The Devil May Dance Page 5

  “We’ll keep an eye on your wife, Congressman,” Martin said. “Frank will, at any rate.” Everyone laughed.

  Lawford sauntered over to the policeman; Charlie followed. Rock Hudson thumbed the lapel of the young man beside him. No one was being even the slightest bit discreet; all inhibitions were gone. Gregory Peck was downing bourbons; buxom aspiring starlets were hanging on Robert Mitchum’s every word as he told them about being on a Savannah, Georgia, chain gang as a teenager. The punch line was that was why they were now shooting Cape Fear in California instead of on location in Savannah, a town Mitchum had hated ever since then. In the middle of this explosion of stars, Detective Meehan was making short work of a vodka tonic as he chatted up Tuesday Weld, who was wearing a tight blue dress and appeared eager to exit the conversation.

  Meehan must have sensed someone more famous in his vicinity because, like a remora sensing a shark, he turned to find its source: Lawford.

  “Peter!” he said. The two alpha-dogged each other, grasping each other’s hands with vise-grip aggression, pushing each other back and forth as if working a two-man crosscut saw.

  “Detective, this is Congressman Charlie Marder from New York,” Lawford said. “He’s here working on Frank’s Manchurian film, advising. He’s both a vet and an old Washington hand.”

  Meehan smiled and patted Charlie on the shoulder. “Welcome to Tinseltown,” he said. He took a gulp from his drink. “Oh, Peter,” he said, “you know I’ve landed the Powell case.”

  “No, I didn’t. Awful. We haven’t heard much about the circumstances. Suicide?”

  “Unless he shot himself in the eyes, both of them, then no, I don’t think it was a suicide,” Meehan said. “Classic Cosa Nostra. Make the corpse unpresentable for viewing. Old-world greaseball stuff. Frank might know something about it from his days in Hoboken.” Meehan laughed and squeezed Lawford’s shoulder; he shook it off slowly but with unmistakable distaste. “Speaking of Frank, didn’t he and Powell have a beef about some skirt? Lola something?” Meehan asked.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Lawford said unconvincingly. “You’d have to ask the man himself.”

  “Oh, I will,” Meehan said, staring toward the back room where Sinatra sat.

  At that very moment, Sinatra was ranting about gossip columnist Louella Parsons, who had devoted an entire chapter to him in her new memoir, Tell It to Louella.

  “She calls me ‘mixed up,’” he told his fellow Rat Packers and Margaret, rage simmering. “She said I go by the ‘law of the jungle.’ I mean, what in the hell is she talking about? That stupid fucking quin doesn’t know me.” He drained his glass of bourbon, and a waitress materialized instantly with another.

  “Francis, she wrote nice things too,” said MacLaine. “Compliments about your charm and your talent and how you’re willing to do anything for friends. Yes, there was some nasty stuff, but what do you want? She and Nancy are like sisters.” Sinatra and his first wife, Nancy, had divorced in 1951 after twelve years of marriage. They had three kids: Nancy, twenty-one, Frank Jr., seventeen, and Tina, thirteen.

  “There’s also, if you’ll permit me, my captain, quite a lot of praise for you as a father,” Davis offered. “As I understand it, that is. I would never peruse such garbage.”

  “Honestly, who even reads a book by a gossip columnist?” asked Martin. “She’s been on our drop-dead list forever.” Martin then began to belt out as if he were onstage:

  She’s the worst

  She’s a Vegas has-been

  She’s accursed

  She’s Joey Bishop’s foreskin

  But Sinatra was immune to Martin’s charms at the moment. “She’s a cunt,” he spat.

  Margaret flinched, then glanced at Britt and MacLaine, who subtly rolled their eyes at each other. Martin lightly patted Sinatra on the shoulder as if consoling him. Margaret looked around the table, but everyone avoided eye contact with her, even—maybe especially—the women.

  Charlie was making his way back to his wife when he felt a tug on his arm. He turned around to see Manny Fontaine. “Hey, pal!” the United Artists PR flack said, wobbling. He was solidly in the bag. Charlie looked at his watch—it was just after eight p.m.

  “Hey there, Manny.”

