Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. (73 page)

Never would he even desire a restaurant to be “cleared” because he’s eating there. Wherever he plays he makes the whole town rich and if he wanted privacy he could say “I want a tunnel dug from my dressing room to my suite” and the bulldozers would be working in an hour. He could say “I’m in my room, send up Connecticut” and the management would try. But he’s a warm guy who likes people and he loves to get out and sit in the lounge, have dinner in the dining room or go to a friend’s restaurant and pay his respects. He never has been to Atlantic City without dropping into the bar where my mother works. Even if she’s not there when he comes in, he’ll stay and have a drink, knowing that within minutes the word will spread, the place will be jammed and my mother will get credit for it. Countless times a friend has been in trouble, or in a hospital, and the phone has rung and it’s Frank from halfway across the world and he clowns with the guy to cheer him up, and the hospital tab gets picked up, quietly. Stories like this are legion but they aren’t the ones which circulate.

We finished shooting around four every afternoon and the five of us met in the steam room at six when it was officially closed for the day. Frank came in one evening, carrying a bundle of newspaper clippings and we sat there passing around soggy clippings, from England, France, South America—everywhere, astounded by the incredible worldwide attention we were getting.

Peter said, “Listen to this one: ‘The quintet of Sinatra, Martin, Davis, Lawford and Bishop moved into Las Vegas in the form of an attack force with Sinatra as the nominal leader of their clan.’ ”

“I don’t want to be the leader. One of you guys be the leader.”

Peter jabbed the paper with his finger, “Sorry, Frank, but it says here
you’re
the leader.”

“Hold it,” I said. “I wanta go on record that I ain’t belongin’ to nothing that’s called a
clan.”

Dean sighed, “I don’t know, pally,” he nodded toward Frank, “you’d better discuss that with the leader.”

I shook my head. “Maybe he’s
your
leader but
my
leader is Martin Luther King!”

The papers had been developing “The Clan” and “The Rat Pack” image of us as five guys who buddy around, have laughs, and in their spare time make a movie and do shows at The Sands. We were amused by it but no one could understand better than we how silly it was. I never discussed it with Frank but he, being an astute showman, must have thought: Dean’s good box-office, Sammy does great in clubs, Peter has a television following—why not make a picture utilizing the combined drawing power?

It was not unlike what was done years ago when Hollywood teamed stars like Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, Walter Pidgeon and Greer Garson, William Powell and Myrna Loy, Cagney and Raft; and although each had been tremendous on their own, when they came together in a picture it virtually exploded at the box office. In the last ten or fifteen years the studios had stopped doing it, but now Frank’s idea had so captured the public’s imagination that movie theaters all over the world were ordering a picture that wasn’t even finished. Recognizing the potential in our combination he formulated what he called The Five Year Plan: assuming things continued as it seemed they would, we’d make five pictures together, one a year.

When we’d settled into our shooting schedule, I called May.

“Tell me.”

I smiled at the already familiar greeting.

She said, “I hear it’s fantastic there.”

“How’d you like to come down for the weekend and see for yourself?”

“I’d love to. But do you think you can get me a hotel room?”

I played it like the King of France wandering through Paris in disguise—the classic scene in which the loyal, deserving subject whose wife is wrongfully imprisoned asks hopefully, “But do you think you can possibly get my case to the attention of His Majesty?” and the King smiles behind his disguise and chuckles “I believe I can manage it.”

I was so delighted with myself it was practically incest.

She was the fifth person out of the plane. She paused at the top of the ramp and I couldn’t decide if she was playing “Mary Moviestar Arriving in Las Vegas” or if she was looking for me. As she came through the gate she smiled and her face was like sunshine. She put out her hand. “Hello, there.”

“Hello, there, yourself.” I took the make-up bag she was carrying. A lady was standing behind her and I had a sudden horrible moment of recognition: it was the same woman who’d walked into the movie theater with her in L.A. and there was a definite family resemblance.

“I’d like you to meet my mother, Mrs. Wilkens.”

