A Hotel Kicked Sammy Davis Jr. Out the Door… Dean Martin’s Response Went Down in History

I. The Slap in the Marble Lobby

March 8th, 1963. The Golden Sands Hotel, Atlantic City. The marble lobby gleamed under crystal chandeliers as guests in evening wear drifted between the bar and the front desk, the air thick with the promise of a luxurious weekend. Sammy Davis Jr. arrived dressed to impress, every detail of his suit immaculate, every step confident. He was used to being noticed—his star had never burned brighter. $50,000 a week in Vegas, a starring role in Ocean’s 11, and the adoration of audiences coast to coast.

But as Sammy approached the front desk, the clerk’s expression turned cold. “I’m sorry, but we don’t serve your kind here.” Seven words, delivered with icy precision, hung in the air like a slap. Conversations stopped. Glasses paused midair. 200 guests became silent witnesses to a moment of calculated cruelty.

Sammy had heard it before. But never like this. Never in front of a crowd, never so public and deliberate.

From his office, hotel owner William Hartwell emerged, a smirk on his lips, expecting Sammy to leave quietly. “Is there a problem here?” he asked, feigning concern.

Sammy held up his reservation confirmation. “I have a reservation for the penthouse suite, paid in full.”

Hartwell barely glanced at the paper. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. We don’t have any availability. I’m sure you can find accommodations more suitable to your situation.”

Everyone in the lobby understood. Sammy Davis Jr., one of the most famous entertainers in America, was being turned away because of the color of his skin.

Sammy could have made a scene. He could have threatened legal action, called the press, demanded justice. Instead, he surprised everyone—including Hartwell. He smiled. “I understand. Thank you for clarifying your policy.” And with dignity, Sammy Davis Jr. turned and walked out.

Whispers erupted. Some guests were embarrassed. Some were outraged. A few even applauded, thinking Hartwell had done the right thing. Hartwell returned to his office, satisfied. He’d maintained what he called “standards,” and done it in front of witnesses who would spread the word: The Golden Sands didn’t tolerate mixing of the races.

What Hartwell didn’t know was that someone in the lobby had been taking notes—and that someone was about to make the most important phone call of Sammy Davis Jr.’s career.

II. The Call That Changed Everything

Twenty minutes after Sammy left the Golden Sands, Dean Martin’s phone rang in his suite at the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach. Dean was the connector, the man whose charm and network could change careers with a single call. He was as powerful as Sammy, but in a different way. Casino owners, booking agents, television executives, record company presidents—Dean knew them all.

“Dean, it’s Sammy.”

“Hey P, how’s Atlantic City treating you?”

Sammy recounted the incident calmly, but Dean could hear the hurt beneath the words.

“What’s the name of this hotel again?” Dean asked.

“The Golden Sands. The owner is William Hartwell.”

“And you’re sure this is how it went down?”

“200 people saw it, Dean. He didn’t even try to be subtle.”

Dean was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was cold and calculating. “Sammy, I want you to check into the Claridge tonight. On me. Order room service, see a show, have a good time. And Sammy—don’t talk to any reporters about this. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to handle this my way first.”

Dean hung up, sat in his suite for five minutes, and began making phone calls.

III. The Network Mobilizes

Dean’s first call was to Mo Ditz, a casino mogul with influence in Atlantic City and Las Vegas.

“Mo, it’s Dean. I need a favor.”

“Sure, Dean. What do you need?”

“Tell me what you know about the Golden Sands Hotel in Atlantic City.”

“Owner named William Hartwell. Small operation, not much to speak of. They book some entertainment, but nothing major. Why?”

“Because today, William Hartwell made it clear he doesn’t want black customers in his hotel. Specifically, he humiliated Sammy Davis Jr. in front of a lobby full of people.”

Mo paused. “He did what?”

“You heard me. Here’s what I need: Make some calls. Every entertainment booking agent in the Northeast needs to know the Golden Sands is off-limits. Any agent who books an act there will never book an act in any casino you have influence with.”

“Dean, you’re talking about ending this guy’s business.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

The second call was to Sam Giancana, whose power extended far beyond entertainment.

“Sam, it’s Dean Martin. I need you to do something for me.”

“What kind of something?”

“I need you to make sure that no major act—no major act—will perform at the Golden Sands Hotel in Atlantic City ever.”

Dean explained the situation. Sam was silent for a moment. “Consider it done.”

The third call was to Morris Levy, a record company owner with connections throughout the music industry.

“Morris, Dean Martin. I need every artist you represent to understand the Golden Sands Hotel is persona non grata. Anyone who performs there loses their recording contract.”

“That’s pretty harsh, Dean.”

“Not harsh enough.”

Over the next six hours, Dean made seventeen more calls—to television executives, radio station owners, nightclub operators in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, and booking agents for every genre. The message was clear: William Hartwell and the Golden Sands had declared war on Sammy Davis Jr., and Dean Martin was declaring war back.

By midnight, the word had spread. The Golden Sands was radioactive. No agent would book acts there. No performer would take a gig. No promoter would associate with them.

But Dean wasn’t finished.

IV. The Power of the Press

The next morning, Dean made his final call to Walter Winchell, the most powerful gossip columnist in America.

“Walter, Dean Martin. I’ve got a story for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Yesterday, the Golden Sands Hotel refused service to Sammy Davis Jr. in front of 200 witnesses. The owner, William Hartwell, personally humiliated one of America’s biggest stars because of his race.”

“That’s a hell of a story, Dean. You got witnesses?”

“200 of them. Plus, confirmation that this is hotel policy, not just one incident.”

