Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. (34 page)

I’d been on for over two hours, done three closing numbers and run out of excuses to stay on. I bowed a long last thank-you and when I looked up they were standing and applauding; Herman Hover was walking onstage followed by every waiter, bus boy, every cook and kitchen helper in the club. They formed a semicircle around me, the band began playing “Auld Lang Syne,” and they were singing to me—led by the Chinese chef holding a long spoon for a baton. The audience fell apart, I fell apart. I just stood there crying like a baby, not just little tears, but deep, racking sobs.

Marilyn Monroe and Milton Greene were waiting for me. I’d read in one of the trades that Milton was “… financing and masterminding MM’s break from Fox …” I’d been dying to meet her, not for the boy-girl jazz, just for the kick of knowing Marilyn Monroe, so I’d asked Milton to bring her to the opening. When the dressing room cleared, he asked, “You want to go back to my place and have a drink?”

“Not on your Rolleiflex, Milton, old buddy. I’ve had it with the Garbo bit. You and I are going to take Marilyn to the Mocambo, then it’s a definite see-and-be-seen at the Crescendo …”

The smell of freshly percolated coffee came drifting into my bedroom, waking me up. Dave Landfield was in the kitchen eating breakfast and reading a newspaper. He handed it to me. “You don’t have to bother opening it. You’re on the front page.”

There was a picture of Marilyn Monroe, Milton, Mel Torme and me, at the Crescendo. It was captioned “FIRST NIGHT OUT.” “Baby, I’d like to be Charley Blasé about this, but you’ve gotta admit that when a guy who hasn’t killed somebody gets his picture on Page One, then it means he’s pretty important, right?”

“The whole thing is fantastic. The phone’s been going like a madman all morning.” I poured myself some coffee and he handed me a pile of telegrams. I opened the top one. “Never dug you before. Dug you last night. You the man. Marlon.”

Dave was pointing to an item in one of the Hollywood columns. “… Guess which double initialed, blonde movie queen and Sammy Davis, Jr. are mmmmmmm….”

He looked at me. “They must mean Marilyn Monroe.”

“Baby, they don’t mean Myrna Malted.”

I knew the columnist so I called him. “Look, if someone told you
there’s something between Marilyn Monroe and me, it’s a lie. You’ve gotta retract it. There’s not even a thought of anything.”

“You were out with her, weren’t you?”

“I was in her party. The picture is in all the papers, and you can see that Milton Greene and Mel Torme were with her, too.”

“What do you think of her?”

“What can I think? She’s tremendously exciting to be with. My God, she’s
Marilyn Monroe”

The “retraction” read: “… Sammy Davis, Jr. admits that blonde movie star is ‘tremendously exciting to be with’ …”

The next morning’s paper had another blind item about us. I went down to Jess Rand’s office. “Baby, you’ve got to do something. This kind of publicity is death. The public’s not going to stand for it. Not on top of the Ava Gardner thing.”

He tossed a magazine across the desk at me. “Hot out of the sewer today.”

It was a new scandal magazine and it had separate pictures of me and Zsa Zsa Gabor on the cover but with a headline linking us romantically. “I never even
met
this woman.”

“What’re you, a stickler for accuracy?
Confidential
created a thing with you and a white movie star and it turned out to be their biggest selling issue so this one is following the same formula.” He shrugged. “There must be something about you and white chicks that people want to read, so you’d better prepare yourself to keep seeing it until the people are tired of it.”

“Are you telling me I should just sit still while some guy goes passing the word around, ‘Hey, you wanta sell magazines? Link Sammy Davis with a white movie star and you’re in business’? I don’t need this kind of trouble.”

“Wait a minute. Okay, it’s no bundle of laughs, and we’re certainly not going out and looking for it, but exactly what kind of trouble do you mean? The fact that
Confidential
destroyed you to such a point that a guy has to slip somebody a hundred bucks to get anywhere near the ringside at Ciro’s? The fact that they could fill the Hollywood Bowl with your overflow every night? The fact that last night they had to turn away
Rock Hudson?”

I dropped the magazine onto his desk. “Yeah, how
about
that?”

He grinned wryly. “Everybody I handle should have your kind of trouble.”

I stood up. “Well, look, shouldn’t I at least sue them?”

“Chicky, the damage is done, and they probably don’t have anything
for you to win anyhow. Forget it. All it can do is make you a little more famous.”