I did one of the great recoveries of my life with an eighteenth century bow that had all the flair of: Charmed, m’lady. “I’m so glad you could come, Mrs. Wilkens.” For that statement alone, my nose should have grown twelve inches.

“My mother is going back to Sweden next week and I thought she’d enjoy seeing Las Vegas before she leaves.”

They went to their rooms to relax and unpack, and I headed toward the health club.
Now
she brings her mother. To a party in a nightclub—
then
she doesn’t bring her. No. She waits for a weekend in Vegas!

Frank was alone in the steam room. I sat down next to him. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“I invited May Britt down for the weekend. She’s got her mother with her, but with all the press in town I want to be absolutely sure nobody connects us. I don’t want to louse her up with her studio, so will you cover for me? Would you let it be known that she’s your guest?” As I was asking I realized that I was imposing upon him, but he just looked at me with a penetrating curiosity.

“Sure, Charley, she’s my guest.”

I introduced May from the stage with the other celebrities, and her mother beamed with pride. I met them in the lounge after the second show, we gambled a little, had a bite to eat with Frank and the guys. I didn’t have any scenes the next afternoon so I took them sightseeing, showing them downtown Vegas and everything I could think of that her mother might like to see. As we drove back across the desert from Lake Mead, May said, “My mother’s a little tired. I think we’ll have dinner in our room so she can go to sleep early. Can I come to see your second show alone?”

“Of course. I’ve got a permanent table. There’ll be some of my friends there so you won’t have to sit alone.”

As soon as I got off I sent Murphy out front to escort her backstage.

“Hello, there. I liked your show.” Murphy did a sneaky-foot out
the door like one of the discreet men of all time, and we were alone.

She was wearing a bright yellow dress. She had a sunburn which highlighted her freckles, and her hair was hanging long and golden over her shoulders. We smiled wordlessly at each other.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“No. Thank you very much. But you have one if you like.”

“No, thanks. I don’t feel like one either.”

“The club was really packed.”

“Yeah … things sure are swinging….”

The inane chitchat was coming out of our ears. I was desperate to make conversation, but I’d never really
talked
to a girl before. It was always laughs, jokes, and pow! into bed or not. She walked over to the TV set and stood there, her eyes glued to it. I stared at it, too.

It was impossible to believe. Here’s a girl I could get drunk just from looking at, she’s just seen me do the show of my life, she’s in my dressing room, the door is closed—and we’re standing like idiots watching a twenty-year-old movie. A minute later we were both pretending to be hung-up in the commercial.

I looked at her beautiful face. She glanced up as she sensed me staring at her. The haughty look she’d had in
The Blue Angel
and when we’d first met was completely gone, her cheeks were flushed, and she seemed self-conscious. I walked the two steps over to her, put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her.

She was a little tall. I asked, “Would you mind taking off your shoes?”

She laughed and kicked them off. I kissed her again.

Suddenly it was easy to talk. I remembered the closed door and opened it and as I turned I caught the trace of a smile of satisfaction on her face.

The airline was announcing her flight over the loudspeaker. I said, “Thank you very much for coming.”

She put out her hand. “Thank you for asking me.” She tilted her head a little. “So long.” She turned abruptly and started toward the plane, walking with the brisk, purposeful stride which was so distinctly her. As she started up the ramp, I realized I was still holding her overnight bag. I ran onto the field. “May!”

She turned, saw me waving the bag in the air and came back for
it, annoyed with herself. As I handed it to her, I grinned, “Too bad, it was a beautiful exit.”

Her eyes caught mine, she blushed, then let herself laugh. “Oh, well.”

As the ground crew locked the door and rolled away the stairs I had a sense of relief. From the first minute to the last it hadn’t worked the way I’d expected it to. I’d asked her down like, ‘Here’s a crazy-looking chick and I dig having her around.’ But it hadn’t been that superficial. I’d done forty-eight hours of keeping doors open and inviting people to be with us; I’d looked forward too eagerly to seeing her every day; I’d been too willing to just sit quietly and look at her and listen to her Swedish accent; I’d been making all the high-school moves hoping to please her mother, and I’d taken pleasure in them.

