The Devil May Dance Page 12

  Jacobs nodded noncommittally, acknowledging that he’d heard it all. Charlie wondered how often he had to shrug off comments like that.

  “He’s a regular civil rights visionary, our Saint Francis,” said Martin.

  A scratchy voice suddenly blared from a speaker under one of the small tables around the pool. “All right, you halfwits, apparently you weren’t aware I had this place wired for sound for TP’s visit,” Sinatra said. “Cut the gossip, schoolgirls.” He sounded halfway on the road to fury.

  Lola and Judy glanced at each other and grimaced while Jacobs walked briskly back to the house. Charlie tried to remember what exactly he’d said. Had Sinatra heard his attempts to play detective?

  When Hubbard returned to the room ten minutes later with Julius, his ebullient smile had disappeared, replaced by an unnerving, stony calm. He stared silently at the women sitting at the conference table.

  “Christopher didn’t have any sisters,” he said to Margaret. “Who are you?”

  “Your IDs, please!” Julius barked, hand outstretched.

  Margaret took a deep breath and tried to slow her racing heart as she pictured their purses stowed in the trunk of the rental car and wondered about their chances of escape. “We left our purses at home,” she said.

  Hubbard towered over Margaret. He had clearly figured out that she was the leader. “You are a nasty woman!” He stood close enough that a faint shower of spittle landed on Margaret, and she could see the yellow plaque that coated his teeth.

  “You cannot just come into a house of worship and deceive parishioners and the church leader!” shouted Julius.

  Hubbard’s face was turning pink and he was breathing heavily. Margaret saw his fists clenching and wondered if he was preparing to use them.

  “Why are you here?” he shouted. “What do you want? Who sent you? Sara? The government? Are you even from this planet?”

  Margaret had no idea what Hubbard might be capable of. Charlie might as well have been on the other side of the earth; Hubbard and Julius could make her and Sheryl Ann disappear without a trace.

  Hubbard’s eyes were closed and his head was tilted toward the ceiling; he seemed to be trying to calm himself down. He cracked his knuckles. Julius had begun pacing back and forth, muttering quietly to himself. They both looked raving mad. Margaret glanced sideways at Sheryl Ann—her eyes were wide, her face white with fear.

  Margaret made a decision.

  As the men glowered and stormed, Margaret suddenly burst into tears. Shoulders heaving, tears flowing, she felt an odd relief in letting go like this. And her distress seemed to soothe Hubbard—his face softened and she saw him look toward Julius with an expression that seemed something like…victory? She reached blindly for Sheryl Ann’s hand and squeezed gently in what she hoped would be a comforting signal. Hubbard put a beefy paw on Margaret’s shoulder. His bluster was suddenly gone, replaced by an oily concern.

  “I could sense your trauma when you walked in the door.” He put a finger under Margaret’s chin and tilted her face up to his, as if he were a grandfather trying to comfort an upset child. She tried to hide her revulsion. “We can help rid you of it.”

  He pulled her to her feet and embraced her. Margaret leaned into him, her arms at her side, her head bowed against his chest. She had to suppress every impulse to recoil.

  “There, there,” he said. He squeezed her harder.

  And then Hubbard suddenly convulsed, his shoulders spasming and his head thrust back.

  Julius raced to him, crying out, “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

  Hubbard fell, and his body seized up; his legs kicked spastically, as if he were swimming.

  Margaret grabbed Sheryl Ann’s hand and ran; the two women were out the door and onto the street by the time Julius realized Margaret had grabbed the tin cans from the E-Meter and shoved them under Hubbard’s arms after cranking up the electronic dial to jolt his body with a temporarily debilitating current.

  Margaret and Sheryl Ann raced through the empty foyer, skidded down the snowy stairs, and almost tripped several times as they ran to their locked car. Two young men with crew cuts emerged from the house, shouting and coming at them like Olympic sprinters, followed by Julius, barking orders. Julius tripped in the slush and fell but the other two were fast; Margaret wasn’t sure they were going to be able to get away.

  She looked to her left when she heard another car approaching. Amazed, she saw Charlotte Goode screech up in her blue Chevy Bel Air and open the passenger door. “Get in, get in!”

