OK, OK, so a lot of people couldn’t get enough of the Sinatra tributes.
More than a week after the singer’s death, a few of those people gathered one night at Jilly’s, that sliver of a Rush Street saloon named in honor of Sinatra’s former pal and bodyguard, the owner of a bygone New York joint of the same name.
There were three who immediately caught the eye: beefy men with the reddish faces common to those who have spent years drinking hard liquor and eating steaks.
It was late and a fellow named Nicky was saying, “Wasn’t the media went nuts about it. Some of them did OK. It was the family went goofy, fighting over Frank’s dough like that.”
“But he showed ’em,” said Sam. “In the will! They fight, they get nothin’.”
“Leave it to Frank,” said the third man, named Victor. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Eleven thirty,” said Sam.
Each man took a long sip of his drink.
“Lemme ask you guys a favor,” said Victor. “The favor is, the next time I ask, `What time is it?’ say, `It’s a quarter to three.’ Can I ask you to do that for me?”
His pals nodded.
