Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr.

by Davis, Sammy

  Jay got interested. “Who’d you see? Who is it now?”

  “It’s not a who-is-it-now. Her name’s May Britt and she’s …”

  Judy threw out her hands. “Forget it.”

  “Hey! What’s this ‘forget it’ jazz? Every time I mention her name it’s like I’m Robespierre plotting to swipe the Queen’s diamond studs.”

  Jay was shaking his head. “You haven’t got a prayer. She’s so straight that nobody even goes over to say hello to her. And the best have tried. She’s not interested in dating, parties, nothing! She’s strictly work. She’s getting a divorce from some kid who’s got millions and she won’t take a nickel from him. Sam, this is an unusual girl.”

  “Now you hold it. You don’t think maybe you’re exaggerating just a little bit?”

  They wouldn’t even bother to answer me. They gave me you-poor-fool looks, smiled at each other, shrugged and turned back to their veal parmesan. I sat there watching them eat, trying to think of some way to open the conversation again. I took the fork out of Jay’s hand. “Baby, let’s talk sense. I’ve been around this town a few years, too, right? Now there just can’t be a chick that looks this good that ain’t swingin’ with somebody!”

  He gave me the blank stare and shook his head like: You wanta be an idiot? Okay. Be an idiot.

  I got back to the coast again about three weeks later, and had some kids over to the Playhouse. Rudy Duff, a man I’d hired to drive for Mama and to look after her, was making drinks and running the movies and it was one of those pleasant kind of evenings. Barbara Luna came by with some kook she’d run into at Schwab’s Drugstore and I watched her dying of boredom with him. Her date meant no more to her than all the nameless chicks had ever meant to me. I felt sorry for her, like we were both on the same island.

  I took her aside. “Barbara, let me ask you something. You ain’t never gonna introduce me to May Britt, right? I mean you don’t want to arrange anything for old Sam, do you? Maybe help a pal …”

  She looked suprised. “I know May Britt. I worked with her in Blue Angel.”

  “Nut! I was in the commissary with you, remember? And by the way, I caught a screening of the picture and it stinks. But she was good. And she looks—well, she looks like too much!”

  “Yeah, she’s great looking. What’d you have in mind?”

  I sat down next to her. “I just want to meet her. That’s all. Simple, innocent, nice. Listen, I’ll make up a party for Dinah Washington’s closing at the Cloisters next week. Then we’ll all come over here afterwards and … well, we’ll just let nature take its course.”

  “Great. I’ll give you her phone number and you can invite her.”

  “No good. I need an opening. With this girl if I call her cold it’s a definite turn-down and maybe even a hang-up of the phone and a broken eardrum. You’ve got to call her for me.”

  “Well, if you wanta make a whole thing of it,” she shrugged, “all right, I’ll try to get in touch with her.”

  Three days passed and no call from Barbara. I got her on the phone. “You didn’t do it yet, right?”

  “What’s wrong, Sammy?”

  “Wrong? Who said anything’s wrong? I just called to tell you I’m receiving the Celibacy Award at the Hollywood Bowl next week and I hope you can attend the ceremony!”

  “Oh gee, Sam, I forgot.”

  “You forgot?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been so hung up with things. You know how it is.”

  “No, I don’t know how it is.”

  “Okay, get off the phone so I can call her.” She called me right back, “Well, I spoke to her.”

  “She can’t make it, right?”

  “It’s not that. She said, ‘If he wants to talk to me why doesn’t he call me himself?’ ”

  “Whattya mean?” I knew exactly what she meant.

  Someone answered, briskly, “Tell me!”

  Tell me? What the hell is that?

  Again the voice said, “Tell me.”

  How Swedish can you get? “May I speak with Miss Britt, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  From her voice alone I wished I had on a heavy sweater. “This is Sammy Davis, Jr.”

  “Oh, hello there.” Some of the chill disappeared. She was still a little crisp, but she didn’t sound angry that I’d called.

  I gave her the Orson Welles voice, resonant, full of timbre: “Miss Britt, you don’t know me …”

  “I know that.” Oh, swell. I needed this. She said, “But I’ve seen you perform. At the Moulin Rouge. I thought your show was marvelous.”

