Deconstructing Sammy: Music, Money, and Madness

Music, Money, Madness, and the Mob

Deconstructing Sammy

Matt Birkbeck

For Donna,

Matthew, and Christopher

Contents

Prologue

It was near dawn when the pinging sound of a…

Chapter 1

Hundreds of people, many dressed in colorful clothing, slowly filled…

Chapter 2

The early spring sun cast an unusually warm embrace on…

Chapter 3

Tracey Davis was the only daughter of Sammy Davis Jr.,…

Chapter 4

When Sammy Davis Jr. was only eight years old, he…

Chapter 5

The flight from New York to Los Angeles was uneventful,…

Chapter 6

The diagnosis from Dr. William Van Meter was far worse…

Chapter 7

The Judge and Mama were busy, as usual, preparing for…

Chapter 8

IRS transcripts and other financial documents littered a large conference…

Chapter 9

On March 27, 1995, nearly a year after accepting Altovise…

Chapter 10

As spring turned to summer, the Pocono vacation season was…

Chapter 11

In October 1995, Altovise was ready for life outside Alina…

Photographic Insert

Chapter 12

In March 1996 the IRS finally delivered its answer to…

Chapter 13

The group of youngsters sat six wide and five deep

Chapter 14

Media from around the world carried the news: The estate…

Chapter 15

Nearly two dozen boxes arrived at the Hillside in October…

Chapter 16

In January 1960, Frank Sinatra dubbed his gathering at the…

Chapter 17

In the years following Sammy’s death, his estate received only…

Chapter 18

The Rhino Records contract was finally signed on August 28,…

Chapter 19

The voice on Brian Dellow’s answering machine was Sonny’s, and…

Chapter 20

Sy Marsh strode briskly up the Avenue of the Stars…

Chapter 21

Army Archerd’s Variety column on March 5, 1999, led off…

Chapter 22

Sonny placed the last file into the last box, covered…

The Aftermath

Acknowledgments

Sources

Searchable Terms

About the Author

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

MAY 1990

It was near dawn when the pinging sound of a tiny bell resonated throughout the expansive bedroom, filtering down two short staircases to a small office, where Brian Dellow sat watching television.

The bell startled Brian, who was dozing following another all-night vigil. He jumped out of his chair and rushed up the stairs to the bedside of Sammy Davis Jr.

Racked with excruciating pain and pumped full of morphine, the great entertainer was mercifully near the end of a grueling nine-month battle with throat cancer. Months of chemotherapy and radiation treatment proved futile, and after a final stay at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles, Sammy returned to his Beverly Hills home to die. A recent tracheotomy stilled his voice, and his neck was visibly red and bloated from the hideous, festering tumor. Also stricken with pneumonia, Sammy remained mostly unconscious, but during brief moments of clarity, he’d ring his little bell.

For Brian, who was Sammy’s chief bodyguard and, more important, his close friend, the ringing bell often meant Sammy’s legs were on fire. Or so Sammy thought. It was the cancer, which spread throughout his body, and Brian gently rubbed coconut oil on legs that were now shriveled flesh on top of bone. The disease reduced Sammy, already small in stature, to a mere sixty pounds and left him nearly unrecognizable. Close friends gasped upon first sight of him during teary-eyed visits.

Outside, reporters maintained a twenty-four-hour death vigil by the front gate of 1151 Summit Drive, television cameras at the ready once word filtered that Sammy had finally succumbed. On this final morning, with daylight approaching and the end near, Brian stood next to Sammy while a nurse watched from the foot of the bed.

You need something, boss? said Brian.

The great entertainer was in cardiac arrest, and he weakly raised his arm and pointed his thumb downward, toward his chest, while slowly shaking his head from side to side.

Brian knew what he was trying to say.

No boss, you can’t go, we’ve got to pack. We have a gig to play, said Brian.

Sammy smiled, reached out, and held Brian’s hand tightly. He closed his eyes and took his final breaths.

At 5:59 A.M., Sammy Davis Jr. was gone.

