Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. (51 page)

“I’m sorry, baby. I really am. But Will called a meeting.”

“My God, what do you talk about in those meetings every night?”

I sat back in the seat. “Trio business.”

He gestured toward the chauffeur. “Have you any idea where Jeeves is taking us?”

“Brooklyn.”

He groaned. “Couldn’t you have found a benefit a little closer?”

“Baby, it’s a drag and I don’t like it any more than you do.” I pulled out the jump-seat and rested my feet on it. “It’s just a quickie
‘Glad to be here folks,’ a song, and good-bye. But I’m going to catch thirty winks or I may not make it up the stairs to the stage.”

As I turned and got comfortable, he muttered, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll hum to myself.”

The MC was saying, “… the moment we’ve all been waiting for, here he is, Mr. Wonderful himself …”

I did two songs. The audience was applauding, calling for more. The M.C. tried to help me off. “We can’t impose on Mr. Davis any longer. He has no more arrangements with him, he wasn’t able to bring his own accompanist along….”

Their reception had been so warm that I hated to leave. I held up my hands. “Thank you, but I like to think of myself as an ‘entertainer’ not just a performer, and if I can’t come out here and entertain you with no more than a pocket comb and tissue paper then I should get out of the business. So, if you’ve got nowhere to go….”

An hour later George was in the wings as I came off. “Just a quickie song and good-bye? Really.” He wanted to play it chic and bored but he was having trouble. “You’d think I see you perform enough in
Mr. Wonderful
. Whatever that is.”

I handed him the plaque. “Just a little something to let you see what people think of your star.”

The car headed for New York and I asked the driver to take us to the Harwyn. I turned to George. “Now here’s the skam: it’s a little sip and sup over champagne and steak sandwiches—a definite see and be seen.”

“By which columnist this time?”

“George, while you’re concocting your vicious remarks old Sam is thinking, thinking—always thinking. Now, it happens that waiting for us at the Har are Milton and Amy Greene, Chita, Michael, plus a model by the name of Harlean Harris whom I happened to meet on the cover of
Ebony
magazine.” I closed the window between us and the chauffeur. “Aside from the fact that she’s a very wholesome, sweet kid and one of the great-looking chicks of all time, she happens to be colored. Y’dig? Let ‘em just
try
to say ‘He was with a blonde.’ ”

“Well, just don’t do any table-hopping.”

“Baby, I’m going to stick so close to her that she’s gonna forget she’s colored and think she’s
Siamese
!”

The Harwyn’s doorman held the front door open; the hat check girl smiled admiringly at my plaque as I handed it to her; Ed gave
me a tremendously warm hello and as I hit the main room the band swung into
Mr. Wonderful
. I waved to them and slid onto the seat next to Harlean. Sorry I’m late. Good evening, everybody.”

Mac, the table captain asked, “What’ll it be, Mr. Davis?”

“Ah, yes, innkeeper. The best champagne in your cellars and be done with it.”

He bowed and played straight. “A jug of wine, sire. Any particular year?”

I gave him a little Bogart. “Whattya? One of them fresh guys? Nobody says ‘jug’ to Little Frenchy! Bring us the best you’ve got and you’re on your honor ‘cause I been in stir so long I won’t know the difference.”

Michael gave me a raised eyebrow. “Oh? You’re drinking tonight?”

“Just enough to make me suave and sophisticated.” Mac was pulling out the table next to ours, for a middle-aged couple who’d just arrived. I smiled at them Charley Gracious Star style. The man turned away. I heard him tell Mac, “I’d prefer to sit over there.” He was pointing across the room. I looked away, but Mac saw that I’d caught it. George plunged into conversation. “Well, our ‘Mr. Wonderful’ here was a smash tonight …” Obviously he’d caught it too. I glanced at Harlean. She was chatting with Michael. George continued ad-libbing wildly. Mac came by. “The characters you run into in this business.” He made a face. “ ‘The air conditioning is too strong.’ ” I smiled my thanks for his sensitivity. I glanced over to where the couple was seated. They looked away. I tried to catch the attention of someone at the next table, but I couldn’t; I tried the next table, and the next, but nobody was smiling at me, and I had a punch-in-the-stomach awareness of Harlean and me being the only colored people in the place.

I slid out from behind the table and went up to the bandstand. I shook hands with the pianist. “Okay if I sit in with your guys?”

