Dean Martin was singing Ain’t That a Kick in the Head when he saw Sammy Davis Jr. walk into the Copa room. Sammy wasn’t supposed to be there that night. He’d finished his own show across town an hour earlier, but the look on Sammy’s face told Dean something was wrong. Then Dean saw the man following Sammy, a large red-faced man in an expensive suit who was shouting something Dean couldn’t hear over the music.
The band kept playing. The audience kept watching Dean, but Dean’s attention was on Sammy, who’d just been stopped at a table near the stage by a woman who stood up and said something that made Samm<unk>s shoulders slump. What Dean Martin did in the next 60 seconds didn’t just stop the show, it ended a man’s career, got him [clears throat] banned from every casino in Las Vegas and sparked a change in Nevada law that’s still in effect today.
This is the story of the night Dean Martin drew a line in the sand and what happened when someone tried to cross it. November 8th, 1961. The Sands Hotel in Las Vegas was the crown jewel of the strip. Frank Sinatra had a piece of ownership. The Rat Pack performed there regularly. It was where the powerful came to play, where movie stars mingled with mobsters, where money flowed like water.
But in 1961, Las Vegas was still deeply segregated. Black performers could sing on stage, but they couldn’t gamble in the casino. They couldn’t eat in the main restaurants. They couldn’t swim in the pools. They had to enter through service entrances and stay in separate inferior accommodations or they had to stay in the black neighborhood on the west side of town miles from the strip. Sammy Davis Jr.
had broken some of these barriers, but not all of them. Frank Sinatra had demanded that Sammy be allowed to stay in the hotel when he performed, threatening to take the whole rat pack somewhere else if they refused. The Sans had agreed, but with conditions. Sammy could stay there, but he still couldn’t gamble in the casino, still couldn’t eat in certain restaurants, still had to be careful about which public spaces he occupied.
It was humiliating, degrading, but it was better than the alternative, which was staying across town and being treated like he wasn’t good enough to breathe the same air as white performers. Dean Martin understood this in a way most white entertainers didn’t. Dean had grown up as Dino Crochetti, the son of Italian immigrants in Stubenville, Ohio.
He’d experienced discrimination, been called names, been told he didn’t belong. It wasn’t the same as what Sammy faced. Dean knew that. But it gave him enough perspective to see how wrong the system was. Dean and Sammy had become close friends over the years. They genuinely liked each other beyond the professional relationship.
They’d spend hours together between shows, talking about everything except show business. Sammy’s conversion to Judaism, Dean’s complicated relationship with the Catholic Church, their families, their fears, their dreams. And Dean had made it clear to everyone who mattered that Sammy Davis Jr. was under his protection.
Mess with Sammy, you mess with Dean. And messing with Dean meant messing with Frank. And nobody messed with Frank Sinatra in Las Vegas. But not everyone got the message. The night of November 8th started normally enough. Dean was performing his second show of the evening at the Copa Room about why 200 people packed into the showroom.
The usual mix of tourists, high rollers, celebrities, and people connected to the casino business in ways they didn’t advertise. Dean was about 40 minutes into his set. The crowd was great, laughing at his jokes, singing along with the familiar songs. Dean was relaxed in his element, doing what he did best. At 10:30 p.m.
, during a brief pause between songs, Dean saw movement at the entrance to the showroom. Sammy Davis Jr. walked in, still wearing his stage clothes from his own show at the Frontier Hotel across town. Sammy had a strange look on his face. Not quite scared, but definitely tense. Behind Sammy, about 10 ft back, was a large man Dean didn’t recognize.
Late 40s, expensive suit, red face that suggested too much alcohol and too much anger. The man was talking loudly enough that people at nearby tables were turning to look. Dean kept singing, but his attention was split now. Something was wrong. Sammy walked along the side of the room, trying to get to the area where performers and VIPs could watch the show.
But as he passed a table near the front, a woman stood up. She was maybe 50 years old, dripping with diamonds, her face twisted with contempt. The woman said something to Sammy. Dean couldn’t hear it over the music, but he saw Samm<unk>s reaction. His shoulders slumped, his head dropped. He tried to keep walking, but the woman grabbed his arm.
That’s when Dean heard it. The woman’s voice, shrill and loud enough to cut through the music. Don’t you touch me. I don’t want your kind near my table. The band faltered. A few instruments dropped out. Dean stopped singing mid-verse. The entire room went silent in seconds. Sammy stood frozen, the woman’s hand still gripping his arm.
He looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. The large man who’d been following Sammy pushed forward. You heard the lady. Get away from the table. You people should know your place. Dean Martin stood on that stage, microphone in hand, and felt rage unlike anything he’d experienced before, not the cold, calculated anger he’d felt with Marlon Brando. This was hot. This was visceral.