His wife, Altovise, was awakened and brought to her husband’s side, the ever-present scent of alcohol trailing behind. She held Sammy’s hand, a million memories flashing all too quickly, moments in time that seemed so far away over a twenty-year marriage—the visits to the Nixon White House, the goodwill trip to Vietnam, the hundreds of shows in London, New York, Las Vegas, and all points in between, and of course, the never-ending parties. From private dinners with the Sinatras to the Party of the Century in 1980—a $100,000 royal feast the Davises hosted here, at their twenty-two-room home, attended by every political, sports, and entertainment star in Hollywood and beyond. But those were the good times, and now, it was all over.

During the months prior to Sammy’s death, his employees looted his home of memorabilia, jewelry, and artwork while Altovise quietly squirreled away money, property, and possessions. She sent FedEx packages filled with cash, jewelry, and other valuables to friends and family throughout the country and overseas, placed thirteen fur coats in a local storage shop, and hid her Rolls-Royce in Las Vegas.

After kissing her dead husband on the cheek, Altovise quickly removed the remaining jewelry from his body.

Before Sammy was buried, she took his glass eye.

CHAPTER 1

OCTOBER 2005

Hundreds of people, many dressed in colorful clothing, slowly filled the vast auditorium at East Stroudsburg University to pay their last respects to Albert R. Murray Sr.

Affectionately known as the Judge, he died the week before, following a short illness, and after a private burial, his friends, family, and admirers came to East Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, not only to say good-bye, but to celebrate an extraordinary life.

The Judge and his wife, Odetta, were the founders and owners of the Hillside Inn in nearby Marshall’s Creek. For fifty years, the Hillside catered to a predominantly African-American clientele, carving out an existence on a plot of land in northeastern Pennsylvania as a safe and quiet refuge for African-Americans routinely denied accommodations, especially during the tense racial times of the 1950s and 1960s. The Judge and Odetta personally felt that sting, and when Odetta vowed during a business trip to the Poconos in 1954 never to sleep in a car by the side of a road again, the Hillside was born. Odetta, whom everyone called Mama, died in 2002, and now, with the Judge gone, their only child, Albert Jr., was heir to their legacy.

Known by all as Sonny, he stood in front of the auditorium, dwarfed by a giant image of the Judge projected onto a big screen that hung over the stage. Sonny smiled as he shook hands and gave warm hugs to friends and family members, some of whom traveled from as far as Georgia. Welcoming his guests, he proudly pointed to a framed letter from Pennsylvania governor Edward Rendell. It was a congratulatory letter written the year before, addressed to Judge Murray, recognizing him not only for his great service to the Commonwealth, but for providing a model hospitality facility in the Pocono Mountains and his courageous vision in a time of considerable discrimination.

I have no doubt, wrote Rendell, that the importance of the Hillside Inn Resort Hotel—and its founders—will continue to be felt for lifetimes to come.

Distant aunts and cousins cried after reading the letter, and all offered stern admonishments to Sonny to keep the legacy alive. At fifty-six, with specks of gray hair the only signs of age on a solid, stout body, he nodded his head, placating the well-wishers. Sonny knew the Hillside was a legacy he didn’t want. An attorney by trade, Sonny had taken over the daily operation of the Hillside a year before Mama died, which prompted heated arguments with the Judge over its future. The Judge firmly believed the Hillside, a thirty-three-room resort, should remain as it always was through the decades—a last bastion of black pride, a place to rest and to heal the soul. But Sonny thought that time had come and passed. This wasn’t the 1950s, he reasoned, and blacks now were accepted everywhere, from large destinations like Disney World to small bed-and-breakfast hotels in Vermont. The Hillside, he argued, was an anachronism that would not, and could not, survive.

He had seen too many times the reaction from a white couple or family who unknowingly booked a stay at the black resort only to leave quickly after arriving. Sonny also knew the strong feelings of the black guests, who didn’t want to share their home with whites. But Sonny believed that for the Hillside to survive he needed to broaden its clientele, and after taking over the day-to-day operation in 2001 he gave the resort a facelift. He purchased new beds, hired painters, and conceived a marketing plan that touted the Hillside as a multicultural home for jazz and a place of respite for all races and ethnicities.

