The Devil May Dance

by Tapper, Jake

  “I just wanted to tell ya that I hope there’s no hard feelings,” Wayne was saying. “My guy didn’t win, and yours did. I think he’s too liberal but I wish him the best.”

  Sinatra shrugged and flashed a brief, insincere grin. “Thanks, Marion.”

  “Now, there’s no reason to get cute, Frank,” Wayne growled.

  “There was no reason for you to open your stupid mouth about Maltz!” Sinatra said, his cheeks flushing.

  “Yeah, well, I was asked what I thought about your hiring that Commie. I said my opinion didn’t matter much, they should ask Kennedy, your buddy who’s now running the country,” Wayne said, lighting a cigarette. “It’s true, though, I do have this weird thing about Communists and radical liberals. I don’t know what it is.” He took a drag. “Maybe it’s the treason?”

  “Last time I checked, we had a Bill of Rights in this country,” Sinatra snapped.

  “Look, Frank, the radicals were taking over our business,” Wayne said. “They were starting to control who could do the writing. They were preaching about the beauty of Communism, for the love of Christ. Your amigos over in Cuba, that’s the way they want to live, fine, they can destroy their own country, but that’s not the way we do it here.”

  Charlie stole a glance at the two silent men at the end of the table. They remained in their seats but were clearly on alert, carefully watching the six-foot-four cowboy challenging their paisan.

  “Maltz wasn’t preaching,” Sinatra said. “He was telling an American story. He’s pro-America.”

  “He was glorifying a deserter.”

  “You have no idea whether Slovik was going to be glorified. You’re still defending the goddamn blacklist and fucking McCarthy.” Sinatra rose to his feet and planted his hands on the poker table. Lawford, Davis, and Martin looked at one another and then stood too. Martin put his arm around Sinatra and tried to guide him to the back of the room. Lawford approached Wayne.

  “If Frank wants to come outside and settle this like a man, I’m happy to oblige,” Wayne said to him. “And don’t bring your friends from Chicago,” he added, nodding toward the glowering duo who’d been observing the exchange. “We settle this mano a mano, with fists, not guns.”

  Charlie and Margaret had both assumed cooler heads would prevail but before they knew what was happening, they were swept up in a tide as Wayne, Sinatra, and the rest of the Rat Pack all barreled through the crowd and out onto the dark street. Paparazzi quickly realized they were about to hit a major payday.

  As the two men squared off, streetlights cast an air of menace. Flashbulbs burst, tomorrow’s headlines and bonuses practically visible on the journalists’ eager faces. Wayne and Sinatra stood a few feet apart, surrounded by a circle of onlookers. Dean Martin, swaying slightly, was trying to convince Sinatra to let it go, while Lawford had stationed himself next to Wayne. The other Rat Packers joined the waitstaff in trying to block the view of the photographers.

  Charlie wanted to make himself useful, but he didn’t know how. He spotted the two thugs lurking behind Sinatra with uneasy looks on their faces. Martin was advising his friend not to fight in front of a crowd of reporters with a man who could clearly kick his ass, but Sinatra had been in fights before, had once even been arrested for punching New York Daily Mirror columnist Lee Mortimer.

  Separated from her husband in the chaos, Margaret found herself jostled and pushed until a woman lightly grabbed her wrist. “Just stick with me, honey.” She was in her late forties, slightly plump, and pretty, with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and a reporter’s notebook in her hand. She wore too much lipstick, and it was too orange, though Margaret gave her credit for picking a shade that matched her hair, which was as bright as a pumpkin.

  Martin was so close to Sinatra, they looked as if they were slow-dancing. Wayne pushed Lawford away gently once, then more aggressively. That’s when Charlie wiggled through the crowd and got between the two men. Charlie was a few inches shorter than Wayne but probably outweighed him, mostly with muscle. He smiled at the actor and shook his hand, thinking on his feet.

  “Congressman Charlie Marder of New York,” he said. “I’m out here helping on Manchurian Candidate and we just can’t have Frank banged up.”