“When do you want this to run?”

“Tomorrow. Front page.”

“You got it.”

Meanwhile, William Hartwell was having the worst day of his business career, and he didn’t even know why. At 9 a.m., his entertainment director came to his office, shaken.

“Mr. Hartwell, we have a problem. Jerry Vale’s agent just called. They’re canceling next weekend’s show.”

“What? Why?”

“They said Jerry’s not available. But I called around—Jerry’s not booked anywhere else that weekend.”

“So call someone else.”

“That’s the problem, sir. I’ve called 12 agents. Nobody has any acts available. Not for next weekend, not for next month, not ever.”

By noon, Hartwell had heard from six different performers canceling upcoming shows. By 2 p.m., his weekend headliner had pulled out. By 4 p.m., even the lounge singer had canceled.

“What the hell is going on?” Hartwell demanded.

“I don’t know, sir. It’s like everyone got the same memo at the same time.”

That evening, Hartwell got his answer. Walter Winchell’s column hit the newsstands: “Hotel Owner’s Racist Humiliation of Sammy Davis Jr. Sparks Entertainment Industry Boycott.” The column described in detail what had happened, named William Hartwell, and quoted Dean Martin: “When someone humiliates my friend because of his race, they humiliate all of us. The entertainment industry has a long memory and we take care of our own.”

V. Consequences

The next morning, Hartwell’s phone rang. First, his bank asked about upcoming payments. Then his insurance company suggested reviewing their relationship. Then his biggest corporate client canceled a convention booking.

By the end of the week, the Golden Sands had lost 60% of its bookings for the next six months.

But Dean Martin still wasn’t finished.

He called Sammy. “How are you holding up, Pi?”

“I’m fine, Dean. I saw Winchell’s column. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We’re just getting started.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we’re going to make sure this never happens to you—or anyone else—again.”

Dean’s next move was brilliant in its simplicity. He organized the Atlantic City Freedom Concert—a massive show featuring himself, Sammy, Frank Sinatra, Joey Bishop, and Peter Lawford. The proceeds would go to the NAACP. And he booked it for the same weekend the Golden Sands had planned their biggest event.

The Freedom Concert was held at the convention hall, just six blocks from the Golden Sands. Every major entertainer in the country either performed or attended. Media coverage was enormous. The message was clear: This is what happens when you stand on the right side of history.

Meanwhile, the Golden Sands sat empty. No guests. No performers. No events.

By the end of March, William Hartwell was facing bankruptcy. His hotel hemorrhaged money. His reputation was destroyed. His staff quit. His investors demanded answers he didn’t have.

VI. The Meeting

Desperate, Hartwell tracked down Sammy Davis Jr.’s manager and begged for a meeting.

“I need to speak with Mr. Davis. Please, I need to apologize.”

“Mr. Davis doesn’t take meetings with people who humiliate him in public.”

“Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll make it right.”

After some back and forth, Sammy agreed to see him—not out of forgiveness, but out of curiosity.

The meeting took place in Sammy’s dressing room at the Latin Casino in Philadelphia, where he was performing to sold-out crowds. Hartwell arrived looking like he hadn’t slept in weeks. His suit was wrinkled, eyes red, hands shaking.

When Sammy entered, Hartwell did something that shocked everyone present. He dropped to his knees.

“Mr. Davis, I’m begging you. Please forgive me. I made a terrible mistake. I was wrong. I was ignorant. I was cruel. Please, I’m begging you to call off your friends. My hotel is dying. My family is suffering. I’ll do anything to make this right.”

Sammy looked down at the broken man and felt something unexpected: pity.

“Mr. Hartwell, stand up.”

“Not until you forgive me. Not until you make this stop.”

“Mr. Hartwell, I can’t make this stop. You did this to yourself.”

“Please, I’ll change the hotel’s policy. I’ll welcome black guests. I’ll make a public apology. I’ll donate money to civil rights organizations, whatever you want.”

Sammy was quiet for a long moment. “Mr. Hartwell, what you did to me wasn’t just about me. It was about every black person who’s ever been told they don’t belong somewhere. What Dean did to you wasn’t just about revenge. It was about sending a message.”

“What message?”

“That actions have consequences. That the old ways are ending. That treating people with dignity isn’t optional anymore—it’s required.”

“So you won’t forgive me?”

“I forgive you, Mr. Hartwell. But forgiving you doesn’t undo the consequences of your choices.”

Hartwell left that meeting a broken man. He’d gotten the forgiveness he begged for, but it was too late to save his business. The Golden Sands Hotel closed its doors three months later. Hartwell declared bankruptcy and moved to Florida, where he managed a small motel for the rest of his career.

VII. The Legend

But the story didn’t end there. What Dean Martin orchestrated became legend in the entertainment industry—a cautionary tale told in boardrooms and booking offices across the country. The message was simple: If you humiliate our people, we will destroy you completely.

For the rest of the 1960s, incidents like what happened to Sammy became increasingly rare. Not because hearts changed overnight, but because people learned that racism was bad for business.

Years later, when reporters asked Dean Martin about the Golden Sands incident, he would smile that easy smile and say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a singer.” But everyone in the entertainment industry knew the truth.

Dean Martin had proven that loyalty wasn’t just about standing by your friends when it was convenient. It was about destroying anyone who hurt them—no matter what it took.

Epilogue

The marble lobby of the Golden Sands is silent now, the chandeliers long gone, the echo of those seven words fading into history. But the lesson remains, as sharp as ever: dignity is not optional. Loyalty is not passive. And sometimes, the most powerful change begins not with a shout, but with a quiet, determined phone call.