Tracey said she hired Frank Sinatra’s longtime attorney, Robert Finkelstein, to represent her, and together they devised a plan that would compensate Altovise handsomely. But due to her IRS issues, the deal hinged on Altovise transferring her rights to Tracey.
“This is the only way,” Tracey said.
Sonny had questions; chief among them, who represented the estate?
Tracey said it was under control of the executors, Shirley Rhodes and John Climaco. Rhodes was Sammy’s manager and the widow of Sammy’s longtime conductor, George Rhodes, who died in 1985. Climaco was an attorney from Cleveland and had worked with her father for many years.
“Cleveland?” said Sonny.
“Yeah,” said Tracey. “Isn’t that interesting.”
“What does that mean?” said Sonny.
Tracey paused. “You’ll find out.”
Sonny said he’d immediately fax Tracey a letter introducing himself, and Tracey said she’d fax the names and contact numbers of all the important people who were involved in Sammy’s life and in the disposition of his estate, including Rhodes, Climaco, Finkelstein, Sammy’s accountant George Louis, Herb Sturman, the attorney who represented the executors, and Richard Ferko and Bill Choulos, who served as Altovise’s attorneys prior to Sonny. True to her word, Tracey faxed twenty-two pages of phone numbers and addresses. Sonny walked over to Calvin’s with the faxed papers in hand to go over the names with Altovise, who sat on the bed in her cramped, cluttered room, dressed in a T-shirt and robe and surrounded by papers and envelopes, many unopened.
Calvin stood in the doorway, watching and listening.
“I’m just finishing off a letter to Liza,” Altovise said.
Sonny looked at the unopened envelopes. Many were from the Screen Actors Guild.
“What are those?” he said.
“Checks. Every month I get checks, some for pennies, others for hundreds of dollars.”
“You’re not cashing those, are you? The IRS would have a fit.”
“No,” said Altovise. “I cashed a couple a while back but none since.”
Altovise finished her letter, folded it, and put it into an envelope.
“Can you mail this for me?” she said.
Sonny took the letter. It was addressed to Liza Minnelli in Beverly Hills, California. He placed it in his briefcase and took out the multi-page fax from Tracey.
Altovise looked at the names.
“They all plotted against me,” she said as she wrote “Michael Jackson” on another envelope.
Sonny explained Tracey’s strategy, but he could see Altovise was equally leery of her stepdaughter. The musical, as proposed, would not work, Altovise said, and she maintained that she alone controlled Sammy’s 50 percent of his books, which, along with Yes I Can, also included Hollywood in a Suitcase in 1980 and Why Me? in 1989. Besides, Altovise said, she didn’t want to sign over her rights to anyone, especially Tracey.
“I don’t trust any of them,” said Altovise.
Sonny agreed. He had much more to learn and wasn’t about to negotiate a major agreement right out of the box without knowing more details.
“You know,” he said, looking around the room. “You should clean up a bit. You’d feel better.”
Altovise looked up and away from her letter and panned the bedroom, which was filled with opened and unopened boxes, strewn clothing, photos of her and Sammy dressed formally at some regal events, and several empty mayonnaise jars.
“I need to finish my letter. Michael hasn’t heard from me in a while,” she said.
“Okay,” said Sonny, moving toward the bedroom door. “When you can, you should get some rest. We need to start getting you well.”
“Oh, Calvin,” said Altovise. “Please close the door.”
Calvin did as he was asked but he lingered and, with his ear pressed against the door, he heard the bed squeak, feet walking on the floor, the bed squeak again, and then the opening of a jar. Calvin had heard this before.
“That’s what she does,” Calvin told Sonny. “She stays in her room, writes letters to people who never answer, and sips vodka.”
The two men walked into the kitchen and Calvin reached into a drawer and pulled out a notebook.
“She used to get a lot of phone calls when she first came here,” said Calvin, looking at a list that included Michael Jackson, Liza Minnelli, and Donald Rumsfeld, who Altovise said was an old friend who worked for President Nixon.
Bill Cosby also called, but infrequently, said Calvin, just to check on Altovise out of loyalty to Sammy.
