June 1966. Frank Sinatra throws a party in his Las Vegas hotel [music] suite. The noise is so loud John Wayne can’t sleep. Wayne calls three times asking for quiet. The party keeps going. When Wayne finally knocks on Sinatra’s door at 3:00 in the morning, the bodyguard makes a mistake. What happens in the next 5 seconds will change two stubborn men forever.

 Here is the story. The phone rings four times before someone [music] picks up. Wayne presses the receiver closer. His voice is calm. This is John Wayne. Sweet 412. The noise. Turn it down. The line goes dead. Wayne [music] stares at the phone in his hand. 3:17 a.m. The ceiling below him is vibrating. Bass notes. Piano.

 Someone singing off key. A woman’s high-pitched laugh cutting through everything. He’s been in bed since midnight. [music] Hasn’t slept one minute. His hands are shaking. Not from fear, from exhaustion. Tomorrow, no, today. Now, he has a stunt scene at 9:00 a.m. Horsefall. 110° desert heat. He’s 59 years old.

 2 years past lung cancer surgery. One lung left. He needs sleep like a drowning man needs [music] air. The music gets louder. Before we continue, quick question for you. [music] Have you ever had a neighbor who wouldn’t stop? Tell us in the comments. It’s June 1966, Las Vegas, Nevada, The Sands Hotel. Wayne is in town filming El Dorado.

Howard Hawks is directing Big Western major production. [music] The studio rented the entire fourth floor for cast and crew. Early call times, long days, desert locations an hour north. Wayne’s suite is simple. King bed, small sitting area, window overlooking the strip. Nothing fancy. He doesn’t need fancy.

 He needs quiet. Frank Sinatra’s suite is directly below him. Suite 312. Sinatra isn’t filming anything. [music] He’s performing at the copa room. Five nights a week, after hours parties in his suite. [music] High Rollers, show girls, the usual Vegas life. Sinatra is 50 years old, still boyish, still magnetic, still throwing parties like he’s 25.

Wayne is 9 years older, [music] feels 90. They’d seen each other in the lobby earlier that evening, [music] nodded. Professional, not friends, not enemies, just two men who work in the same business. [music] Different politics, different lives. Sinatra is a liberal Democrat. Wayne is a conservative Republican.

 But that doesn’t matter at midnight when you’re trying to sleep and someone’s [music] playing piano through your floor. The scar on Wayne’s chest aches when he’s tired. Where they removed the lung in 64. It’s aching now, sharp, insistent. A reminder that falling off a horse tomorrow at 59 with one lung could end him. Not just his [music] career, him.

 The second phone call goes worse. Wayne can hear someone on the other end, music behind [music] him, laughing. The voice is polite but dismissive, suggesting Wayne come down and join the party. [music] Have a drink. Live a little. Wayne’s jaw tightens. [music] He doesn’t want a drink. He wants silence. The voice changes colder.

 [music] This is a private party. If Wayne doesn’t like it, he can call the front desk. Click. Wayne stares at the phone. [music] His face is hot. The scar on his chest starts to throb. [music] Stress does that. He dials the front desk. A woman answers. Apologetic professional. [music] She promises to send someone up.

 Wayne hangs up. Waits. 10 minutes pass. The music doesn’t change. [music] Gets louder if anything. A woman laughing hysterically. Someone murdering. Luck be a lady. [music] Wayne calls again. Has anyone gone to 312? Yes. [music] The manager spoke to someone at the door. They said they’d keep it down.

 Wayne looks at the ceiling. [music] The vibrating, thumping, music bleeding ceiling. They haven’t [music] kept it down. He hangs up, sits on the edge of the bed, stares at the floor. The floor [music] that won’t stop moving. Tomorrow’s stunt is dangerous. A horsefall. If he’s not rested, he could miss the mark. Get hurt.

 At 59, with one lung, that kind of injury doesn’t heal. [music] It ends you. He thinks about calling again. Knows it won’t help. The front desk can’t control Frank Sinatra. Nobody controls Frank Sinatra. Not in Vegas. [music] Not at 3:00 a.m. Wayne picks up the phone one more time, dials [music] 312. It rings and rings and rings. No answer. Wayne [music] hangs up.