The Judge was irate.

The grandson of slaves, the Judge was a man of purpose and steadfast resolve. As a child growing up near Augusta, Georgia, he picked cotton and rode his bike ten miles a day, each way, to attend a better high school. He later joined the army, married Mama, and served in England during World War II. After the war, they followed the postwar migration north and settled in Brooklyn, where Mama worked as a nurse while studying for a master’s degree in elementary education. The Judge earned his law degree at Brooklyn College and became partners with Abe Kaufman, a Jewish accountant. Together, the unlikely pair began buying up homes and properties in Brooklyn and selling to black buyers who, like the Murrays, left the South to find better homes and jobs. The racial makeup of Brooklyn slowly changed as the steadily rising black population served as the impetus for the white flight to the suburbs of Long Island and New Jersey.

Sonny was born in 1949. When he was one, his parents, working to complete their educations, sent him to live with relatives in Georgia, where he later learned to roll tobacco, pick cotton, and slaughter cows. He also experienced racial prejudice, particularly when he unknowingly attempted to drink from a whites only water fountain in Augusta.

Hey, nigger. You don’t drink from there, ever. That’s for white people only. You use that one over there. And don’t forget that.

Even at a tender age, Sonny never forgot those hurtful words, or the confusion he felt trying to understand why he couldn’t share a fountain with anyone else. It was, after all, just water. But Sonny learned the ways of the South before eventually returning to New York. Mama had a nickname ready for him—Sammy—after her beloved father, Sam Sanders, and she’d whisper How’s my little Sammy into her son’s ear while cradling him in her arms.

Mama and the Judge bought the worn-down Hillside Inn in 1954, following a visit to the Poconos. What was a business trip for the young, hardworking couple turned into an unsuccessful quest to find a room, any room. But no hotel or resort would accept them, and they slept in their car. Upon their return to Brooklyn, Mama vowed to open a hotel accepting of minorities, and the Hillside was born. It had only two floors, two bathrooms, and eight rooms, and needed a fresh coat of paint, but together with Kaufman, the Murrays bought what had been a boardinghouse and commuted the seventy-five miles from their home in Brooklyn to oversee what they hoped would be a vacation retreat for blacks. When Kaufman died in 1955, the Murrays gained full ownership. But they were treated poorly and forced to endure numerous indignities from a rural Pennsylvania community that expressed its unhappiness with their new black neighbors in a variety of ways, from suppliers refusing to deliver goods and supplies to local banks declining to even consider business loans.

Local residents and the business community remained hostile to the black intrusion, yet the Murrays quietly persevered. The Judge, through the force of his will, kept the struggling Hillside alive by bringing in daily food and supplies from Brooklyn. The Judge always viewed racism as an obstacle he’d overcome, no matter what the cost, and anything other than remaining stoic was not an option.

The Judge and Mama struggled to keep the Hillside alive those first few years, but back in New York the Judge’s strong will, legal abilities, and growing political connections earned him an appointment in 1966 to serve on the criminal court bench in Brooklyn. The Judge was an astute politician, and he aligned himself with Bertram Baker, the first black to be elected as a state assemblyman from Brooklyn in 1948. By 1966 Baker had become a powerful figure in New York politics, and when a judgeship opened, Baker lobbied then New York mayor Robert Wagner to nominate Albert R. Murray Sr. to serve as the first black criminal court judge in Brooklyn. It was a tremendous achievement for the Judge, one he accomplished by following a simple credo: Don’t buck the system, be a part of it.

The Judge quickly earned a reputation as fair but tough and no-nonsense, particularly with minorities, whom he would lecture from the bench. Some thought the Judge was harder on blacks than he was on whites, but the Judge thought he was simply doing his part to instill strength into people who exhibited little. Mayor John Lindsay reappointed the Judge to another term, and his legal skills earned him a special appointment to serve as a judge with the New York State criminal court.