He grinned. “You kidding?”

The drummer smiled and moved out from behind the drums and I sat down and picked up the beat. The people on the dance floor began nudging each other and I heard a growing murmur: “It’s Sammy Davis … Sammy Davis….” The sound was rolling toward me in waves, swirling around me, bathing away the tension, soothing every hot nerve end until I felt my arms loosening, my neck relaxed….

“Mr. Davis?” A college girl was smiling up at me. “Would you sing something?” Her date, a kid with a bright face and a short haircut said, “Would you?”

I nodded. “Thanks for asking.” I waved for the drummer to come back, took the mike and began singing, standing back so it wouldn’t look like a performance. The people started dancing again; the whole room was focused on me; Ed Wynne was standing in the doorway, beaming. More and more people were coming to the dance floor until it was so crowded they could only stand in place, swaying back and forth.

As I slid into my seat, George asked, “Giving away free samples?”

“Don’t knock it. I could’ve sold a dozen tickets right from the floor.” The waiter poured a glass of champagne for me. “C’mon, let’s go back to my place.”

I sat behind my bar at the Gorham. Harlean was across from me, Michael, Chita, and George were watching the Late Late Show. A pleasant drowsiness crept over me as I relaxed in the knowledge that I didn’t have to be tuned in all over the room trying to catch what everyone was saying or thinking.

Jack E. Leonard spotted me entering Danny’s, and made a whole production of slowly walking around me and staring at my suit. “I just want to say I like your pants, Sammy. You look like a Jewish skin diver!”

Cliff Cochrane led me to a quiet corner of the bar. He was angry. “If Billy and I are going to do you any good we can’t have you working against us.”

“What’s wrong? What’d I do?”

He read from a column. “ ‘Sammy Davis, Jr.’s eyebrow raiser at the Harwyn was gorgeous Harlean Harris, a top model.’ Now look, I’m a press agent, not your nursemaid. If you wanta swing with white chicks then go, Daddy, but do you have to make a display of what we’re working to defeat?”

“Cliff, Harlean Harris is a model for
Ebony
Magazine! Did they say she’s white, or a blonde?”

“Well, no, but I thought … well it sounds like she is.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, baby. The cat who wrote that
wanted
people to think she’s white. Sammy Davis and a colored chick ain’t
news. It’s conviction by innuendo: I don’t have to do it, and they don’t have to actually say it, but with my reputation people put two and two together and it comes out white. That’s just why I need you and Billy.”

George was waiting at my table with Burt Boyar, a columnist who’d been shooting zingies at me. He introduced me to his wife, Jane. I smiled graciously. George smiled back. “We’ve been getting along famously without you.” It was one of his great moves that sounded harmless but which was to tell me: there’s nothing I’d rather do than spend half an hour making small talk with strangers. He added, “We find we have so
much
in common.”

I gave him a look to cool it. I was there to neutralize people, not to offend them. “Incidentally, baby, I just want to remind you about Sunday.”

“Sunday? Which Sunday?”

I tore apart a piece of bread. “Tomorrow. Polly Bergen and Freddie Fields’ dinner thing. It’s seven-ish.”

“Seven-ish? I didn’t even know I was invited-ish.”

I tiptoed along the line between not lying, yet not telling the truth. “Didn’t I tell you? Anyway, I spoke to Freddie today on the phone.”

“And he invited me?”

I gave him a patient look.

“Well, I’m only surprised they didn’t call me personally. It’s not like we’re strangers. Listen, are you sure they really invited me, too?”

“George, obviously you’re not going to believe
me
, so why don’t you call Freddie and make a fool of yourself by asking ‘Am I
really
invited to dinner?’ like nobody’s ever invited you anywhere before. I’ll have Pete bring over a phone, you can make the call and I’ll be right here when you’re ready to apologize.”

He blushed. “Well, you don’t have to make a three-act play out of it.”

“No need to apologize. In the words of Abe Lincoln, ‘A man who can’t make a mistake can’t make anything.’ ”

Early Sunday evening George called from his apartment. “Your producer is ready. I’ll meet you in the lobby.” I called the garage and told them to have my car ready. Nobody was going to think I was an errand boy when I stepped out of a Mark II Continental.

Walking toward the garage, George said, “Why don’t we just take a cab? Why bother with parking?”