This was personal. Dean set down his microphone carefully. The room was dead silent now. 1,200 people holding their breath. Dean walked to the edge of the stage. He looked at the woman. He looked at the large man. Then he looked at Sammy, who was still standing there humiliated. “Sammy,” Dean said, his voice calm, but carrying across the silent room.
“Come up here,” Sammy looked up, surprised. “Dean, I don’t want to interrupt. I said, come up here.” Sammy walked to the stage. Dean reached down and pulled him up. Then Dean put his arm around Samm<unk>s shoulders and turned to face the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Dean said, his voice still calm, still controlled, but with steel underneath.
This man standing next to me is Sammy Davis Jr. He’s one of the most talented performers in the world. He’s my friend and he’s more welcome on this stage than some people are in their seats. The woman who’d grabbed Sammy spoke up, her voice indignant. How dare you? Do you know who my husband is? He owns half the banks.
And I don’t care if your husband owns the entire state of Nevada. Dean cut her off. What I care about is that you just put your hands on my friend. You grabbed him. You spoke to him with disrespect. And that ends now. The large man stepped forward, his face even redder now. Now you listen here, Martin. I paid good money for these seats.
I’m a valued customer of this casino, and I don’t appreciate you making a scene because because what? Dean interrupted. Because you don’t like black people. Because you think Sammmy is not good enough to walk past your table. Is that what you were going to say? The man’s mouth opened and closed. People at nearby tables were staring at him now with different eyes.
Dean continued, his voice getting harder. Let me explain something to you. Something that everyone in this room needs to understand. Sammy Davis Jr. is worth more than every single person in this audience combined. He’s more talented, more hardworking, more decent, and more valuable as a human being than any of you will ever be.
Some people in the audience started applauding. Others looked uncomfortable. The woman and the large man looked furious. “And here’s what’s going to happen,” Dean said. “You two are going to leave right now. You’re going to walk out of this showroom, out of this casino, and you’re never going to come back. You can’t throw us out.
The woman shrieked. We’re guests of the casino. We have rights. Dean looked past them to the back of the room where casino security stood. Joey, get these people out of here. Two security guards started moving forward. The large man held up his hand. Do you know who I am? I’m Robert Hutchinson.
I own six car dealerships in California. I’ve spent over a million dollars in this casino. You can’t just I don’t care if you’ve spent $10 million, Dean said. You don’t get to treat people like that. Not in my show. Not anywhere. The security guards reached the couple. Robert Hutchinson shook off the guard’s hand. This is outrageous.
I’ll have your job for this. I’ll sue this casino. I’ll get them out, Dean repeated. Now, the security guards escorted the couple out of the showroom. They were shouting the whole way, threatening lawsuits, threatening to call their lawyers, threatening to have Dean fired. The doors closed behind them, muffling their voices.
Dean turned back to the audience. Sammy was still standing next to him, looking stunned. “Anyone else have a problem with Sammy Davis Jr. being here?” Dean asked the room. “Anyone else want to leave because a black man is standing on this stage? Speak up now. We’ll hold the show while you go.” Dead silence. Nobody moved. Good, Dean said.
Because here’s how this is going to work from now on. Sammy Davis Jr. can go anywhere in this casino he wants. He can sit at any table. He can eat at any restaurant. He can swim in any pool. He can gamble at any table. And if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me. Or better yet, they can take it up with Frank Sinatra. See how that works out for you.
The room erupted in applause. Not everyone, but most people. genuine applause that lasted almost a full minute. Dean looked at Sammy. You want to sing something with me? Samm<unk>s eyes were wet. Dean, I I asked if you want to sing something. Sammy nodded, not trusting his voice. Dean turned to the band. Give us me and my shadow.
The band started playing. Dean and Sammy sang together, and the audience went wild. This was what they’d come to see. This was the rat pack magic. But it was more than that. It was witnessing something important, something real. When the song ended, Dean hugged Sammy on stage in front of everyone. Then he said, “Thank you for coming to my show, Sammy. You’re always welcome. Always.
” Sammy walked off stage to thunderous applause. Dean finished his set. When he came off stage 30 minutes later, he went straight to the casino’s administrative offices. Jack Entrader, the president of the Sands Hotel, was waiting for him along with two lawyers and a very nervous vice president of operations.
Dean, Jack said carefully. We need to talk about what happened tonight. Yeah, we do, Dean said. Those two people I had thrown out, they’re banned permanently from every property you own or have influence over. Dean, it’s not that simple. Robert Hutchinson is a major customer. He spent over a million dollars, I heard. I don’t care.
