by Tapper, Jake
At four a.m., Charlie and Street realized they were both nodding off midconversation.
“We oughta…” said Charlie, failing to finish his sentence.
“Yeah,” said Street, yawning.
“I’m hitting the latrine,” said Charlie. “Call me for breakfast.”
Street grunted and walked to the elevator bank. Charlie staggered into the restroom, relieved himself, and splashed water on his face. He was having difficulty not walking into walls. Then he found himself at the elevator bank and realized he had been waiting for a few minutes. He probably should press the Up button, he concluded, too drunk to feel sheepish.
Someone approached him, then Charlie was in the elevator, then he was in Sinatra’s suite sitting on a couch with a drink in his hand. He was unsure how he’d gotten there.
Charlie looked around the room, a deluxe suite with a television and a hi-fi. Sinatra sat at a giant card table with Momo, Handsome Johnny, and some other toughs; Dino stood at the bar. There were some women too, including the raven-haired knockout who’d been sitting with Giancana at the show.
“Looks like Sleeping Beauty is awake,” Martin quipped.
“I only had to kiss him five times,” Sinatra said, prompting obedient chuckles.
“Wow, Vegas drinking is a whole different order of business,” Charlie said, rubbing his head. He stood. “Aspirin?”
“Give him an aspirin, Dago,” Sinatra said.
“Sure,” Martin said. He handed two white pills and a cocktail to Charlie. “And a little hair o’ the proverbial canine. Come on, why don’t you play a hand or two?”
Charlie was dimly aware he was past the point of good judgment, but he downed the aspirin, then made his way unsteadily to the poker table and sat down.
Giancana extended a meaty right hand. “Sam Hill,” he said, his eyes at once menacing and dull. Charlie was too drunk to care what the man called himself.
“I think you know Handsome Johnny and Wassy Handelman,” Sinatra said.
“We weren’t formally introduced,” Charlie said, nodding to the two men he’d seen at the Daisy. “I think you know my father,” Charlie said to Giancana. “Winston Marder?”
Giancana didn’t look up as Sinatra dealt him two cards.
“Rings a bell,” Giancana said. He had a high voice. Girlish.
“Say, speaking of rings,” Sinatra growled, “where’s that ring I gave you, Momo?”
“In your mother’s wazoo,” Giancana said.
“Ah, come on, Momo, why you gotta bring his sainted mother into it?” Martin asked.
“Seriously, that was a nice ring,” Sinatra said.
“What’s this?” asked Charlie.
“Star sapphire pinkie ring Frank had made for Sam,” said Martin.
The dark-haired woman appeared at the table, and Sinatra looked up at her appreciatively. “Let me smell your hair, Judy,” Sinatra said.
“Smell your own hair, Frank,” said Judy.
“Yeah, Frankie, want me to take it off and hand it to you?” Giancana asked.
Sinatra waved at him dismissively and offered a tight smile; he looked like he was making a great deal of effort not to show how angry he was. Something in the way the Chairman of the Board had crudely flirted with Judy reminded Charlie of something, but he wasn’t sure what, something about his dad from long ago…but the memory was hazy and just out of reach. The people of questionable character around the table also evoked Winston, a man who, like Sinatra, had risen high above the streets he’d come from, who dined with senators and foreign leaders but never lost touch with the rougher men who muscled control of businesses and unions, who made things happen and made problems and people disappear.
Why would Sinatra consort with the likes of these thugs? Charlie wondered. But he knew they could be charming and, at times, fun. Charlie remembered the allure and style of some of the gangsters his father knew—Siegel and Lansky, Luciano and Frank Costello. Charlie had a fond memory of Three Finger Brown—aka Tommy Lucchese—plucking a quarter out of his ear when he was a boy. Being a sociopath didn’t necessarily mean an absence of charisma; in fact, it often seemed to require it.
His father. His thoughts snapped back to the task at hand. He needed to find out what favor Momo wanted from Sinatra. It wasn’t like he could just ask. He had no desire to join the long list of those who had gotten on the wrong side of the men in this room. He had to think. Although, stewed as he was, thinking was nearly impossible.