  Margaret was stunned, but there was no time for questions. She scrambled into the Bel Air with Sheryl Ann right behind her, and Charlotte hit the gas.

  Chapter Twelve

  Los Angeles, California

  January 1962

  They raced down the street.

  Charlotte attempted to speed her junky car through the snow but it was like her tires were inner tubes. The car kept skidding, dinging parked car after parked car, nearly mowing down pedestrians.

  Margaret sat shotgun. In the back, Sheryl Ann looked through the rear window. The church thugs—Julius in his Hawaiian shirt and the two crew-cut young men—trailed a block behind them, also skidding all over the road, in a blue Ford Galaxie. An actual car chase. They had become a Hollywood cliché.

  Margaret looked out the side window and saw pump jacks in the distance. An oil field. Could this be Inglewood? She had lost all sense of space and time.

  Goode’s car hit an icy patch and they spun out, slid through an intersection, and careened into a telephone pole. The three women were jerked violently toward the pole, then back toward the front of the car.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” Goode yelled.

  The car was now aimed in the wrong direction, toward where they had come from. The Galaxie slowly drove toward them.

  “You okay, Sheryl Ann?” Margaret asked.

  “I think so,” Sheryl Ann said, patting her chin, which was bleeding.

  “That’s a nasty gash,” Margaret said. She removed a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed her friend’s cut.

  Goode struggled to kick her car back to life.

  “Fuck!” she yelled.

  The Galaxie began speeding up.

  “Why are they even—” Sheryl Ann said. Her unfinished question made perfect sense to Margaret: Why were these thugs chasing them? Because they’d tried to get information about Powell? Because they’d lied about who they were? Because Margaret had stolen that document?

  “The goddamn shifter’s jammed,” Goode said.

  The Galaxie was now close enough that Margaret could see the furious faces of the young men.

  Finally, Goode got the car in gear. She slowly moved forward, then began U-turning. The Galaxie hit the same ice patch Goode had and slid across the intersection, only to be suddenly T-boned by a Chevy. There was a horrific metal crunch. The two cars skidded to a stop as Goode’s car chugged away.

  Dean Martin left the Compound for Los Angeles shortly after lunch; he had to catch a flight to Pebble Beach for the Bing Crosby pro-am golf tournament. About an hour after that, Charlie was downing yet another screwdriver and enjoying a cigarette on the front porch when Lawford’s red Ghia L6.4 screeched around the circular driveway and came to an abrupt stop at the front door. Lawford and several attractive young women spilled out of the Italian coupe like it was the world’s most glamorous clown car.

  Lawford and his entourage swarmed past Charlie on a cloud of cigarette smoke and Arpège. “What are you doing out here by yourself, old sport?” Lawford said with a wink. “Join the party!”

  He did. Within minutes, the young women, seemingly impervious to the brisk air, had stripped down to bathing suits, slinky one-pieces in a dizzying array of colors. Jacobs materialized with more cocktails. Sometime later they escaped the chill by migrating to the small gunite spa containing a Jacuzzi whirlpool, a new trend sweeping the estates of Southern California millionaires.

  Sinatra, Judy, an
d two of the new arrivals—one had an impressive and loud Texas twang, the other had a delightful explosion of freckles that reminded Charlie of a Jackson Pollock—took their drinks to lounge chairs. On her way to the chairs, Lola stopped at Sinatra’s impressive outdoor hi-fi and turned on the radio; “Runaround Sue” began blasting, and some of the young women started dancing. Charlie looked at their host; he seemed okay with Dion, but soon enough the song ended and another one began, and before Elvis Presley could even utter the words When we kiss, my heart’s on fire from his hot single “Surrender,” Sinatra’s placid smile melted into a look of disgust and he threw his drink at the nearest speaker.

  “Turn off that goddamn mumble monkey!” he yelled, and Jacobs quickly restored order to the universe by putting his boss’s Swing Along with Me on the turntable. “Don’t Cry, Joe (Let Her Go, Let Her Go, Let Her Go)” began playing.

  But Texas Twang and Freckles couldn’t figure out how to dance to it after the much faster song that had preceded it. Even this new “swingier” version of Sinatra’s 1949 recording felt old. Charlie caught one of the young women rolling her eyes at her friend.

