Sammy Davis Jr(16)

“Heck, I’ve only had two so far! Loray [White, from 1958 to 1959, a “proper” marriage to a black woman that diffused Dad’s scandalous relationship with blonde superstar Kim Novak]—my dancer chic mistake, and [from 1960 to 1968] your blessed mother, May [Britt].” Dad grinned.

“And Altovise Gore. Oh, I’m sorry, Altovise Davis . . . when are you going to divorce that one?” I said.

“You are fierce, Trace Face. Divorce? And let her take half? Hell no. It’s easier just to lock her out of the master wing of the house. Forget cancer, I’m more afraid of Altovise. If she got high enough, she could fall on me and kill me!” Pop laughed.

“I can see the headlines: Sammy Davis, Jr., crushed to death by drunken wife!” I said.

“That’s the New York Times version. The New York Post would say, Entertainment’s only black, Puerto Rican, one-eyed Jew crushed to death by drunken wife.”

“Pop, Altovise only wants you because you made it,” I told him.

“Made it? Me? I made it?” Dad chuckled.

“Seriously, Pop,” I said.

“I did make it, didn’t I? I’ll never forget that time—the time I really knew in my heart that I had made it. It was November 1954. We headlined at the Frontier Casino in Las Vegas. What made it taste so sweet was the contract. The Trio pulled in $7,500 a week, but more importantly, our contract allowed us ‘colored folks’ to stay in the Frontier’s best suites and have free run of the facilities—the casino, the restaurant, even the pool! All lodging, food, and drinks were free of charge. Beautiful!” Pop explained, hand over his trachea tube.

“Done with Ms. Cartwright and her colored boarding house across town, huh, Pop?” I asked.

“Done. Still mountains to climb, but we were making quantum leaps on both sides of the color spectrum. We were not a colored act or a white act, we were just an act. Huge crowds opened up for us as we walked through the front door, not the back door, mind you, of the Frontier. The sweet taste of freedom felt like stardom to us.” Dad smiled with nostalgia in his eyes.

“It was a landmark achievement, Pop,” I replied.

“Yes, it was. Doors were swinging open for us. Until I made that late night trip to Los Angeles . . .” Pop’s smile turned on me.

“The car crash. Your eye,” I said softly.

“You know the story, Tracey, and I am in no mood to repeat it!” When Pop said “Tracey” as opposed to Trace Face or Trace, I knew it was firm and serious.

“Where’s that Glory film Denzel gave you?” I said, trying to move on.

“Ask Shirley,” Pop said.

I went out to the outer chamber to retrieve Glory from Shirley. I brought it back and slipped it into the VCR. It was about time my dad rested his strained voice, anyway. I propped the pillow behind Pop’s back and sat down on the bedside next to him. He grabbed my hand as the film started to roll.

I could not focus on Glory. My mind was on the car crash that took my father’s eye the moment he got to revel in the adulation he strove so hard to win.

The car accident happened on November 19, 1954. Fans roared as my father exited the Frontier stage. “Make room for Sammy, Swinging Show, Sammy”—voices echoed in the halls as he headed up to his suite to pack a few items for Los Angeles. He called his driver, Charley, and told him, “No party tonight, we have to drive to Los Angeles.” After showering, he put on a pair of Levi’s and a sweater, packed casual items for his trip, and called room service for a burger.

What knocked on his door a short while later was not room service at all, but a chorus girl who motioned him straight into the bedroom. He went with the flow, but would have preferred the burger, he later said.

Charley was waiting in the car as my father climbed in the backseat. It was late. Pop watched the neon lights flash his name on the Frontier marquee as they drove off. The taste was sweet. Looking back at the marquee he knew a new era had opened up for him: success.



Dad’s pictured here wearing the mezuzah given to him by Eddie Cantor—it was Pop’s “good luck charm.”

Dad once told me when we were sitting out on his patio that “Hey There” was playing on the radio the night of the car accident. Dad said he was listening to himself on the radio thinking it can’t get better than this. There he was, headlining at the Frontier, listening to his own #1 single on the radio. Dare he dream for more?



Dad on his TV show in 1966, embodying his nickname—“Mr. Entertainment.”


He told his driver, “Keep it under fifty, Charley. Let’s break this car in so smooth that she’ll sing ballads,” Pop said, unaware that a star was born and would nearly die the same night.