I heard a horn tooting, and looked out the window. My father was stepping out of a brand new Fleetwood Cadillac. I opened the front door and he floated in. “Just got delivery on her an hour ago. Now ain’t she a hummer?”

We stood in the doorway gazing at it. “You trade your other one against it?”

“Hell no. This one’s for dressy wear. Listen, whattya think about us goin’ down to the showroom tomorrow? They’re gettin’ the new model convertibles in and I’ve always had it in mind to have me one of them.”

“Dad, you must be losing your mind! What’re you gonna do with three cars?”

He was giddy. “Poppa, I don’t care if two of ‘em stays on jacks. I’d just like t’know I owns three Cadillacs.”

His car horn was honking and a guy in the front seat called out. “Hey, Horse, it’s gettin’ late.”

I stared at my father.
“Horse?”

He nodded. “That’s kinda a name some of the boys got for me. It’s in honor of where my money goes.” He smacked me on the back. “See y’later, Poppa. Gotta go look after my investments!”

Humphrey Bogart opened the dressing room door and looked in. Will rushed over to shake hands. “How’d you like the show, Mr. Bogart?”

“The show was great. But you’re too damned old for the business. Why don’t you retire? The kid’s the whole show!” The smile froze on Will’s face. He’d been expecting a pleasant compliment but he’d asked the wrong man. When you asked Bogart a question he assumed you wanted his honest opinion and he didn’t do Dale Carnegie answers. “Look, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings but why don’t you face reality? You and the old man are doing less than you did the last time I saw you here and you weren’t doing much even then. The nostalgia’s wearing a little thin, y’know. The people have stopped saying, ‘Isn’t it nice they’re still together’ and if you’re half the showman I know you are, then you oughta see it.”

Frank led me into his den, chose an album, adjusted the volume to the level he wanted and poured a drink. There’d been so many
people around us at the club that it was the first time we could really talk. “You’re doing great, Charley. There’s nothing I can tell you about the dancing and the impressions, but about the singing: you’ve got to get yourself your own sound, your own style. It’s okay to sound like me—if you’re me. I’m only flattered that you like what I do well enough to be influenced by it, and your ear for making other people’s sounds isn’t helping any, but it’s a dead end. No matter how good it is, no copy of anything ever sold for as high as the original.”

It was almost light out as I started up the hill but as I pulled up to the house it was all I could do to find a parking space. The place was swinging with performers from clubs all over town. I made my entrance. Some of them were drinking, listening to music, some of them were half asleep—but they all were waiting. I moved around the room. “I’m awfully sorry. I got hung up, couldn’t help myself.” They waved away my apologies like they understood. Dave was careening around the room doing charming-bits with half a dozen of the best-looking starlets in town. As he passed me on his rounds he gestured across the room. Jimmy Dean was huddled crouched in his usual corner, legs crossed under him, glasses down on his nose, wearing an old sweatshirt, levis and sneakers. “He doesn’t talk much but you’ve gotta admit he dresses good.” He lowered his voice. “What’s
with
this kook?”

“Why ask
me?
Ella Logan brought him backstage, he’s breaking into pictures, he did
East of Eden
and I think he’s making another one.” Jimmy saw me looking at him and smiled and waved.

Dave whispered, “Hey, folks, it moved. Another week in that spot and he’ll take root. He doesn’t even make a move for a chick.” He sighed. “Oh, well, all the more for me.” A couple of new girls came in the front door. Dave winked. “Take two, they’re small,” and zoomed toward them.

I turned up the hi-fi set and played my bongo drums. I looked around because I felt somebody staring at me. It was Jimmy, giving me the over-the-glasses jazz from the corner. I walked over and sat down next to him. “Hey, lemme ask you something. What the hell are you watching every night? You never talk to anyone, you don’t look like you’re having laughs … what’re you doing always sitting in the corner watching people? Why don’t you get a girl or something? Have a little booze and
be
somebody!”

“Man, the only thing I want is to be an actor.”

“So be an actor. But you don’t have to be dead the rest of the time. You a little shy? Is that it? You want me to fix you up with one of the chicks?”

He smiled pleasantly but shook his head. “Man, all I want is to be a good actor.”

