Dean Martin was in his dressing room, 20 feet from the stage, when he heard the sound. It wasn’t applause, it wasn’t laughter, but a stifled scream. 3,000 people holding their breath at the same time. In show business, you learn what the different sounds from the audience mean. Laughter means the joke landed. Applause means they’re happy. Silence means something’s wrong.
But a collective stifled scream… that means something terrible has just happened.
Dean opened his dressing room door. He could hear Sammy’s voice from the stage, but it sounded different. Shaken, scared. Then Dean heard another voice, louder, angrier, slurring his words from the alcohol.
— Do you think you’re funny, Sammy? Do you think you can make jokes about me?
Dean’s blood ran cold. He knew that voice. Everyone in Las Vegas knew that voice. It belonged to a mob boss who controlled half the casinos on the Strip; a man who’d sent people to the hospital for even looking at him the wrong way, and he was on Sammy’s stage right now.
Dean started walking toward the stage entrance. One of the stagehands grabbed his arm.
— Dean, no. You don’t want to get involved with him.
Dean moved his arm away.
— Sammy is my friend.
— Dean, he’ll kill you.
— Then he’ll kill me.
Dean walked toward the stage, and what he saw made him understand. This wasn’t just about defending Sammy. It was about drawing a line the mob could never cross again.
To understand what happened on March 8, 1964, you need to understand three things: who Sammy Davis Jr. was, who this mob boss was, and what Las Vegas was really like beneath the glamour.
Sammy Davis Jr. was one of the most talented entertainers in the world. He could sing, dance, act, do impressions, and play instruments. He was a complete artist. But in 1964 America, Sammy was also a Black man in an industry and a city that still operated under racist principles. Sammy had converted to Judaism. He had married a white woman, the Swedish actress May Britt, which caused a huge controversy. He was banned from performing in certain venues. The hotels where he headlined wouldn’t allow him to stay in the rooms or eat in the restaurants. He faced death threats regularly.
But Sammy had something protecting him: the Rat Pack. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Peter Lawford, and Joey Bishop. These men, particularly Frank and Dean, had made it clear that anyone who messed with Sammy would have to deal with them. It wasn’t perfect protection; Sammy still faced humiliation and discrimination, but it was something.
The mob boss—we’ll call him Angelo, though that wasn’t his real name—was a different kind of danger. Angelo was connected to one of the major crime families on the East Coast. He had interests in several Las Vegas casinos. He was known for two things: making money and having a violent temper, especially when he drank. And Angelo drank a lot.
Angelo had a particular hatred for comedians who made jokes about mobsters. He saw it as disrespectful, as someone who didn’t know their place. And three days before March 8, Sammy had made a joke during his show. Not about Angelo specifically, just a general joke about the mob. Something about “my friends in the hospitality industry who make offers you can’t refuse.” The audience had laughed. It was a good joke. But Angelo had been in the audience that night, and he hadn’t laughed.
March 8th was a Friday. The Sands Hotel’s exhibition hall was packed: 3,000 people. Sammy was doing his usual show: singing, dancing, impersonations, comedy. He was about 45 minutes into his set, right in the middle of his Frank Sinatra impersonation, when it happened.
Angelo, sitting in the third row with three of his associates, stood up. He’d been drinking since before the show started. He was loud, belligerent. People in nearby seats had noticed, but were too afraid to complain. Sammy was in the middle of his impersonation: “Ring-a-ding-ding, baby.”
When Angelo came on stage—he simply walked up the stage stairs to the platform while Sammy was performing—the audience initially thought it was part of the show, perhaps a planned sketch. But then they saw Sammy’s face, the confusion, the fear. This wasn’t planned.
“You think you’re funny, Sammy?” Angelo’s voice boomed through the room. He wasn’t using a microphone, but his anger made him loud enough. “You think you can make jokes about me?”
Sammy took a step back.
— Angelo, I wasn’t… I wasn’t talking about you specifically.
— Three nights ago you made a joke about the mafia. I was there. I heard it.
The band had stopped playing. The room was completely silent, except for Angelo’s voice. Sammy raised his hands, trying to calm the situation.
— Angelo, listen. It was just a joke. I make jokes about everyone. Frank, Dean, myself.
— You’re not his equal, Sammy. You’re not Frank. You’re not Dean. You’re a…
Angelo used a racial slur, the N-word, out loud in front of 3,000 people. Sammy’s face went stone. Everyone in that room felt the change in the air.
“Never call me that,” Sammy said quietly.
Angelo moved closer.
—Or what? What are you going to do? Do you think your Rat Pack friends are protecting you? They’re not here, Sammy. It’s just you and me.
