by Davis, Sammy
I searched my pockets for a cigarette but I’d left them upstairs. A captain said, “I’ll send the girl right over, Mr. Davis.” She appeared instantly, opened them, offered one to me, and put the rest of the pack on the table…. She knows I’m a star and I haven’t got time to open my own cigarettes any more. Crazy! I handed her a ten. “Keep it, darling.” At once a match flared and a flaming lighter materialized from behind me: a waiter and a captain were competing for my cigarette.
A captain was standing near Mama, waiting for her order. When he came to me I handed him a ten. He was surprised. “Thank you, Mr. Davis.” I smiled. Don’t thank me, baby. You’re one of a thousand lousy things that drove me so hard that I’m sitting here now and you’re taking Mama’s order. “Are you sure I can’t bring you something? Maybe a little soup?”
“Bring him a steak!” The captain nodded and hurried away. Mr. Podell was beaming. “You’ve gotta keep up your strength, kid.” The quartet on the bandstand started playing “Birth of the Blues,” dedicating it to me. A woman came by. “Can I have your autograph, Sammy?” A waiter put a steak in front of me. I signed the menu she’d handed me. “Sammy, my children are going to get a big kick out of this. They’re big fans of yours.” “Thank you, ma’am. Give them my best, please.” I reached for my fork and knife but someone else was waiting. My father was winking at me, smiling. They were surrounding me, holding out papers and pens. Danny pushed his way through the crowd. “Hey, give him a break. He’s tired. He just did two shows. Let’m eat his meal.” “That’s okay, Danny. Thanks.” I reached for another pen.
At 3:30 I thought: If I got up and left now—that would be a class move.
As I walked toward the door, the band hit “Birth of the Blues” and everybody started applauding me. I turned, waved, and went through the door.
“Taxi, Mr. Davis?” The doorman whistled for a cab and rushed to open its door for me. I gave him a ten. He tipped his hat. “Good night, Mr. Davis.” And looking to see that my feet were safely inside, closed the door as though it were made entirely of glass.
As the cab pulled away I reached for a cigarette and was aware that for the first time all evening there was no one there trying to light it for me. I leaned back in the seat thinking about the standing ovation—the sight and the sound of it. I closed my eyes and concentrated, hoping I could feel like I was still in the middle of it all. I could remember the faces and the sound of the applause, but I couldn’t feel it any more.
As we approached the America, the only things moving were my cab and a cop walking slowly from door to door trying the locks. There was nobody in the lobby except the night man behind the desk. I looked into my box. Empty.
I opened the door to my room and turned on the light—took one step inside, turned off the light, stepped back into the hall, and closed the door.
Waiting for the elevator I tried to think of an excuse I could give for coming back to the Copa. I unstrapped my wristwatch and slipped it into my pocket. I rang for the elevator again. It’s a definite back-to-the-party-to-find-my-watch and I’ll let ‘em talk me into staying for a cup of coffee. Then I can bring Danny and some of the guys back here. I must have been out of my mind. These Star bits are great, but I’m not about to spend my opening night alone.
I caught a cab cruising up the street. “Baby, the Copacaboo. And I’ll double the fare if I make my plane. And don’t worry about the traffic lights, just stop when they’re red ‘cause the commissioner’s a pal of mine.”
The Copa was dark! The driver said, “I had a feeling they’d be closed. They gotta close at the dot of four. All the ginmills do.”
“Then, swing around the corner to Longchamps on Madison and 59th.”
“I’ll save you the trip. They don’t stay open late no more. I had a fare there just the other night.”
“Well—look, start driving over toward Times Square. I’ll let you know where to stop.” The cab headed downtown, past Lindy’s. Closed. “Boy, it’s like New York’s become a ghost town.”
He nodded. “Yeah, everybody goes to sleep early these days. I figure it’s the taxes. People have to work harder for a living….”
I got out at 42nd Street and walked west. I passed a movie that looked good but the box office was closed. There was an usher standing outside wearing a red uniform jacket with gold braid and epaulets, and wrinkled gray tweed pants.