“Now the only people who call are her parents and Al Carter,” said Calvin.
Sonny returned to his office at the Hillside and contacted the IRS in Los Angeles. The call was quick. He learned that Sammy’s estate was declared insolvent and in collection in 1992, meaning all litigation was over. Sonny was also informed that in order to gain access to the estate tax returns and any additional information, he had to file the appropriate paperwork to be recognized as Altovise’s representative, and that could take months.
Sonny hired a local accounting firm, Weseloh & Company, to prepare the paperwork, along with Altovise’s most recent tax returns. She hadn’t filed any since Sammy’s death, and the IRS wanted them from 1990 through 1993. He also wrote introduction letters to those on the list provided by Tracey, informing them that he’d been “formally and exclusively retained” by Altovise Davis, her parents, and others—the “others” being Calvin Douglas.
It took several weeks, but Sonny eventually received responses from all on the list. Some, like Rhodes and Climaco, declined to cooperate, directing Sonny instead to contact Herb Sturman, the Beverly Hills attorney who represented the executors. George Louis, Sammy’s longtime accountant, also declined to help, saying he was retired and that any queries also had to go through Sturman. When Sonny approached Sturman, he, too, declined any cooperation.
Robert Finkelstein was somewhat more cooperative, especially after Sonny wrote in his letter that Altovise expressed a “strong desire” to reconcile any past differences with Tracey Davis. To Finkelstein, a polished Hollywood veteran, that opened the door just enough to try to get a deal done for the Quincy Jones musical and convince Altovise to assign her rights.
Sonny also sent a letter to Leonard “Bud” Isenberg, Sammy’s life insurance agent. Tracey said upon her father’s death his life insurance policies totaled over $5 million. Of that, a little more than $1.5 million was divided between three of his children, Tracey, Mark, and Jeff, while Altovise was the beneficiary of nearly a dozen policies Tracey believed totaled over $1 million. That left $2.5 million remaining, and Tracey said it went to her father’s company, Transamerican Entertainment.
But Tracey contended that it didn’t make any sense for Transamerican to receive such a large sum. And it made even less sense that several people who were close to her father, such as his longtime road manager Murphy Bennett, chief bodyguard Brian Dellow, and former manager Sy Marsh didn’t receive a dime. Murphy, for one, had worked for Sammy in various capacities for more than thirty years. He was from Chicago and served in World War II before relocating to Los Angeles in 1950. He gave up a job with United Airlines to join Sammy in 1959 as his road manager. There wasn’t anyone closer, said Tracey, yet a promised $1 million benefit never materialized. Sy Marsh, the former manager whose business relationship with Sammy ended in 1981, was also excluded from a promised $1 million payout, said Tracey.
Sonny didn’t really care. Perhaps Sammy changed his mind. It didn’t matter, at least not now. Altovise was his client, and as far as he was concerned, he wanted to find out what happened to her $1 million. But before even broaching that subject, Sonny scheduled an appointment for Altovise to see a Stroudsburg psychologist, Dr. William Van Meter. Her longstanding problems with alcohol required immediate treatment, and Sonny wanted a comprehensive diagnosis.
Van Meter agreed to treat Altovise at least twice a week, though it would take several months to g
et to the root cause of her problems, he said. That was fine, said Sonny. It would take that long to get legal standing with the IRS, to figure out Altovise’s current financial situation, to gauge the current status of her late husband’s estate, and to meet with Tracey Davis.
Sonny also realized that, aside from what he saw on television or read here and there, he knew absolutely nothing about Sammy Davis Jr., and he had some homework to do.
CHAPTER 4
When Sammy Davis Jr. was only eight years old, he saw his name on a billboard, which read WILL MASTIN’S GANG FEATURING LITTLE SAMMY. When he asked what “featuring” meant, his father explained that he was so talented, they had to tell the audience they were going to see something special.
Sammy was a natural talent, one of those rare people touched by the hand of God. Even at a tender age Sammy’s dancing skills were noticeable, as was his ability to mimic people in song and spoken word.