  “Don’t tell anyone, but it looks like Chris Powell was a Mob hit.” Charlie could smell the gin oozing out of the man as he leaned closer. Manny’s face was alight with ghoulish enthusiasm. “Shot through the eyes. Both of them! Blang! Blang!”

  “I heard that as well,” Charlie said, wishing he could extricate himself from the conversation.

  “Well, this is no good for Frank or for the studio. Frank’s rival rubbed out by the Mob!”

  Charlie was skeptical of that theory. “Because they were competing for a girl?”

  “Competing for Lola now, competing for parts in pictures in a few years, maybe? Powell was a comer.”

  “So the Mob had him killed on Frank’s behalf? You really think that?”

  “Oh no, no, no, no, no, no,” Fontaine said. Suddenly a sober expression came across his face and he lowered his voice. “I don’t know, stranger things have happened. You know how they got Frank out of his first contract with Tommy Dorsey?”

  “I’d heard rumors.”

  “More than rumors,” Fontaine said, pushing a beefy thumb into Charlie’s lapel for emphasis. “Yes, Powell was in Kid Galahad, that stupid Elvis boxing movie, but he was a good actor. There was talk of him playing Frank’s younger brother in Come Blow Your Horn. You know, the Neil Simon play. You seen it? Anyway, Frank didn’t want Powell in the picture. Fought it. Maybe felt threatened by his looks and talent?” Fontaine shrugged. “Guess he won’t have that problem anymore.”

  “Good Lord,” Lawford said under his breath to MacLaine when he returned to the table and found Sinatra ranting. “Who brought up Louella?”

  “Handsome Johnny,” MacLaine said, motioning toward one of the two anonymous men at the other end of the table. “Said his girlfriend was reading it to find out more about Hollywood. It was like dropping a match in the Strait of Hormuz.”

  “He has every reason to be upset,” Britt offered, also speaking in the hushed tone they had all adopted as if to avoid waking a sleeping baby. “Parsons goes into detail about everything, him leaving Nancy for Ava, the troubles he had with his voice in the fifties. Lot of dirty laundry. And she trashes a number of his performances.”

  “That’s a pity,” said Lawford.

  Sinatra continued his diatribe. Martin and Davis nodded along with his assessment of the gossip columnist and tried to convince him to forget about her. Charlie, returning to the table, tried to make sense of it all.

  “She’s a nasty old cooze, Frank, just forget about her,” Martin was saying.

  “Her latest column was nice, Pope,” said Davis. “She interviewed Janet Leigh, who gushed about how happy she was that you cast her in Manchurian, how you’re a great neighbor to her and Tony out in Rancho Mirage.”

  “Who are those men at the end of the table, anyway?” Charlie quietly asked Lawford.

  He shrugged. “Friends of Frank’s.” He didn’t seem to want to say any more.

  Lawford took a swig of bourbon. “I read the book. There was a lot in there about Frank having successfully launched the greatest comeback in the history of showbiz. I wish he wouldn’t focus so much on the negative.”

  “Why does he care?” Margaret asked. The passion and presence she’d seen in Sinatra just minutes before had morphed into something else: spite. He was a downed power line, writhing spasmodically. Out of control and best avoided.

  “Honestly, I think what’s really pissing him off is Parsons’s crack about him losing his hair,” Lawford said.

  “What was that?” Sinatra asked Lawford.

  “Just talking about that cunty book, Frank,” Lawford said.

  “Cunty is right,” Sinatra agreed, venom in his voice. The word echoed past their group, stopping conversations at other tables. Th
e room got a little quieter.

  “Well, you know what they say,” Margaret said, taking a sip of Charlie’s bourbon, “ask not what your cunty can do for you.”

  Silence.

  Followed by Sinatra’s face breaking into a smile, like an eggshell that’d been delicately tapped. A full grin. Teeth. Then Sinatra laughed and everyone exhaled and laughed along with him.

  “Congressman, this one is a keeper,” Sinatra said, pointing at Margaret. “C’mon! Let’s get some swinging music going in here!” He raised his glass and held it up to Margaret.

  From the speakers came a rapid race of trumpets and trombones, soon interrupted by Sinatra’s voice singing an old Mexican song from the 1930s that he’d covered in May and released on Swing Along with Me in June.

