Nevertheless here he was, the man himself, in the early hours of the morning in Beverly Hills, out of range.
He also wore, as everybody seemed to know, a remarkably convincing black hairpiece, one of sixty that he owns, most of them under the care of an inconspicuous little grey-haired lady who, holding his hair in a tiny satchel, follows him around whenever he performs. The most distinguishing thing about Sinatra's face are his eyes, clear blue and alert, eyes that within seconds can go cold with anger, or glow with affection, or, as now, reflect a vague detachment that keeps his friends silent and distant.
It is a characteristic that Sinatra, without admission, seems to prefer: All the Way; All or Nothing at All.
This is the Sicilian in Sinatra; he permits his friends, if they wish to remain that, none of the easy Anglo-Saxon outs.
Since then Dexter has been one of Sinatra's constant companions and has been made a producer in Sinatra's film company.
He occupies a plush office near Sinatra's executive suite.