 Feels something shift in his chest. Not pain. Something else. Anger. [music] Clean. Pure. The kind that makes decisions easy. He stands up, puts on his pants, his shoes, leaves the shirt untucked, no jacket. Opens the door, steps into the hallway. The elevator is at the far end, too [music] slow. Wayne takes the stairs. One flight down.

 His breathing is heavy. Not from exertion, from adrenaline. Sweet 312. End of the hall, music pouring out from under the door. He can hear voices, men [music] laughing, a woman shouting something, more piano, more bottles clinking. Wayne walks up to the door, raises his fist, pounds hard. The music doesn’t stop.

 He pounds again, harder, three [music] times. The door opens. A man stands there. 6’3″, [music] 240 lb, dark suit, no tie, bodyguard, professional. The man looks at Wayne. Recognition flickers. [music] He knows who Wayne is. Everyone does. But it’s 3:00 a.m. This is Frank Sinatra’s party. [music] Wayne is just another old actor in pajamas.

 The bodyguard’s voice is polite, but dismissive. It’s late. Maybe Wayne should try tomorrow. Wayne’s response is one word. The bodyguard smiles. Not hostile, just [music] amused. Sinatra is entertaining guests. This is a private party. Wayne moves forward. The bodyguard steps into the doorway, blocking [music] it. Puts his hand on Wayne’s chest.

 Not hard, just there. A barrier. [music] Wayne looks at the hand, then at the man’s face. move. The bodyguard’s smile widens. Something about this being real life, not the movies. Wayne stands [music] still. One second. Two. Then his right hand comes up fast, [music] hard, backhanded, catches the bodyguard across the jaw.

 The man’s head snaps sideways. [music] Eyes go wide. Shock. Pain. His knees buckle. He hits the floor. Wayne steps over him, grabs a chair from the hallway, puts it on top of the bodyguard. Not to hurt him, to hold him. Stay down. Wayne walks [music] into the suite. The room goes silent. Everything stops. Eight people, maybe 10. Hard to count in the smoke.

 Three men in suits. [music] 30some. Money types. Frozen mid-con conversation. Cigars halfway to mouths. Four women. Showgirl dresses. [music] cocktails. One has her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. One woman slumped in a chair near the window, passed out, doesn’t even know Wayne is there. And [music] Sinatra standing at the piano, scotch glass in his right hand, left hand still on the keys, staring at Wayne, blank expression, trying to process how John Wayne is standing in his suite at 3:00 a.m. with a bodyguard on the floor in

the hallway. Wayne stands in the middle of the room. White shirt, no jacket, sleeves rolled up, hair messed [music] from the pillow he couldn’t use, face red, hands in fists. Behind him in the doorway, the bodyguard is holding his jaw, blood on his lip, chair on top of him, looking up at Wayne with fear. Nobody moves.

 5 seconds of silence, then Wayne [music] speaks. Quiet, controlled. I called three times, Frank. Sinatra sets his glass down slowly on the piano. Wayne takes a step closer. The guests press back. I’m 59 years old. I got a stunt scene in [music] 6 hours in 110° heat. Sinatra opens his mouth, closes it. I asked nice. You laughed.

 Wayne keeps his eyes on Sinatra. Party’s over now. Silence. Wayne looks at [music] the bodyguard, still on the floor. Get up. The man stands slowly, jaw swelling, keeps his distance. Wayne’s voice softens [music] slightly. You did your job. No hard feelings. The bodyguard nods, [music] walks past Wayne, past Sinatra, out a side door. Gone.

 Wayne [music] turns to the guests, doesn’t say anything, just looks. One woman grabs her purse, [music] another follows. The three men exchange glances, move toward the door. Nobody speaks. Nobody makes eye contact. [music] They just leave. 30 seconds. The suite is empty except Wayne and Sinatra. Footsteps running in the hall.

