The Devil May Dance Read online

  “Those girls don’t need some housewife to protect them,” Judy said. “They’re fine. We’re fine.”

  Among Rosselli’s insatiable appetites was a hunger for Hollywood gossip, and after his first sip of scotch, he began peppering Martin with questions about Natalie Wood.

  “I mean, did you see West Side Story? Did you see Splendor in the Grass?” he exulted. “She’s an angel! And that figure—”

  “You’re in luck, Johnny,” Martin said. “She and Bob Wagner are splitsville. Happy to introduce you if you’d like.”

  “How old is she now? Maybe twenty-two?” Rosselli asked.

  “Old enough,” said Martin with a leer that was quickly growing tiresome to Charlie. “I saw her on a date maybe two months ago with Chris Powell, that kid who died.”

  “Oh yeah, poor guy,” said Rosselli. “And hello there, pretty lady,” he said appreciatively as the bikini-clad Judy made her way to the bar.

  She ignored him and ordered a screwdriver. “I thought you were going to bring me a drink,” she said to Charlie.

  “I always knew I liked you, Judy,” said Martin, and once again Charlie observed the power she held over these men by simply ignoring them. Judy settled herself comfortably on a barstool and waited for her drink.

  “What was the story with Powell?” Charlie asked. “I heard he and Frank were fighting over a girl.”

  “Lola,” said Judy.

  “Frank doesn’t really care about any of these dames,” Martin said. “Not since Judy here broke his heart.”

  “I’m telling you,” Rosselli said, laughing. “Did you see the shit he pulled with Lauren Bacall?”

  “You two are worse than a couple of eighth-grade girls,” Judy said, prompting a chuckle from Maheu, whom Charlie had almost forgotten.

  “What do you think happened to Powell?” Charlie asked, even though he also wanted to hear about the shit Sinatra pulled with Lauren Bacall.

  “Dunno,” said Martin. “Didn’t know him well. Did you, Johnny?”

  “I saw him a few times in LA at poker,” said Rosselli. “Had a tell like Durante’s nose.”

  “Did he owe anyone money?” Charlie asked.

  “Not that I know of,” said Rosselli. “And anyway, I never heard of anyone getting whacked for not paying. Maybe a broken leg, sure. Like when Harpo and Chico asked me to get money from Jack La Rue. But in this case…doesn’t make sense.”

  The sun beat down on them. Maheu guzzled his screwdriver and ordered another. A foot-long iguana scampered at the edge of the pool.

  “I need to go back in,” Judy said. “Jesus, it’s like we’re ten feet from the sun.”

  “Is Sam coming down?” Rosselli asked Judy.

  “Here he is now,” she replied, waving toward the stairs where Giancana, wearing a tan linen suit, was making an entrance.

  “Momo!” Martin shouted. He polished off his drink and motioned for another. “Swing over to this tree and join your fellow chimpanzees.”

  Giancana smiled, walked over to the bar, and shook the hands of the men. He patted Judy affectionately on the back and then—subtly, though not so subtly that Charlie didn’t notice—on the rear.

  “I heard Elvis is PO’d they have to reshoot a bunch of scenes from his boxing picture,” Martin said.

  “’Cause of Powell?” Charlie asked.

  “Who’s that?” asked Giancana.

  “That dead actor,” said Judy. “From the hotel.”

  “Ah, right,” said Giancana. Then, to the bartender: “Scotch rocks.”

  “I heard he tried to get help for his gambling problem,” said Judy. “Some sort of new therapy. From the guy who wrote that Dianetics book a few years ago? He has a church now. Science—no, Scientology, I think it’s called.”

  “Oh, right,” said Martin. “I’ve heard about that. Gloria dabbles, I think.”

  “Gloria?” asked Charlie.

  “Swanson,” said Martin.

  “That broad ain’t been right since Joe Kennedy stopped shlonging her,” observed Giancana.

  “What’s this?” asked Charlie.

  “When the Ambassador was out here making Tom Mix cowboy pictures before the war, he and Swanson had a thing,” Maheu said. Charlie studied his face; he was pretty sure he had never seen him before, though Maheu’s blandness rendered the lack of recognition unreliable. How did he know him?

