Haley paused, thought for a moment, and then nodded and led Sonny to the boxes stacked in the garage. Haley reached down and grabbed a couple of the Beta tapes, which were thicker than the more popular VHS cassettes.
“Shows you what a bad businessman Sammy was. He got these when Beta and VHS first came out, and he bet on Beta,” said Haley.
A catalog documented the contents of the boxes, and included films whose subject matter was wide-ranging and indicative of Sammy’s varied tastes in actors, from John Wayne and Steve McQueen to Eddie Murphy and Denzel Washington.
“You know, Sammy used to have the greatest parties. He had his theater downstairs and we’d all show up, me and Liza and others and we’d come over and watch these movies and he’d serve all kinds of food and drink. They were great times.”
“I’m sure they were,” said Sonny, his eyes still fixed on the catalog.
As Sonny rummaged through the boxes, Haley told old war stories about his father, who died in 1979. He also spoke fondly of Sammy, whom Haley appeared to have truly loved. It was hard to determine the material value of the collection. Sonny wasn’t even sure what Altovise could do with it. But when Sonny was finished, he thanked Haley for his cooperation and said the films would be picked up and placed at Pro-Tek, a local film-storage firm.
When Sonny returned home and delivered the good news to Altovise, she was thrilled. Retrieving the collection was a small victory, and now, as Altovise prepared for her discharge, she wanted more and Sonny wanted to oblige her. So he suggested retrieving the leftovers that remained from the Butterfield & Butterfield auction. The IRS had custody of the unsold items, which were still stored at Butterfield’s warehouse in Hollywood. They weren’t doing anyone any good inside a warehouse, Sonny reasoned, so there shouldn’t be any resistance from the IRS. But he said he’d take care of that later. He had more important issues to deal with, and they pertained to Altovise’s pending discharge.
CHAPTER 11
In October 1995, Altovise was ready for life outside Alina Lodge.
After more than a year of treatment, the daily schedule of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings combined with therapy and prescription medications produced a woman who appeared physically sound and clear of mind, and she was released as an outpatient on “therapeutic leave.”
Her new life included a one-bedroom apartment rented for $625 per month in a condominium complex in East Stroudsburg near the Hillside, and a minimum-wage job as a clerk at the Pocono Sweater Mills, a factory about twenty minutes away in Brodheadsville. Along with the apartment and the job came a thirty-two-point continuing care plan that was to be followed without exception. From maintaining sobriety and attending at least one AA meeting each day, the regimented routine was intended to extend Alina’s program beyond its walls with a set schedule that would help patients sustain and continue with their recovery.
There were also admonishments to guard against “materialism, status-seeking, and other ego-feeding practices,” and to stay away from any emotional or sexual relationship for at least a year in order to direct all energies toward sobriety, a job, and maintaining a balanced and structured lifestyle. Eating habits were also prescribed, with a preplanned diet high in protein, low in fats and carbohydrates, salts and sugars. When Altovise wasn’t working, she was required to return to Alina Lodge for regular AA meetings and for dinner, without exception.
Altovise also had to fill out her own continuing care plan stating that on return trips to Alina Lodge she wouldn’t smuggle any tobacco items, books, magazines, candy, or food inside for any other residents. Altovise also agreed to keep any correspondence she received from a fellow resident on the premises, and she agreed not to write to any of the residents. Any violation of her outpatient care would result in read-mittance as a full-time patient. Helping her maintain her schedule was Calvin, who was pleased that she had successfully battled her demons.
One outstanding issue upon her departure was her bill. Altovise owed Alina Lodge over $20,000. Her parents only made the initial $2,850 payment for admittance, and the $665 weekly bill continued to rise. Alina officials made it clear that the bill was secondary to Altovise’s care and good health. But, when possible, they wanted the bill paid in full.
