Monday

No call from Jerry. He’s supposed to call. I’m not exactly surprised.

The vibe here has shifted. I went to his show last night, at an outdoor food court the casino calls “Seminole Paradise,” and afterward, he said he’d call me in a little bit so we could get a drink. But he didn’t call. Instead, he went to a steakhouse with Avalon and Avalon’s bandmates — Avalon had just stepped off the stage at Hard Rock Live — and when I eventually walked into the steakhouse and sat down at the big boys’ table, it was like something in the room had died. Jerry was nice to me, welcoming as always, but it was clear I had pissed off Avalon. I drank a quick cup of coffee, talked to Jerry about a plan for today, and took off.

Our plan: Drive to an ultra-exclusive resort called Lago Mar (“It’s an oceanfront view, you’ll flip”) where Jerry’s thinking about buying some property. Nicholas Pileggi, the screenwriter of Goodfellas and Casino, has encouraged Jerry to write his life story so that Pileggi can buy the film rights, and Jerry needs a getaway where he can speak his life into a voice transcriber.

But no call. Was it my iTunes comment? Something else? The trivia thing, ­maybe — catching Avalon in a mistake? Or does Avalon, understandably, just want to shoot the shit with Jerry without a reporter tagging around? For whatever reason, I appear to be exiled from the tribe.

Secretly, I’m glad for the downtime. Despite the 40-year age difference between me and the Geator, I can’t keep up with him.

Later on, I walk over to the Seminole Paradise to watch Jerry’s show. He spots me and says, “You look well-rested, Jason.” Then he arranges for me to have dinner with Connie Francis while he finishes up his set.

She’s lovely.

“He sends me macaroni, boxes of homemade macaroni, every Christmas,” Francis says. “It’s great.”

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