Rickles' Book by Don Rickles and David Ritz Read Free Book Online

now!”
    Ever the gentleman, Gable looks at Lancaster sympathetically. “Relax, Burt,” he says. “I’ll dive with the submarine tomorrow.”

    My nervous-seaman portrayal turned out to be realistic. I was afraid I’d forget my lines, so I hid them under my pillow in the submarine bunk so I could keep stealing peeks.
    The seaman character was scared of getting blown up; I was scared of drawing a blank. It amounted to the same thing.
    The movie came out and proved to be a hit. Everyone loved Gable’s performance. Lancaster was sensational. Rickles was largely ignored, but I’d made it to the big screen. Big things were happening. I thought that Hollywood was mine.
    That’s the kind of dummy I was.

Sherlock Holmes Had Watson; Rickles Had Harry
    E tta came out to the Coast. She wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Her sonny boy had made a movie and was gaining a reputation. My mother wanted to be close to the action and, as always, I was glad to have her strong support.
    In spite of having steady work, I shared an apartment with Mom not far from the Slate Brothers club, where I was still performing six nights a week. Our place was so small that we hung a curtain that separated Mom’s living quarters from mine. It was tight, but we made due. The only problem involved dating. How do you say, “Mom, I love you very much, but do you mind not coming back till four o’ clock in the morning?”
    Mom became a regular at the Slate Brothers. She laughed harder than anyone, but when I got offstage, she’d say, “Don, dear, do you have to make fun of people? Why can’t you make nice, like Alan King?”

    Golfing with Uncle Miltie.
    “That’s my act, Mom,” I’d say. “That’s what’s getting me over.”
    “Just go easy with the big stars,” she’d advise. “Don’t get the big stars upset.”
    One night, after the last show, I saw Etta talking to the bartender, a handsome black man with natural charm and class. His name was Harry Goins. Harry was one in a million. How many guys would volunteer to shop at Canter’s for all the Jewish delicacies Mom loved and then ask if I needed help with my wardrobe? Harry couldn’t do enough for us.
    One day Mom just came out and said it. “Ask Harry if he’d be willing to work for us. He’s a gem. Hire Harry and, if we’re lucky, he’ll be with us forever.”
    Etta was right. For the next forty years, Harry Goins was by my side. He was the brother I never had.
    When Mom and I got a slightly bigger apartment at the Park Sunset, the always-immaculate, always-
well-spoken Harry helped arrange her pool parties. Harry would lay out the food in an artful manner, displaying Etta’s chopped liver like it was Beluga caviar.
    Meanwhile, Etta rounded up guests. I don’t know how she did it, but she got the stars to attend. Everyone from Kirk Douglas to Debbie Reynolds to Jack Carter and the Ritz Brothers would show up. Even Sinatra dropped by. I remember one night when Milton Berle sat in a lounge chair next to Mom.
    “I first saw Don in Florida,” Milton told Etta. “I said back then that your son had a great style. Mine.”

Wild Nights at the Casbah
    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