Sammy’s mind was racing. He knew Angelo’s reputation. He knew what this man was capable of. But he also knew he couldn’t just stand there and accept this abuse. Not in front of 3,000 people. Not on his own stage.
“I am respectfully asking you to leave my stage,” Sammy said, his voice trembling but firm.
Angelo is a river.
— Respectfully asking… You’re not asking me to do anything.
And then Angelo hit him. A hard right hook to Sammy’s face. The sound echoed throughout the hall. Sammy stumbled backward, fell, and landed hard on the stage. His one good eye was watering from pain, rage, or humiliation. Maybe all three. Blood began to trickle from his split lip.
Angelo stood over him.
— Get up. Get up so I can hit you again.
The room was frozen. Three thousand people, and no one moved. The security guards stood at the back of the room, looking at each other, unsure what to do. You don’t arrest a mob boss. You don’t even go near a mob boss. Not if you want to keep working in Vegas.
Sammy lay on the floor, one hand touching his bleeding lip, the other on the stage floor, trying to decide whether to get up. If he got up, Angelo would hit him again. If he didn’t get up, he was humiliated forever.
Six meters away, in his dressing room, Dean Martin heard the muffled scream of 3,000 people. He’d been relaxing, having a drink, planning to surprise Sammy after the show. They were going to have dinner, maybe go to the tables, just two friends hanging out. But that muffled scream, that sound… Dean knew something was very wrong.
He opened his dressing room door. He could hear Sammy’s voice, frightened, then Angelo’s angry voice, slurring his words, and he heard that racial slur cut through the air. Dean’s jaw tightened. He started walking toward the stage entrance.
A stagehand, a young guy named Tommy, grabbed Dean’s arm.
— Dean, no. That’s Angelo Martinelli. He is…
— I know who he is.
— Dean, he’s killed people. He’ll kill you.
Dean moved his arm away. Not roughly, just firmly.
— Sammy is my friend.
Dean, please.
— Then he’ll kill me.
Dean pushed open the curtain and walked toward the stage. The first thing he saw was Sammy on the floor, blood on his lip. The second thing he saw was Angelo standing over him. The third thing he saw was 3,000 people sitting in terrified silence.
Dean didn’t run, he didn’t shout, he simply walked calmly toward the stage. His voice cut through the silence.
— Take your hands off my friend.
Angelo turned around. His drunken, angry face broke into a smile.
— Dean Martin. Perfect. Maybe you can teach your friend here about respect.
Dean kept walking until he was standing between Angelo and Sammy.
— Sammy, are you okay?
Sammy nodded, wiping the blood from his mouth.
— I’m fine, Dean. You should… you should go back to your dressing room.
Dean ignored him. He looked at Angelo.
— You need to leave now.
Angelo is a river.
— Or what? Dean, are you going to drag me off the stage by singing?
Dean’s voice remained calm. Dangerously calm.
— I’m asking you once. Leave this stage. Leave this room. Don’t come back.
— Are you asking me? You work for us, Dean. We own this casino. You act this way because we let you. So maybe you should leave.
Dean took another step closer. They were face to face now, close enough that Angelo’s alcoholic breath was visible.
“I don’t work for anyone,” Dean said quietly. “I work with people, and you just assaulted my friend in front of 3,000 witnesses. So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get off this stage right now, or I’m going to make sure every artist in this city knows what you did. And good luck filling venues when nobody wants to work for you.”
Angelo’s smile faded.
— Are you threatening me?
— I’m giving you a choice. Walk away now or lose every main act in Las Vegas. Your choice.
Angelo glanced around the room. Three thousand pairs of eyes were staring at him, at Dean, waiting to see who would blink first. Angelo’s three associates had risen from their table. They were waiting for a signal. One word from Angelo and this could escalate into a fight, or worse.
But Dean didn’t move, didn’t flinch, he just stood there, hands at his sides, perfectly calm, staring at a man who had killed people for less. The silence stretched on. 10 seconds, 20, 30. Finally, Angelo took a step back.
— You just made a big mistake, Dean.
— Maybe. But Sammy is my friend, so if protecting him is a mistake, I’ll make it every time.
Angelo looked at Sammy, still on the ground.
— This is not over.
“Yes, he has,” Dean said. “Security, please escort Mr. Martinelli out of the building.”
Two security guards who had been frozen in place all this time finally moved. They approached Angelo cautiously. Angelo brushed them off.
— I go out alone.
He looked at Dean once more.
— You’re going to regret this.
— I doubt it.