“You know, Congressman, we have mutual friends,” Giancana said, studying his cards.
Charlie was unsure what to say. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’m glad.” He wondered if Giancana knew about his problems back in New York, how the union thugs, after helping Charlie secure reelection votes, were now asking Charlie to lean on a U.S. attorney to take it easy on one of their associates, to drop the charges. Could he have known that?
As if in response to the confused look on Charlie’s face, Rosselli jumped in: “So we’re all friends here.”
“Is that right, Charlie?” asked Martin.
“I, uh—” Charlie stammered. “I have a good relationship with some of the local unions.”
“They backed you last time,” Rosselli said. “Without them, you wouldn’t be here. Without them next time around, you’re done.”
“Um,” said Charlie, “they were helpful.”
“It’s good to have friends,” Giancana said. He looked up at Charlie, but his eyes were dead. “But it’s not nice to forget that.” He held eye contact for a few more seconds.
Even in his state of inebriation, Charlie recognized that the Mob boss was threatening to end his political career and maybe also his life. But his thoughts were interrupted by a pang of nausea so strong that he rose abruptly and, to the mild and unconvincing protests of the group, waved good night and ran to the elevator. He got out on his floor, rushed into his suite, passing a sleeping Margaret, and reached the bathroom with seconds to spare. After his stomach had emptied itself, Charlie collapsed onto the hotel bed, wondering who was in more trouble, Winston or his son.
Chapter Eight
Las Vegas, Nevada
December 1961
Sinatra stood above the shallow end of the pool at the Sands and observed the lovely Judy as she made her way up the steps and over to a chaise, twisting her dark wet hair into a ponytail, leaving a trail of drops that quickly evaporated on the concrete.
Charlie looked at his watch—almost noon. The relentless sun and dry desert air hit him like a blast from an A-bomb. Margaret, hungover and baking in the heat, released a sigh. With this crew, cocktails began at breakfast, and the rest of the day was all just a long surf on a buzzy wave. Dean Martin was passed out on a chaise, snoring.
Most of the gang was there, in the latest and most fashionable bathing suits: Martin, Sinatra, Davis, and, fluttering around them like butterflies, a coterie of women, including Judy, whose attention Sinatra was desperately trying to catch. Someone said that Lawford was back east with his wife and the rest of the Kennedy clan; Charlie and Margaret would soon be returning briefly to New York City to spend Christmas with their children, even though they had made little progress in their quest.
“A pretty girl is like a melody,” Sinatra crooned, then shook his hips like a burlesque dancer: “Boom chicka-boom.”
Judy ignored him and reached for her towel.
Sinatra displayed a mock pout—he was accustomed to a little resistance. “Come on, baby, let’s have a little kiss and hug, a little rock and roll! It’s been a long dry spell for me!” His confidence made that an unlikely story, and not for the first time, Charlie marveled at the blithe presumption of the man—whether or not the world truly was his oyster, he would grab it and attempt to shuck it any chance he got.
“A long dry spell? I doubt that,” Judy said as she settled down next to Margaret and picked up a copy of Hollywood Nightlife with a sad Liz Taylor on the cover, making a convincing show of bored disdain.
Sinatra turned to Charlie, who was sitting at a nearby table under an umbrella reading William Lederer’s A Nation of Sheep. “What would you say, Charlie, if I told you that this little broad with the cold German blood has broken my heart? And not just once, but many times!”
“That would surprise me, Frank,” said Charlie, since Sinatra could easily have had a hundred other women fall at his feet. Judy rolled her eyes and turned a page in the scandal sheet.
Sinatra took a seat at Charlie’s table and drummed his fingers on the dimpled glass tabletop. Charlie obediently closed his book. The great man demanded attention.
“You know, Judy, you’re really stupid,” Sinatra finally said.
“Well, thanks a bunch,” Judy said.