  Hey, this is going to be all right. She didn’t have to say that. “Miss Britt, I’m having a little party—I mean a large party, at The Cloisters, Thursday night, and I wonder if I might have the pleasure of your company.” I rushed in with a little protection. “Barbara Luna will be there.”

  “I’d like to come but my mother’s visiting me from Sweden.”

  “I’d be delighted to have you bring her along, if you like.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. Thank you very much. That will be fine.”

  I spent the next few days planning every move, inviting just the right people to dress up the party. I invited no attractive single guys. I cast it like a schoolgirl setting up her sweet-sixteen party.

  I went through my wardrobe and decided on a nice little double-breasted dark blue mohair. The double-breasted jazz would give me just a touch of European flavor while the mohair would keep it American. I looked through my cuff links. A simple gold pair with no stones. Small and conservative. No ring. And the flat, gold cigarette case with the rubbed finish and the lighter to match.

  I had to split the party into two side-by-side tables for ten. Barbara arrived early. I wanted her next to me to help me carry the ball and I earmarked the two seats across from us for May and her mother. But it didn’t work out the way I’d planned. They were all good friends so I couldn’t tell them “don’t sit there” and within fifteen minutes the two seats were taken.

  The show was about to start when I saw her walking in. I nudged Barbara, “Your friend sure has a strange-looking mother.” She was with George Englund, who’d produced Odds Against Tomorrow.

  I walked over to greet them. She looked unbelievable. I put out my hand, “So nice to see you.”

  She smiled, “My mother was tired. Do you know Mr. Englund? I hope you don’t mind my asking him.”

  “Mind? Of course not. Delighted to see you again, George.” If you’ll believe that, you mother, you’ll believe anything. I walked them to the second table. “Do you care for champagne?”

  She smiled, “I hate it.”

  “Oh. Well, how about some vodka? Scotch? Bourbon?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t drink. I’ll just have a plain tonic, thank you.”

  “Schweppes or Wildroot?” She didn’t answer. “Well, heh, heh … those are the jokes, folks.” She looked blankly at me, not understanding what in the hell I was talking about. Very smart, Charley. “Well, enjoy yourselves … catch you later.” I retreated to my table.

  After the show I danced with Dinah and with Barbara but I kept watching May and Englund at the other table. They had their backs to me. Beautiful.

  If she were dancing I could cut in but I wasn’t about to risk walking over there and getting “I’m sorry. I don’t dance.” When the party was ready to break up I went over to her. “Everybody’s coming to the house for a nightcap. Would you like to join us?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, don’t let anybody tell you you’re not direct.”

  She smiled and put out her hand. “Good night. Thank you for inviting me.”

  I sat in a corner of the Playhouse, hating her. One of the buddies who’d been at her table sat down next to me. “Are you interested in what was going on between May Britt and George Englund?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” He started to leave.

  “Like what?”

  “Well, after you
went back to your table he told her, ‘I think he’s making a play for you.’ She said, ‘Do you really think so?’ and he said, ‘It’s obvious.’ ”

  Oh? I hadn’t thought I was so damned obvious. I walked over to Barbara. “Well, what do you think? Should I call her again?”

  “I don’t know. Use your own judgment.”

  “Thanks, Barbara. That’s what friends are for.”

  I waited a few days and called her. “I’m having some friends up to the house tonight—running a few movies—would you like to come by?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m going out for dinner.”

  “Well, how about after dinner?”

  “Give me your number and I’ll call you when I’m through.”

  At ten o’clock I sat down at the bar near the phone. “Rudy, relax and enjoy the movie. I’ll take the calls.” It seemed as though everyone in Hollywood had chosen this night to call me. I kept clearing the line as fast as I could.

  By midnight I suddenly saw myself as I was: an idiot sitting in front of the phone waiting for it to ring. I got up from the bar and sat down on the couch in the middle of the room. Nobody’s that good-looking. The phone rang. “Rudy! Will you answer the godamned phone!”

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece, “Do you know a Miss Britt?”

  She said, “Hello there. I’m coming over now. Will that be all right?”

