Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. (87 page)

I jumped up. “You’ve got to be joking. We’re not
moving
there, we’re just visiting!”

I took her by the arm and led her to the bed. “What you wear in San Francisco isn’t nearly as important as the fact that you’re still not a hundred per cent and you’re knocking yourself out. Now, we’ve only got a few hours before the plane and I think you should get some rest.” I drew the blinds. As I was tucking her in, the phone rang. I kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll take it in the other room. Sweet dreams.”

Rudy had his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s the manager of the Geary Theater in San Francisco.”

“Mr. Davis, I don’t mean to alarm you but you have the right to know that in the last few days we’ve had a number of bomb threats and threats against your life. It’s probably just cranks, nevertheless the police are rounding up every known arsonist and bomber in the city. As for yourself, we’ve arranged for complete protection at the theater….”

When I hung up Rudy asked, “Trouble?”

I nodded. “Make me a drink will you please, baby?”

Obviously there could be no more hoping that the commotion at the Hartford was merely a flurry before the wedding. This was the tipoff that they’d be waiting for me all across the country, that it was going to be toe to toe all the way.

I stared into the glass, at the water the ice cubes had become. I opened the bedroom door quietly. The blankets were covering all but the top of her head. I looked at her suitcase packed and ready to go.

She sat up. “I’m too excited to sleep.”

I closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed. “Darling …” She stopped smiling, sensing something serious. I forced the words out. “I’m sorry, but you can’t come to San Francisco.”

“You don’t mean because of the flu?”

I shook my head and she listened without interrupting as I explained what was going on. “We can say it’s wrong, it’s lousy, but
that’s not going to change it. In the days of chivalry and King Arthur, or the days of the Romans they’d accuse a guy of something and they’d have a trial by ordeal: they’d say ‘We’ll put him in with a hungry lion,’ and if he survived he was set free. It’s going to be something like that with us. The first year will be the tough one. If we can survive that then I think we’ll have it made.”

“Do you really believe it will take a whole year before they’ll leave us alone?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure that in some cities we’ll have no trouble at all, in others we’ll have to be careful. But I do know that until they get off our backs I have to protect what I hold dear. We’ll have to adopt a routine, a strict procedure that we’ll follow until the pressure is off. You will not arrive in any city with me. I’ll get there first and get a feeling of what’s up, the atmosphere. If it looks safe I’ll wait a few days to be sure and then I’ll be on the phone telling you to grab the first plane.”

“Okay.”

“Meanwhile, I’ve hired someone who’ll move in and stay here while I’m gone. Naturally, Rudy’ll be here, too, but it won’t hurt to have another man around the house.”

“A guard?”

“He’s a private detective.”

“Do you think … do I really need that?”

“Frankly, no. By the same token I don’t expect the house to burn down but I carry fire insurance against the remote chance that it might.”

“That’s true.”

“And if by being here he does nothing else but ease your mind, it’s worth it. We’ll take every precaution and when it turns out we didn’t need them then crazy, we spent a little money and effort for a lot of peace of mind.” I looked at my watch. “I’ll go downstairs and say good-bye to Mama.” I stopped at the door and walked back to her. “May? Thank you for not making a fuss over something I can’t change.” I took her hand in mine. “I want you to know how sorry I am about all this and how much I appreciate you.”

She smiled, embarrassed, “Do you think I’m marvelous?”

I gave her a look. “I think you know how to take a simple compliment and milk it into a three-act play. Let’s face it: I’m going to San Francisco, not Australia by paddle boat.”

When I got back to the bedroom she was dressed in slacks and a sweater. “I’ll go with you to the airport.”

“No. Let’s not take any unnecessary chances. Get your rest so that when I call and tell you the coast is clear, you don’t have to say I’m back in bed with the flu. We’ll say good-bye here.”

“Sammy …” her face was losing the façade of cheerfulness and her voice was starting to quaver. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be so marvelous …” She was trying to fight the tears. “This is so darned rotten.” I held her in my arms stroking her head while she got it out of her system. “A fine Joan of Arc I turned out to be.” Her ears became red and suddenly, abruptly, she pulled herself together and strode briskly across the room. “Okay, that’s enough of that.” She faced me. “I’m sorry. That’s the last time I’ll ever do that to you. I promise. I won’t make it harder for you than it already is.”

