Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr by Sammy Davis Jr & Jane Boyar & Jane & Burt Boyar

Author:Sammy Davis Jr & Jane Boyar & Jane & Burt Boyar [Davis, Sammy Jr & Boyar, Jane & Jane & Boyar, Burt]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, General, rat pack
ISBN: 9781477611920
Google: 79EqMQEACAAJ
Publisher: Jane and Burt Boyar/Marbella House
Published: 2012-08-03T23:51:41.787747+00:00

21

I slept late Sunday, had some juice and coffee, and took the package from Tiffany out of the closet. I slid the string off the outer wrapping and opened the large blue box. The pitcher was in a flannel bag. I rewrapped it exactly as it had been. A few dozen roses would be more appropriate for one dinner, but Johnny and D.D. had been great to me on the road and I wanted to give them something nice. I could always play it as though it were in return for the books on fine art they’d given me. I dressed in a gray tweed suit, an eggshell shirt, and a black knitted tie, put on a vicuna polo coat, and left the apartment.

A strong gust of wind from the East River almost knocked the box out of my hand as I stepped out of the cab in front of River House. I gripped the box securely against me and walked toward the building. As I reached the front door, a doorman stuck his head out and pointed to the left. “Delivery entrance is up the street.” He closed the door.

My phone was ringing as I got home. When whoever it was gave up, I called the desk and asked that no calls be put through. George was back and had asked them to let him know when I came in. I told them to ask him to come up, “But be sure to tell everybody else that I’m out.”

George breezed in. “Am I crazy or weren’t you supposed to be having dinner with Mr. and Mrs. John Barry Ryan III, cha, cha, cha.”

“Something came up, baby.”

He sat on the couch and glanced idly at the box that was with my coat on a chair. “Who lives in there?”

I put it into the closet. “It’s just something I bought.” I looked through my mail and autographed some pictures. After a while, he stood up and walked toward the door. “I’ll see you later. I don’t dig funerals.”

“Come back here, you nitwit.”

He grinned. “Oh? We’re feeling a little better, aren’t we?”

“George, you’re rotten to the core.”

“That’s more like it.” He came back and tapped an empty glass on the bar. “Scotch.”

He was peering across the bar at me, smiling owlishly. “Well? What happened to Mr. Wonderful?” He twirled his glasses around by one stem, like a yawn. “I’m only asking so I’ll look interested. Is there anything we want to tell Sergeant Gilbert? They say—whoever ‘they’ are—that these things feel better when you tell them to somebody … I mean, you tell it to me, and I’m not even listening, but you hear how unimportant it is …” He mumbled self-consciously, “Whatever all that means!”

I poured a coke. “I learned a long time ago that if you’ve got a problem and no one can help you with it, then keep it to yourself.” I looked up and was touched by the tenderness in his face. “Baby, if it was something you could do,” I smiled.

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