  “Also Marlene Dietrich,” said Judy.

  “Yeah but he really boned Swan-song,” said Giancana, who had an odd habit of messing up names.

  “Swanson,” Maheu corrected him.

  “Whatever,” said Giancana. “He set up Gloria Productions for her. She was a partner, and he billed everything to the company, including gifts he bought her, real estate, minks, whatever. Gloria Productions lost millions, and when she found out and confronted him, he announced he was no longer part of the company and vamoosed back east.”

  “She’s really never recovered,” Martin observed. “Add yet another broken soul to the roster. No wonder she’s seeking help from that wack job, what’s his name, L. Ron…”

  “Hubbard,” said Maheu. “L. Ron Hubbard.”

  “Maybe the Ambassador’s bill is coming due,” Rosselli said.

  “What do you mean?” asked Judy.

  “The Ambassador had a stroke,” Maheu said.

  “You didn’t hear?” asked Rosselli. “That’s why Frank ran off, to call the president.”

  Judy’s face flushed and she seemed genuinely shocked. She put her hand to her chest as if she needed to stabilize herself. “That’s so horrible!” she finally said, on the verge of tears. She ran off herself.

  “This one’s sad, and Frank’s mad,” said Giancana. He shook his head, disgusted with both of them, though Charlie wasn’t sure why. In fact, the only thing Charlie knew right then was that soon he and Margaret would be back in New York City with their kids and he knew even less about Sinatra than he’d thought he did, which didn’t bode well for anyone.

  Chapter Nine

  Los Angeles, California

  January 1962

  “What sorcery is this?” asked Margaret, leaning over the steering wheel of her rented white Chevy Impala and pointing toward the sky. She and Charlie had just returned to Los Angeles after a month in New York City with Lucy and Dwight, and the last thing she’d expected to see here was snow.

  “Holy cannoli,” said her passenger, Sheryl Ann Gold, née Bernstein. A former intern in Charlie’s congressional office, she’d moved to Los Angeles a few years ago and now swore she’d never set foot in DC again as long as she lived. Margaret spared a glance at the younger woman, grateful for an old friend in an unfamiliar city. “It can’t be.”

  But it was. For the first time in thirty years, it was snowing in Los Angeles. More precisely, it was snowing, sleeting, hailing, and raining all at once. Bewildered locals stood with their mouths agape, staring at the heavens. Children had begun to dance and run around their front lawns; even some adults got in on the act. Margaret had picked up Sheryl Ann at her Santa Monica apartment, and as they drove east, the snow fell more heavily, covering the city like a thin layer of sea foam. Margaret steered the car cautiously, passing blocks of indistinguishable, recently built one-story homes. Sheryl Ann turned up the radio.

  Giesler’s estate is worth eight hundred thousand dollars, most of which will be controlled by his widow in two separate trust funds, his will indicates. The colorful attorney represented a number of clients from the worlds of Hollywood and organized crime, getting both Charlie Chaplin and Errol Flynn acquitted of charges involving minors and representing both Bugsy Siegel and Mickey Cohen. Giesler defended Lana Turner’s daughter in what was ultimately ruled justifiable homicide against her mother’s boyfriend, mobster Johnny Stompanato…

  “So his clientele were mobsters and statutory rapists,” Sheryl Ann said.

  “Nice work if you can get it,” Margaret responded.

  “The stories you hear in this town about young girls,�
�� said Sheryl Ann. “It would curl your hair. It’s sick.”

  “Yeah.” Margaret frowned. “I’ve seen a bit of it firsthand.” She had already told her friend about her niece and her frustration at not being able to find out more. The bartender and doorman at the Daisy had had no idea who Margaret was inquiring about; the LAPD operator told her to call back when she had something resembling actual information; Itchy Meyer at MGM wouldn’t take her calls. Sheryl Ann said she would think about a way to help, but she hadn’t had any ideas.

  Margaret adjusted the AM dial, as if changing the station would have an impact on eradicating the evil it carried.

  Former Vice President Richard Nixon, running for governor and participating in a March of Dimes parade, has been caught in the storm riding in the back of a convertible and wearing nothing but a summer suit…

  The women laughed, familiar with Nixon’s awkwardness and his run of bad luck.

