Living With Miss G (17 page)

not being able to stand his awful hotel, blew up. She threw her martini on the
floor where it smashed to smithereens. She stormed into her bedroom shouting,
“I can pay my own bills. If United Artists can’t pay theirs, it’s too damned bad!”
We finally made it to the Copacabana hotel, which was great. It was clean,
modern, luxurious, and efficient, with great views from all of our rooms. It was
late, but the Copacabana nightclub was open until the small hours. So we went
to eat dinner and watch the show.
Miss G simmered down. We all heaved sighs of relief. All the heaving
sighs, however, did us no good. When I made contact with David the next
morning, he had the newspapers spread out before him. Although he did not
admit it until he wrote his book long afterwards, he plainly knew a double cross
when he saw one.
Pictures of the suite in which we had spent no more than an hour were
given front page prominence. If David, aided by Miss G, myself and a couple of
staff had been given a week in which to smash up that place with axes, we could
not have done the job better. A wrecking crew had gone to work. It was a
disaster. They had torn the place apart. They had broken every mirror, gouged
furniture, walls and beds. Whisky and wine bottles and smashed glasses were
everywhere. The headlines told the story. Ava Gardner had arrived drunk,
barefoot, and disorderly. She had thrown glasses at her manager, and her
conduct had been so abusive and outrageous she had been thrown out of the
hotel. The headlines and the pictures were very convincing. There was a picture
of Miss G, disheveled and clutching her broken shoe, entering the hotel. The
pictures of the bedroom offered decisive proof that hurricane Ava Gardner had
passed through.
What was even more diabolical was that, given adequate notice, this
entirely false story had been wired by the news agencies to papers all over the
world. Miss G cruelly and systematically had been set up. When David Hanna
immediately rang the United Artists publicity office in New York, he was
greeted with cries of joy by one of its senior staff. David reported that
conversation in his book. “Congratulations!” they screamed. “It’s great…just
great!”
David replied angrily, “Are you out of your heads? This is a madhouse
here. I don’t know what to do. I’m sure Ava is going to cancel, and I think
damned well she should.”
“Stop it. You’re breaking my heart. How did you ever get her to take off
her shoe? The whole thing is terrific. Just keep it going and get Ava to New
York.”
I remember a wise politician on TV once declaring. “When a lie is first
propagated, it tends to become accepted. Once accepted, it takes on a life of its
own.”
This is what really hurt Miss G. Everybody believed those lying newspaper
reports. She read them and got pieces translated. She said to David. “Get the
press here right away. I’ll be ready for them.”
She was not furious. She knew she had no hope of denying them
worldwide, but she was determined to give her side of the story to the Brazilian
press. David rang every newspaper and agency in Rio, telling them Miss G was
giving a press conference in an hour. They all turned up. Miss G, looking lovely
and composed and about as far removed from a room wrecker as the sun from
the moon, denied all the charges.
Calmly and quietly, she told them what had happened. The entire Brazilian
press printed her story that evening or the next day. Not a single word of it
appeared in newspapers outside Brazil. The outside world had gotten the story
they wanted. Later in the day a timid, courteous consul official arrived at the
suite and apologized for what had happened. As a small token of consular
consultation, he also presented Miss G with a beautifully cut topaz stone about
the size of a playing card.
The damage had been done. Miss G was blamed for this incident for the
rest of her career. David later heard that the hotel booking had been prepared by
United Artists publicity department with the thought in mind that, “maybe there
will be a blow-up.”
Who needs “good” publicity? If you’re going to publicize Ava Gardner in
a movie, you will get more coverage with scandal and outrage.
When we left the hotel to drive to the airport, the photographers followed
us in hordes, driving dangerously and swooping in and out between cars to get
shots of us. Once inside the immigration building, you would have thought we
were criminals trying to flee the country. First our passports were confiscated.