Despite his great success in New York, the Judge privately grew angry and bitter about his situation in Pennsylvania. He saw himself simply as a man working to succeed in America, yet he was also acutely aware that his skin color meant that his success would depend entirely on his ability to control his comments and actions, particularly in his new environment.

While remaining in Brooklyn during the week, he joined Mama at the Hillside on weekends and, from instances when his tall frame and deep voice were subtly ignored at local township and community meetings, to overt racist comments from people unaware of his position and social standing, the Judge quietly endured his Pennsylvania neighbors. Mama soothed his growing anger, always reminding the Judge to be calm, remember what we worked for… But the daily indignities and slurs took their toll and the Judge seethed, releasing his anger in sudden, loud but private outbursts. Sonny never understood his father’s rage or violent behavior, and by the time he left home to attend college in the late 1960s, his relationship with the Judge had grown distant.

Sonny returned to Pennsylvania after graduating from Syracuse University and Brooklyn Law School. With the Judge away during the week, Sonny opened his own law practice in nearby Stroudsburg and helped Mama with the hotel, washing dishes, bartending, and performing regular maintenance. He was her Sammy, and mother and son remained close, her nurturing and warm Southern demeanor a welcome respite from the difficult relationship Sonny had with his demanding father. The older Murray and his namesake never saw eye to eye, and they argued over everything, even something as noncontroversial as golf. The Judge believed golf was a business opportunity masked as a game, and he pushed his son to play. Sonny saw it as yet another avenue for the Judge to inflict his will on his son, and whenever the subject came up, Sonny didn’t hide his dislike for golf. He simply hated it because the Judge liked it, and whenever the Judge asked his son to play, Sonny’s response was to the point:

I don’t play golf!

Instead, Sonny devoted himself to making his own way, and he took a job as a public defender and then an assistant district attorney with the Monroe County district attorney’s office. Along with his early success came the first love of his life, a young woman whose humor and kindness won Sonny’s heart and made him think of marriage. But the Judge inserted himself into the relationship, immediately laying out plans for the couple to live on the grounds of the Hillside. His controlling manner proved too much for the burgeoning relationship, which ended abruptly. In 1980 Sonny accepted an appointment to serve as an assistant U.S. attorney for the Middle District of Pennsylvania and he remained a federal prosecutor for eight years, carving a niche prosecuting mobsters and white-collar crime. He left the Justice Department in 1988, much to the chagrin of the Judge, whose shadow continued to loom large over his son. After Mama died, their relationship hit rock bottom. Between bitter arguments over the direction of the Hillside there were long periods of silence and separation.

Now the Judge was gone, and Sonny was faced with a decision. He had devoted the last five years of his life to the Hillside, shutting down a thriving law practice, abandoning his investments, and pouring in $1 million of his own money to make it work. But it wasn’t working. The hotel was mired in debt and behind on its taxes and bills. Worst of all, Sonny believed, its mainly black clientele failed to appreciate the Hillside, its fifty-year history as the longest-operating black-owned hotel in the nation, and most important, all that his family went through to keep their dream alive.

Guests were often demanding and rude while their children cursed at will and showed little respect for their elders. Their attention was clearly focused not on individual improvement but on the cultural amenities of the day, from video games to music to high-end sneakers, which infuriated the Judge until the end. He was a black man’s black man, strong and proud, but he hated what he was seeing from his guests and their children. Blacks remained consumers, not owners, he argued, and for years before his passing he’d lecture his guests on the benefits and necessity of ownership to improve their condition in America. He implored his guests, especially their children, to finish their educations, and his words were forceful and had meaning. But they were lost in translation, and Sonny could only shake his head in resignation, knowing that a simple lecture from his father couldn’t change years of ingrained behavior.