  Granada, I’m falling under your spell

  And if you could speak, what a fascinating tale you would tell…

  Martin patted Sinatra on the shoulder and the two toasted each other.

  “You’re the belle of the ball, Betsy,” Charlie whispered to Margaret, placing his hand on the small of her back.

  “Or at least Best Supporting Actress,” she said. Charlie knew how much she loathed that particular word Frank had used. She’d deployed it anyway—to break the tension, to help the cause. But she’d hated doing it. She felt like a sellout.

  And not for the first time. Margaret had put her career on hold to have Lucy and Dwight and she still beat herself up over it, resenting how her focus was now on dirty dishes and diapers instead of scholarship and the chance to gain recognition. Sensing her frustration, Charlie often told her he was eager to have her return to work full-time as soon as she wanted. She never said it, but she did wonder how sincere he was being.

  After the momentary introspection, Margaret dived back into the sea of revelry, where neither the Sinatra songs nor the drinking ever stopped. Soon she and Charlie were dealt into the game. MacLaine mentioned how much she was looking forward to seeing the fellas in Sergeants 3, which was to hit theaters soon.

  “That’s the one that’s based on Gunga Din but takes place in the Old West,” Margaret explained to Charlie.

  “You’re not a big fan of pictures, Congressman?” asked Sinatra.

  “Don’t get to go to the theater as much as I’d like,” Charlie said. “With work and the kids. We used to go every Saturday night. We’re fans of everyone here.”

  “Really?” asked Martin incredulously. Then he leaned forward with a challenge: “Name your favorite film starring each one of us.”

  Charlie sat up in his seat as everyone eyed him curiously. He loved being underestimated, though it seldom happened anymore.

  “I liked you in Rio Bravo,” Charlie told Martin.

  “I liked how they cast you against type, made you a lazy drunk,” Margaret added. This elicited guffaws from everyone, including Martin. “Good to see you branch out.”

  “Sammy was great as Sportin’ Life in Porgy and Bess,” Charlie continued, going around the table. “May, I loved you in The Hunters. Obviously, Shirley was mesmerizing in The Apartment, and I liked Peter best in The Thin Man, but I know that was TV, so he was also stellar in Exodus.”

  Charlie waved toward the serious-looking men to his left. “I don’t know who these two gentlemen are but I suspect they don’t care to be captured on film much.”

  The men grinned. They sure didn’t.

  “As for Mr. Sinatra,” Charlie said, “he’s giving a great performance in The Manchurian Candidate right now, but until that one’s released, I gotta say The Man with the Golden Arm. I know it’s probably trendier in this town to go with the role that won him the Oscar, but Frankie Machine still haunts me.” Charlie took a couple of swigs from his glass of bourbon, finishing it, while everyone stayed quiet. “If I’m still thinking about a performance years after I saw the picture, then the artist did something right.”

  “See, politicians know plenty about what we do,” Sinatra said. “When I talk to TP, all he wants to hear is Hollywood gossip.”

  “TP?” asked Margaret.

  “The president,” Lawford explained.

  They drank. And drank. Margaret was increasingly reminded of her 1940s fieldwork observing chimpanzees in the Belgian Congo. The monkeys were tribal, wild, focused on mating and alpha status, and the Rat Packers’ antics increasingly resembled the chimps’ as the night proceeded. Margaret whispered the observation to Charlie, who laughed heartily when Dean Martin coincidentally underlined her point with an operatic solo that recalled nothing so much as a primate’s pant-hoot.

  It was maybe an hour later when Britt nudged MacLaine and gestured toward something behind her. MacLaine looked, then turned back to May and mimed sticking her finger down her throat in an exaggerated expression of nausea.

  Margaret peered over her shoulder and saw an obese man in his fifties escorting a voluptuous curly-haired blond girl who couldn’t have been out of her teens to a table. His hands slid all over her—hips, legs, abdomen—as soon as they sat down. The room they were in was too dark for Margaret to see the girl’s facial expression.

  “Yuck,” said Margaret. Charlie, focused on his cards, looked up at his wife, then back at his three aces.

  “That’s Itchy Meyer, with MGM,” MacLaine said. “Total masher.”

  “Who’s the skirt?” asked Sinatra.

  “Dunno, I can’t really see her face that well,” said Britt.