While money remained from the Piaget gift, it had to stay in the bank, since Sonny wasn’t sure what the IRS would eventually accept with the OIC. Sonny wrote letters requesting updates, but received no response. He flew to Los Angeles to meet with Daryl Frerking two weeks after Altovise was released. The conversation was cordial, but nothing had been decided, and Sonny remained frustrated. Upon his return, he was surprised to learn that the IRS levied several New York bank accounts he had disclosed in the OIC. They were small joint accounts Altovise kept with her mother, which had only a few thousand dollars each. IRS officials told Sonny they wouldn’t take action until the OIC was finalized, but someone there obviously had a change of heart, and several thousand dollars disappeared.
Sonny wrote an angry letter to Frerking, saying that he had been “deceived as to the government’s true intentions” and he felt ambushed and blindsided by their actions, which left Altovise with virtually no money.
Frerking didn’t respond.
Something was wrong, but Sonny couldn’t put his finger on it. Perhaps, he thought, they believed Altovise still had other unreported assets. It was clear they still didn’t trust her and, by extension, they didn’t trust her attorney. To combat that apparent lack of trust, Sonny decided he’d modify the OIC, but he would wait until after the upcoming Spirit Award dinner in New York, sponsored by the People for the American Way. Sonny served on the board of directors for the progressive political-advocacy organization started by Norman Lear in the early 1980s. Sonny was a liberal, and he shared many of the organization’s political beliefs, particularly its fight against the growing power of the religious right.
A Who’s Who of celebrities was scheduled to attend the November 5, 1995, dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria, and Sonny wanted to use the event as a “coming out” party for Altovise. The thirteen months in rehab did wonders for her, and she exhibited a healthy physique and sober mind. Sonny invited the Judge and Mama too, and the four of them drove into New York, the seventy-five-minute drive filled with good talk and plenty of laughs. Altovise could barely contain her nervous excitement. She looked beautiful, her healthy frame carrying the off-the-shoulder gown. When she entered the ballroom with Sonny and his parents, she was immediately surrounded by people she hadn’t seen in years. There were lengthy embraces, kisses, and tears.
Sonny couldn’t have been happier, and after seating his parents he stood off to the side and watched as Altovise once again morphed into Mrs. Sammy Davis Jr., playing a role she mastered over twenty years. The event was a huge success, and Altovise felt like Cinderella all over again. She was back in her element with the stars and the movers and the shakers, and she loved every second of it, so much so she couldn’t stop talking on the drive home. She felt great, she said, and this wonderful night would be the start of her new life, one in which she vowed to remain healthy and sober and carry on the legacy of her famous husband. Mama held her hand tightly and stroked Altovise’s arm while the Judge beamed.
Sonny couldn’t hide his smile as they drove west on Interstate 80. The night was a huge success, despite the warning from Norman Lear. Sonny thought back to that moment, as he stood watching Altovise holding court with several friends, when Norman walked up from behind and tugged on his elbow.
“Norman!” said Sonny, grabbing him tightly in a big bear hug.
“What do you think?” he said, pointing toward Altovise and her admirers.
“I heard you were bringing her as a guest. Let me tell you something,” Lear said, leaning in to whisper into Sonny’s ear.
“She’s bad news.”
On November 18, 1995, Sonny modified his Offer in Compromise to the IRS, including among other things Altovise’s wage statements from Pocono Sweater Mills. Two weeks later, he
sent the government a check for $105,000 representing “full payment under the terms of the OIC” with a request to officially agree to the settlement by the end of the year. Sonny was hopeful and excited. Bob Finkelstein’s warnings that he would never settle with the IRS always remained in the back of his mind, and he wanted to show Finkelstein, and all of Hollywood, that a good lawyer from the East Coast could not only settle the matter but also help Altovise get well.
Still an outpatient, Altovise worked a cash register for minimum wage at the sweater mill. While it gave her the impetus to stay sober, the job was dull and she experienced difficulty with her new identity being simply Altovise Gore. After a few weeks, she’d be seen pulling aside customers and asking if they knew who she was.
When they said no, she’d smile and whisper, “I’m Mrs. Sammy Davis Jr.”