“I thought these theaters stayed open all night.”
“Only ‘til four o’clock. Say, aren’t you Sammy Davis, Jr.?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what I thought.”
We stood there staring at each other for a minute. I walked a few blocks, stopped for a hamburger and walked back to the hotel.
Daylight was just beginning to show. I tried the television set but it was too early. I dropped my coat and tie on the bed and looked out the window. A garbage truck was coming down the street. I lit a cigarette and watched the men emptying trash cans into the back of it.
I covered my head with the pillow to block out the sound of the phone but then I made the mistake of listening to hear if it was still ringing.
“It’s one o’clock, Mr. Davis.”
“Mmmmmmmm … call me back in five minutes, will you?”
“Okay. Congratulations about last night. The papers say you were fabulous.”
I sat up. “Thanks. Will you send them up? All of them. And see if I can get some coffee and a sweet roll. But have him bring the papers first.”
After I’d read and absorbed every word of the reviews, I called Will’s room. “Massey? You see the papers, yet?”
“We couldn’t ask for anything more, could we?”
“They’re fantastic! Listen, I wanted to speak to you last night but it got a little wild. The light cues weren’t picked up on the split second and it hurt some of the laughs. I think the only way we’re going to get what we want is by having our own man.”
“Well, the truth is we could use a man to do that and to handle a lot of other things, too—transportation, props, setting up. I think I know just the man we oughta get. Big John Hopkins. The fella who used to be Nat Cole’s road manager. I’ll take care of it.”
I smiled, remembering the dates we’d played on the bill with Nat, how John always needled me for standing in the wings watching Nat work. It was always: “Bet you wish you could sing like him, huh?” and I’d say “John, one of these days I’ll be a star and you’ll be working for me.”
Will’s voice brought me back to the present. The all-business tone was gone. “Mose Gastin? How’s it feel being a star?”
As I hung up I shifted my eyes from the cardboard coffee cup to the waxed paper the Danish had come in, to the wooden spoon I’d used to stir my coffee, to the open closet half-filled with unexciting suits, empty wire hangers, a dozen or so ties lumped together on the single hook. To the right of the newspaper reviews a hole in the gray blanket had been mended with white thread, the wallpaper across the room had buckled, probably from the heat of the uncovered radiator. I was laughing out loud. I didn’t feel like a star, but I sure was going to.
I leafed through the classified directory to “Hotels.” Abruptly I was aware of being colored. I skimmed the list. The Warwick. They catered to a lot of show people, it was a first-class hotel, good location. I wrote the number on a piece of paper, “Circle 7-2700.”
I opened the window and waited for a gust of air to grope its way in. I sat down at the phone and stared at my hand on the receiver … there’s only one way to find out. I lifted the phone and gave the number to the operator.
“This is Sammy Davis, Jr. Do you have a suite available for me? For about four weeks.”
I went to Will’s room, told him I was moving to the Warwick, got a fistful of cash and hit the stores.
I glanced at the bolts of fabric along the wall of Cye Martin’s shop. He saw me and rushed from the back. “Sammy, that show you did last night—I never saw anything like it. I mean—what can I tell you?”
“Thanks. Look, baby, I’d like to see Rocco. I’ve got an idea I want to go over with him.”
Rocco was cutting the shoulder of a jacket. “Oh? You’re not going to stop when a star comes in? You won’t put down the scissors, right?”
He took one last snip and put it down. “Mr. Davis, how are you? What can I do for you?”
“I want you to make me some suits with three buttons down the front, a center vent …”
“But we’re making the two button Hollywood lounge suit with side vents. Nobody’s wearing the three button suits any more.”
“I don’t care about that. I’d like to have three button suits with center vents.”
When I’d chosen the fabrics I asked Cye, “How long does it take to make a suit?”
“I can have these for you in—three weeks.”
“No, what I want to know is, how long does the process take? I mean the actual cutting and sewing. How many hours?”