 A man in a hotel uniform appears. The [music] manager, 50some, balding, sweating. He looks at Wayne, at Sinatra, at the overturned chair, the scattered glasses. His voice [music] is panicked. Wayne holds up a hand. I was never here. The manager’s face goes pale. Yes, sir. Your man outside fell. He was drunk. The manager starts to protest.

 [music] Reads Wayne’s expression. Yes, very drunk. The manager [music] disappears. Wayne turns to Sinatra. Sinatra is sitting at the piano bench now, staring at the keys. Looks smaller somehow. Older. You didn’t have to hit Tony. He put his hand [music] on me. Sinatra nods. Fair enough. Silence. Heavy. Not hostile. Just the weight of two stubborn men realizing they both pushed too far.

Sinatra looks up. You’re right. I was being an ass. Wayne doesn’t respond. We’re not kids anymore, Duke. No. Sinatra [music] stands, walks to the bar, pours two scotches, holds one out. Wayne shakes his head. Sinatra sets it down, [music] drinks his own. Get some sleep. Wayne walks to the door, stops, looks back. Good punch, Sinatra says.

Wayne’s [music] lips twitch, almost a smile. He leaves. The hallway is empty. Wayne walks [music] back to the stairs, climbs one flight, opens his sweet door, sits on the edge of the bed. The hotel is quiet. No music, [music] no laughter, no shaking floor. Wayne lies down, closes his eyes, [music] sleeps for 4 hours, deep, dreaml

ess. gets up at 7:00 a.m., showers, [music] dresses, drives to location. The makeup artist notices dark circles under his eyes, adds extra concealer, doesn’t ask questions. [music] Wayne sits in the chair, silent, staring at nothing. First take, horse fall. Wayne misses his mark by 6 [music] in, hits the ground harder than planned.

 Crew rushes over. >> [music] >> He waves them off again. Second take. Perfect. But it takes everything he has. His chest [music] aches. The scar pulls tight. He’s running on fumes. Lunch [music] break. Wayne finds a chair in the shade, sits down, closes his eyes for a second. [music] Just a second.

 Someone shakes his shoulder. Duke, we’re back in five. He’d been [music] asleep for 40 minutes. production assistant looks worried. Wayne stands, [music] brushes dirt off his pants. I’m good. Let’s go. Howard Hawks watches him all afternoon. [music] Finally asks, “You okay?” “Fine, just didn’t [music] sleep well.” Hawks nods, doesn’t push.

 They have a movie to finish. 13 years pass. June 1979. UCLA Medical Center. Wayne is dying. Stomach [music] cancer. Final weeks. His daughter Aisa sits in the corner holding a magazine, not reading. A knock. A nurse. Visitors. Sinatra walks in. Barbara marks behind him. Sinatra is 63 now. Sharp suit, but older, grayer.

Barbara kisses [music] Wayne’s cheek, sits across the room, quiet. Sinatra pulls a chair close, sits heavily, looks at Wayne. Long silence. Then Sinatra speaks. Remember [music] Vegas? Wayne’s eyes crinkle. Which time, Tony? Wayne laughs. It hurts. He deserved it. You didn’t have to hit him that hard.

 Yes, I did. Sinatra smiles, shakes his head. We were [music] idiots. We were young. More silence. Barbara stands, [music] whispers about coffee, leaves. Sinatra and Wayne sit. Two old men, one dying, one watching. Finally, Sinatra stands. Get some rest. Frank. Yeah. Thanks for coming. They shake hands long, firm, both knowing this is goodbye.

 Sinatra walks to the door, stops, looks back. Still a good punch, Duke. Wayne smiles. Still an ass, Frank. The door closes. Wayne lies alone. Stares at the ceiling. The memory is there. Clear. Vegas. 1966. The night he knocked on Sinatra’s door. The night two stubborn [music] men finally understood each other.

 He closes his eyes. That was a strange story between those two. What would you have done in Wayne’s [music] situation? Tell us in the comments. And by the way, most of you watch the videos but forget to subscribe. If you want to hear more stories from the American legend, don’t forget to subscribe so we can continue to grow our real American legacy together.

As you know, unfortunately, they don’t make men like John Wayne anymore.