Following the poignant memorial at East Stroudsburg University, Sonny said good-bye to his many guests and visitors, his aunts and uncles, his distant cousins, and he returned alone to the Hillside and walked slowly to his parents’ empty home. The red two-story colonial Sonny built for them in 1977 was situated on one of the 109 acres of pristine property they had come to own nestled in a green valley. Deer regularly grazed on the grass during the summer, while the fall brought a burst of color from fading leaves that provided a spectacular sight for visitors from the city. But the home was empty, the hotel business was fading, and Sonny was ready to finally make the decision to give it all up, to sell the Hillside, its 109 bucolic acres and everything with it. No one cared anyway, he thought.

He opened the door to his parents’ home and stood in the foyer, closing his eyes, hoping to hear Mama’s welcoming voice.

You hungry? You sick? You need to talk?

Mama was a rock, even during that year with the cancer, and she was sorely missed. Sonny walked into the first-floor bedroom where she died and he gazed at the empty bed. He could see her smile and he could feel her soft hand. Pictures of the Judge and Mama ringed the bedroom, along with photos of Sonny accepting an award during his days as a federal prosecutor. One photo, of Sonny and the Judge playing golf, caught his attention. It was one of the handful of times Sonny gave in to his father when it came to golf, and the color picture of Sonny holding the flag while his father readied a putt memorialized the rare moment. Sonny reached for the picture, turned it over with its frame facedown, and sat on the bed. He closed his eyes and dug deep into his memory, and long forgotten and disturbing images of his father surfaced. Sonny remembered the Judge suddenly appearing in his bedroom door with fire in his eyes after returning from some local meeting, and he recalled the beatings and how senseless they were.

I brought you in this world, the Judge screamed, and I can take you out!

Sonny cried as the leather belt whipped across his bare back. The Judge often forced Sonny to take his clothes off to keep them from getting ruined, and each time Sonny screamed, the Judge hit him harder.

As Sonny contemplated his painful past and challenges ahead, his eyes drifted slowly across the bedroom. Along with the many photos, there on the walls were numerous framed newspaper and magazine articles honoring his parents and the Hillside. Sonny continued to pan the room but stopped when his eyes fixed on boxes in the open closet, stacked six feet high. On the sides, in black ink, each box was inscribed: ESTATE OF SAMMY DAVIS JR.

Sonny reached over and dragged one of the white boxes to the side of the bed. He blew off the dust, pulled out a file, and opened it. Memories rushed to the surface as his thoughts traveled back in time to Sammy, Altovise, Frank Sinatra, and the Rat Pack, to another day, another time, and another troubled black legacy.

CHAPTER 2

APRIL 1994

The early spring sun cast an unusually warm embrace on the Hillside Inn. The weather in the Poconos was always tricky. One year could provide a final, heavy, wet snow in April or warm, suitable for golf, temperatures in December. For more than a hundred years, the Pocono Mountains, or what the locals called rolling hills, tucked behind the Delaware River, provided a peaceful retreat for the not-too-distant city dwellers in New York and Philadelphia.

The train stopped running here twenty years earlier, but people still came by the carloads, following Interstate 80 west across New Jersey or north on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and filled up all the local hotels and motels each weekend from fall through spring, and then every day during the summer.

The cold winter months provided plenty of snow for skiing at Camelback Mountain, Jack Frost/Big Boulder, and Shawnee-on-the-Delaware. And when the snows finally melted, there was golf, hiking, fishing, and other outdoor activities in the spring, summer, and fall. Once upon a time, celebrities often came to the Poconos to play and to entertain. Jackie Gleason enjoyed a game of golf at the Shawnee Inn. Mount Airy Lodge, a sprawling resort known for its tacky, red, heart-shaped tubs, drew blue-collar honeymooners willing to plunk down big money to bathe in overpriced, overgrown champagne glasses, and watch the likes of Tony Bennett, Alan King, Julio Iglesias, and Dionne Warwick perform in the Crystal Room. Other resorts, like the Tamiment, once hosted Woody Allen, Mel Brooks, Danny Kaye, and Carol Burnett. Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca perfected their act at the Tamiment before they became a national sensation on Your Show of Shows in the 1950s. Two decades later, Pocono Raceway hosted performances by Bob Hope, the Osmond Brothers, and the Jackson Five, while in the 1980s Jay Leno and Jerry Seinfeld entertained audiences at the Caesar’s resorts long before they became national celebrities.