Then we were separated and led into small rooms to be harangued and crossexamined by hard-faced immigration officials. I didn’t know what had happened
to Miss G or David. All I knew was that I was alone and under threat. They
interrogated me ruthlessly. What was I doing in Brazil? Had I entered Brazil
illegally? How could I prove I hadn’t? What sort of work was I doing? Did I
expect them to believe my lies? They knew all about people like me. They knew
what to do with them. There were severe penalties for illegal behavior. The
interrogation went on and on.
God, they were awful. It was so unexpected, so unfair. The badgering and
intimidation went on for hours, it seemed, though it couldn’t have been anything
like that long. They reduced me to a sobbing, terrified wreck. Eventually I was
escorted out to the aircraft, frightened that Miss G and David were still being
held in custody. I was pushed up the aircraft steps and shown to a lonely seat.
David and Miss G were given the same rude treatment. None of us knew
whether the others were on the aircraft or had been left behind. Our passports
were only returned to us when we were in our seats. Once airborne, the decent
and friendly Brazilian staff, free of the immigration officials, hurried to our
assistance. They sat us together and did all they could to soothe our feelings. We
flew on to Caracas and then to New York, and rarely had any of us felt more
relieved or appreciative than when that imposing New York skyline came into
view under the aircraft’s wings.

We took time to settle down after South America. Miss G disappeared into
our suite at the Drake Hotel for something over twenty-four hours. David, of
course, ever on the go, was trying to protect her but had to try and fix one
important
McCall’s
magazine photo session by Richard Avedon, featuring her
and Joseph Mankiewicz. Not even that got past the telephone receptionist’s
implacable answer, “Miss Gardner is not to be disturbed.” Letters, telegrams,
and notes piled up outside our door. We were resting.

Eventually, Miss G rejoined the world, and I answered a phone call in our
suite. It was Sammy Davis, Jr., and his voice was jubilant. “Hi there, Rene.
How’s things? How’s life? How ya doing?” Then, without waiting for a reply,
he asked, “Ava there for a quick word, honey?”

I knew that Miss G liked Sammy very much. She remembered the time
when Frank was rock-bottom, and Sammy was one of the few friends who stuck
around. Always ready with a supportive upward heave-ho. I did not doubt his
exceptional talent, but I was a bit suspicious of his motives. His total devotion to
Frank Sinatra, who he thought was the greatest singer ever, amounted to
reverence, and Frank’s continuing friendship was important to him. I also knew
Sammy was a black guy desperately trying to claw his way to the top in a white
entertainment world. That wasn’t easy.

Today people cannot comprehend the difficulties of being a ‘black
anything’ in the forties and fifties. Admittedly, there were lots of black
musicians and artists playing in their own black groups, but none with white
artists. Artie Shaw, to his credit, was the first to use Lena Horne in his band as a
black vocalist. He also used black trumpeters, drummers, and horn players.

I’m sure Sammy was well aware of this situation, so there were no holds
barred in his devouring ambition to attain world fame and acceptance. Good
luck to him. Above all, Sammy Davis craved Hollywood. Frank Sinatra was
Hollywood. Ava Gardner was Hollywood. Therefore, I always sensed a
potential danger to Miss G.

The Barefoot Contessa
.’”
“It’ll be a flop,” Miss G had replied cheerfully.
“Come on, Ava, it’s terrific. You’re at the top. I bet those United Artists

publicity guys can’t do enough for you.”
Miss G said, “I didn’t tell him what I really thought about what those
United Artists publicity guys had done to us back in Brazil.”
Sammy went on, “Feel like doing a little favor for an old friend, Ava?”
“Sure,” said Miss G without hesitation. “What is it?”
“I’m doing an act up in Harlem…the Apollo, 125th Street. You know the
old song and dance stuff. It’s the usual routine.”
“Nothing routine about your act, Sammy.”
“Thanks a lot Ava, but listen. If you could spare a few minutes one of these
night to drop by, just before my act, walk on the stage and say, ‘Folks! Sammy
Davis is an old friend of mine, and I’m here to wish him luck and watch him
sing and dance.’ It would bring the house down. What do you think, Ava? It
might even add to publicity for
The Barefoot Contessa
.”
Miss G paused in her account, and I prompted her, “What did you tell
him?”