  “Put on the covers, George,” Sinatra ordered.

  Jacobs brought out an LP and soon they were all listening to Sinatra singing Carl Perkins’s “Blue Suede Shoes.”

  “Just a lark,” Sinatra explained. “Made an album of rock covers for my daughters. Maybe we’ll release it sometime.” Everyone smiled at the privilege of being let in on the secret while dancing to Sinatra singing Richard’s “Tutti Frutti,” then his take on Gene Vincent’s “Be-Bop-a-Lula,” followed by his version of “Tequila” by the Champs.

  “Fantastic,” Charlie called out to Sinatra. He was half sincere, half ass-kissing, and worried for a second that he had gone too far. But Sinatra raised a glass in return and Charlie exhaled.

  As the sun began to sink behind the mountains, taking its comfortable warmth along with it, Sinatra and his guests kept themselves warm with the help of Jacobs’s endless supply of cocktails: screwdrivers and mai tais, then the spiciest margarita Charlie had ever had, then a surprisingly strong Pimm’s cup—a purposeful nod by Jacobs to Lawford’s British roots. Before long, most of the others were dancing while Charlie lingered in the hot tub, pruning like an octogenarian, and Sinatra sat at the Jacuzzi’s edge, feet submerged.

  “The place looks great,” Charlie said to his host. “You’re ready for JFK’s visit.”

  “You know, Congressman, I don’t even know for sure that TP is going to stay here,” Sinatra said. “I haven’t gotten a straight answer or even a call back from anyone real since the Ambassador had his stroke.”

  “What does Lawford say?” Charlie said.

  Sinatra let out a short laugh. “Worthless. A bum.” He said it loud enough for Lawford to hear, but the Kennedy in-law, well oiled by now, was focused only on the young women dancing on the pool deck. Charlie and Sinatra watched Lawford wrap a towel around the waist of the gal with the Texas twang, then pull her toward a lounge chair and onto his lap.

  “Thing is,” Sinatra said, “they owe me. TP owes me. Peter and I flew to Palm Beach three summers ago, in ’59, to meet with the Ambassador. He had lots of asks—money, benefit concerts, a goddamn theme song. But he also wanted me to hit up Momo for help with the unions. And I did. Skinny D’Amato got the miners for the West Virginia primary, and you better believe Momo was busy in Chicago on election night. I made that happen.”

  Charlie took it all in. The whispers of Mob assistance had never been investigated by law enforcement, so he hadn’t known what to believe. But here was the Chairman of the Board, confirming it all.

  Before he could respond, Judy and Lola approached them. Judy kicked off her leopard-print mules, sat next to Sinatra, leaned close, and whispered in his ear; whatever it was, it made him smile. With one languorous move, Lola took off her shirt, revealing a bikini, and joined Charlie in the hot tub.

  Lola draped her arms along the Jacuzzi edge and surveyed the scene, then leaned back and closed her eyes. Judy, meanwhile, worked double time to make sure none of the other young near-naked women were able to get Sinatra’s attention.

  Jacobs’s next tray included much-needed solid food. Lawford reluctantly accepted a sandwich; he balanced the plate on one leg and Texas Twang on the other, as if she were a side order of chips.

  “Oh, Charlie,” Lawford said absentmindedly. “I saw your cousin the other day.”

  Charlie didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “That girl, the young girl,” Lawford said, looking at him. “With the—” He motioned with his hands, suggesting two immense scoops of breast.

  “My wife’s niece?” Charlie asked.

  “That’s the one,” Lawford said.

  “Where?”

  “A party,” said Lawford.

  “A party where? When exactly?”

  Then, to Charlie’s amazement, Lawford turned away and went back to the dish on his lap.

  Lola’s eyes were trained on Charlie. “This isn’t your scene, is it?”

  “I don’t really ring-a-ding-ding,” Charlie said.

  She gave a knowing grin, rooted in the confidence of youth. Charlie had never felt that kind of assuredness. Folks might have inferred strength from his reticence or from the wounds he’d carried out of a trench in France. What trenches had Lola fought in? Charlie tried to look away but found that difficult. He felt his heart beating faster.