But the circuit that drew the performers, which included stops in New York’s Catskill Mountains and Atlantic City, New Jersey, soon vanished, after casino gambling was introduced in Atlantic City in 1980. Instead of performing for fees as low as $5,000 a night, the same top-name entertainers could bypass the Poconos and Catskills and earn $25,000 and more in one shot in Atlantic City. There was talk of bringing casino gambling to Pennsylvania, even a $50 million investment in a new resort by Jilly Rizzo, a restaurateur known for his close friendship with Frank Sinatra. But gambling never came, and as the talent pool evaporated, the resorts began to close. Only those with a dedicated clientele survived, such as the Hillside Inn.

The upcoming weekend was the first of the new season to welcome a full house for the thirty-three-room resort, and Sonny decided it was time to remove the dead weeds, trim bushes browned by winter snow-mold, and cut the emerging grass. Sonny had no problem with manual labor, something he learned as a child. A football player in high school, Sonny was muscular, his five-feet, ten-inch frame chiseled and hard. He worked out regularly, lifting weights, running, and playing tennis. Sonny pulled the rope to start the lawn mower and he proceeded to cut the grass in straight, horizontal lines in front of the indoor pool area when he noticed a woman and three men standing in a circle in the parking lot next door.

The woman was tall, thin, and black. She appeared somewhat disoriented, her head bobbing softly back and forth. Two of the men were white, one tall and large while the other much smaller, perhaps Hispanic. The third was a light-skinned black man, who appeared to be controlling the conversation. There was something odd about the men, but Sonny focused his attention on the woman. She wasn’t talking. She just stood and listened as the animated black man continued to lead the conversation, which grew louder, then stopped, with the foursome entering a car and driving away.

Minutes later the car returned and it bypassed the parking lot and drove up the road and into the driveway of one of the thirty-six privately owned homes on the Murray property. The bi-level home belonged to Calvin Douglas, a retired New York City transit worker who settled here years earlier. Sonny could see the rear of the car hanging out from the driveway. His curiosity piqued, he turned off the mower and watched as a man exited the driveway onto the road, heading toward the Hillside. It was Calvin. A Jamaican immigrant who became fast friends with the Judge and Mama soon after moving to the Poconos in 1987, Calvin was a sprightly seventy-year-old and walked with a quick step. Sonny saw him waving, and then heard him yell out, Sonny!

Sonny pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket, wiped his brow, and then walked up the road.

Mr. Douglas. How are you?

Oh, I’ve had better days, he replied, his voice punctuated by his Jamaican accent.

I saw those people drive into your driveway. Is anything wrong?

Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about. That woman, Calvin said, pointing toward his driveway. That’s Mrs. Sammy Davis Jr.

Sonny smiled.

He heard whispers that Altovise Davis was living on the Murrays’ property. No one knew why, and no one thought to ask Calvin about it, figuring if he wanted to tell people, he would have.

Sonny, I didn’t want to do this, but we need you. I can’t take this anymore, said Calvin, desperation in his voice. She’s sick, very sick, and needs legal help.

Calvin told the story of how Altovise arrived at his home. Her father, Joe Gore, and Calvin became best friends working together for the New York City Transit Authority, and after Calvin moved to Pennsylvania, they remained in close contact. Whenever Calvin visited the city, Joe Gore and his wife, also named Altovise, provided him with a place to stay in their Queens home. During one visit in 1992, Calvin saw the Gores had another guest—their only daughter.

The Gores said Altovise was broke, their home the last stop before a homeless shelter. She lost all her possessions following Sammy’s death in May 1990, including their Beverly Hills mansion, to pay off massive and unexpected debts. But the fire sale didn’t come close to resolving the situation and the IRS was after her for back taxes, said Calvin.

Depressed and despondent, Altovise spent most of her waking hours in an alcohol-induced daze. Her preferred drink was vodka, and her drinking incensed her father, who threatened to kill her if she didn’t leave. When Calvin arrived for one of his regular