by John Ridley
He did that, body shaking a little as he piloted me with quick steps past the what-the-hell stares of those still in line, and through the door. He went on with: “I'm so sorry. I didn't … I had no idea—”
“Don't sweat it, Charlie. We all make mistakes. You just keep up the hustle, you might still get a tip out of this.”
The kid got me inside and over to another guy, older and black-tied, who was only slightly less nervous about things. He introduced himself as “Herman Hover. Forgive the confusion, Jackie. If you had just told Max here you were Mr. Sinatra's guest…”
I said, telling the truth but selling it big: “I don't like to drop names.”
Herman was a pleasant-looking fellow, round-faced and plenty of meat to his features. Between his thin eyebrows and thick hairline was a billboard of a forehead. The tux he wore was cut nicely but didn't seem to fit him, like he would be more at home in Bermuda shorts and an open shirt flipping burgers at a backyard grill. He looked, basically, not like the kind of guy who would own the hottest club on Sunset.
Stepping aside, Herman swept a hand and welcomed me into his joint.
What a joint.
Saying it was plush was selling it short. Saying it was grand was an understatement. Silk tablecloths, the menus in French, and the captains all in black ties. Even the bar, satin seats and top-shelf gas, was stricdy a boozer's heaven. The whole of it made the Copa in New York look like someone had set up a card table and folding chairs in their basement.
And the final touch: the girls. The Ciro's Girls. The hatcheck girls with their Ava Gardner dos, the cigarette girls whose skirts rode thigh-high over fishnets. They were, same as the sign next to the marquee promised “the most beautiful girls in the world,” and by themselves just about worth the cover.
If you paid a cover.
When you knew cats like Frank Sinatra, all you got was a warm hand and shown in gratis.
The house was decent in size. The main room sat about five hundred, and another one fifty could fit in a banquet room that overlooked the stage. That night you'd have thought six times as many were packed, shoved, and jammed into every hole in the place. All of them, it seemed, stars. Rock Hudson, Anita Ekberg, Bob Mitchum, Kirk Douglas and his Mrs., Jimmy Stewart and his Mrs., Liliah Davi and a whole string of cats wanting to be her man. They flocked to her as if her sexuality had its own inescapable gravity. The whole of it was like a Mount Olympus reunion. Wall-to-wall gods. And they all just sat and talked and laughed and drank with no regard to the lookie-lous at the edge of the room—the regular people, the off-the-street Charlies who were somehow grace-of-God lucky enough to get tickets to the show—pointing and whispering at Hollywood in all its grandeur.
Herman walked me for a table. I figured, with that kind of crowd, a colored cat like me'd be lucky to get seated somewhere near my room at the Colonial. Except, we kept heading deeper into the room, deeper, until we were past front and center to just about ringside. There was a small table, and on it a little sign: RESERVED. Herman lifted the sign while the kid, Max, pulled out the chair.
Herman said: “In the future, Mr. Mann—not that I'm complaining—but for everyone's convenience … if you could just let us know when you'll be attending … We've held this table every night and—again, not to complain—but we certainly could have used the space”
“Next time? I'm not sure if any of this is happening this time.”
I don't know if Herman got that or not, but he laughed it up as if he did. Max joined in, not to be left out.
Herman, followed by Max, did some if-there's-anything-you-need bits, then took off and were quick-style replaced by a riot of waiters, one to take a place setting, one to turn over the water glass; another filled it while another napkined my lap. The leader of the pack—dark-haired, dark-skinned, Mexican, I think—suggested a few late-night finger-things to enjoy with the show and I yessed them and he went away with his jacketed buddies.
I was alone.
In the middle of some eight hundred smiling, finger-waggling “luhv you, dahling” stars, I was some nobody Negro seated middle of the floor at a table for one. I couldn't've been more obvious if my hair was on fire. Right about then I got to wishing I was back in a restricted club shunted off to the side. That's not what I deserved, but no matter how much I faked things, compared to these folks, that's where I belonged.