  I hung up and dashed for the bedroom in the Playhouse, where there are two walls of mirrors, and checked my clothes. I was wearing dark blue jeans and a shirt with three buttons on each sleeve and a bright red sweater. I gave myself a little shot of aftershave lotion and started downstairs. If she’s got another guy with her….

  Fifteen minutes later she buzzed from the gate.

  Before Rudy could call up over the intercom to ask who it was, I pushed the button to open the gate and ran out of the Playhouse and up the steps to meet her. She was alone.

  Now it got to be like a party. Barbara was there, which was good, and she knew a few of the other kids, too. She was wearing slacks and I wondered if she’d gone home and changed specially, or if she’d been someplace casual for dinner. I could’ve spent the whole night just watching her move. She walked like an athlete, but oh, was she a girl athlete!

  It was time for me to stop calling her Miss Britt. “Would you care for a drink, May?”

  “What do you have that doesn’t taste like whiskey?”

  “Do you like oranges?”

  “I love them.”

  “I’ve got just the thing. Orange brandy. It’s very sweet and fruity tasting.”

  “I hate sweet drinks.”

  “Hey. Cool it! Don’t hate it till you taste it.” I poured a small shot for her. She sipped it, smiled, held out her glass and I poured a little more.

  She said, “This is darned good. I love it.”

  I looked across the bar at her. “You either hate or love everything, right? I mean, there isn’t anything that’s just in-between?”

  She lifted her head and smiled, “Nope.”

  I wondered how old she was. Twenty-three maybe. There was something about her that made me feel very mature. She was so definite, so sure of everything. It was such a youthful, attractive thing. She took another slug of the orange brandy. “You know what else I hate?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “Go right ahead. Please.”

  “You called me May.”

  “Oh. Well, I beg your pardon. Ill call you Miss Britt and you can call me Kato.” Oh, God. Green Hornet bits!

  She gave me the blank look of all time. “All I mean is that it’s spelled M-a-y but it’s pronounced ‘My’ not ‘May.’ My real name is Maybritt Wilkens. In Sweden Maybritt is a common name. I shortened it to May Britt, for films.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “That’s okay. I hope you don’t mind my telling you.”

  “No. Not at all. I’m glad you did. I really am …”

  We got hung up on it and started laughing. Her glass was empty again and I filled it. For a chick who doesn’t drink she was belting the hell out of my orange brandy.

  Rudy started the second movie. In the middle of it she excused herself. She came back, watched a little of the movie, and then left the room again. I began to get the picture.

  I have always hated women who drink and get sick, but she was no boozer, she’d just fallen for the taste of the orange brandy. She was obviously miserable but trying not to let on, like a kid who’d had too much to drink the first time—and instead of turning me against her it endeared her to me.

  I whispered, “I’ll take you home.” She smiled gratefully.

  I walked over to Arthur’s kid brother-in-law, Pepe. “Baby, do me a favor. I’m going to drive May home in her car. You follow us in mine and bring me back.”

  I drove May’s Thunderbird toward the beach. She sat next to me, silent except to give me directions. She guided me through Malibu Colony to a large estate on which she rented the guest house.

  We walked through a creaky wooden gate into a large garden. There wasn’t an electric light anywhere. We were surrounded by what seemed like a jungle of foliage. I looked up at the full moon and saw, against the sky, the silhouettes of gigantic trees, bent and leaning, like they’d been standing there for hundreds of years. There wasn’t a sound except our footsteps on the grass. It was exactly the spooky sort of a setting where you’d expect a mad scientist to jump out from behind the bushes and leer, “Come to the laboratory with me. I need your brain.”

  “The pool is a few feet to your left. Be careful.”

  I wanted to kiss her good night but I knew it couldn’t be like with other chicks with grabbing and squeezing and what-could-I-lose? Do I ask, “May I have a kiss?” like Andy Hardy? She stopped at her door. I held out my hand. “Thank you very much for coming tonight. I hope you feel better.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m going to Las Vegas the day after tomorrow … may I call you?”