  “Poor Dick,” said Sheryl Ann, switching to a music station and landing on “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” and a cascade of a-weema-wehs. “He has a storm cloud over his head. Like what’s his name in Li’l Abner.”

  “Joe Btfsplk.”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “Speaking of storms, the weather must have followed me and Charlie,” said Margaret.

  Days before, back in New York, Margaret had been overjoyed to be home with Lucy and Dwight and taking a break from the frenetic pace of their temporary California life. Even Christmas with two young children felt calm by comparison, though it was a calm interrupted far too soon. Charlie had been explaining to Lucy over breakfast that taxidermists had nothing to do with paying taxes when the phone started ringing.

  “I thought you pay them and then the man gives you a stuffed bear,” Lucy said, delighting her father.

  “Daddy, Daddy,” said Dwight, coming from the bathroom where Margaret had been brushing his hair. He ran up to his father and hugged him as Charlie tried to reach the ringing phone.

  “I’ll get it,” Margaret said.

  “Daddy, what’s up?” Dwight asked, performing one of their daily routines.

  “What’s up is…your grandma’s going to take you to the Bronx Zoo today!” Charlie said.

  “Daddy, what’s down?”

  “Stock market’s been going down for a while,” Charlie said. “The Kennedy slide.”

  “And what’s—what’s right, Daddy?”

  “You’re what’s right, Dwight. You and your sister are what’s right with the world!”

  “And Daddy, Daddy, what’s left?” Dwight asked, beaming with pride.

  “Only thing that’s left is for me to give you a big hug,” Charlie said.

  They did this every morning and it was Charlie’s favorite part of the day.

  “Charlie.” Margaret poked her head into the dining nook off the kitchen. “It’s Addington White. He says it’s important.”

  Charlie raised his eyebrows at Lucy as he got up from his chair. “Be right back, princess.” Lucy returned to her cornflakes and her Casper the Friendly Ghost comic book. Charlie smiled, recalling the time Lucy had asked him if Casper was just Richie Rich after evil cousin Reggie finally murdered him, the natural climax of that dark rivalry for the hand of the fair Gloria. He wasn’t sure if the joke was original or not, but either way, the child had a lovely, dark sense of humor, just like her mom.

  He grabbed the phone.

  “Charlie, we need to talk,” the Justice Department investigator barked on the other end of the line.

  “Merry Christmas to you too, Addison, and thank you, we did have a lovely holiday,” Charlie replied, but Addison was in no mood for pleasantries.

  “Meet me at Solly’s at eleven. Bring Margaret.”

  Two hours later, with Margaret’s mother, Catherine, back on babysitting duty, they arrived at the narrow, nondescript Eighth Avenue diner. Charlie supposed that White had chosen to meet in person out of an abundance of caution; it was safe to assume Hoover would be listening to their phone calls.

  The bell jingled as they walked in to smells of burned toast. The cacophony of short-order cooks yelling in the back mingled with Jimmy Dean on the jukebox:

  Kinda broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip. And everybody knew ya didn’t give no lip to Big John…

  In a dingy vinyl booth at the back, White raised an eyebrow in greeting while they hung up their snow-dusted coats and hats.

  “Anything good?” Charlie asked.

  “On this earth? I am less and less confident of that with each passing day,” said White wearily. “But if you don’t mean existentially, the meat loaf tends to be free of ptomaine.”

  “Didn’t know you were such a philosopher,” said Margaret, sitting down. “Kant say I’m particularly surprised.”

  “I guess he figured sooner or later we’d Sartre it out,” added Charlie, waving over the waitress.

  “Camus order for me, sweetie?” Margaret asked, chuckling.

  “You two are a regular Nichols and May,” White said, smiling despite himself.

  “Eh,” said Margaret. “Puns are a Nietzsche form of comedy.”

  The waitress came—coffee and toast for Charlie, coffee and a short stack for White, just coffee for Margaret, who often skipped meals in a constant and unnecessary attempt to diet.

