A Conversation with the Mann (46 page)

For the fortunate few who were able to secure tickets to the recent Summit event in Las Vegas, one of the highlights of the
show was seeing both Sammy Davis, Jr. and comedian Jackie Mann. Their performance with such luminaries as Frank Sinatra and
Dean Martin before an audience that included the man most believe to be the next president was a source of pride for our community.
Onstage. Offstage, however, their antics left much to be desired. While we're happy for the success of both Davis and Mann,
it seems to have come at the expense of acknowledging their race. Instead of spending time in the Negro community, both remained
entrenched in the brighter, whiter Strip casinos that, by and large, will not even permit lesser Negroes on their premises.
And though the rumors of all-night all-white sexfests attended by Davis and Mann may be nothing more than rumors, there is
little doubt that Davis's romance with Swedish actress Mai Britt has influenced the younger Mann to travel a similar path.
While we regret having to be the ones to remind Davis and Mann of their obligation to the Negro community, what is of greater
regret is the necessity to do so.

If the piece wasn't full of lies, then they were half-truths. Yeah, I didn't hang out in Westside, but the blacks in Westside
wouldn't hang out in Westside—nobody would hang out in Westside—if they weren't forced to. And, yeah, there were some wild
parties … more than some, but the paper didn't seem to have any problem with the white acts attending, didn't say anything
about how they were bringing down the white race.

But there was one part of the stoiy much more truth than lie. The part that said I was following in Sammy's white chick-sexing
footsteps. The article only alleged it, but to give the allegation some teeth, the paper ran two pictures. One was of Sammy
and his new girl, Mai Britt. The other was of me and Liliah, no doubt snapped by some scandal-rag photog while we were out
to dinner.

I did a quick check of the byline. The piece was written by a woman. Figures. Hell hath no fury like a Negress eyeing a black
man with a blonde.

It was the picture, the picture of me and some other girl—white or not, just some other girl—that had turned Tammi's head
away from my approach. And that, the picture, is what I was going to have to do some serious explaining about.

It was time to get my lies straight.

I started things off with “Oh, baby, are you going to believe that?” I sat down, put a napkin in my lap, and looked at a menu
as if the article weren't even worthy of my time. “You can't believe everything you read.”

“I didn't just read it. I'm looking at it. I'm looking at the picture, Jackie. You and that… that …” Tammi's voice did all
kinds of things with every word from her mouth. By turns it was accusatory and hurt. It was also desperate to find a truth
in the things I was telling her.

“Yeah. A picture of me and
that actress
—” Not Liliah. That actress. By taking away her name, I hoped to reduce her from a female threat to a thing. “And about five
other people.” The picture the paper had chosen to run had, thankfully, some people leaning in around me and Liliah. Looked
at with sympathetic eyes, you could almost believe that the two of us were part of a larger group. “You see how in the story
they didn't mention any names. They didn't say I was dating the woman.”
The woman.

“But then—”

“They couldn't, 'cause I'm not. I'm not dating her.”

“But then why put the picture with the article?”

“Well, they … It's not an article, first of all. That's the thing. It's not an article, it's an opin—”

“Why put the picture with it?”

Yeah. Why? “They have to put something.”

“They had Sammy's picture, Sammy and his girl. Why did they need your picture?”

All my years onstage, all my years honing my comic timing, and I was having a helluvan effort quick-thinking my way out of
this. I was slowed down by all the willpower I was burning to keep myself from breaking out in a liar's sweat. “You don't
just go after a cat like Sammy Davis. They don't dig that he's dating—that he's going to marry, I heard they're getting married—the
paper doesn't dig he's with this chick. But a star his size, he's too big to be writing cracks about. So they write a piece
and they make it scattershot, make it look like they're throwing punches at any Negro who comes in ten feet of a white woman.
What am I supposed to do?”

“Stay more than ten feet away from white women.”

Tammi was softening some.

I said: “You going to stay more than ten feet away from all those wannabe crooners in Detroit?”

A beat.

“I guess I do sound a little jealous.” The way she sounded was light and even in tone; some deadweight that had been crushing
her for a day or so had been lifted.

I'd sweet-talked my way out of the corner I'd lusted myself into.

Tammi: “But you're the one who said the only people who call it jealousy are the ones who don't know passion.”

“I guess I did, so I guess I'll let you off the hook. This time.” I made it clear I was strictly giving her bits, but even
as a joke, putting it all on her was the masterstroke. “Now, are you going to give me a proper kiss, or do I have to go out
and find me a European starlet for real?”

Tammi gave me the kiss she'd held back when first I'd come to the table. It was deep and long and full of “I miss you” affection.

Later, back at the apartment, we buried my lies with sex. We buried our days apart and our differences with long hours spent
rediscovering each other. What we found was that time and distance do not make love fade.

After the act, in the dark, in bed, as I held Tammi and guilt held me, I propped myself up with Liliah's words: It was not
marrying Tammi, if anything, that was wrong. But the lies I was living were good.