He’s banned. One of the lawyers cleared his throat. Mr. Martin, we have to be careful here. Mr. Hutchinson has already called his attorney. He’s threatening to sue for discrimination of all things. He’s claiming he was thrown out because of his political views. Dean laughed, but there was no humor in it. His political views.
That’s what we’re calling racism now, political views. The point is, the lawyer continued nervously. We could be looking at a significant lawsuit and the publicity will be great, Dean interrupted. You’ll get publicity about how the Sans Hotel stands up for civil rights, how you don’t tolerate racism, how you threw out a rich customer because he was a bigot.
Frank and I will make sure every newspaper in America knows that story. Or you can cave, let that bastard back in and Frank and I will take the rat pack somewhere else. Your choice. Jack Entrader looked at Dean for a long moment. Then he looked at the lawyers. Ban them, both of them, Hutchinson and his wife, permanently.
But sir, the vice president started. I said ban them. Dean’s right. We don’t need their money. Spread the word to the other casinos, too. Let them know what happened. Let them make their own choice about whether to let these people play in their establishments. Dean nodded. Good. One more thing. Sammy Davis Jr. gets full access to this hotel. Everything.
No more restrictions. No more rules about where he can go or what he can do. He’s a performer here. He’s treated exactly like every other performer. Exactly like me. Jack hesitated. This was a bigger ask. This meant going against years of established policy. This meant bucking the Nevada Gaming Commission and every other casino in town.
Dean, Jack said slowly. You know the situation. It’s not just us. It’s the state. It’s the laws. It’s it’s wrong. Dean said flatly. And it ends today, at least here. You make the Sands the first casino to fully integrate everything for performers and for guests. You do that and I guarantee you’ll have every black entertainer in America wanting to perform here.
You’ll have every progressive person in America wanting to stay here. You’ll make more money than you’ll lose from the bigots. Jack thought about it. I need to talk to Frank. Frank will back me on this. You know he will. Jack nodded slowly. Okay, we’ll do it. Full integration for Sammy, for any black performer who works here.
Full access. And we’ll extend it to black guests, too. We’ll be the first casino on the strip to do it. Good, Dean said. Now, I’m going to find Sammy and make sure he’s okay. Dean found Sammy in his dressing room sitting alone. Sammy looked up when Dean walked in. You didn’t have to do that, Sammy said quietly. Yeah, I did.
Dean, you know what this means? You just made enemies of people with money and power. That guy Hutchinson probably does own half the banks in California. He could he could nothing. Dean interrupted. Sammy, how long have we known each other? About 5 years. And in those 5 years, have I ever let anyone disrespect you? No.
Then why would I start now? Dean sat down next to Sammy. Look, I know what it’s like to be on the outside. Different reasons, different circumstances, but I know what it feels like to be told you don’t belong. And I swore a long time ago that if I ever had power, I’d use it to make things better for people who don’t have power. You’re my friend, Sammy.
Nobody gets to treat my friends like that. Sammy’s voice was thick with emotion. They grabbed me, Dean. She put her hands on me like I was dirt and I couldn’t do anything. If id defended myself, if I’d said one word back, I’d have been arrested or worse. I know, Dean said quietly. That’s why I did what I did. Someone had to.
And I’m in a position where I can. You could lose work over this. Hutchinson and people like him, they have connections. They could pressure studios, networks, let them try, Dean said. I’m not afraid of them, and neither should you be. They sat in silence for a moment. Then Sammy said, “Thank you for standing up for me. For for seeing me as a person.
You’re more than a person, Sammy. You’re my brother and nobody messes with my family.” The next morning, the story was all over Las Vegas. Dean Martin had thrown out a millionaire customer for being racist. The Sands Hotel had banned Robert Hutchinson permanently. And most shocking of all, the Sans was implementing full integration policies immediately.
The Las Vegas Sun ran a front page story. The headline read, “Dean Martin takes stand against racism at Sans Hotel.” The article detailed what had happened, including quotes from witnesses. Multiple people in the audience that night had talked to reporters, describing the scene in detail. Robert Hutchinson tried to control the narrative.
He called a press conference claiming he’d been thrown out for no reason, that Dean Martin had attacked him unprovoked, that this was an assault on his rights as a paying customer. But too many witnesses contradicted him, too many people had heard what his wife said. Too many people had seen him following Sammy harassing him.
Hutchinson’s story fell apart under scrutiny. Within a week, four other major Vegas casinos announced they were implementing integration policies. They didn’t want to be left behind. They didn’t want to look like they supported racism when the Sands was taking a stand against it. The Nevada Gaming Commission pushed back. They threatened sanctions.