“Whoops. This is where I came in. See y’around.” I got up, buckled on my quick-draw holster and walked over to one of the guys who was working in TV westerns. I did all the fancy moves and spins with the gun and dropped it into the holster.

“Sam? Can I try your gun?”

“Jimmy,
anything
just to stop you doing that creepy peepy bit.” He buckled on my holster, pushed his glasses up on his nose and tried to draw. “Don’t go for the speed. Just get it right, first.”

He tried and dropped the gun. It hit the floor, hard. I folded my arms, Oliver Hardy style. “Every move’s a picture!”

Dave grabbed me by the arm. “I don’t know how I forgot this! You got a call from Judy Kanter. She wants to throw a party for you Wednesday night.”

“Crazy. No, wait a minute. She’ll have to make it Thursday. Thursday between five and eight.”

“Sam! Her husband’s a vice president at MCA and her father’s the president of Paramount Pictures. Don’t get her angry. They could make me a star.”

“Sorry, old buddy, but I happen to be very big on Wednesday. I’ve already got two parties being thrown in my honor.”

He was looking at me wistfully. “It must be fantastic to make it like this.”

“Yeah, I’ve gotta admit it. The world is my oyster, and I’m the little black pearl!”

He didn’t speak. He just stood there, not conscious of the way he was smiling at me, transplanting himself into my life, enjoying a glimpse of what he wanted so badly.

“Listen, Dave, I’ve got a wild idea. I mean if you’d be interested. Why don’t you come on the road with me as sort of a secretary-buddy? I need somebody who’s hip and who I can trust. You’ll be able to make some money, you’ll be around the business, maybe you’ll meet somebody who’ll do you some good—I’ll certainly help you with anything I can. At least you can put off going back to the blouse business. And we’ll have a million laughs besides.”

“You just hired a secretary-buddy. When do I start?”

“Right now.” I gave him a shot on the arm. “The first thing you can do is take care of our rooms in Chicago. It’s your home town. Get us the best two-bedroom suite in the best hotel there.”

“Hey, that runs into money.”

“Dave. You’re working for a star! And if we ain’t goin’ First Cabin then the boat ain’t leavin’ the dock.”

I sat on the floor in the center of the crowd. Somebody handed me a coke. A couple of chicks were giving me smiles but I couldn’t have been happier that Dave was keeping them busy. I was so tired I couldn’t even concentrate on the conversations going on around me.

Someone was shaking me gently. “Sammy, you’ll catch a cold sleeping on the floor.” I looked up. “No, I’m fine. Thanks, baby.” One of the chicks was saying, “Maybe we oughta leave?” Dave took care of them for me. “He’s happy. He’s just catching a few winks.” “… we should put a blanket over him or something.” “… Take that glass away so he can’t roll on it and cut himself.”

The hi-fi set was going softly and someone was playing along with it on my bongo drums, the laughter and the talk and the party sounds surrounded me and I felt myself sinking deeper and more comfortably into the floor.

The room clerk shuffled through a stack of reservations, glancing at them in a way that you knew he knew he wasn’t going to find what he was looking for. He smiled weakly. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Davis, but there’s no reservation for you. And we’re entirely filled up!”

Dave didn’t catch on. “But I wired you two weeks ago.”

“Well, uh, we tried to notify you—but we didn’t have the address.”

Morty glared at him. “Why didn’t you try sending it to ‘Sammy Davis, Jr., U.S.A.’ ”

I sat in the cab between Dave and Morty, looking straight ahead while the doorman put our bags into the trunk. I thought this was all behind me. I really did. There was a sharp crack. The sunglasses I’d been holding had snapped in my hand.

“Take it easy, Sam.”

I looked at the cracked lens and a trickle of blood coming out of my palm. “I
am
taking it easy.”

We stopped at a drugstore and Dave got out to call another hotel. I rubbed the skin over my knuckles, watching the color lighten under the pressure of my thumb and then come back to normal. Morty sat next to me, silent. I stared up at the ceiling of the cab.

I’m a star! This isn’t supposed to happen any more.

Dave was bustling around the suite anxiously, like a hostess. “This is great. Beautiful. Aside from all this space—and not to mention that it’s the Presidential Suite—plus the fact it costs less and it’s almost walking distance to the club. And we don’t have to be so worried if maybe we spill a drink or something….”

I waited until he was all through. “Thank you very much. Now come on, let’s get out of here and
be
somebody.”