“Okay Sammy, I’ll check it out with United Artist and get back to you.”
Miss G looked across at me, and I said, “Well?” It was a pretty long
“Well…” and my “Hmmm” was equally as long.
“He’s an old friend.”
“I know,” I said.
“You’re feeling the distrust vibes too?”
“Sure am.”
“Tell you what I’ll do, Rene. I’ll give Bill Williams a ring and sound him
out. He’ll know.”
Bill Williams was an old friend of Miss G’s. He was a New York disc
jockey who had his own radio show, and his specialty was showbiz. He was
always chatting with up-and-coming guys and gals in the entertainment world
and giving them a boost. He told Miss G, “Ava, you know as well as I do that
Sammy’s got great talent—really great—and he’s going places. He can’t wait,
and he’s got a lot of fast moving friends who are also on his bandwagon.”
“So, Bill, what do I do?”
“Tell you what, Ava. Why don’t I chaperone you out to Harlem and check
out the skyline with you?”
Ava was grateful for the offer. But what we didn’t know at the time was
that Bill Williams had his own suspicions about Sammy. For the Apollo visit,
Miss G really dressed the part. To start with, she wore a white Fontana skinfitting gown. One of the luxuries she really enjoyed as a film star was to be able
to buy gorgeous, fancy-priced clothes. She really fitted into that gown and loved
wearing it. Standing in the wings, diamond glints flashed in her hair as she
waited for Sammy to introduce her to the audience. She looked dreamy.
Sammy started off, “A big surprise for you tonight, folks….” That was a
bit of an exaggeration because when Bill Williams and Miss G arrived, the street
outside the theater had been jam-packed. The word had spread. Indeed, they
needed a police escort to reach the stage door.
Sammy went on with his build-up. “She is a beautiful young lady who
lives in Hollywood. She’s been called the Love Goddess of the World.
Certainly, there’s no one more beautiful…and she’s a pal of mine…ladies and
gentlemen…a big hand for Miss Ava Gardner!” Squeals, shrieks, whistles, feet
stamping and applause amounted to bedlam.
“Rene, you should have heard that noise,” Miss G said, and went on, “But
I’d had a couple of drinks with Bill Williams, so I was sort of relaxed.” She
tripped on to the stage and put her arm around Sammy’s waist and gave him a
bit of a hug, which got an even bigger cheer. Then she said her little piece about
Sammy being a great entertainer, dancer, singer—the usual plug—and a great
chum. Then, as instructed, she got in the fact that
The Barefoot Contessa
was in
town and then started talking about bare feet. “Mine feel a bit pinched,” she
said, “so if you don’t mind I’ll take my shoes off.” Then she took her shoes off,
and from the noise you would have thought she’d taken off her dress. She blew
them a kiss, and off she ran.
Next day, Sammy rang again to say thanks a million and to tell us that
United Artists was pleased and was releasing a publicity blurb about the visit
quoting all the nice things Miss G had said about him. Great!
Not so great was another phone call from a friend of Sammy’s who worked
for
Ebony
magazine. He too had a great idea which would help Sammy’s career
and give
The Barefoot Contessa
such a boost that everyone in Harlem would
flock downtown to see it.
Ebony
was putting their Christmas edition together.
“Would Miss G be photographed in a Christmas scene?” they asked. Sammy
would dress up in a Father Christmas outfit, white beard, red robes, and all that
jazz, looking down in a fatherly fashion at Miss G as she made out her
Christmas wish list. It all sounded very harmless, but Miss G rang Bill Williams
again. He said, “Ava, don’t do it.”
Ava argued, “Bill, if I don’t do it, it will get about that I’m against black
people, and I’m not. I’ve been mixed up with black people since I was a girl,
and the last thing I am is prejudiced, and I sure don’t want to have that
reputation.”
Bill hemmed and hawed and again didn’t tell Miss G what his real
suspicions were about Sammy. Finally he said, “Okay, Ava, but be careful.”