Angelo left the stage. His three associates followed. The room remained silent until Angelo exited through the back door. Then, slowly, the applause began. One person, then ten, then a hundred. Within seconds, all 3,000 people were on their feet giving Dean Martin a standing ovation.
Dean helped Sammy to his feet.
— Are you okay, friend?
Sammy’s eye filled with tears.
— You didn’t have to do that, Dean. He’s coming for you now.
Dean shrugged.
— Let him try. You’re my brother, Sammy. Nobody touches you. Not while I’m alive.
The standing ovation continued. Dean looked out at the audience and grabbed the microphone.
Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for this interruption, but I want to make something very clear. Sammy Davis Jr. is one of the greatest entertainers who ever lived. He’s also one of the greatest men I know. And if anyone has a problem with him, if anyone disrespects him, threatens him, or touches him, they’ll have me to answer for.
The applause grew louder. Dean handed the microphone to Sammy. Sammy took it, still wiping the blood from his lip.
— Thank you, Dean, and thank you all for being here tonight. The show must go on.
He turned towards the sidelines.
— Let’s pick it up again from Mr. Bojangles.
The band started playing. Sammy began to sing, and Dean left the stage to the loudest applause he had ever received without singing a single note.
Behind the stage, Tommy, the stagehand, was as white as a sheet.
— Dean, what have you done? Angelo is going to…
“Angelo’s going to do whatever he’s going to do,” Dean said calmly. “But he learned something tonight. You don’t mess with my friends.”
The consequences came quickly. Within an hour, the news had spread to every casino in Las Vegas. Dean Martin had confronted Angelo Martinelli, humiliated him in front of 3,000 people, and forced him to leave. Some people thought Dean was crazy. Others thought he was dead. A few thought he was the bravest man in Las Vegas.
That night, Dean received calls from Frank Sinatra, Joey Bishop, and a dozen other artists. Frank was furious; not with Dean, but because he hadn’t been there to help. “If I’d been there, we would have thrown that bastard off the stage together.”
But there was another call, from a man Dean wasn’t expecting. A major figure in the Mafia, someone higher up in the chain than Angelo.
— Mr. Martin, I heard what happened tonight.
– Yeah.
— And Angelo crossed the line. He shouldn’t have been on that stage. He definitely shouldn’t have hit his friend, and he definitely shouldn’t have said what he said.
Dean was surprised.
— Aren’t you here to threaten me?
“No, I’m here to tell you that Angelo has been told to leave you and Mr. Davis alone permanently. What he did tonight was bad for business. He made us look like animals. We don’t need that kind of attention. So that’s it. It’s over.”
— Is it over?
“You and Mr. Davis can perform without worrying about Angelo. But Dean, don’t make a habit of this. We can’t have artists challenging us every time they disagree with something. This was a one-off exception because Angelo was wrong. Very wrong. Understood?”
– Understood.
The call ended. Dean sat in his dressing room, realizing he’d just crossed a line he could never uncross. He’d challenged the mob and won, but only because he’d been right and lucky, and because Angelo had been so obviously wrong that not even his own people could defend him.
The next day, Dean received a message to meet someone at a coffee shop off the Strip. When he arrived, he found the top mobster from the phone call.
“I wanted to tell you in person,” the man said. “What you did took guts. Stupid guts, but guts nonetheless. Angelo has been told to stay away from you, Mr. Davis, and anyone in your circle. But Dean, you can’t do this again. Next time, there might not be anyone there to pull you out of the fire.”
Dean nodded.
— I understand. But if someone goes after Sammy again…
“No one will. We’ve made that clear. Mr. Davis is under protection now. But Dean, you need to understand something. You won last night because Angelo was drunk, because he assaulted someone in public, and because he used language that even we wouldn’t tolerate in front of 3,000 witnesses. You won because the situation was so extreme that we had no choice but to side with you. But that’s not going to happen again. So please, for your own sake and Mr. Davis’s, don’t test us.”
Dean extended his hand.
— Deal.
They shook hands and that was it.
Sammy Davis Jr. never forgot what Dean did that night. For the rest of his life, whenever anyone asked him who his best friend was, he would say Dean Martin without hesitation.
“Frank was the leader,” Sammy said years later. “He was the one who brought us all together. But Dean… Dean was the one who would die for you. He would literally die for you. He proved it that night. He stood between me and a mob boss who could have killed us both. And he didn’t flinch. That’s not friendship. That’s brotherhood.”
The night of March 8, 1964, became legendary in Las Vegas. Not because of great music or a huge jackpot, but because Dean Martin drew a line and said, “This is as far as I go. You can control the casinos. You can control the money, but you can’t touch my friends.” And the Mafia, for once, backed down.