“Oh. Well, it takes maybe eight hours for a fitting to be ready, then after that there are corrections … figure another twenty hours to make the finished garment.”
“But in my case we don’t need a fitting ‘cause he’s got my pattern perfect from the last time, right? Fine. Then, today is Friday so that means I can have five suits by Wednesday, right?”
“Sammy! I couldn’t begin to do it in less than two weeks. The men go home after eight hours.”
“I’ll pay them to stay overtime.”
“Bubbula, be patient. Can’t you wait?”
“No. I’ve waited all my life. I’m through waiting.”
“Well, how about if I give you three on Wednesday?”
“Give me at least five on Wednesday and the rest by Saturday.”
“Okay.” He was mopping his brow. “It can’t be done but I’ll do it if I have to glue ‘em together.”
“Cye, you’re one of the great men of our time. Now don’t let me down, baby. Get them to me on Wednesday at the Warwick Hotel.”
I stood outside Sulka, sizing up the marble front and the elegant window displays. A distinguished looking man came out, a maroon box under his arm. I pushed the door open.
A salesman smiled warmly. “Mr. Davis! I’m one of your greatest admirers. What may I show you?”
“Everything.”
“Splendid.” I followed him to the tie department and he handed me a basket. “Just drop your selections in here.”
“Why thank you. Well, here we go gathering nuts in May …” I picked out a few ties. “I love the quality of these but I wish they weren’t quite so wide.”
“Why don’t you let me take you upstairs, show you our silks and make them to order for you. There’s no extra charge and that way you’ll have them exactly the length and width you’d like.” He smiled and led me to the elevator. “While we’re upstairs I’ll show you our robes and pajamas.”
“Excellent. Do you by any chance have pajamas that’re cut a little slim? I’d love to avoid the balloony pants.”
“We can easily make them to your specifications.”
“You mean with a fitting? For pajamas? Marvelous. And while we’re at it, let’s do something a little different. How about a nice double-breasted pajama, cut exactly like a suit, except no pockets in the pants….”
The clerk at Alfred Dunhill of London, Ltd., lifted the large silver lighter gently off the glass shelf. “We call it the ‘Standard Unique.’ It’s a fine lighter, sir.”
“I love it. I’ll take two of them, please. And may I see those cigarette boxes … and that pipe with the curved stem. Yes, that’s the one. A bit like Sherlock Holmes, isn’t it? I’ll take that. And will you show me that set over there, the one with a pipe for each day of the week. Charming idea. One can never grow tired of the same pipe that way. Can one? Now what tobacco would you recommend for me as a starter?”
Big John Hopkins was in the dressing room with Will and Nathan when I got there. “Mr. Davis,” he laughed, “I believe you’re the gentleman who called for a road manager. Now I’ve worked for some very fine acts like Nat ‘King’ Cole, Lionel Hamp …”
I wanted to play it cool but I couldn’t. “Well? Didn’t I say you’d be working for me some day?”
John roared like a laughing lion, picked me up like I was a glass of water and swung me around in the air. “You were right, Boss! And I’m glad I’m here to see it.” He put me down and shook his head. “What’s been happening to you! Good God Almighty! Did you see where Lee Mortimer called you a miracle?” He took a newspaper clipping from his pocket.
“John, you’re working for a very big star now. I mean—really, I couldn’t possibly begin to read everything that’s written about me.”
He laughed in my face. “Hell, you can’t con me with that bored jazz. You musta already read it. I knew you when your little bottom was hangin’ out and it ain’t been that long since then.”
When I came back between shows a vaguely familiar looking man, carrying a little black suitcase was waiting for me. “Sammy, my name is George Unger and I’m glad to meet you. I’ve been around show business all my life and I never saw a performer like you.” He opened the combination lock on the suitcase and began taking out platinum and gold watches, diamond rings, gold cigarette cases … “Whattya like, Sammy?”
Now I placed him. He sold jewelry to a lot of show people and I seemed to remember him in Frank’s dressing room at the Capitol. He kept pulling things out of the suitcase. I picked up a heavy gold money clip with a twenty-dollar gold piece mounted on it.
