Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand)

Thirty-six

Sammy put down his fork. He finished chewing what was in his mouth before speaking.

“What are you sayin’, Eddie?”

“I’m saying that there may have been some stuff before that was none of my business, but that’s all changed now. Too many people are dead. What’s goin’ on, Sam?”

Sammy sat back on the sofa. He looked as if he was trying to decide how to play this. He could get angry and tell me to leave, or he could try telling the truth.

“I have this hobby,” he said, finally.

Did I want to hear what his hobby was?

“What kinda hobby?” Jerry asked.

“Photography,” Sammy said. “I like to take photos. It started when Jerry Lewis gave me a camera as a gift a few years ago. Then, when I was doing Mr. Wonderful in New York I met Milt Lewis and he taught me a little bit about the proper lighting, angles and such. I got to be pretty good at it.”

Sammy stood up and began pacing.

“I started carrying cameras with me everywhere,” he went on. “Taking pictures of everyone.” He turned and looked at me. “I even have some shots of you, from last year.”

That surprised me, because I never saw him with a camera.

“You got any pictures of me?” Jerry asked.

“No,” Sammy said, “not you, big guy. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Jerry said. “I don’t like havin’ my picture took.”

“Are you serious?” Sammy asked. “Man, that’s like bein’ immortalized for all time. You get your picture taken it’s like you’ll look like that forever. Frozen in time. You know what I mean?”

I looked at Jerry, who was staring at Sammy with no expression on his face.

“I don’t know if I want to always look like this,” he said, finally.

Sammy stared at Jerry for a few seconds, then smiled, genuinely amused.

“I can dig you, man,” he said, laughing. “I don’t know if I wanna look like this forever, either.”

They both looked at me.

“Hey,” I said, “I like the way I look now.”

Sammy and Jerry shrugged and then Sammy walked over to the window and stared out. I knew he could see the marquee with his name on it. I noticed driving in that underneath SAMMY DAVIS JR. they had added SPECIAL ADDED ATTRACTION LAURINDO ALMEIDA. I knew he was a Brazilian classical guitarist. Years later, in 1966, they’d make an album together, but who knew that then?

“Sam?”

“Hmm?” He looked at me over his shoulder. “Oh, hell, Eddie, to make a long story short, I took a picture that somebody wants to sell back to me.”

“A picture of what?”

He turned and looked at me.

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Sam-”

“I’m missing a roll of film,” he said, “that has a picture that is … personally embarrassing. I’m trying to buy it back before it shows up in the papers. I don’t really wanna say more about it, Eddie.”

“So it’s not one photo we’re tryin’ to buy back?”

“It’s one photo I want,” he said, “but there’s twenty-four on the roll.”

“What if they’ve developed the whole roll?”

“It’s not actually a roll, it’s an envelope with the negatives from that roll,” Sammy said. “That’s how they know they have something to sell.”

I looked at Jerry.

“I’m lost, Mr. G. Wanna drink?”

“Sure, why not?” I asked. “This whole thing’s got me drinkin’ a lot earlier, these days.”

“Bourbon?”

“Please.”

“Mr. Davis?”

“Yes, thanks, Jerry.”

Jerry went and built three bourbons in a moment that was definitely filled with deja vu.

As he handed us our drinks I said, “Sammy, don’t you know what else is on that roll?”

He sat back down on the sofa, so Jerry and I once again took our armchairs. I couldn’t help thinking we were having our own summit, only without the Leader, Frank Sinatra.

“I know it’s the envelope with the photo I want,” he said, “the last one. I’ve been wracking my brain tryin’ to remember what else is on it….”

“Where was it taken from?”

“My home in L.A. I have a darkroom. I develop my own pictures.”

“So somebody with access to your home took them?”

“Somebody broke in while we weren’t home.”

“And that was all they took?”

“Yeah, that envelope and the gun.” He shook his head. “Like I told you before, I’ve been waitin’ for one or both of them to come back and haunt me.”

“Don’t you … keep a file? Catalog your film?”

“I was starting to,” he said, “but I hadn’t gotten to all of them yet.”

“You must know something. What year did you take the photos?”

“It was last year.”

“And where did you take photos last year?”

“All over,” he said. “Vegas, here, L.A., New York, Europe …”

“What kind of photo would be worth fifty grand?” I said aloud.

“It’s a … candid shot. Like I said, personal.”

“Candid?”

“I like to catch people … unaware.”

“Like me?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “most of the shots I took of you were candid, but …”

“… but I’m certainly not worth fifty thousand dollars.”

“Few people are.”

“But most of the people you photograph are famous,” I said. “Frank, Dino, Joey, Peter …”

“… Jerry Lewis, Kim Novak, Nat Cole, Buddy Hackett, Tony Bennett, May-”

“And some, like me, who aren’t entertainers?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Businessmen?”

“Sure,” he said, “producers, directors, money men-”

“Money men?”

“The men who put up the cash for movies, records-”

“Oh,” I said, “I thought you meant … mob money men.”

“I don’t usually associate with mob money men,” he said.

“But you have performed at clubs owned by the mob,” I said. “The Copa, the Ambassador?”

“Well, yes-”

“And you took photos?”

“Yes.”

“So there could be some candid shot of, say, MoMo Giancana on there?”

“I suppose …”

“Or …”

I stopped myself. “Or what?”

“Just a thought,” I said. “So many men have died already, and it can’t be for your personal photo. There’s got to be somethin’ else on there….”

“What’s your thought?” Sammy asked.

“Last year, when you were all here for Ocean’s Eleven … when JFK was here … did you take photos then?”

“Yes, but … I didn’t take any shots of the President.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He said. “In fact, the Secret Service wouldn’t let me, even though he wasn’t president yet.”

“Too bad.”

“Why too bad?”

“Well, if you’d taken a photo of Kennedy when he was … enjoying himself …”

“Oh, I get you,” Sammy said. “That would be worth a lot of bread.”

“A lot,” I repeated. “If that was what it was they would’ve asked for a hell of a lot more than fifty grand, don’t you think?”

“Well, yeah, but …”

“But what?”

“If you’re right,” he pointed out, “they wouldn’t be askin’ for it from me, would they?”