I
T WAS ALMOST
like things used to be, going on four years prior. I was back on a Village club stage, but this time doing warm-up sets for
my appearance on Fran's show. A small room, stale air choked with smoke and the heat of tightly pressed flesh. The audience
no farther away than the length of my arm. My ears catching Tammi's laugh above all others. My set tight and funny. Great
stuff, and not just by my own thinking.

“Great stuff, Jackie.” A guy was coming toward me with a big smile and outstretched hand. “Chet Rosen,” he reminded me. “William
Morris. Heard you were doing a drop-in, thought I'd come by.”

I gave him a hello, good to see you again, and introduced him to Tammi.

“Tammi Terrell. Sure. You're at Motown. Good place to be. That Berry Gordy is a sharp fellow. He's really going to break something
big.”

He knew Tammi. I was impressed.

To me: “Heard you're doing
The Fran Clark Show.
”

“Next week.”

“She's a friend of yours, isn't she?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“Same agent, the two of you. Sid …”

“Kindler.”

Chet made a face as though there were a couple of things beyond his understanding. “Wonder why it's taken so long?” he asked,
not to me in particular, but just out loud. “You've got the same agent, wonder why it took so long to get you on the show?
I think someone's napping at the wheel.”

Before I could jump in with any kind of reply, Ghet streamrolled on with “Hey, heard you were sensational in Vegas.”

“Sensational? Most of the people in the audience didn't pay attention to me, and the rest didn't even know who I was. It was
like being vice president.”

“They gave you more respect than they would most comics. You've got something up there” —directing a thumb at the stage beyond
us. “You've got some good opportunities coming your way, Jackie. I hope you capitalize on them. What's Sid got lined up for
you?”

“… I'm doing Fran's show.”

“And?”

And …

Out in the show room a singer worked her way through some Cole Porter while I came up answerless.

“Well, listen, Jackie, all the best on the show. I know you're going to be a smash. Miss Terrell.”

Chet started away, stopped. “I hope you don't mind me saying so, but you two make a handsome couple.” And he was gone.

“There's a man,” Tammi said, “who knows how to say the right things.”

He did. And he knew how to make them stick.

“T
HE THING ABOUT
F
RAN'S SHOW
, there are always executives around. CBS guys. Do well, they talk. That's only going to help you later.”

Sid was lying to me. I'd come 'round to get a pep talk before Fran's show; now all I was getting were lies. Sid wasn't lying
with his words. Yeah, there'd be CBS execs at the broadcast, and, yeah, doing a solid set in front of them could only help
me nail Sullivan. All that was truth. Sid was handing me other lies: his breath sweetened with mints to hide the fermented
stink it carried, movements that worked at being precise and accurate to cover their being unfixed and clumsy. Instead, his
every action came off meticulously planned, then executed in slow motion, great concentration put into picking up a pen from
his desk so as not to knock over a lamp in the trying. All the effort he put into appearing sober: Those were the lies. After
so many years sitting front row to my pop's drunk show, I was not even slightly fooled, though Pop never did me the courtesy
of trying to hide his binges.

“I don't mean to give you the heebie-jeebies, just want you to know … it's not Sullivan, but we're working toward it.”

Sid talked at his desktop. Not looking at me, he wouldn't have to read the reflection of his deception in my eyes. Then we
could go on with this little skit: him acting sober and me acting like I didn't know he was soused.

Man, how I hated drunks.

No.

I didn't hate Sid. What I hated, I hated a drunk's weakness, hated how they forced you to be an accomplice to their sin: I
know you know what I'm doing, but please let me drink, or buy my booze when I can't buy it for myself, ignore my rants when
I'm drunk and my blurry eyes when I'm lifted before noon. Please sympathize with my pain or problem, and if you don't, that's
all right. Just don't say anything; go along like I'm fine even when I laugh too loud at something that's not funny, pass
out in the middle of a sentence, or trip and fall down when I'm walking on a smooth, even surface. And when it gets that bad,
just make a veiled comment about somebody else's ldquo;situation” that I can tsk-tsk at along with you, us both secretly knowing
who you're really talking about. Then I'll go clean myself up. Dry out. For a little while. A couple of weeks. Maybe a month.
Or the rest of the day. Then let's all pretend again.

Sid … How could he do this to me? He knew how I felt and what I'd been through, so how could he … And the day before my first
TV shot!

And that was the thing: I didn't care about the
why
of what shoved Sid off the wagon. I only cared about the
why me
. I didn't need this, and it was so not good coming right on top of Chet already trying to poison me to Sid.

“You're going to do great, that's all I'm trying to say. This is … this is going to be big for you.” Very slowly Sid's hand
went to his brow, slid away beads of sweat.

“Yeah. Great.” Then, pointed, hardly bothering with the veil: “Sorry my father's not around to see this.”