  “DC is a whole town of Itchy Meyers,” said Margaret. “Senator Itchy Meyer, Congressman Itchy Meyer…”

  “President Itchy Meyer,” whispered Charlie.

  Margaret squinted at the young woman again. “Jesus,” she said under her breath. “Violet,” Margaret said, walking toward her. “Violet!” she shouted.

  The young woman looked around to see who was calling her name.

  “How does your wife know her name?” Martin asked Charlie.

  Charlie was too stunned to speak at first. “That’s her sister’s daughter, our niece Violet,” he finally said. “She ran away from home six months ago.”

  Chapter Six

  Beverly Hills, California

  December 1961

  Margaret’s relief at seeing her runaway niece vanished quickly. Violet was glassy-eyed and looked as if she barely understood that someone, let alone her aunt, was approaching.

  “Violet?” Margaret said. “Violet!”

  No response. Violet looked around the room, past Margaret. She must be stoned, Margaret thought. On pills or something.

  “Hi there,” Margaret said, extending a hand to introduce herself to Itchy Meyer, hoping to break the strange spell. He shot her a dirty look and then stood, took Violet’s hand, and briskly ushered her out of the club. Margaret was stunned. She called after her niece but was ignored as they walked out the door. She scrambled to catch her, but by the time she got through the crowd and made her way outside, they had vanished.

  “What happened?” Britt asked Margaret when she returned, shoulders slumped in defeat.

  MacLaine arched a perfectly penciled eyebrow as she examined the cards in her hand. “Here’s a guess,” she said. “He realized you might hasten her escape from his greasy paws, so he made up an excuse to vamoose.”

  “He didn’t even bother acknowledging me,” Margaret said. “Out the door like Chuck Yeager.”

  “She isn’t even eighteen yet, is she?” asked MacLaine.

  “She isn’t even seventeen,” said Margaret.

  “Not even seventeen and she’s got a figure like that!” Martin said under his breath. Charlie looked at Margaret, who thankfully didn’t seem to have heard over the din of the busy social club.

  Britt batted Martin’s arm lightly with the back of her hand. “They’re worried about their niece, guys,” she said. “You can’t see the forest for the trees.”

  “I can’t see the forest for her fun-bags,” said Martin. Margaret heard this time and made a face of disgust.

  “The good news is it doesn’t look like she
’s skipping meals,” said Lawford.

  “Peter,” scolded MacLaine.

  Charlie thought about objecting to Lawford’s comment, albeit against his better judgment—after a decade in Washington, DC, he had calluses on his tongue from biting it so much. But before he could say a word, he heard a familiar drawl.

  “Hello, Francis” came the voice.

  Charlie and Margaret turned and saw a tall, craggy-faced man. John Wayne.

  “Duke,” said Sinatra uneasily from across the table.

  “Haven’t seen you since that night at the Moulin Rouge,” Wayne said.

  “Oy,” said Davis.

  Lawford leaned closer to Charlie and said quietly, “They almost came to blows that night.”

  “What about?” asked Charlie.

  “Albert Maltz.”

  About a year and a half before, Charlie remembered, Sinatra had hired screenwriter Maltz, one of the Hollywood Ten who’d been jailed for refusing to tell Congress whether he’d ever been a member of the Communist Party. Sinatra wanted him to write his picture about Private Eddie Slovik, a soldier whom the U.S. Army had court-martialed and executed for desertion at the end of World War II. But veterans’ groups and John Wayne protested the hiring of the Commie, and Wayne, an outspoken Republican, quickly dragged “Sinatra crony” Senator Kennedy into the controversy. The Kennedys leaned on Sinatra to scrub the project, which he did.

  “The month after Frank had to fire Maltz,” Lawford continued, “Frank and Wayne went at it at a charity event.”

  “An actual fight?” Charlie asked, surprised because he’d never heard of the altercation and, frankly, because Wayne was so much bigger than Sinatra.

  “No, no,” Lawford said. “Christ, Wayne would kill him. They were just in each other’s face. Wayne asked him if he wanted to step outside. Frank said yes, but Lord Almighty, we all knew he didn’t. So we got in there and separated them before anything could happen.” Lawford emptied his glass. “Then of course later that night, Frank roughed up a parking-lot attendant.”