Los Angeles, CA — May 16, 1990

In the final days of Sammy Davis Jr.’s life, the world watched as Hollywood’s brightest stars came together to say goodbye to one of entertainment’s most dynamic and beloved performers. But for those closest to Sammy, it was a quiet, deeply personal moment—one that took place behind hospital doors at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center—that truly defined the meaning of friendship.

On May 14, 1990, as Sammy lay in his hospital bed, weakened by a months-long battle with throat cancer, there was one visitor he had not yet seen. Dean Martin, his longtime friend and fellow Rat Pack legend, had always been a private man when it came to emotional farewells. Friends and family wondered if he would come at all.

A Rat Pack Reunion, Decades in the Making

For weeks, Frank Sinatra had been a near-daily presence at Sammy’s side, holding his hand and reminiscing about their glory days. Elizabeth Taylor sent flowers. Liza Minnelli sang softly in the room. The entertainment world was paying its respects, but Sammy’s heart ached for Dean—the friend who shared stages, hotel rooms, and laughter during the golden age of Las Vegas.

Dean’s reluctance was well-known. “Dean doesn’t do death beds,” Frank reportedly told Sammy’s wife, Altovise Davis. “It’s not that he doesn’t care. It’s just not who Dean is.” Dean avoided hospitals and funerals, preferring to keep his feelings locked away. But Sammy never stopped hoping.

Their friendship had always been more than showbiz. In an era when Sammy faced discrimination, Dean quietly ensured that contracts required equal treatment for all Rat Pack members. He never gave speeches about civil rights, but his actions spoke volumes. “Dean’s got your back,” Frank used to say. “He just doesn’t talk about it.”

The Visit That Changed Everything

On the morning of May 14, Sammy was struggling. Pain medication blurred his consciousness, and breathing was a challenge. Altovise sat beside him, reading letters from fans. “Here’s one from a little girl in Ohio,” she said softly. “You taught her she could be anything she wanted to be.” Sammy managed a weak smile, comforted that his life had inspired others.

At 2 p.m., a soft knock interrupted the quiet. Altovise looked up, expecting a nurse—but it was Dean Martin. He entered the room quietly, looking older and more fragile than Sammy remembered. The loss of his son Dean Paul Martin three years earlier had left its mark.

Dean approached the bed. For a moment, neither man spoke. Then Sammy’s eyes opened and focused on his friend. “Dino,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Hey, Smokey,” Dean replied, using the nickname he’d given Sammy decades earlier. “You look terrible.”

Sammy laughed—a sound that quickly turned into a coughing fit, but his eyes sparkled with joy for the first time in weeks.

Dean pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. For several minutes, they simply looked at each other, letting thirty years of friendship pass between them in silence.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Sammy finally said.

Dean’s expression softened. “I wasn’t sure I would either. I’m not good at this stuff, Sam. You know that.”

“You’re here now,” Sammy replied. “That’s what matters.”

A Photograph, A Memory, A Moment

Dean reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph that made Sammy’s eyes fill with tears. It was a snapshot from 1960, showing the five Rat Pack members on stage at the Copa Room in Las Vegas—young, handsome, arms around each other, laughing.

“I found this in my desk,” Dean said, holding the photo where Sammy could see it. “I’ve been carrying it around for weeks, trying to work up the courage to come here.”

Sammy stared at the photograph, remembering that night during the filming of Ocean’s 11. “We were something, weren’t we?” he whispered.

“We were everything,” Dean replied. “The best there ever was.”

Altovise quietly stepped out, sensing this was a moment for the two friends alone.

Words That Needed Saying

Dean leaned closer. “Sam, I need to tell you something. I need to say things I should have said years ago.”

Sammy nodded, exhausted but attentive.

“I was never good with words like Frank,” Dean began. “But you—you were more than a friend. You were the heart of everything we did.”

Dean’s voice cracked with emotion. “When we started performing together, I watched how you handled the places that wouldn’t let you stay, the people who said horrible things. You never let it make you bitter. You taught me what real class looked like.”

Tears streamed down Sammy’s face. These were words he’d waited a lifetime to hear.

Dean recalled a night in Miami when a hotel tried to make Sammy use the service entrance. “I wanted to fight the whole hotel,” Dean said, “but you just smiled and said, ‘Let’s show them how it’s done. Let’s be so good they can’t ignore us.’”

Sammy had always chosen to fight with talent, not fists.

“You were right,” Dean said. “And I was proud to stand next to you on every stage.”

Dean paused, struggling with emotion. “I know I wasn’t always there when you needed support. I was a coward sometimes, Sam, but every night we performed together was an honor for me.”

Sammy reached out, grabbing Dean’s hand. “You were there when it mattered. Dino, you always had my back.”

Dean squeezed his hand gently. “There’s something else I need to tell you. You saved my life once—not literally, but you saved who I was as a person. After the Kennedy thing, when everything got complicated with Frank and the politics, I was ready to quit. You came to my house at 3 in the morning and sat with me until sunrise. You reminded me that music mattered more than politics. You saved our friendship. You saved me.”

Both men cried, finally expressing emotions carried for decades.

A Final Request, A Final Goodbye

“I have to ask you for one more favor,” Dean said, voice stronger. “When you get where you’re going, keep an eye out for Dean Paul. He could use a friend.”

Sammy smiled through tears. “I’ll find him, Dino. I’ll take care of him.”

Dean leaned down and kissed Sammy’s forehead—a gesture never shared in all their years of friendship. “I love you, Smokey. I should have said it before, but I’m saying it now. You were the best friend a guy could have.”

“I love you too, Dino. Thank you for coming. Thank you for everything.”

Dean stayed for another hour, sharing memories and holding Sammy’s hand. When he finally left, both men knew it was goodbye forever.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean said from the doorway. “Next time I see you, you better be ready to sing. I’ve got some new material I want to try out.”

Sammy laughed one last time. “I’ll be ready, partner. Save me the good songs.”

A Legacy of Friendship

Sammy Davis Jr. died two days later, on May 16, 1990. Those closest to him said that after Dean’s visit, something changed. The fear was gone, replaced by peace. He had received the blessing he needed from the friend whose opinion mattered most.

Dean Martin attended Sammy’s funeral, one of the few times in his later years he appeared at such an event. He didn’t speak, but he honored his friend one last time.

Years later, when people asked Dean about that final conversation, he would simply say, “We said what needed to be said.”

The photograph Dean brought to the hospital—showing the Rat Pack in their prime—was found on Sammy’s nightstand. On the back, in Dean’s handwriting: “For Smokey, the best there ever was. Love, Dino.” Today, it sits in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, a testament to a friendship that lasted beyond life itself.

The Power of Saying What Matters

This story is a reminder that sometimes the most important words are the ones we almost never say. The legacy of Sammy Davis Jr. and Dean Martin is not just in their music, but in the bonds they forged and the courage to say what matters before it’s too late.

Have you ever had to say goodbye to someone who changed your life? Share your story. Because the bonds we build—and the words we share—are what truly define us.