Sammy and his team arrived at the Drake Hotel. It was almost an
entourage—two photographers, a publicity guy from United Artists, and one or
two others. Bappie was there with Ava and me. What could be bad about that? I
didn’t know why they wanted to pin up a large sheet of red paper against one of
the walls. It would be really like Christmas, they said. Only much later did we
understand its special significance. There were no drinks, not even coffee.
Sammy got into his Father Christmas outfit, and Ava had on an ordinary dress,
nothing the slightest bit sexy. The whole session took about an hour. They were
just about to leave when Sammy made his request.
He describes it exactly as he remembered it in the autobiography he wrote
about ten years later. Jokingly he said to Ava, “I still ain’t got that autographed
photo you promised me.”
To which Miss G allegedly replied, “I’ve only got glossy studio stills here
in the hotel, but you can take pictures right now if you like.” They did like.
There didn’t seem to be anything unusual about the shots. Sammy had changed
into street clothes. He sat on the arm of Ava’s armchair smiling at her—that sort
of thing. Now comes the suspicious bit. In his book, Sammy admits he asked the
photographer for the roll of film. The photographer shrugged and said, “I’ll
develop it for you.”
Sammy then replied. “Well, look, please be careful. Don’t let it get into
the wrong hands. It could make trouble for her.”
That was the second suspicious bit. If Sammy had the slightest idea that
the photo session might cause trouble for Miss G, he had no right to put her at
risk. And she was in trouble, big trouble.
Howard Hughes was the first to bring the trouble to her attention. He flew
into New York and invited her to dinner, telling her it was of considerable
importance. After their dinner Miss G arrived back at the Drake, green eyes
flashing red signals. She fell into an armchair, thrust out a hand, and demanded,
“A drink!”
Always ready for such emergencies, I hurried to the kitchenette where a
pitcher of dry martinis were already marinating in the fridge. Miss G shouted
after me, “Do you know what that little bastard Sammy Davis, Jr., has done to
me?”
I called back, “Miss G, Bill Williams did say not to do it.”
I returned with the pitcher of martinis and two glasses. Miss G swallowed
her first drink as if it were cold tea. I refilled the glass and she drank half of that
in one gulp. That meant she was very upset.
I said, “Miss G, honey, how does Mr. Hughes get into this thing between
Sammy and you? What’s Sammy done to him for him to be concerned?”
Miss G took her time and finished her second drink. She was seething.
“Rene, I’m sitting there watching Howard carving up his eternal steak and
balancing his little green peas on his fork, when suddenly he turns to me and
says in a nasty voice, ‘Ava, what have you been up to with that little rat, Sammy
Davis, Jr.?’ and I said, ‘Hold on there Howard, what the hell do you mean?’”
Miss G held out her glass for the third martini and said, “Howard went on,
‘You’ve heard of that magazine
Confidential
?’”
Miss G says, “‘Everybody’s heard about that filthy, lying, pornographic
rag. What’s that got to do with Sammy?’”
“‘They have got a front cover picture of you and Sammy looking very
friendly with a headline which reads, ‘What Makes Ava Gardner Run for
Sammy Davis, Jr.?’ Inside there are more pictures and a story saying you’ve
been sleeping with that nigger, paying visits to his flat for a long time, and that
he’s the greatest male stud you’ve ever met!’”
Miss G paused for a breath. I could not believe it. It was now my turn to
sink a martini in one gulp. “That’s impossible, Miss G. It’s the worst lie I’ve
ever heard,” I said. Then it dawned on me. “You mean when you did that photo
session with Sammy for
Ebony
at the Drake Hotel?”
Miss G was still rambling on about Sammy. “I can’t believe Sammy would
do this. Remember, Rene, those days just before Frank and I married, Sammy
gave me earrings engraved with A.S. for Ava Sinatra. That was the first time my
married name really stuck, and I loved his thoughtfulness.”
I changed the subject for her. “Miss G, the magazine isn’t published yet.
How come Mr. Hughes knows so much?”
“Because a year or so ago,
Confidential
did the same sort of hatchet job on
him. You know, wealthiest man in the world has a string of beautiful broads
stashed away all over Hollywood. He treats them as sex slaves.”