“Y’like that?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty crazy. How much is …”
“Put it in your pocket.”
“But how much?”
“What’re you worrying about? Put it in your pocket.” He moved around the room giving away gold chains and key rings to everyone there.
“Are you kidding with all this? Look, George, I appreciate the gesture, but I’d really rather pay.”
“Will you stop it, please? Now cut it out or you’ll embarrass me.
I put the money clip in my pocket. “Okay. It’s ridiculous but I’d never want to embarrass a nut who’s trying to give me a present.” I browsed through some of his things. “I’m in the market for a good watch.”
He showed me a Patek Philipe, then a platinum Vacheron-Constantin. “Here. Look at this one if you can stand it. It’s the thinnest watch in the world. Go to a jewelry store and price the same watch at $1150. It’s yours for nine hundred.”
“I’ll take it. Can I pay you at the end of the week?”
“No! You can’t pay me ‘til the end of the year. Maybe not even ‘til next year.”
“Now wait a minute, you’ve gotta be kidding.”
He threw his hands in the air. “What is it with you? I’m making statements of fact and you’re asking me am I kidding. Now be a good fellow. You like something? Take it! You got any presents you have to buy people? Take ‘em now. If you don’t see ‘em here, tell me what you want and I’ll bring ‘em around. I’ve got ‘em at the store. And stop annoying me about money.”
“George, you’re out of your mind but if that’s how you want to play, it’s okay with me. I dig this kind of a game. Listen, do you have a diamond ring … a stone about this big, set in platinum or white gold?”
He reached into the suitcase. “You mean something like this?”
I stood up and held it under the light of a table lamp, turning it slightly, watching the sparks flash from its facets, remembering the ritual that took place every time we’d gone to Bert Jonas’ office, hearing my father’s words echoing back through the years: “One of these days I’m gonna have me one just like that, Bert….”
Unger was saying, “Try it on.”
I swirled my bathrobe like a cape, and flourished Will’s gold-headed cane like a sword at Unger. I held the ring high. “So, Richelieu … you believed your traitorous intrigue, your treacherous theft of the Queen’s eleventh diamond stud would prevent her atten
dance at His Majesty’s celebration? You hoped to cause a royal rift, eh? But, foul fool, you are foiled again for I shall return the missing diamond to Her Majesty and within moments she will make her appearance at the Royal Ball for all of France to see. Your villainy has failed. Once again power has slipped through your fingers and I give you your life only because it will amuse Her Majesty to witness you choking to death on your own traitorous laughter.”
“Richelieu?” Unger was gaping at me. “What Richelieu? I’m a happy Hungarian trying to make a living. Will you try on the ring, please?”
I sat down on the couch. “No, baby. It’s for somebody else. Be sure to put it in a nice box, will you?”
“Sure.”
“Hey, listen. One more thing. Have you got a solid gold pen? With a heavy point? Something I could use for signing autographs?”
Standing at a window in my suite at the Warwick, looking out over the city, I felt as though I were in a scene from a John Garfield movie.
I opened the ribbon on the Dunhill box. The lighters were in flannel bags. I set one on the coffee table and put the other in the bedroom on my night table. I distributed the cigarette boxes, set the pipes up in the bedroom, and started on the Sulka boxes.
Wearing a pair of maroon silk pajamas with white piping, the matching robe and black velvet slippers, I sat down at the phone and lit my Saturday pipe, waiting for Room Service to answer. “Good morning. This is Sammy Davis, Jr. I’d like to order some breakfast….”
Morty Stevens called me late in the afternoon.
“Baby, I hope you’ve got something very important to say. You interrupted me right in the middle of putting away my gold garters. Now if you have any class at all you’ll get off the phone and be over here in fifteen minutes.”
He walked in and blinked at the sight of me.
“Just a little something Sulka whipped up for me.” I took him on a tour of my closet and dresser drawers.