I knew that she meant it, that she’d ache with pain before she’d ever again let on how it bothered her. I knew that as we parted time after time she’d earn medals for guts and bravery. But I couldn’t begin to understand why it should be necessary.

The applause increased, kept growing louder, but I could only think of it as an ideal shield for the sound of a gunshot. And as I worked I knew that my physical performance was not as good as it should have been. The one thing that had remained constant all these years had finally succumbed to divided attention. Despite the plainclothesmen spread all over the theater, despite every possible precaution, I found myself unable to devote myself as fully to each song, each dance; I was looking for hints of trouble, studying hazy faces in the back of the theater. As I did the impressions my mind’s ear wasn’t tuned entirely to Cagney or Robinson, and as I sang only half of me was absorbed in the words of the song while the other half was praying that somebody hadn’t left a window or a door unlocked at the house. I was afraid. Somewhere out there, in this audience or in the next, was the guy who’d make trouble. Or, worse still, was he in Hollywood, creeping up to the house, planning some horrible thing against May?

I left the stage exhausted and waited at the phone in the dressing room until I got her on the line, until I heard her voice. I told her I’d call again later when I got to the hotel and we could talk. I sat chained to the chair by fatigue, too tired to get up and change my clothes. Murphy was straightening out the make-up table. He lifted the kleenex box and looked at a stack of hate letters I’d left under it. “Those are the violent ones, baby. Find the local FBI office and get them over there tomorrow like they asked.”

There was a knock on the door, he turned quickly, leaning his head close to it. “Who is it?”

“Paul Newer.”

Paul came in and locked the door behind him. He looked more like a young schoolteacher than a detective. He was tall, wore glasses, and his suit was loose so that his gun and holster wouldn’t bulge. He said, “I moved you into a different suite.”

“You’re joking. What was wrong with the old one?”

“As long as we’re going to be together for a year, you should be familiar with basics. You will always occupy a different hotel room than the one in which you’re officially registered.”

“Baby, isn’t that a little pointless? Eighty room-service waiters and maids’ll know where I am.”

“Percentages. We keep the odds as low as we can. You will not answer a door even if you think you know who it is. Obviously all packages and mail will be left at the desk, never delivered directly to you. I’ll pick them up and bring them to you.”

“The bellboys are gonna love
that.”

“We’re not worried about the bellboys. You won’t leave the theater or the hotel without me. Ever. I’ll enter every building or room ahead of you. It’ll be annoying, maybe awkward sometimes, but I’ll be with you from when you wake up until you go to sleep,” he smiled, “and when you’re sleeping I’ll be in the adjoining room.”

“In other words I ain’t never going to be able to shake you, right?”

“Till death do us part.”

Murphy looked up, “Watch your language.”

The threats didn’t let up, the pickets kept coming back to the theater—I dared not have May join me.

I sat at the phone knowing that from the moment we’d start talking she’d be waiting for me to say “Pack your bags and come on,” that I’d stall, hating to tell her, yet hating to keep her in suspense. What’s she getting out of marriage besides being made a prisoner?

I called Burt in New York. “Baby, I need a favor. May digs the Sherry Netherland but I don’t know anybody there and I’m not sure how they might feel about me. I’ll appreciate it if you find out and if possible get me their best suite for the month I’ll be at the Copa.”

When he called back and told me I had it and there’d been no resistance at all I called May. “Darling, your husband might just
turn out to be one of the great idea men of his time. Instead of you coming all the way over here where there’s still some pressure—and the fact is there’s nothing to do—I’m booked on the flight to L.A. right after the show Saturday night. I’ll get to the house by one or two o’clock, there’s no show on Sunday so I’ll be able to stay home until late Monday afternoon. I’ll do the same thing the next weekend,” I rushed on, “and in-between I figure I can do a few quickie trips over like Tuesday and Thursday. If I didn’t have certain interviews and stuff that I’ve got to do here I’d commute every day.”

“Hey, that’s great.” Her voice didn’t falter.

“And, what’s your favorite hotel in New York?”