“Baby, I don’t remember asking you to organize this trip.”

A uniformed nurse wheeled a baby carriage across Fifth Avenue toward the park, pushing the carriage with one hand and with the other grasping a little boy bundled up in a fur-collared coat, leather leggings and a hat with ear-muffs. I drove slowly up the avenue, looking at the immaculately kept mansions and the elegant apartment buildings.

George mumbled, “I really can’t understand this whole thing. I mean Polly is so proper, it just seems peculiar that she wouldn’t invite me herself.”

I stopped the car. “George, you’re getting to be the noodge of all time. Now you’re free to open that door, step out, and I’ll make your apologies for you. I’ll just tell them ‘I’m sorry my producer is rude and so touchy that he won’t go anywhere unless he gets an engraved invitation.’ ”

He slunk into the seat. “You’re holding up traffic and you don’t have to get so excited. It just seemed strange, that’s all.”

As we approached Polly and Freddie’s building, a man in riding breeches, boots, and a glen plaid jacket stepped out of a maroon limousine and strode past the doorman who touched his cap and rushed to open the front door for him. As the car drove away I backed into a space just short of the door. The doorman saw me behind the wheel, looked at George—then back at me, and making no move to open our door, spoke through the window. “Can I help you?”

George said, “Mr. and Mrs. Fields,” and opening the door himself, stepped out of the car.

The doorman rushed ahead of us to the front door, blocking it. “Are you expected?”

George glanced at me. “Yes.”

“Well, I’ll have to announce you.” He opened the door, admitting us to the lobby. “Who shall I say it is?”

“Sammy Davis, Jr.”

He went to the house phone, plugged in a wire and pressed a lever, glancing over at us as he waited for somebody to answer. I looked outside, through the glass door. I heard the phone being cradled. “You’re expected.” His voice was toneless, withdrawn, and I had the feeling he was thinking more about Freddie and Polly than
about me, and that he was never going to feel quite the same about them.

As we waited at their apartment door, I only hoped Polly wouldn’t see George and react with a “Why, George, what a pleasant surprise! Uh, come in.” A maid opened the door. Polly was behind her. She saw George, and it was a falling face, then a quick catch and a smile, “Why, George, what a pleasant surprise! Uh, come in.”

Even at Tiffany the table didn’t have so much silver. I knew every piece, but I held up the oyster fork. “And who is
this
for? The children?” I gathered up all my silver except one fork, one knife and one spoon, handed the whole bundle to the maid, and turned to Polly. “Darling, I know I’m a big star but I’m just folks, and the only time we ever had three forks on a table is when three of us were eating.”

We left after midnight. The elevator door slid three-quarters open revealing us to a different elevator man, it stopped, he recovered quickly, and it rolled back the rest of the way. The door slid closed behind us; the inner brass gate snapped across the entrance and we began the descent. The elevator man faced front, stonily erect, displaying his displeasure and distaste by the emphatically precise manner in which he was doing his work.

The doorman did a begrudging saunter-over to the door, letting us know it was his job to open it for us but he loathed doing it. As we passed through the open door George stopped and studied him. “Doorman, did anyone ever tell you that you’re a dead ringer for Hans Von Gerhardt, the great Nazi motion picture star?” He tapped him on the chest, speculatively. “Yes! I must use you in my next picture.”

The doorman didn’t begin to understand that it was a put-on. His face flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” He followed us to the car. “Uh, sir, what was the name of the gentleman you said I resembled?”

George waved him away. “No matter. He’s been executed.”

A brightly lighted, nearly empty bus broke the no-traffic stillness as it roared its way up Fifth Avenue. Then it was quiet again. “George, about bringing you tonight …”

“Well, we all have our little problems.” He did not enjoy the frankness of the moment—the admission of seeing me wide open, and, eager to withdraw quickly from it, refusing to intrude by
staring at the sensitivities and embarrassments which a man tries to keep hidden, he snapped on the radio and stabbed at the pushbuttons. A disc jockey’s voice blared: “And now a medley of those great hit songs from
My Fair Lady…
.” George snapped it off. “We don’t need
than
!” He said, “It’s only twelve-fifteen. Do you feel like a movie?”

“No, baby, I’d like to go home. We’ll find Chita and Michael, and I told Jane and Burt to come by around one.”