But public pressure was building. The story had gone national. Civil rights organizations were praising Dean Martin and the Sands. Newspapers were writing editorials about how Las Vegas needed to change. By December, less than a month after the incident, Nevada passed new regulations prohibiting casinos from discriminating based on race in their public accommodations.
It didn’t solve everything. The west side of Las Vegas was still segregated. Housing discrimination was still rampant, but it was a start. And it started because Dean Martin refused to let someone disrespect his friend. Robert Hutchinson never recovered from the incident. His car dealership started losing business. People didn’t want to buy cars from a known racist.
Within 2 years, he’d sold four of his six dealerships at a loss. His reputation was ruined. He tried to sue the Sands Hotel, but the case was thrown out. No judge wanted to side with him after all the publicity. Meanwhile, Sammy Davis Jr. continued performing at the Sands, but now he could eat in the main restaurants.
He could gamble in the casino. He could swim in the pool. and other black entertainers started getting the same treatment not just at the Sands but across Vegas. In 1965, four years after the incident, Sammy gave an interview to Ebony magazine about civil rights progress in entertainment. Dean Martin changed my life on November 8th, 1961.
Sammy said, “Not just by defending me that one time, but by showing me and every other black performer that we didn’t have to accept secondass treatment, that we had value, that we deserved respect.” Dean put his career on the line for me. He made powerful enemies and he never asked for anything in return. He just did it because it was right.
The interviewer asked what Dean had said to Sammy after the incident. He told me I was his brother, that nobody messes with his family. Sammy’s voice got emotional. You have to understand what that meant. I’d spent my whole life being tolerated, being allowed to perform, but not to fully participate. being good enough to entertain white people, but not good enough to sit next to them.
And Dean, this Italian kid from Ohio, he looked at me and said, “You’re my brother. Not my friend, not my colleague, my brother.” That word changed everything for me. In 1990, when Sammy Davis Jr. was dying of throat cancer, Dean visited him almost every day. They’d sit together, sometimes talking, sometimes just sitting in silence. Sammy was too weak to perform.
His voice was gone, but Dean would come and just be there. One day near the end, Sammy said to Dean, “You know what I think about sometimes? That night in 1961 when you stopped your show for me.” “Ancient history,” Dean said. “No.” Sammy shook his head. “That night taught me something important.
It taught me that one person standing up can change everything. If you’d stayed silent, if you’d just kept singing and let them throw me out, nothing would have changed.” But you stopped. You put yourself between me and them. And because of that, things got better. You would have done the same for me, Dean said. Yeah. Sammy smiled.
I would have, but I never had to. Because you were always there first. When Sammy Davis Jr. died on May 16th, 1990, Dean Martin was devastated. He gave a eulogy at the funeral that few people had heard him so emotional. “Sammy was my brother,” Dean said, his voice breaking. Not because we worked together, not because we were both in the rat pack, but because when I looked at him, I saw someone who deserved every bit of respect and dignity that anyone deserves.
And I saw a world that didn’t want to give him that. So, I decided that anywhere I had power, Sammy would be treated right. That was the least I could do. He paused, wiping his eyes. People ask me if I’m proud of what I did that night in 1961. Proud of throwing out those people. Proud of forcing the sands to integrate.
And the truth is, I’m not proud because I shouldn’t have had to do it. It should have already been that way. Sammy shouldn’t have had to deal with people grabbing him, insulting him, treating him like he was less than human. The fact that I had to step in means the system was broken. And while I’m glad I could help fix it a little bit, I’m angry that it was broken in the first place.
The story of Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. is about more than one night in a Las Vegas showroom. It’s about what it means to use power and privilege to protect people who don’t have those things. It’s about understanding that friendship means standing up even when it costs you something. Dean Martin could have done nothing that night.
He could have kept singing, finished his show, and let security handle it quietly. Most performers would have done exactly that. But Dean stopped. He made it public. He made it a line in the sand. And because he did, things changed. Not perfectly, not completely, but enough that other black performers started getting better treatment.
Enough that other casinos started changing their policies. Enough that Nevada eventually changed its laws. That’s the power of one person saying enough. That’s the power of someone with a platform using it for good. Dean Martin didn’t consider himself a civil rights activist. He didn’t march in protests or give speeches about equality.
He just treated people with basic human decency and refused to let anyone else do less. Sometimes that’s all it takes. One person standing up, one person saying this ends now. One person willing to risk their career, their reputation, their comfort to protect someone who can’t protect themselves. That night in 1961, Dean Martin drew a line.
And when Robert Hutchinson tried to cross it, Dean showed him exactly what happens when you mess with his family. The room went silent. The bigots got thrown out. And the world got a little bit better. That’s not just cool. That’s courage. That’s character. That’s love in action. And that’s the Dean Martin story that deserves to be