He was born in Harlem, in 1925, to Sam, an African-American dancer, and Elvera Sanchez, a Puerto Rican chorus girl. Sam and Elvera appeared together in Will Mastin’s Holiday in Dixieland as part of a vaudeville troupe that spent nearly every waking—and sleeping—hour on the road. After he was born, Sammy was sent to live in Brooklyn with friends of his parents, but soon after he was under the care of his grandmother Rosa B. Davis, whom Sammy called Mama. A sister, Ramona, came along two years later, but his parents divorced, and Sam, fearing he’d lose custody, took his three-year-old son on the road with him. When Sammy asked where they were going, Sam replied, “We’re goin’ into show business, son.”
Sammy’s education took place not in schools but in the vaudeville halls throughout New York and on the road. He watched intently from the side of the stage during rehearsals and performances, studying his father and the man he called his uncle, Will Mastin. They were old-time dancers, and Sammy quickly copied their steps, and created some of his own. He could place his hand on the floor, the other in the air, and kick his feet out in front of him. Sam bought him a pair of tap shoes, and Sammy took off like he was born in them. Little Sammy was so good his father and uncle incorporated him into their act and they watched as his skills blossomed before appreciative audiences, which threw money at the talented little boy, as was the custom of the day. Following most performances, Sammy walked off the stage with his pockets filled with coins.
Sam and Will knew what they had in little Sammy, and, as he was growing up on the road, they nurtured and protected him from the harshness of the outside world. But since much of America was segregated, there wasn’t a lot Sam and Will could do to protect Sammy from hearing the word “nigger.” The first time it happened was at a restaurant, where Sammy, his father, and his uncle sat in one section but were told matter-of-factly that “niggers can’t sit there” and were directed toward the “colored” area.
Sammy could feel his father’s anger, and later that night he asked his uncle Will the question.
“What’s a nigger?”
Will explained it was a nasty word some white people used to describe colored people. Sammy asked if he meant show people. Will said no, and that there was no definition of the word other than “it don’t mean nothing except to say they don’t like us.” Sammy remained confused. He didn’t think he was different from anybody else. But he saw the hurt in his father and uncle and he tried to make their pain and anger disappear by making them laugh. Everyone would see, Sammy thought, that by entertaining, he could make all the hurt feelings go away.
As Sammy and his talent grew and vaudeville died, variety acts turned to the clubs, the most prominent of which was the Copacabana in New York. Sammy listened to the radio and heard the stars of the day say how they loved playing “The Copa” and tell of their glamorous Hollywood lifestyles. He’d close his eyes, ignore his Harlem surroundings, and imagine himself immersed in the world of the rich and famous. Sammy thought of big homes and swimming pools. He wanted to be a star.
After years on the road, and with no formal education, the child prodigy had grown into a young man. He tried to enlist in the army after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor in 1941, but he was only sixteen and told to go home with his father, who also tried to enlist but was told he was too old. Sammy was drafted in 1943 and he served in the U.S. Army’s first integrated unit. He’d never been away from the protective eyes of his father and uncle, and his acclimatization to army life with young white men proved to be a life-changing experience. His color and small physique, at five feet, three inches tall, made him an easy target for insults and cruel jokes. A group of white soldiers once offered Sammy a bottle of beer but, when he took a sip, he realized it was filled with urine. Enraged, Sammy fought with the men that night and many other times through the long weeks when he’d endure racist slurs and constant reminders that he was “still a nigger.” They even held him one night and wrote COON in white paint on his forehead. The fighting continued, and Sammy’s nose was broken several times. He stopped fighting only when a black sergeant named Williams counseled him against violence.
“You can’t hope to change a man’s ideas except with a better idea. You’ve got to fight back with your brain.”
The sergeant gave Sammy his first book to read—The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde—and Sammy sat up late at night on the floor of the latrine with a pocket dictionary by his side to look up words he didn’t understand. When he finished, he was thirsty for more, and the sergeant obliged, giving him books by Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Edgar Allan Poe, and William Shakespeare.