“I mean it. You’re beautiful and you’re bright, but you’re so square. You don’t know how to take advantage of the opportunities you’re being offered. You don’t walk through any of those open doors.” An angry note had entered Sinatra’s voice, a neediness that bordered on hostility. Sinatra’s playfulness was turning belligerent. Margaret threw Charlie a look above the pages of Franny and Zooey, but he didn’t respond to it for fear Sinatra might see.
The singer lit a cigarette and then pointed it, clamped between two fingers, in Judy’s direction. “Sometimes you remind me of a silly schoolgirl.” He must have realized he was getting overheated because he paused, found a smile that almost looked sincere. “Come on, baby. Swing a little. You only live once.”
Judy lit a cigarette and walked away, presumably to the ladies’ room. Sinatra gave an uncomfortable chuckle and turned to Charlie for some masculine commiseration, but Charlie looked steadily at his book until the moment passed. Sinatra, clearly searching for a graceful exit from his failed pursuit, picked up a random newspaper and snapped it open.
“Holy shit,” he said.
“What?” Charlie asked.
“The Ambassador had a stroke,” Sinatra said.
“Which ambassador?”
“Kennedy,” Sinatra said in a daze, handing the newspaper to Charlie.
West Palm Beach, Fla. (AP)—President Kennedy’s father, Joseph P. Kennedy, suffered a stroke at his Palm Beach home today and was rushed to St. Mary’s Hospital.
The 73-year-old former ambassador to England is reportedly in serious condition. The elder Kennedy and his wife arrived here December 11 to start the Christmas holidays at their home.
“Christ, what time is it?” Sinatra asked.
“Almost three back east,” Martin said.
“Oh, maybe that’s why Peter called,” Britt said. “He left a message last night.”
“Shit, he left me a message too,” said Sinatra. He rushed off to return the call. The pool had been cordoned off for Sinatra and his party, and he swiftly pushed past the rope and onlookers by the stairs to the elevator.
“That’s nice that he’s so concerned,” said Margaret to Charlie.
“The ambassador’s his in with the family,” observed May quietly.
Judy reappeared and Margaret looked at her, her giant black sunglasses reflecting the sun above them, her skin flawless and tight. Youth and the assuredness that came from having experienced no consequences of anything, she thought, not even gravity.
Charlie, too, regarded the young Judy, though less lofty thoughts ran through his head. He’d been perfectly content as a faithful spouse in a marriage built on family, but he could also see clearly that the Rat Packers had fun. Amoral, vacuous, meaningless, exploitative—sure. And? Was this virility not what America embraced? Charlie wanted a drink, and luckily enough, there was a bar at the other end of the pool. Martin was heading toward it.
“Want an orange juice or anything, ladies?” Charlie asked, standing. “Coffee? Lemonade?”
“Oh, that’s nice of you, Charlie, I’ll take a lemonade,” Margaret said.
“Me too,” said May.
“Mimosa, thanks,” said Judy, as if a congressman fetching her a drink were an everyday occurrence.
“Hey there, Charlie,” Martin said as Charlie joined him at the bar. “How’s your bird?”
“Hey, Dean,” Charlie said. “Um, I guess it’s good. How’s yours?”
“Not so good,” Martin said. “And forget the bird, I gotta find that monkey.”
“Monkey?”
“The one that beat on my head and shit in my mouth,” Martin said. It was a hangover joke he’d clearly made before. Sporting only his red bathing suit, sunglasses, and a deep tan, Martin turned toward the pool and leaned back against the bar. He was surprisingly fit.
“Ah, look at the talent here!” he said, surveying the bevy of attractive young women—Copa Girls, dancers, models, actresses, and some, like Judy, whose occupations weren’t clear. “Next time your wife turns in early, you should sample the local wares. Vegas is a confectionery—it’s a chocolatier, a patisserie.” He nudged Charlie’s ribs with his elbow in case his words had somehow been too subtle. “Go ahead, buddy, bite yourself off some marzipan!”