  Lawford came over to the hot tub; he was holding hands with Texas Twang, who was in turn holding hands with Freckles.

  “Loosen up, Charlie, baby,” he said with a lazy grin, swaying slightly on his feet. “You’re on recess.”

  “How long you been married, Congressman?” Lola asked.

  “We’ve been together since ’41,” Charlie said. “Got married when I got back from France, in ’45.”

  “Jeez Louise, I haven’t been alive that long,” said Freckles.

  From the other side of the house, where construction workers had been laboring since that morning, came the sound of a power drill, temporarily drowning out everything else.

  “When’s the last time you did some drilling, Congressman?” asked Freckles once the noise had stopped.

  They all laughed, including Lola. Charlie gave an insincere chuckle.

  It had been a couple weeks. Or maybe more. More, definitely. The travel and the jet lag hadn’t been very conducive to his and Margaret’s love life. Charlie living in DC Monday through Friday and coming home only on weekends didn’t help either. Dwight’s nightmares meant that when he was back in New York, their bedroom now slept three. His drinking was also causing him to stay up later and her to turn in earlier, if he admitted it to himself.

  The cold front had been making its way east. A cloud blocked the sun and now there was no denying an uncomfortable drop in temperature. The young women began to shiver theatrically. “Come inside and let’s find a way to warm up, shall we?” Lawford said. Charlie marveled that this sort of line worked. His blinding smile and impressive pedigree probably helped.

  Lawford and his companions headed indoors while Charlie remained in the hot tub with Lola, both sunk nearly to their chins in an effort to stay warm. He looked over at Sinatra and Judy seated at the poolside bar, wrapped in terry-cloth robes. They whispered with purpose, then they also rose to go inside. He looked back at Lola, who smiled invitingly. Nervously, Charlie looked away. Then he looked back. She was still smiling at him—brazenly, cheerfully, clear about what she was conveying.

  And then she took off her bikini top.

  Charlie tried to catch his breath; she was like a Botticelli. The booze was disintegrating the wall he’d constructed between righteousness and desire. No one there would care. Who would know?

  He looked away, toward the large windows of the living room, through which he saw Judy take a seat on Sinatra’s lap. A newly hung portrait of President Kennedy stared past Sinatra and directly at Charlie.

  Kennedy. Ch
arlie thought of the president and his brother and what they were doing to Charlie’s father; he thought of the disdain he’d long had for President Kennedy’s legendary extramarital duplicity. These were angry thoughts, punctuated by girlish laughter from wherever Lawford and his party had retreated.

  Charlie had been with other women between Pearl Harbor and his and Margaret’s post-VJ-Day nuptials. He hadn’t told Margaret, and she had never asked. In France he had focused on leading his platoon and pushing aside the nihilism that threatened to overwhelm them. But there were moments of which he was not proud—a night in the Alsace when a terrified woman threw herself into his arms, in gratitude born from desperation and survival. And there were other times, too, when Charlie felt himself on the precipice of such despair that nothing else would arrest it. No one even bothered to romanticize it. This was not joie de vivre. They were rats in a ship’s hull. He wasn’t proud of his behavior in France, but he tried to leave it behind. It was overseas, it was during war, it was before he was married.

  Here in a Jacuzzi at Sinatra’s compound—well, this was not war.

  And with that, he permitted himself to look again at Lola, who was arching her back as she stretched—

  Charlie stood up abruptly in the hot tub. “Excuse me,” he said to Lola. “I just remembered I have a phone call to make.”

  “Doesn’t look like you’re thinking about a phone call,” Lola observed.

  He took one last look at her, swallowed, and walked inside.

  Good Lord, he thought as he walked by Sinatra and Judy. She was straddling him on the sofa, though they were both still fully dressed.

  “Not so easy being righteous when other dames actually want to screw you, is it?” Sinatra said loudly. Charlie suddenly wondered about the crooner’s plans to marry Juliet Prowse. Maybe Frank had forgotten.

  In the kitchen, Charlie found Jacobs collecting his wallet and keys and preparing for a quick shopping trip. He asked if he could join him.