“The Sherry Netherland.”

“Well, I reserved a gorgeous suite for us there, facing Central Park.”

When we hung up an hour later I glanced through the papers. One of the Broadway columns said, “The S.D. Jr. marriage is rumored wobbly already. Two days after the ceremony he went on to Frisco and left her at home in L.A.”

I fell into the strict routine Paul had set up. He came everywhere with me, he was introduced as a friend, but he was always facing the entrance, always sitting between me and the door.

As the time came to leave for the road, I looked back over the empty threats, and was tempted to tell May, “Come on, we’ll go together and take our chances.” But I resisted it, reminding myself that the extra weeks together weren’t worth risking the years beyond them and as I kissed her good-bye after spending two beautiful days at the house I found it more difficult to leave her than ever before; almost impossible to explain away as merely “a precaution” the expensive need for constant security, to do it with a laugh, to play down my longing for her, yet make her know that I didn’t want to go anywhere without her, and to expect her to accept indefinitely the fact that we had to wait for the future before we could enjoy the simple pleasure of being together.

I moved through Idlewild Airport counting the smiles, the hard looks, weighing them all, one against the other, conducting a private poll. From city to city I’d been measuring reactions of cops, cab
drivers—everybody, wondering how much business I was going to do; would they stay away because of the marriage? Have I gone over the line this time and done something they just won’t be able to accept?

I went directly to the Copa on the pretense of wanting to check the lights, and casually asked, “How do the reservations look?”

Bruno grinned, “We haven’t had anything like this all year. The boys are going to pay their mortgages on this month.”

I walked around the corner to the Sherry Netherland. The man at the desk slid the registration pad toward me and extended his hand. “A pleasure to have you with us, Mr. Davis.”

Waiting for the elevator a young couple smiled. The door opened and a dowager-type saw me and did a double take, like she hoped she was wrong.

Murphy was at a desk in the living room, separating the mail into two piles. I glanced at one of the letters. “Many of these?”

“No, Sammy, just a few. Really. Maybe one out of twenty. The rest are beautiful. Some of them even have little poems wishing you happiness.”

“When May gets here don’t even bring the mail upstairs. Take it to the dressing room and screen it there.”

Standing backstage I felt more than the usual opening-night tensions. Bob Melvin, the comedian I’d been using on the bill with me, was on the floor and I stood near the kitchen listening, trying to feel the way the crowd was going to be.

Julie Podell came over to me. “Sammy? Have a drink?” He rapped the service bar with his pinky ring. “What’re you drinking?”

“Nothing, thanks. I’ll just stand with you.”

He raised his glass. “To the Mrs.” He downed his drink and, gesturing toward the audience, growled, “They’re killing me for tables. I had to yank the production number. How in the hell can I get eight girls on a floor the size of a postage stamp?”

The lights went down and John and Nathan rushed onto the darkened stage to arrange my props. George Rhodes and Michael Silva moved quickly and efficiently to their places on the bandstand. I stood in the back, taking a last few drags on a cigarette, holding it cupped in my hand, letting the heat of its ember penetrate the chill that had swept over me. There was a hush, then the first sound of music, and the lights went up on the stage I had to fill. The applause began, I saw the heads turning, straining toward the spot where I’d
appear. I waited, listening to them calling for me—then I was on the floor, standing among them, hearing their welcome grow stronger.

I stood motionless, looking at the familiar faces. We were old friends who’d seen a lot of years together, good ones and bad, and it was a glorious thing to see them rising to applaud me, nodding, smiling, even before I’d begun dancing or singing.

As I swung through the first few numbers I knew that whatever had afflicted my personality had passed, gone as unexpectedly as it had come. And the reason was clear: I’d taken a stand in life, not through courage but out of necessity. I had opened the only door available to me and I’d walked through it with May into the limelight or into oblivion, whichever it might be, but together. There’d been no compromise, simply, “I have done what I believe in and here I stand, good, bad or indifferent, I hope you will still like me but if you don’t, I will regret it but I cannot change.” I wasn’t hedging any more, trying to please everyone, and my missing rapport with the audience had returned with all the intensity it had ever had, perhaps more.