I sat in my car watching the plane taxi down the runway, then circle Vegas, gaining altitude heading west toward the mountains, and I urged it on in its crawl against the sky as though every inch of the way was drawing me that much further out of the involvement. I felt as if I’d been walking backwards and turned around just in time to see that in a few more steps I’d have fallen over a cliff.

I went back to the hotel and wandered through the casino. I didn’t feel much like gambling and it was too early for the steam room. What I needed was a chick. I called an old stand-by, one of the kids from the line, and she came right over. But as soon as she got to the suite I sent her away. I didn’t feel much like that, either.

I hung up the phone before she answered. I walked around the Playhouse and looked out at the pool. There wasn’t a ripple in the water. Everything was quiet and orderly.

I could have affairs with a thousand chicks and walk away from them without thinking to ask their names, but everytime I even thought about May I could feel myself getting drawn in deeper. To let myself get hung up on her defied all logic. Where could it go? I’d have to be a lunatic to leave myself that wide open.

I bummed around town with the buddies, forcing myself to stick out each night until I was tired enough to fall asleep. I was in the middle of planning how to kill another evening when I pulled myself up short. I’m out of my mind. Here I’ve got the first really free time I can remember in years—nothing for two weeks, and I’m wasting it. I’ve been making too much out of the whole thing. If I’m careful,
if I play my cards right, why can’t I keep it free and winging with May? Nobody forces anyone to get involved.

From the moment she said “Tell me” I felt like a different man. I invited a bunch of people over to the Playhouse and while they were watching a movie May and I sat outside near the pool, talking.

“What’s your next picture going to be?”

“Fox hasn’t assigned me another yet.”

“Well, they will soon, don’t worry.”

She smiled. “I couldn’t care less.”

“Y’know, I’ve never
yet
gotten an answer from you that I expected.”

“I like making films but oh boy do I hate all the other stuff that goes with it! The fuss, the press things you have to do, getting pushed into crowds and being nice to people you can’t stomach—it’s such a lot of baloney!”

“You mean you don’t care about being in pictures?”

“Not particularly. My sister is a nurse in Sweden. That’s what I wanted to be.”

I looked at her suspiciously. “You sure you’re not giving me the jazz from the studio bio?” She shook her head. I laughed. “It would never have worked. A guy would come in with high blood pressure, he’d be in bed, resting, you’d walk into the room and it would be
over!
You’d be more dangerous around a hospital than a staph germ. Within six hours doctors would be running up and down the halls shouting,
‘Get rid of that nurse
. Fire Britt!’ ” She was smiling. “The best thing you ever did was to give up nursing. How’d it happen?”

“I was working as a photographer’s assistant in Stockholm when Carlo Ponti came by to see the man I was working for, looking for a girl for the lead in a new picture. He asked me if I wanted to test for it. It sounds like the corny Hollywood drive-in story, doesn’t it? Anyway, I got the part and my mother and I went to Rome. She stayed with me for a while, then she went back to Sweden—my father works in the post office there. I stayed in Italy and made twelve films. I did
War and Peace
over there and then Fox offered me a seven-year contract and the part in
The Young Lions….”

Arthur had come out of the Playhouse. He stopped a few feet away, “Am I busting into something?”

“Well, you’re not exactly vital, but sit down, baby.”

He rushed over the rest of the way. “I just got the greatest idea
you ever heard. Look, you’ve got about ten more free days, why not use them for a real rest? Let’s hire a boat and take a cruise down to Mexico.”

“Arthur, what in hell would I do on a boat for ten days?”

“You’d rest. Look, I know of a 110-foot sailing yacht, with a captain and crew. We could keep it down to ‘family’: me and Nita and Pepe, Luddy and Jim, Shirley and George Rhodes … it’s got a big living room so we could bring a projector and show movies at night.”

I turned to May. “You’re not shooting, so you’ve got the time. And before you answer I’ll tell you this: if you don’t come then there ain’t gonna be no boat trip and everyone’ll be mad at you.” I played it like I was kidding but I knew that I wasn’t about to spend my vacation away from her.