las Vegas hotel suite. The noise is so loud John  Wayne can’t sleep. Wayne calls three times asking for quiet. The party keeps going. When Wayne  finally knocks on Sinatra’s door at three in the morning, the bodyguard makes a mistake.  What happens in the next five seconds will change two stubborn men forever. Here is the story.

 The phone rings four times before someone picks up.  Wayne presses the receiver closer.  His voice is calm.  This is John Wayne, suite 412.  The noise, turn it down.  The line goes dead.  Wayne stares at the phone in his hand.  3.17 a.m. The ceiling below him is vibrating.  Bass notes. Piano. Someone singing off-key.

 A woman’s high-pitched laugh cutting through  everything. He’s been in bed since midnight. Hasn’t slept one minute. His hands are shaking.  Not from fear. From exhaustion. Tomorrow. No. Today, now now he has a stunt scene at 9  a.m. horsefall 110 degree desert heat he’s 59 years old two years past lung  cancer surgery one lung left he needs sleep like a drowning man needs air the  music gets louder before we continue quick, quick question for you.

 Have you  ever had a neighbor who wouldn’t stop? Tell us in the comments. It’s June 1966, Las Vegas, Nevada,  the Sands Hotel. Wayne is in town filming El Dorado. Howard Hawks is directing, big western,  major production. The studio rented the entire fourth floor for cast and crew.  Early call times, long days, desert locations an hour north.

 Wayne’s suite is simple.  King bed, small sitting area, window overlooking the strip.  Nothing fancy.  He doesn’t need fancy.  He needs quiet.  Frank Sinatra’s suite is directly below him. Suite 312. Sinatra isn’t filming anything. He’s performing at the Copa Room. Five nights a  week. After hours parties in his suite. High rollers. Showgirls. The usual Vegas life.

 Sinatra is 50 years old. Still boyish, still magnetic, still throwing  parties like he’s 25. Wayne is nine years older, feels 90. They’d seen each other in the lobby  earlier that evening. Nodded. Professional. Not friends. Not enemies. Just two men who work in  the same business. Different politics, different lives.

 Sinatra is a liberal Democrat. Wayne is a conservative Republican. But that doesn’t  matter at midnight when you’re trying to sleep and someone’s playing piano through your floor.  The scar on Wayne’s chest aches when he’s tired, where they removed the lung in 64.  he’s tired, where they removed the lung in 64. It’s aching now. Sharp. Insistent. A reminder that falling off a horse tomorrow at 59 with one lung could end him. Not just his career. Him.

 The second phone call goes worse. Wayne can hear someone on the other end. Music behind him,  laughing. The voice is polite but dismissive, suggesting Wayne come down and  join the party. Have a drink. Live a little. Wayne’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t want a drink.  He wants silence. The voice changes. Colder. This is a private party. If Wayne doesn’t like it, he can call the front desk. Click. Wayne stares at the phone.

 His face is hot. The scar on his chest starts to throb. Stress does that. He dials the front desk.  A woman answers, apologetic, professional. She promises to send someone up. Wayne hangs up,  waits. Ten minutes pass. The music doesn’t change, gets louder if anything.  A woman laughing hysterically, someone murdering luck be a lady. Wayne calls again.

 Has anyone  gone to 312? Yes, the manager spoke to someone at the door. They said they’d keep it down.  Wayne looks at the ceiling the vibrating thumping music  bleeding ceiling they haven’t kept it down he hangs up sits on the edge of the bed stares at  the floor the floor that won’t stop moving tomorrow’s stunt is dangerous a horse fall  if he’s not rested he could miss the mark get hurt at 59 with one lung that kind of injury  doesn’t heal it ends you he thinks about calling again knows it won’t help the front desk can’t

 control Frank Sinatra nobody controls Frank Sinatra not in Vegas not at 3am. Wayne picks up the phone one more time, dials 312. It rings. And rings.  And rings. No answer. Wayne hangs up, feels something shift in his chest. Not pain,  something else. Anger. Clean. Pure. The kind that makes decisions easy.

 He stands up, puts on his pants, his shoes,  leaves the shirt untucked, no jacket, opens the door, steps into the hallway.  The elevator is at the far end, too slow. Wayne takes the stairs, one flight down.  His breathing is heavy, Not from exertion.  From adrenaline.  Suite 312, end of the hall.  Music pouring out from under the door.  He can hear voices.

 Men laughing.  A woman shouting something.  More piano.  More bottles clinking.  Wayne walks up to the door.  Raises his fist.  Pounds.  Hard.  The music doesn’t stop. He pounds again, harder, three times. The door opens.  A man stands there, six foot three, 240 pounds, dark suit, no tie, bodyguard, professional.The man looks at Wayne. Recognition flickers. He knows who Wayne is. Everyone does. But it’s 3am.

 He knows who Wayne is. Everyone does. But it’s 3 a.m. This is Frank Sinatra’s party.  Wayne is just another old actor in pajamas. The bodyguard’s voice is polite but dismissive.  It’s late. Maybe Wayne should try tomorrow. Wayne’s response is one word. The bodyguard smiles.  Not hostile, just amused. Sinatra is entertaining guests. This is a private party. Wayne moves forward. The bodyguard steps into the doorway, blocking it.

 Puts his hand on  Wayne’s chest. Not hard, just there. A barrier. Wayne looks at the hand, then at the man’s face.  Move. The bodyguard’s smile widens something about this being real life  not the movies wayne stands still one second two then his right hand comes up fast hard backhanded  catches the bodyguard across the jaw the man’s head snaps sideways. Eyes go wide. Shock. Pain. His knees buckle. He hits the floor.