  “So let us move from ‘to do is to be’ to ‘doo be doo be doo,’” Charlie said, grabbing the cream at the edge of the table and passing it to Margaret, who groaned as he attempted a pun too far. “We don’t know yet what the ask was that Giancana made of Sinatra. But we have established that Sinatra is not merely friendly with mobsters, he’s close to them. In just a few short weeks we met Giancana, Rosselli, and some guy named Wassy Handelman.”

  “Button man for Rosselli,” White said.

  “The publicity guy at the studio wondered if the Mob killed Chris Powell to help Frank,” Charlie said. “They were romantic rivals, and Powell was some rising star. But we’ve seen zero evidence of that and frankly, if they were going to start killing off Sinatra rivals, Hollywood would become Stalingrad.”

  “The Mob killing Powell seems a real stretch,” White said. “Where’d you get that from?”

  “Manny Fontaine,” said Margaret. “United Artists’ publicist. Picture a gentile Sammy Glick.”

  White nodded.

  “He thinks Frank does this a lot,” said Charlie. “He told us the Mob muscled Tommy Dorsey to release Frank from his contract. And that Frank was supposed to costar with Powell in some new picture—”

  “Come Blow Your Horn,” said Margaret.

  “The Neil Simon play,” said White.

  “Right,” said Charlie, “but Frank didn’t want Powell to costar. And now the problem’s solved.”

  “Hard to believe he’d have him whacked for that,” said White. “He has enough juice in Hollywood to get a no-name pushed off a picture.”

  “True,” said Margaret. “We heard some other things about Powell that might be relevant to his murder. Or not.”

  “Apparently he was joining some trendy new self-help religion,” Charlie said.

  “From the Dianetics guy,” added Margaret, then clammed up as the waitress appeared to refill their coffees.

  White put down his coffee cup and took out a notepad. Charlie watched him jot down Hubbard Dianetics Powell.

  “The Scientologists,” White said.

  “Yeah, that’s them,” said Charlie.

  “That’s interesting,” White said. “They’re wired. Their first church was built on primo real estate in DC.”

  White offered them a quick overview. The founder of the Church of Scientology, a charismatic science fiction writer named L. Ron Hubbard, came to prominence with his bestselling book Dianetics: The Evolution of a Science, the latest of many self-help books for a nation wounded by World War II and rattled by Cold War fears of a pending nuclear apocalypse.

  “He writes to us a lot,” White said. “To the FBI specifically. For about a decade now.”


  “Why?” asked Margaret.

  “Hubbard’s a staunch anti-Communist and, candidly, something of a loon.”

  “What does he write you about?” asked Margaret.

  “In his first letter, he accused more than a dozen members of his Dianetics foundations—including his own wife—of being Communists,” White recalled.

  “Completely normal,” said Charlie sarcastically.

  “Yes, and like any stable person, he accuses his critics of being enemies of America,” White said. “He keeps writing us, calling people who criticize the ‘religion’ he founded Communist-connected personnel. That’s the term he uses, over and over.”

  “Are they?” asked Charlie.

  “No.”

  “Cuck-oo,” chimed Margaret.

  “It gets weirder,” said White. “We received two sketchy pamphlets in the mail, and we immediately suspected Hubbard of sending them. One summarized Russian brainwashing techniques. The other was supposedly written by a nuclear physicist who claimed that a vitamin-supplement concoction called Dianazene could be used to combat radiation sickness. Guess what comes next?”

  “Hubbard hawking Dianazene?” Margaret guessed.

  “Yep,” said White. “The FDA confiscated more than twenty thousand Dianazene tablets from a company with ties to Hubbard. Guy’s a grifter.” He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

  “And?” Margaret finally said.

  “So?” Charlie added.

  White grinned mysteriously, clearly pleased with his power. “We can’t ask you to go investigate a church,” he said. “Constitutional issues. But needless to say, the attorney general is grateful for any information that comes his way, and he will take all assistance into consideration.”

  “Got it,” said Margaret as Charlie fought the urge to slap the smile off Addington White’s face.

  “So, listen,” Charlie said. “We have a couple questions for you.”

  “Oh?” asked White.

  “We ran into my niece Violet Greeley while we were out there,” Margaret explained. “She ran away from home six months ago; she’s sixteen.”