  Wayne looked at him warily as Charlie extended the handshake longer than was normal. Charlie rubbed his chin with his left hand and kept the hand over his mouth so no one could read his lips as he leaned in to Wayne’s ear. “I was with the First Battalion, One Hundred Seventy-Fifth Infantry,” Charlie said quietly. “Landed at Omaha Beach. Before we shipped out to kill Krauts, we went to Fort Benning, where we learned how to kill with our bare hands. The way you fight in movies, you wouldn’t last a second in combat. In real life, it’s rabid-dog stuff.”

  Wayne tried to pull away, but Charlie held on to his hand.

  “In combat, you can’t be squeamish about using your teeth to rip off an ear or tear out a windpipe. Testicles, kidneys, temples, noses, Adam’s apples—anything.” He stared into Wayne’s eyes and saw sheer panic. “Now, I’m going to continue to act as if this is friendly,” Charlie said, “and you’re doing me—an actual veteran—a favor by getting the fuck out of here.” Charlie lowered his left hand. “Okay, Mr. Wayne?” he said loudly. “Thanks so much. You’re a pal.” He let go of Wayne’s hand.

  Wayne looked around at the crowd and the photographers. And then, almost as quickly as the situation had ignited, it was defused. Wayne disappeared into the night. Charlie glanced at Sinatra, who breathed a sigh of relief and winked at him before being escorted to his car. Within seconds, all that remained were spectators with nothing to see.

  Margaret got a little thrill seeing Charlie adapt himself so well to the alpha-dog environment, but the woman who’d rescued her seemed disappointed that the fight had broken up before it even began.

  “Aw, that’s a shame,” she said.

  “Why?” asked Margaret as the crowd began to dissipate.

  “I’m with Hollywood Nightlife—I’m Charlotte Goode,” the woman said, handing Margaret a business card.

  CHARLOTTE GOODE

  REPORTER AND PHOTOGRAPHER

  Hollywood Nightlife

  6299 Hollywood Blvd

  SCoops 4-8760

  “I’m—”

  “Margaret Marder, wife of the congressman who’s approaching us now,” Goode said.

  “Well, that was weird,” Charlie said, visibly relieved as he approached his wife.

  “What magic words did you use to save Frank’s life?” Goode asked.

  “I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced,” said Charlie.

  “This is Charlotte Goode. She’s a reporter,” Margaret said. She turned to Goode. “Why don’t we buy you a drink? You can educate us.” Someone who knew Hollywood as well as Goode might be able to help her track down Violet, Margaret thought, unable to shake how lost her niece had seemed.

  “I’m not going to talk to any reporters, honey,” Charlie said.

  “Oh, we’re off the record, Congressman,” said Goode, dropping her cigarette to the pavement and crushing the butt. “But given that your ride just left without you, why don’t I run you both back to your hotel? I’ll give you a little tour of the Hollywood you don’t hear much about.”

  “‘They don’t worship money here, they worship death,’” Goode said. “That’s Faulkner, the patron saint of writers who come here to have our hearts broken.” She lit a cigarette with one hand and used the other to steer her beat-up blue Chevy Bel Air. Margaret had unsuccessfully tried to brush aside the fast-food wrappers that littered the front seat before giving up to focus on gripping the interior door handle. Charlotte took an abrupt and unsignaled turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard, prompting a cacophony of horns.

  Margaret glanced over her shoulder to see Charlie grimacing, both hands braced against the back of her seat. She offered him a small smile of encouragement.

  “So where are we headed?” Margaret asked.

  “The site of a wha
cking,” Goode said with a grin, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth as she took a wide left.

  “Whose?” asked Charlie.

  “Bugsy Siegel,” she said. “Syndicate sent him here in the 1930s. He took over the rackets, got dope coming in from Mexico, and muscled in on the Screen Extras Guild. Big power there.”

  “In the Screen Extras Guild? How does that work?” asked Charlie.

  “Say you want a crowded street in ancient Athens for your movie,” Goode said, “or a packed coliseum. How much money do you lose if all the extras call in sick one day?”

  “I remember seeing photos of Siegel popping up with Gable and Grant and the like,” Margaret recalled.

  “Oh, sure, he was legit pals with a bunch of these folks—Jean Harlow was godmother to his daughter!” Goode said. “Then the studios started blocking those photos and censoring news of those friendships.”

  “How did they block it?” Charlie asked.

  “Traded it for dishier scoops,” she said. “Someone else gets human-sacrificed into my lava, but the news gods are appeased. Win-win.”