The Christmas holidays arrived with the sad news that Dean Martin passed away. His health had deteriorated sharply in recent years, accelerated by the death of his son Dino Jr., a National Guard pilot who died in a crash in 1987. It was Calvin who heard the news on Christmas day, and he informed Altovise, who didn’t have much of a reaction. Despite the public perception, Dean and Sammy were friends but never buddies, and Altovise decided against attending the funeral.
The New Year arrived with still no answer from the IRS, and Sonny’s frustration was as deep as the snows outside the Hillside. More than two feet fell during a January blizzard, covering the region in a serene and dazzling white. Deer, unable to navigate through the deep snow, gathered under large bull-pine trees while crows circled the air scouring for their next meal. The weather forced two groups to cancel a rare winter reservation, leaving the Hillside empty for the weekend. No matter to Sonny, who pulled the rope to start the engine on the snow blower and slowly carved out lanes from the front door to the parking lot and road. Sonny enjoyed the manual labor, if only because it gave him a chance to clear his mind and refocus.
Nearly two years had passed since he met Altovise, and his work to date centered on her health and resolving the numerous issues with the IRS, a resolution he believed was close at hand. So his thoughts turned toward a post-settlement, which meant that Altovise controlled Sammy’s image and likeness and thus could begin to rebuild his legacy. The possibilities, Sonny thought, were endless, given Sammy’s stature as one of the greatest entertainers of the twentieth century. Films, books, television, new albums, endorsements, the potential deals appeared limitless. Sammy could be like Elvis, thought Sonny, and the income streams for Altovise could be impressive.
But the excitement over possible new ventures led to thoughts about Sammy’s body of work, specifically moneys due him from his lifetime performing. In his offer to the IRS, Sonny promised to pay a percentage of revenues from Sammy’s estate for fifteen years. The problem was Sonny had no idea how much that could be. Specifically, what money did Sammy earn in royalties and residuals from the dozens of albums he recorded, films he performed in, and endorsements he’d given?
Sonny knew about the Screen Actors Guild checks that arrived every month, usually for small amounts, and every now and then another residual check would be given to the IRS from some long-forgotten endorsement. But that was it, and Sonny knew he needed to obtain a complete accounting of Sammy’s work over his lifetime. How to get this done was another matter. Altovise had few, if any, records. And what she did have didn’t make much sense, since her papers were haphazardly placed in unnamed folders.
Altovise claimed Sammy owned many, if not all, of his songs and the master recordings, but there was little, if any, evidence to prove it. And no one, not even Altovise, had any idea what Sammy really earned in royalties and residuals from a six-decade career that included dozens of albums, appearances in as many television shows, documentaries, films, and Broadway shows. And since he never saw any royalty checks, Sonny assumed the various companies that did business with Sammy were delinquent in their royalty payments. At first glance, assuming that Sammy actually owned all his work, the expected revenue streams from royalties and residuals should be impressive, reasoned Sonny, whose thoughts were interrupted by the beep of a car horn. It was Calvin, who drove by slowly with the wave of a hand. Sonny turned off the snow blower.
“Where you going in this weather, Mr. D.?”
“Altovise. Have to give her the mail. And I’m sure she could use the company.”
“Okay,” said Sonny. “Tell her I’ll call her later. You be careful.”
As Calvin drove away, Sonny turned and walked inside to the front desk. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, read the scribbled number, and dialed the office of Jay Shapiro.
Shapiro was the former national director of entertainment and media for the large accounting firm of Laventhol and Horvath and one of only three accountants in Los Angeles who specialized in entertainment forensic accounting. Since royalty payments to a performer were always based on someone else’s accounting, Shapiro developed an expertise in what he called CRAP—Contractually Required Accounting Principles. They were a different set of rules for entertainers, based on their individual contracts, and allowed Shapiro to dig deep and recover uncollected monies. So many minor and major stars received less than expected, thanks to loopholes, omissions, and language in their contracts, and Sonny told Shapiro he needed an expert to participate and plan out a computation of Sammy’s future revenues in order to give the IRS a true idea of what to expect from Sammy’s royalties as well as determine the estate’s true income. Sonny also needed to know for personal reasons, since payment of his growing legal bill was dependent on the income realized from Sammy’s estate. With few records, Shapiro said it would take months to complete his work. Still, he promised he would account for every penny owed to Sammy’s estate.