“I’m good,” Charlie said. “Thanks.” He reminded himself that he had a job to do and couldn’t afford to alienate anyone.
Martin took off his sunglasses and squinted at Margaret. “You have two kids, you said? It doesn’t show.” His gaze remained on Margaret. “I’m sure things are different from the rabbit days when you first got together, though, right?” He slapped Charlie on the back.
“Your scotch, sir,” said the barkeeper. Martin reached back without looking and waited for the drink to be placed in his hand. He rattled the ice in his glass, swallowed half its contents, then stood a little straighter and adopted a sterner tone, as if speaking to a recalcitrant child. “You’re a man, Charlie, and you are perfectly entitled to behave as a man does, taking what you want and what you need.”
Charlie contemplated this. Truth be told, it was no different from how powerful men in Washington and New York City behaved.
“And speaking of what you need,” Martin continued, “pardon my French, but just why the fuck are you out here? None of it makes much sense to me. I’m not a fan of politics, but it seems fishy for a Republican congressman to take leave from his job to work on a picture and hang around with an actor who likes Democrats. Goldwater send you? Nixon?”
Charlie laughed. “I thought you weren’t a fan of politics.”
“I read the papers,” Martin said, smiling.
“If they wanted intel,” Charlie said, “they’d send a pro, or at least someone who could hold his liquor. Margaret needed a break from the New York winter and two little kids, so when the studio asked me to come out here, we jumped at the chance. Sunshine, movie stars…”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Martin skeptically.
“Scotch,” bellowed a voice. It was Rosselli, approaching the bar from the hotel lobby with another man. In his brightly colored Hawaiian shirt and bathing trunks, Rosselli looked like a handsome aging celebrity, and Charlie had a hard time reconciling what he knew about the mobster’s brutal reputation with the gregarious charmer before him.
“Frank’s in a state,” Rosselli informed them. “Calling the White House, trying to get through to Kennedy.” Rosselli massaged his forehead with a beefy thumb and forefinger. He pointed to his friend. “This is Bob,” he said.
“Bob Maheu,” said the man. He was bald and in his forties with a sad expression and a lumpy body, a bag of potatoes compared with the glamorous gangsters and stars at the pool. Charlie knew the name but he couldn’t remember how.
“So what’s your connection to these fine gentlemen?” Margaret asked Judy.
“Oh, Frank and I have known each other for a long time. And he introduced me to Sam.” She spoke with the casual assurance of someone who assumed her life’s details were well known.
“Sam?”
“Sam Hill, the distinguished older gentleman who hangs around here?”
Margaret didn’t see anyone by that description, only a pool full of young women splashing rather showily, careful to keep their hair d
ry and their assets on full display. They had an appreciative audience among the men who lounged nearby, most of whom barely bothered to conceal their interest.
“Who are all these other girls?” Margaret said, waving toward the pool.
“Oh, I don’t know them,” Judy said. “I guess they’re just here for the show and the sun and the company.”
Margaret pulled down her sunglasses to get a better look at the young women, all of them with dimpled cheeks, flawless skin. “What do they do?” she asked. The women in Las Vegas, the nontourists, seemed to do whatever they needed to do to survive—from Copa Girl to cocktail waitress to burlesque dancer to bed-hopper, with various levels of clientele. She didn’t know why she was judging the women this way. It was unlike her. Judy was silent, which made Margaret nervous.
Judy looked at Margaret as if noticing her for the first time. “You’re the congressman’s wife?”
“I’m a zoologist, but yes, I’m also his wife.”
“So you’re a zoologist but you married a congressman and now you’re hanging with the Rat Pack in Vegas?”
“Charlie and I met at Columbia University,” Margaret said. “He fought in Europe and then came back and we got married. Congress didn’t happen until almost a decade later.”
“We’re all just on a journey,” Judy said.
“Part of me looks at these…these girls, like lambs with the wolves around the pool, and I worry,” Margaret said. “Maybe it’s just the mom in me.”