Perhaps Dee Dee thought she would go to the Fountainebleau Hotel with Cassius. Sam Cooke, friends with both Cassius and Dee Dee, was staying there, although it took a virtual sit-in by his manager for the front desk to find him a suite. Several of the members of the Louisville Sponsoring Group had even talked about a victory celebration for Cassius at the most luxurious hotel in Miami Beach. Champagne, showgirls, cakes—the celebration would be first class.3
The scenario, Dee Dee Sharp on his arm and champagne at a luxury hotel, conjures images of heavyweight championship style—Jack Dempsey and Estelle Taylor, Joe Louis and Marva Trotter, and, from baseball, Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe. That was the way it was supposed to be. By fighting blind in the fifth round and battering Sonny Liston in the sixth, Cassius Clay had earned the title of champion and his share of the good life.
While Dee Dee waited, Cassius was in his dressing room holding court. He had told the reporters that he was going to win—told them loudly and often. Now that he had their full attention, he gave them another chance. After castigating them for their lack of faith, he demanded “Who’s the greatest?” A few browbeaten scribes surrendered and said, “You are.” Only then did the new champion smile.4
It was after midnight when he came out of his dressing room. Accompanied by his brother and a few friends from the Nation, he pushed through the mob of photographers and newspapermen. Standing on her toes, Dee Dee waved, calling out “Marcellus! Marcellus!” She didn’t even receive a glance as he swept past her.5
From the arena he headed north toward the Hampton House and a small, private celebration with Malcolm X and a few other friends, including Rudy, Howard Bingham, Sam Cooke, and Archie Robinson. A joyous crowd had packed the Hampton House’s luncheonette by the time Clay’s party arrived. Cassius and Rudy, the two victorious boxers, sat in places of honor on the center stools at the lunch counter, surrounded by loud, talking, joking black men who had attended the fight or turned up to shake hands with the new heavyweight champion. Cassius’s victory dinner was a large bowl of ice cream, which he wolfed down in a matter of seconds. While Cassius ate, Malcolm and Howard Bingham snapped photographs—Malcolm whispering in Cassius’s ear, his hand resting on the champ’s shoulder; Malcolm bursting with laughter while Cassius teased him; Malcolm and Cassius exchanging knowing glances. It was the happiest moment they had ever shared together.6
The two appeared inseparable. Malcolm seemed to take as much satisfaction from Clay’s triumph and Hampton House victory party as the fighter himself. In his mind, after all, Cassius’s victory was his as well. Associates had remarked that they seemed as close as brothers. During the raucous stage of the evening he called writer Alex Haley, with whom he had become close during their collaboration on Malcolm’s autobiography. Clay was like Malcolm’s “little brother,” Haley recalled. “[Malcolm] was very, very proud of him.” During the phone call, over the loud voices in the background, “Malcolm was boasting how his little brother had done marvelously well.” Showing more excitement than he had displayed at the match, he called to Cassius to holler something to Haley, which he did. It was as if the big brother called the shots and the little brother amiably went along.7
Immediately after defeating Sonny Liston, Cassius celebrated at the Hampton House with Malcolm X, playfully sparring with and entertaining his supporters. But behind closed doors, Cassius weighed choices that would change both of their lives. Getty Images
After a short public celebration, the inner group moved to Malcolm’s bedroom for more serious conversation. The bubbly, playful banter was left behind at the lunch counter, replaced by a more somber mood. Now that Cassius was champion, Malcolm had urgent matters to discuss. He thought it was time for his friend to play a more active role in his plans. Cassius, Malcolm, and Jim Brown, the National Football League’s premier running back, began talking about the future of the black man. Sympathetic to many of the Nation of Islam’s goals, Brown was as respected by “race men” as he was by professional football players. He did not believe in heroes, but he admired Malcolm’s confrontational mentality. Like the combative minister, the outspoken football star insisted that blacks must demand their rights, fight for them, and defend them at all costs. Distrustful of white men, Brown questioned passive resistance and nonviolence. “I am skeptical of white men,” he would later write in his autobiography, “because even the best of them want me to be patient, to follow Martin Luther King’s advice and turn the other cheek until God knows when.”8