A tap on my shoulder. I turned. It took everything I had to keep from blurting out “Chuck Heston!” and act like it was normal as sunshine at noon to have stars tapping me for attention.
He said: “Good to see you.”
“… Good to see you.”
“What's going on?”
“In town. Doing some sets at Slapsie Maxie's.”
“No kidding?”
“No.”
“I get some time off from my picture, I'll have to come down and see the show.”
“I'll leave your name at the door.”
He caught someone out of the corner of his eye, was already smiling at them as he said to me: “Good to see you.”
“Good to see … ” I let myself trail off. He'd already moved on.
I was certain for a fact Heston didn't know me from Moses. But he knew Herman Hover had personally walked me down and sat me stageside at a sold-out Sammy Davis, Jr. show. No, he didn't know me, but he liked me for the people I knew. That's all that mattered to him.
If not before, at that moment I was very much in love with Hollywood.
Pretty soon the lights went down. There would be no warm-up act. The audience who came to see this show came in hot, wet, and ready. An announcer started in with an introduction:
“Ladies and gentlemen, Ciro's nightclub is proud to welcome to its stage the—”
After that the bodiless voice got buried under claps and whistles. Sammy Davis, Sr. and Will Mastin hit the stage and hit it hard Bojangles-style in their old flash-dance mode tap-stepping for all they were worth. They kept it up for a minute, a minute being all the more the crowd really wanted to see of them, then took a couple of steps back.
The announcer gave things another shot: “Featuring Sammy—” And one more time he got stubbed out, this time worse than before. Stars, the biggest stars in Hollywood, were on their feet clapping, screaming like goofed-up teenage girls as Sammy Davis, Jr. strolled out onstage. Strolled as if he had all the time in the ever-loving world. Strolled as if he were saying: “I don't care who you are, I don't care how big you think you are. My show, my rules.” The crowd might have been full of showbiz glamour, but they were worshipers in Sammy's church.
“Black Magic” was his opening number. More applause as he started it, then people settled in to enjoy. Without pause Sammy ran through a few songs, a few dances. All the while his pop and Will Mastin just stood onstage motionless. A couple of cigar-store Indi ans. How desperate are you to be in show business that being scenery is okay with you?
Sammy wrapped up a set of numbers, sopped up applause, then slowed the show down a bit.
He stepped to the edge of the stage, said: “Thank you. Thank you so very, very much. On behalf of my father and Will Mastin, let me say what a distinct pleasure it is to once again have the opportunity to perform both here at the magnificent Ciro's nightclub, and for you splendid people.”
So well spoken. That was the thing about Sammy. He'd come out doing a show that was part vaudeville, part minstrel, and all black lightning, then hit you with some talk that sounded as if he'd just a couple of hours earlier been knighted by the Queen of England.
“If you would be so kind as to indulge me for just a moment; while there are so many dear, dear friends in the audience tonight, there are a few whom I would be sorely remiss in not acknowledging their presence. May I introduce you to a man who is more than just a talented actor, more than just a friend. He is a man I consider to be my brother, Mr. Jeff Chandler.”
Applause. The swing of a spotlight. At a table, a guy with features whacked out of stone and a thick wave of black/gra
y hair half stood from his chair, and just as halfheartedly did a little wave that was full up with humility: Aw, shucks, don't bother. I'm just an average big-time Hollywood star same as the rest of you. He threw part of that wave to Sammy, then sat down with himself.
“If there ever was the Hollywood couple, then these two kids are it. My dear, dear friends—”
Were any of his friend not dear, dear?
“Mr. Tony Curtis, and the ever so lovely, ever so talented Janet Leigh.”
Tony was on his feet, playing not to the rest of his screen buddies, but to the handful of off-the-streeters who were whooping it up, drunk on the disbelief they were this close to showbiz royalty. Janet finally got to her feet doing a “what, for me?” bit, as if she were just then being informed of her celebrity status.
Sammy let the clapping die down, let the room get real quiet. “As you know, one of my most dear friends in this crazy business of show, the man who, if not for him, I would most certainly not be standing here tonight—Mr. Francis Albert Sinatra …”
I looked. Everybody looked. The group murmur: “Sinatra? Here?”