Sammy eventually escaped the verbal and physical onslaught after joining an entertainment unit, and he found that his talent shielded him from further abuse. He basked in the approval of hundreds of anonymous white faces clapping and hooting, and he realized that his dancing was his weapon that broke down barriers. He was a small, unattractive black man with a crooked nose, yet his skills allowed him to feel normal, like he did with his dad and his uncle. The stage erased his physical deficiencies, and his color, and he lived his days waiting patiently for those few minutes in front of the lights. His talent brought him respect, which was something his fists couldn’t do. And when Sammy was discharged from the army, he knew he just had to be a star to maintain that respect. And he didn’t want to be just any star. He wanted to be the best ever, to ensure that no one would ever insult or hurt him again. Sammy’s obsession with stardom consumed him to the point where he knew he’d make a deal with the devil if that’s what it took to get it.
Frank Sinatra didn’t have horns, but he did have a golden voice that brought him great success and national celebrity in the 1940s. Sammy first met Frank in Los Angeles in 1945. The Will Mastin Trio opened for Frank when he fronted Tommy Dorsey’s band in 1940, but they never spoke. Now Frank was a household name from coast to coast and Sammy hoped to get his autograph at the NBC radio studios. Sammy loved everything about Frank, particularly his voice, and, as a fan, Sammy waited behind hundreds of kids, hoping for a chance to say hello after Frank’s performance on a radio show. Sammy watched in awe as Frank emerged from the stage door and looked and acted exactly like the star that he was, confident, in control, and making eye contact with each fan. He had a self-assurance and power that only emanated from someone completely at ease with his own talent. Sammy admired the respect and power Frank’s celebrity afforded him and he could see himself walking out that door greeted by hundreds of admirers not interested at all in his color, only his talent. He’d be normal, like he always was with his father and uncle.
When Sammy finally reached Frank, he was shocked when Frank said he remembered Sammy opening for him five years earlier. They talked briefly, and Frank said he’d leave Sammy a ticket for his show next week. Sammy couldn’t wait for the week to go by, and when the show began, Sammy was enthralled. The kids went crazy for Frank. Even more impressive were the people who stopped by Frank’s dressing room after the show. Sammy was invited, and he waited patiently for his turn while men in crisp suits walked in and out to pay ho
mage. Frank and Sammy spoke again, and further cemented their connection. It wasn’t long after that Sammy, his father, and uncle Will received a telegram inviting them to open for Frank at the Capitol Theater in New York. They couldn’t figure why they were selected, other than Frank always opened his show with a black group. Sammy learned later that it was Frank who overstepped his booking manager and demanded that Sammy and the Will Mastin Trio open for him, at $1,250 per week. Frank was as much a fan of Sammy as Sammy was of Frank, and by the time the three-week engagement was over, the two men were friends. Friends for life, said Frank. And if Sammy ever needed Frank for anything, he was to call.
But it was Frank who’d make the next call a couple of years later, after learning that Sammy had been barred from seeing his show at the Copacabana. Outside of Harlem, blacks weren’t allowed in the tony New York clubs. Frank told Sammy to return the following night, and when Sammy arrived, he was given his own table with two bodyguards by his side. Frank, again, demonstrated power. He made things happen because of his celebrity, and that influence was surely something Sammy knew he’d command once he became a star.
And he knew he’d be a star.
Sammy’s celebrity was on the rise. By the 1950s he was given top billing, over his father and uncle. Sammy incorporated dead-on impersonations of major stars of the day into the act and he could sing just like Frank, Mel Tormé, and Nat King Cole. He could also do movie stars, and did perfect impersonations of Humphrey Bogart, James Cagney, and Edward G. Robinson. As the act grew in popularity, the bookings increased, as did the fees. When the trio arrived in Las Vegas, they were treated like anyone else on stage. But when the music ended and the crowd disappeared, they were black again and forced to sleep in hotels on the segregated west side of town. Sammy sat in his room late at night, looking out at the lights on the Strip, knowing he was barred from entering any of the hotels or casinos there.
Deconstructing Sammy Page 4