  “Not for whoever ends up on the cover,” Charlie observed.

  “Yes, not for them,” Goode agreed. “But so shall ye reap.”

  She applied the brakes with more enthusiasm than Charlie would have recommended, and he lurched forward in his seat. Goode put the car in park and gestured with her cigarette across Margaret’s lap toward a white Spanish Colonial mansion, the mud-colored tiles on the roof barely visible behind a forest of palm trees. “This is Virginia Hill’s house, where Bugsy was killed in ’47.”

  She put her car back in drive and negotiated a rapid U-turn. Charlie was flung across the back seat and swallowed down a wave of nausea.

  “Just a few blocks away from here is where Johnny Stompanato was killed.” Stompanato, a World War II veteran, had been an enforcer for Mob boss Mickey Cohen and an abusive beau of Lana Turner until her fourteen-year-old daughter stabbed him in what was eventually ruled justifiable homicide.

  “Where is Mickey Cohen these days?” Margaret wondered.

  “Prison,” said Charlie. “Just a few months ago.”

  “Alcatraz,” added Goode. The streets around them were changing from lush opulence to dingier commercial fare.

  “For tax evasion, I assume?” Margaret asked.

  “Of course,” said Goode.

  “People lie,” Charlie said. “Numbers don’t.”

  “Isn’t it odd that mobsters are just, y’know, hanging out with these big stars?” Margaret asked, fishing.

  “Handsome Johnny even got a producing credit on a few pictures!” Goode said.

  “Who?” asked Margaret.

  “Johnny Rosselli,” Goode said. “Indicted with the head of the Theatrical Stage Employees Union. Racketeering. He was with you guys tonight!”

  “Who?” Charlie asked.

  “‘Handsome’ Johnny Rosselli and Wassy Handelman,” Goode said. “They were the two thugs with Frank tonight. Handsome and Harry Cohn at Columbia are thick as thieves. Also tight with Giancana, of course. But then, everyone’s friends with Momo.”

  “Momo?” asked Margaret.

  “Giancana,” Charlie said.

  “Momo has tons of friends,” Goode said.

  “Like Sinatra?” asked Margaret.

  “Sinatra,” said Goode. “Dino…”

  “How connected is Frank, really?” Margaret blurted out, looking at Charlie to gauge his reaction. She couldn’t tell in the darkness of the car, but Charlie was surprised and a bit pleased. Why not just ask? Charlie’s careers in academia and politics required finesse and diplomacy, but Margaret was a scientist. She pursued facts, and she thought the dances around obtaining them were nonsense. Even if she did make a fine dancer.

  “That’s a complicated question,” Goode said. “I mean, take the world of nightclubs that he grew up in. Can’t really make it without some shadiness, whether the artist knows it or not. Then, of course, for about a decade he’s been a two-percent owner in the Sands.”

  “Bugsy built the whole town,” Charlie noted.

  “Precisely,” Goode said. “So nothing too crazy there. The real juiciness happened in Cuba in ’47!”

  “What happened in Cuba in ’47?” Margaret asked.

  “I am constantly amazed at how effectively he had this buried,” Goode said, shaking her head. “This is why he punched Lee Mortimer in the nose, because of the big Cuba exposé.”

  She looked at Margaret, who shrugged.

  “So 1947 was before Revolución cubana, obviously. Sinatra was with Tommy Dorsey’s band. He flew to Havana with a buddy from Hoboken who just happened to be Al Capone’s cousin. They checked in at the Hotel Nacional and later that night were photographed eating and drinking with various known members of the Mob, including Lucky Luciano.”

  “Wow,” said Charlie. “But maybe they just ran into them?”

  “No way, José,” Goode said. “Luciano got out of prison but was banned from the U.S., so he called for all the bosses across the country to meet him in Havana to make him capo di tutti capi, the boss of bosses. Lansky, Costello, Three Finger Brown, and on and on.”

  “Handsome Johnny and Wassy were drinking and gambling with us,” Margaret observed. “By that measure, someone could raise suspicions about Charlie and me.”