Before the murmur got out of control, Sammy cut it off with: “So, you know any friend of my man Frank's is a Charlie of mine.”
My heart got a little speed to it.
“He's in town playing at Slapsie Maxie's …”
He was talking about me. He couldn't have been. But…
“And if you haven't caught his act yet, might I humbly suggest you do so before you're the last person on the planet who hasn't, because this young cat is a definite sensation. He is going places, and I mean that, babe. Ladies and gentlemen …”
Jesus … Holy … He was talking about—
“Mr. Jackie Mann!”
Next thing I know there's light washing out my eyes and the thunder of twelve hundred clapping hands in my ears. Clapping hands. Some whistles. For me.
And I just sat there. All the shows I'd done, all the minutes into hours I'd put in onstage, and the best performance I could come up with was to sit there wide-eyed and starstruck no different than some straight-from-Iowa kid?
No. Oh, no. Half my life I'd been working over one fantasy or another about a moment like this. If it never came again, I wasn't going to let it pass me by now. So, I did a Jeff Chandler—a little stand, a little wave, sending some of it Sammy's way, along with a look and a smile and a mock-scold wag of the finger that said: You know better than to make a big deal out of me, Sammy.
I sat back down, thought, over the fading applause, I heard Charlton Heston say: “Yeah, Maxie's. Kid puts on a heck of a show.”
Chuck. The big phony.
Sammy got back to his act, got back to singing and dancing and impressions and instrument playing, and, and, and …
I couldn't pay attention to any of it, ruined for watching, too caught up in the brief moment when, like him, and thanks to him, I was a star. Rifting on that, trying to hold the receding past tight in my mind, I missed the next two hours of show. It was only Sammy's finale of “Birth of the Blues,” so knock-your-socks-off, that was able to yank me clean of visions of my elevated self.
To a standing O and dripping with sweat from laying down a wall-to-wall performance, Sammy waved good night. The other duo of the trio exited, sweaty from having the nerve to stand onstage while Sammy did all the heavy lifting.
The houselights came up, and with them another buzz about Sammy and wasn't Sammy sensational and how there's nobody more sensational than Sammy.
On his way out Jeff Chandler threw me a wave, asked: “See you at King's?”
As though I had so many other things stacked up on my social calendar, I gave a thoughtful frown and a bit of nod that didn't commit one way or the other. “Probably see you there,” I said, not knowing where or what there was.
I tried to flag a waiter, pay my bill.
The Mexican guy came by, said: “Everything is taken care of, Mr. Mann,” and said it animated, like the biggest disaster of the night would be me trying to offer my own money for something.
I asked him about King's.
“Oh, yes, sir. Will you be going?”
“… What is it?”
“King's Restaurant. Open all night.” He looked over the exiting crowd. “And when you're a hardworking movie idol, you can't possibly go to bed before the sun comes up.” That got salted with a little spite.
“Nice joint?”
“Sure, amigo. I go there all the time. Right after I finish a round of golf with Ike. I can't say die place is friendly to my people. Don't know how they feel about yours.”
Maybe it was the hour, maybe it was a night of pinballing from table to table being a hey-boy for every famous face in town, but the waiter was feeling himself.
He said: “You should go.”
“You just said—”
“Mr. Davis'll be there. They won't shoot you any trouble with him around. And it'll be good for us.”
I didn't get that “us.”
He explained: “Hell, they're not going to let the Mexicans in until they get used to the coloreds. If you go tonight, I figure one day, if it's still around, my grandkids might be able to eat at the joint.”
CRESCENT HEIGHTS AND SANTA MONICA. King's Restaurant. I handed my car over to a valet and went for the door. I got looks but no trouble about it. Like Ciro's, King's glowed with a stellar shine. Celebrities hanging around smiling, idle-talking. Doing nothing but being famous with each other.
There was a crush of people to one side of the room. If you eye-balled them hard enough, you could make out, barely, Sammy Davis in the center of the swarm. I thought of going over, trying to say hello, but figured it would take at least half an hour to get close to him, and when I did I'd just come off as some gushing fan.