 Wayne steps over him, grabs a chair from the hallway, puts it on top of the bodyguard.  Not to hurt him. To hold him. Stay down. Wayne walks into the suite. The room goes silent.  Everything stops. Eight people, maybe ten. Hard to count in the  smoke. Three men in suits, thirty-something, money types. Frozen mid-conversation.

 Cigars  halfway to mouths. Four women. Showgirl dresses. Cocktails. One has her hand over her mouth,  eyes wide. One woman slumped in a chair near the window, passed out, doesn’t even  know Wayne is there, and Sinatra, standing at the piano, scotch glass in his right hand, left hand  still on the keys, staring at Wayne, blank expression, trying to process how John Wayne  is standing in his suite at 3 a.m. with a bodyguard on the floor in the hallway.

 Wayne stands in the middle of the room.  White shirt, no jacket, sleeves rolled up, hair messed from the pillow he couldn’t use, face red, hands in fists.  Behind him in the doorway, the bodyguard is holding his jaw, blood on his lip, chair on top of him, looking up at Wayne with fear.  Nobody moves. Five seconds of silence. Then Wayne speaks, quiet, controlled.

 I called three times, Frank. Sinatra sets his glass down slowly on the piano.  Wayne takes a step closer. The guests press back.  the piano. Wayne takes a step closer. The guests press back. I’m 59 years old. I got a stunt scene in six hours, in 110 degree heat. Sinatra opens his mouth, closes it. I asked nice. You laughed.

 Wayne keeps his eyes on Sinatra. Party’s over. Now. Silence wayne looks at the bodyguard still on the floor get up the man  stands slowly jaw swelling keeps his distance wayne’s voice softens slightly you did your job  no hard feelings the bodyguard nods walks past wayne past sinatra out a side door gone wayne turns to  the guests doesn’t say anything just looks one woman grabs her purse another follows  the three men exchange glances move toward the door nobody speaks Nobody makes eye contact. They just leave. 30 seconds. The suite is empty except

 Wayne and Sinatra. Footsteps running in the hall. A man in a hotel uniform appears. The manager.  50-something. Balding. Sweating. He looks at Wayne. At Sinatra. At the overturned chair.  The scattered glasses. His voice is is panicked Wayne holds up a  hand I was never here the manager’s face goes pale yes sir your man outside fell he was drunk  the manager starts to protest reads Wayne’s expression yes Yes, very drunk. The manager disappears. Wayne turns to Sinatra.

 Sinatra is  sitting at the piano bench now, staring at the keys. Looks smaller somehow. Older. You didn’t  have to hit Tony. He put his hand on me. Sinatra nods. Fair enough. Silence. Heavy. Not hostile.  Fair enough. Silence. Heavy. Not hostile. Just the weight of two stubborn men realizing they both pushed too far. Sinatra looks up. You’re right. I was being an ass. Wayne doesn’t respond.

 We’re not kids anymore, Duke. No. Sinatra stands, walks to the bar, pours two scotches holds one out Wayne shakes his head Sinatra sets  it down drinks his own get some sleep Wayne walks to the door stops looks back good punch Sinatra  says Wayne’s lips twitch almost a a smile. He leaves.  The hallway is empty.

 Wayne walks back to the stairs, climbs one flight, opens his suite  door, sits on the edge of the bed. The hotel is quiet. No music, no laughter, no shaking  floor.  Wayne lies down, closes his eyes, sleeps for four hours, deep, dreamless, gets up at 7am, showers, dresses, drives to location.  The makeup artist notices dark circles under his eyes, adds extra concealer, doesn’t ask questions.

 Wayne sits in the chair silent, staring at nothing.  First take, Horse fall. Wayne misses his mark by six inches, hits the ground harder than planned. Crew rushes over. He waves them off. Again.  Second take. Perfect, but it takes everything he has. His chest aches. The scar pulls tight. He’s running on fumes.

 Lunch break. Wayne finds a chair in the shade, sits down, closes his eyes for a second.Just a second. Someone shakes his shoulder. Duke, we’re back in five. He’d been asleep for 40  minutes. Production assistant looks worried wayne stands brushes  dirt off his pants i’m good let’s go howard hawks watches him all afternoon finally asks you okay  fine just didn’t sleep well hawks nods doesn’t push they have a movie to finish  Hawks nods, doesn’t push. They have a movie to finish. 13 years pass. June, 1979. UCLA Medical Center. Wayne is dying. Stomach cancer. Final weeks. His daughter Aisa sits in the corner,

 holding a magazine, not reading. A knock. A nurse. Visitors. Sinatra walks in. Barbara marks behind him. Sinatra is 63 now. Sharp suit,  but older, grayer. Barbara kisses Wayne’s cheek, sits across the room, quiet. Sinatra pulls a  chair close, sits heavily, looks at Wayne. Long silence. Then Sinatra speaks. Remember Vegas? Wayne’s eyes crinkle.

 Which time?  Tony. Wayne laughs. It hurts. He deserved it. You didn’t have to hit him that hard.  Yes, I did. Sinatra smiles, shakes his head. We were idiots. We were young.  More silence.  Marbra stands, whispers about coffee, leaves.  Sinatra and Wayne sit, two old men, one dying, one watching.  Finally, Sinatra stands.

 Get some rest.  Frank?  Yeah?  Thanks for coming. They shake hands, long, firm, both knowing this  is goodbye. Sinatra walks to the door, stops, looks back. Still a good punch, Duke. Wayne smiles.  Still an ass, Frank The door closes Wayne lies alone  Stares at the ceiling  The memory is there  Clear  Vegas  1966  The night he knocked on Sinatra’s door  The night two stubborn men finally understood each other  He closes his eyes  That was a strange story between those two  What would you have done in Wayne’s situation? Tell us in the comments.

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