I couldn’t take anymore. He was never going to let it go. He was going to sing tunelessly into the mournful wind forever. I took to bumping my head against the table-top to block the pain in my ears and knock some cells out.
But it wasn’t long until Archie and Greg Stone returned to Casa Estonia to play mandolin-banjo versions of Lana Del Rey. This was my chance. I jumped into the Cadillac and rolled on down the hill to see Nancy.
As I drove I was still trying to think of a plan; but short of murder or suicide, the only other option was to get down on my hands and knees and put my face on the floor and plead with Nancy from the bottom of my withered soul that she take the mad bastard back.
Casa Sinatra was built in the 50s along the lines of a model prison, with a central guard tower and five diverting wings. One wing is the bedroom wing; one is a mile-square Rec room with sunken lounge, heated pool and a nice floor for jazzercise; one wing contains an oratory, where Frank used to practise his little-known trick for ventriloquism; one is an atrium full of succulent specimens harvested from the deserts of the world (the atrium is mercifully free of rat’s heads); the fifth wing contains a rococo-style restaurant capable of seating 400, which Frank Snr would fill with paid actors, so he could pretend to be an anonymous Joe while he ate. People in planes permitted to fly overhead often remark that the building hangs on the cliff-face like a star.
Continued here: The Tannhäuser Gate at Casa Sinatra