There were some open tables, but I didn't much feel like spending any more time at a table for one. There were groups that had open seats, but no one in particular seemed eager to have me join them. No one much looked my way. They buzzed from table to table pollinating each other with kisses to the cheek. They would flash smiles at each other, chat, but all the while their eyes kept rolling over the room, looking for the next—the next star or producer or personality who was loftier than the star or producer or personality they were currently smiling at. And when they found them, off they'd buzz again.
No one buzzed in my direction.
The goal was to move up the ladder, not down. A nod from Sammy or no, I was still just a club comic. A black club comic. I stood there with all those people, those people I wanted so much to be one with, but my existence didn't add up to anything more than, or more significant than, room dressing—a chair or table, a piece of furniture to be stepped around. The reality of my non-stature—the cut of it coming so close after being clapped for and whistled at by the same bunch who, now, didn't ignore me, they couldn't even see me—set loose a dull sickness in my body. A sharp sadness.
I started to go, and I wasn't slow about it. I couldn't be away from the joint quick enough.
Somebody said my name. Had to say my full name twice before it sunk in that anybody in the restaurant could be—would be—talking to me.
“Jackie Mann?” A clean-shaven fellow, suited, was moving for me with a hand out. If he was famous, he wasn't famous to me. He didn't act all celeb. His manner more shrewdish than starry. “Jackie Mann? Chet Rosen, William Morris. Caught your act down at Maxie's.”
Sure you have, I thought. Probably shared a table with ol' Charlie Heston. But then he went on to compliment me on a couple of my bits, quote them.
He had seen my act.
He said: “You had a hot set. Just the way Sammy said, sensational. You've got real personality onstage.”
“… Thank you.” My sickness was drying up.
“Who are you with?”
“I came by myself.”
A smile. “Your agent, I mean.”
“Sid Kindler.”
Chet gave a little shake of his head. “What agency is
he with?”
“He's on his own.”
From his pocket, from a metal holder gold in color, Chet produced a business card. His name, the William Morris name, letters raised, were the same gold color as the case they'd come from.
As he handed the card over: “When it stops working out, give me a call. Good to have met you, Jackie.”
Two pats to the shoulder, and he was done with me.
Nutty.
It was very nutty: “When it stops working out…”
Other than that, slightly reinvigorated by the encounter, I aborted my exit and stood at the bar some. At one point Janet Leigh came 'round and introduced herself, said she hadn't caught my act yet but hoped to.
Nice lady. It was all I could do to keep my eyes from straying below her neck.
I thanked her and told her if she ever came down to Maxie's, I'd make sure she was taken care of. As if she had to worry about that.
Miss Leigh returned to her table without offering any kind of invitation.
Eventually it got to be past three-thirty in the morning. Everyone was still having a smiling, cheek-kissing good time.
I wasn't.
I went back to the hotel.
Doary was there working late, or early, as it was very much the morning. She asked me where I'd been all night and I painted her a picture of me getting sat stageside at Ciro's, getting applauded by Hollywood royalty, of me hanging and swinging till just about dawn with all the stars in the sky—painted the picture with broader strokes and brighter colors than the slightly dull palate of reality.
Doary glowed and smiled, maybe the only real one in the whole of Los Angeles, and gave me congratulations. She asked me what it was like doing shows, being up onstage in front of all those people.
I performed my standard line: “It's nothing, doll. When you're a star, when the business of show is your life, doing bits in front of a crowd is nothing at all.”
Telling me she would be done with her cleaning shortly, Doary said she'd love to hear more about my night.
I told her I was tired, some other time, then went up to bed.
I SHOULD HAVE STAYED IN LOS ANGELES, soaked up the sunlight and the starshine. Should have gone back to New York, worked some clubs, made some money. I should have, because if I had done either of those, if I had done anything other than go to San Francisco, I would have stayed ignorant. Ignorance has a way of making life so much simpler. You never feel stupid for the things you don't know, or hurt for lack of an education in finding out how wrong you've always been.