  “Hm,” Goode grunted as she swerved out of her lane to pass a poky Nash spewing exhaust. “That’s pretty much what Frank said. ‘It was all just a coincidence, right place, wrong time, took me a couple days to realize what was going on, didn’t wanna be rude or ungracious to the fellas buying me drinks.’ More to it than that, of course. When Frank was trying to get out of his contract with Dorsey, Lucky spotted him about fifty Gs. So Frank’s trip to Havana was a way of paying him back—sing for his friends, drink with them, carouse; mobsters like celebrities as much as any of us do. That’s what Lucky says, anyway. There was also a rumor that Frank brought a suitcase full of unmarked bills for him. But who knows—hey, that’s my house!” Goode pointed out Margaret’s window to a nondescript two-story home that sat behind a line of palm trees. She’d been driving east on Sunset for a while now. “I’m in the basement. I rent from a nice family. Hospital executive and his wife, two kids.”

  “Hollywood Nightlife must put you in touch with all sorts of characters,” said Margaret, thinking about Violet.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she replied. “Think about all the young things who flock to this town desperate for a speck of stardust. Then add a whole bunch of unscrupulous gangsters and the goniffs who run Hollywood—fat old men with insatiable appetites.”

  “What can you tell me about Itchy Meyer?” Margaret said. “I saw him at the Daisy with my niece Violet, who ran away from home earlier this year.”

  “Ugh,” Goode said. “He’s grotesque. He’s the perfect example of how power works in this town. He’s got millions of dollars and a government and law enforcement structure built around protecting the industry rather than the girls.”

  “Do you think you might be able to help us track down my niece?” Margaret asked, unable to keep the rising fear out of her voice.

  Goode shrugged. “I could try,” she said. “Tomorrow when I’m sober, call me and give me all the particulars.”

  She paused to light yet another cigarette, then said, a bit too casually, “Say, what do you think about Chris Powell getting whacked? Do you buy that it was over gambling debts? Folks I know say he wasn’t really known for big bets, though he played the horses.”

  “Um, I’m not sure,” Charlie said.

  “We never met him,” Margaret added, put off by Goode changing the subject.

  “I know he and Frank almost got into a jam about a broad, but I doubt that had anything to do with this,” Goode said. “Frank doesn’t have rivals killed—he just ruins their careers. Or ices ’em out. Like he did with Lawford after he heard he’d taken Ava to dinner. Then, of course, Lawford married a Kennedy
, and Frank forgave him ’cause he loves Jack. And the rest is history.”

  “Meehan told me and Lawford that Powell’s eyes had been shot out,” Charlie said. “Some Mob thing so you can’t have an open casket.”

  “I mean, over gambling debts?” Goode said. “Kill the golden goose and chop off its head? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “None of it makes sense, right?” said Margaret. “Killing Bugsy Siegel—”

  “Doesn’t matter anyway,” Goode said. “By the time Detective Meehan is done with it, the whole job will be blamed on a hobo the cops shanghai hopping a freighter in Bakersfield. That’s his job, Meehan, to clean it all up.”

  With the famous Hollywood sign looming above them, Goode pulled over to the side of Canyon Lake Drive, essentially deserted at this time of night, and cut the engine.

  “Have you ever seen it up close?” she asked, nodding up at the sign. She opened her door and Charlie and Margaret followed her out. Surrounded by mountains, desert, and mansions, they felt like they were in a new world, a place where riches were being amassed and anything was possible. The moon lit the sign better than a Hollywood stage manager could have dreamed, and it was easy to feel the mysterious allure of the city around them as they gazed up at it.

  “Ever hear of Peg Entwistle?” Goode asked, taking a deep drag on her Lucky Strike.

  “I don’t think so,” Charlie said.

  “Broadway actress, came out here in the 1920s,” Goode said. “Gifted. It was said she inspired Bette Davis to go into theater. Costarred with Bogie. Cast in a picture called Thirteen Women. But it did no box office, and RKO and Selznick tossed her. Rumor has it she had to resort to nudie pictures. Anyway, long story long, she took a dive off the H of that sign up there.”

  “How terrible,” Margaret said.

  Goode’s voice had lost its usual hard-bitten tone, and she almost seemed to be talking to herself. “Left a note. ‘I am afraid. I am a coward. I am sorry for everything. If I had done this a long time ago, it would have saved a lot of pain. P.E.’”