In the glittering, smoke-filled world of 1960s Las Vegas, one name commanded absolute respect: Frank Sinatra. He was the undisputed leader of the The Rat Pack, a legendary quintet that included the effortlessly cool Dean Martin, the electrifying Sammy Davis Jr., the well-connected Peter Lawford, and the razor-sharp comedian, Joey Bishop. They were the kings of cool, the toast of the town, selling out casinos and capturing the swagger of a generation on film. But beneath the sheen of camaraderie and endless cocktails, a darker world of bruised egos clashed and tempers flared, and for one member, a single phone call would mean career suicide.
While the story of Peter Lawford’s exile is the stuff of Hollywood legend, the quiet shunning of Joey Bishop serves as an even more chilling cautionary tale. The fateful moment, as documented by authors Richard A. Lertzman and Lon Davis, came when Sinatra, the patriarch of the group, made what he considered a simple request. He needed Bishop to fill in for him at the glamorous Cal Neva Lodge, a casino Sinatra himself partially owned. For Bishop, whose star had risen meteorically thanks to his association with the group, this was a moment to prove his own worth. His response, however, was a catastrophic miscalculation.
He stunned Sinatra by allegedly demanding a staggering $50,000 and a private jet for the performance. To Sinatra, a man who built his empire on an ironclad code of loyalty, this was the ultimate betrayal. It reeked of arrogance and ingratitude. The phone line went silent, the receiver slammed down, and in that instant, Bishop’s fate was sealed. The Chairman of the Board had made his decision.
Immediately, the freeze-out began. Bishop was unceremoniously cut from all future Rat Pack ventures, most notably the 1964 blockbuster film Robin and the 7 Hoods. The once-inseparable group was fractured, and Bishop, the man who had worked tirelessly since the 1930s to build his name, found himself on the outside looking in. The dizzying heights of fame he had enjoyed were gone, replaced by a quiet bitterness.
His simmering resentment bubbled to the surface in a later interview with Time magazine, where the raw wound was still evident. “One guy wrote that I worked with the Rat Pack occasionally. Occasionally,” Bishop recounted, the sting of the slight still sharp. “Another talks about how I kissed Frank’s ass. That hurt me a little bit. I know I sound bitter, but I have a right to.” The feud stands as a stark reminder that in Sinatra’s world, no one was immune from Sinatra’s temper or his unbending code of loyalty. Friendship was a privilege bestowed by the king, and once revoked, it was almost never returned.