The clear, glass gallon jug was half filled with water—or so Calvin thought. But when he opened it and put it to his nose, he knew it was vodka. Only three months had passed since Altovise had been discharged from the Alina Lodge, and despite claims to the contrary, she was drinking again. The initial burst of determination and resolve to put her demons behind her quickly faded amid the drudgery of a minimum-wage job at a sweater shop and a small one-bedroom apartment. Faced with the reality of her life, Altovise buried her head back in a bottle.
Calvin was enraged. Wet snow dripped down his boots onto the floor as he pointed a trembling hand.
“After all Sonny has done for you, and this is how you repay him?” said Calvin.
Altovise didn’t reply. Her secret was now out in the open and she poured herself another drink.
“Calvin,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Sammy Davis Jr. Do you understand that? Mrs. Sammy Davis Jr.! I had a life. I had a home. I was a star!”
“You’re confused,” said Calvin. “Sammy was the star.”
Altovise paused to take another sip, then looked up to her elderly friend with a menacing, disapproving stare.
“Sit down,” she said. “Let me tell you a story.”
The luncheon was scheduled for mid-afternoon, and when Betty Ford arrived at the Davises’ Beverly Hills home, she was greeted by Altovise, Liza Minnelli, Johanna Carson, Marlo Thomas, and Farrah Fawcett. The first lady was recovering from a mastectomy, following her very public battle with breast cancer, and Altovise was the gracious hostess for a quiet afternoon of finger sandwiches and tea.
It seemed a strange pairing at the least, Sammy and Altovise and President and Mrs. Ford. But Sammy’s close relationship with Richard Nixon and his underlings, particularly Donald Rumsfeld and Bob Brown, paved the way for a similar relationship with the new president and his wife. Sammy wasn’t a Republican, but he bought into parts of their platform and thought their efforts to reach out to the black community were genuine. He called them friends, and with good reason, given the trust and respect the Republicans gave Sammy.
It was Nixon who invited Sammy and Altovise over to stay at the White House. They were like two kids in a candy store, exploring from the Lincoln Bedroom to the Qu
een’s Bedroom, jumping from bed to bed, making love along the way and smoking pot, or at least making an attempt. After Sammy lit the joint, he quickly realized he was actually in the White House, and he ran to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet as Altovise looked on, laughing hysterically. The following morning Altovise had breakfast with Nixon’s wife, Pat, while Sammy sat alone with the president, discussing a variety of subjects, particularly civil rights. Sammy felt empowered. Here he was, lacking a formal education, yet talking to the president of the United States about matters of great importance. It was the kind of audience, attention, and true friendship never offered by any of the Kennedys.
That same Republican goodwill extended to the Ford presidency, and at Sammy’s urging, Altovise agreed to host a luncheon for Mrs. Ford. Everyone, including Altovise’s famous guests, had to provide identification after the Secret Service inspected the eleven-thousand-square-foot home. When the first lady arrived, she was greeted with a big sign and a welcoming call of “Big Mama!” from Sammy. The men retreated to the backyard while the ladies settled in the living room to talk. Altovise was a wreck. It was just a luncheon, but she obsessed over every detail, from the food that was served to her personal tour of her home. Everything went smoothly and Altovise was the perfect hostess. And when it was over, there were hugs all around with Marlo and Liza and Farrah and the First Lady. Sammy watched from the background, beaming with pride.
“I think about that day. I think about a lot of days. And I think about what I had. And then I think about where I am,” Altovise said, drifting off.
“I know, they were good days for you,” said Calvin. “But they won’t come back if you keep drinking.”
“I’m not trying to bring them back.”
“Then what?”
“Oh, Calvin,” said Altovise, stirring her drink with her finger. “I have so much to remember, and there’s so much I want to forget.”
Deconstructing Sammy Page 13