I said, “Well, Miss G, we both know the broads stashed away is true. I’m
not sure about the sex bit. Besides, if he’s the wealthiest man in the world he can
sue them or buy them up.”
“Rene, they would love it if he sued. He’d probably win a million dollar
lawsuit and get five dollars’ damages which they wouldn’t have and they would
have countrywide publicity. If he bought them out, they would move two
blocks down the street, open a new magazine called Bedroom Secrets, and pay
one of those stashed broads for an article called ‘My Sexy Nights with Howard.’
It’s a no-win situation, Rene.”
“Have you talked to Bill Williams?”
“Sure, I called him from the restaurant. He said, ‘Jesus Christ, I should
have warned you more strongly about Sammy and the friends he mixes with.
This black guy-white chick sex scene is right up
Confidential’
s alley these days.
I believe that Sammy could be cooperating. I know Sammy pretty well. I’ve
been to his apartment and seen enlarged photos of Hollywood heartthrobs—
Marilyn Monroe, Kim Novak, among others, on the walls. I was not amused by
Sammy’s little grins and innuendoes suggesting he’d had a good time with these
ladies.’”
Miss G stopped talking, and we looked across at each other in silence.
Very carefully I shared what was left in the martini pitcher between us.
I said, “Miss G, so what evasive action can we take now?”
“Don’t know. I’ve called Howard Strickling, MGM’s publicity chief, and
they are setting up a meeting with the top brass and me as witness and injured
party.”
Miss G came back from the meeting with a serious face. Everybody had
been outraged. Everybody screamed they would sue
Confidential
for every cent
they had. Howard Strickling had talked and brought them around to his solution.
They would ignore the entire episode.
He maintained, “Who reads a lying, salacious magazine like
Confidential
anyway? Don’t give them world publicity with a lawsuit. In a couple of weeks
the entire episode will have been forgotten.”
Of course, he was right. No other newspaper or publication picked up or
dared print the allegations.
Oh yes,
Confidential
came out with their cover and headline. Inside were
more photos which the photographer had shot to ensure the highest possible
degree of intimacy. They were against a red background as positive proof that
the shots had been taken in Sammy’s bedroom. He maintained he had posted the
pictures to
Confidential
instead of
Ebony
by mistake. There was also a short
article based on the United Artists publicity blurb circulated when Ava visited
Sammy at the Apollo Theater. The article had been tampered with. Sentences
had been shortened and twisted. The wording was given spurious and sexy
implications, with lines added such as, “Some girls go for the gold, but it’s
bronze that sends sultry Ava Gardner.” The photos presented plausible, but
totally lying, proof that Sammy and Ava were passionate lovers.
Then something terrible happened. Before the Christmas edition of
Confidential
appeared in November 1954, Sammy had been playing the New
Frontier in Las Vegas. The Will Mastin Trio, consisting of Sammy’s Uncle Will,
his father, and Sammy were pulling down seven thousand five hundred dollars a
week. That was a lot of money in those days. Sammy had bought himself a new
Cadillac convertible. Things were going great for Sammy, and normally no one
would applaud more than me and Miss G.
As he drove along one day listening to his first hit record, “Hey There,” a
car swerved and turned in front of him. Sammy wrenched at the wheel, hit the
car and smashed into oncoming traffic. In the collision Sammy’s right eye hit
the cone in the center of his steering wheel, and his sight in that eye was gone
forever.
Sammy was still in the hospital recuperating when his father entered the
ward with a copy of
Confidential
and silently laid it on his bed. Seriously and
reproachfully his father asked—as between father and son—if there was any
truth in the story. Sammy was indignant and said vehemently, “Dad, are you
losing your mind?”
Sammy’s first worry, however, was not what either his father or Miss G
might think about
Confidential
’s allegations, but what was his good friend Frank
Sinatra going to think about it? After all, Frank and Miss G, even though
separated, were still very much in love and closely associated. Sammy’s own
explanation in his autobiography was that it was inexcusable that he could have
put Ava in a position so that such a thing could have happened to her. It sure