  “I’d like that very much.” As she smiled she cocked her head in such a way that the moonlight shining on her face lit it so beautifully that I felt a weakness pass over me. She had freckles and her skin and hair looked more lovely than anything I’d ever seen or imagined. I felt a shimmering glow within me like nothing I’d ever experienced, as though by looking at her I’d become transfused with her warmth and serenity. The moment was something apart from all moments through all the years of my life. She lowered her eyes, turned and went inside.

  30

  The sign in front of The Sands was a classic, as marquees go, for nightclub shows:

  FRANK SINATRA

  DEAN MARTIN

  SAMMY DAVIS, JR.

  PETER LAWFORD

  JOEY BISHOP

  A few months before, when we’d made our plans to shoot Oceans 11 and play the hotel simultaneously, the newspapers had been filled with stories about Eisenhower, De Gaulle, and Khrushchev planning a Summit Conference, and Frank had joked, “We’ll have our own little Summit meeting.” One of the papers printed it, others picked it up, and it stuck.

  Within a week after our “Summit” was announced there wasn’t a room to be had in any hotel in town. People flew in from Chicago, Los Angeles, New York—from all over the country—weeks before we got there, to be sure their rooms weren’t sold out from under them. We’d been in Vegas for a week, and still plane, train, and busloads of people were pouring into town, arriving without hotel reservations, sleeping in lobbies, cars, anywhere, hoping to get rooms.

  All of Vegas was affected by it but The Sands was the hub and you could hardly push your way through the lobby and casino. Hundreds of people crowded the entrance to the Copa Room, fighting for tables with money, connections, or both.

  I was in the middle of a dance when Peter wandered onstage. I switched to a soft-shoe and motioned for him to join me. He fell in alongside me and grinned, “I’m not prejudiced, Sam. I’l
l dance with you.” I smiled cynically, “But will you go to school with me?” Frank and Dean came on wheeling a room-service table loaded down with booze. They poured drinks and Dean did a few minutes of staggering—the only cold-sober lush in show business. Suddenly Frank turned to the band. “Cut!” He beckoned to me. “You! Over here.”

  I played it with nervous looks at Peter and Dean who shrugged like: You’d better do as he says. I crossed the stage and stood in front of him, head hanging, meek.

  Frank folded his arms and looked at me like I was a worm. “Look at what Peter’s wearing. Look at what Dean and I are wearing.” They were all in dinner suits. “Now look at yourself.” I made a whole thing out of inspecting my blazer, silk ascot, and grey flannels. I smiled a thin, Stan Laurel smile. Frank snapped, “Where do you get off coming on this stage in that little toy suit? Just where do you think you are? On your yacht?” I hung my head, taking it, playing my role of “the Kid.” He glowered. “Now you go get yourself into a regular grown-up tuxedo like the rest of us. Go on. Get out of here. Get off this stage.”

  “Hold it!” I sneered, “What’re you, Esquire magazine? You don’t tell me what to do! Y’hear that, Mister Sinatra?” The audience egged me on: Yeah! Tell him Sam. Attababy! I poked him in the chest with my forefinger. “Nobody tells me what to do.” I crossed my arms arrogantly. “What’re you, some kind of a big deal? Not to me!” I strutted around the stage taking bows while the audience cheered. I stopped in front of Frank again, looked up at him, and flicked a piece of lint off his lapel. “I’ll change my suit when I’m plenty good and ready!”

  He spoke quietly. “When’ll that be?” He was smiling, beady-eyed.

  I did a sickly grin. “I’m ready, Frank.”

  After the shows we sat in the lounge while the crew set up cameras so we could begin shooting when daylight broke. Frank’s presence in the hotel created its own atmosphere. Everybody was having a better time, looking for laughs, kicks, almost as though they felt they had to live up to his reputation. The hotel kept eight security guards around him to prevent the crowds from turning into a mob scene. Almost anyone else would be at his wit’s end because of the money involved in the picture—his money—and all the details and aggravations plus the two shows a night. But he was doing jokes with me and the other guys, the same kind of bits we’d have done if he’d come down for a weekend just for laughs. I felt someone tapping me on the shoulder. A woman in her forties glanced timidly toward him. “Sammy, could you please get his autograph for me?”