The Devil May Dance

by Tapper, Jake

  “I can pick up anything you want, Congressman,” Jacobs said. “No need for you to come.”

  “I need…I need to go with you,” Charlie said. “If you don’t mind.”

  Soon they were winding their way out of the Tamarisk Country Club.

  “Not everyone can keep up the pace after hours,” Jacobs said when the silence in the car became awkward.

  “Lawford arriving with the party girls changed the tenor,” Charlie said.

  After a brief pause, Jacobs said: “Maybe it brought it all out into the open a bit more.”

  Charlie considered that.

  “Anyway, I could all but see the angel and devil on your shoulders in that hot tub,” Jacobs said. “Looked like a draw.”

  “That’s probably being generous to the angel,” Charlie said.

  They drove in silence a bit longer, passing a blur of green—immense trees that served as fences, broken up only by driveways that led to mansions. The quiet seemed awkward to Charlie, although he wasn’t sure why.

  “I know what the favor is,” Jacobs finally said, as if he’d been holding it in. “The one Mr. Giancana asked of Mr. S.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jacobs said. Charlie could tell he didn’t feel completely comfortable sharing it. “Or I should say, I know of a favor Mr. Giancana asked of him. I don’t know if it’s the only one or the one you were asking about.”

  “Okay. Sure. What is it?”

  “Pretty much what you might expect,” Jacobs said. “He asked Mr. S. to ask Bobby to cancel his pursuit of organized crime.”

  “Anything in particular?” Charlie asked.

  “Momo went into quite a bit of detail,” Jacobs recalled, indicating that he paid attention to matters with the diligence one would expect from an admiral’s aide. “Bobby Kennedy wants the FBI to eliminate organized crime. Not just Giancana’s guys, but all of ’em. Sending the IRS in for tax evasion, appointing a Justice Department task force to prosecute top targets—Giancana, Rosselli, Hoffa, Cohn. And on and on.”

  “Boy, Momo has good sources,” Charlie said.

  “Money gets you a lot of cooperation, especially from civil service employees,” Jacobs said.

  They arrived at the market. Jacobs told Charlie he’d be right back, he just needed some sweet vermouth and olives. Charlie felt better for having removed himself from the immediate temptation of Lola, although all too soon they were headed back to the Compound.

  “So what did Frank do?” Charlie asked. “Did he talk to Bobby? Or the Ambassador? Or the president himself? I’m not sure what I could do, but is there any way I can help out?”

  “I don’t know,” Jacobs admitted. “In September, Mr. S. and Mr. Lawford went to Hyannis Port, but I don’t know if they talked about any of this. I stayed here. I haven’t heard anyone mention it since.”

  They were under the carport now, the engine still running. Jacobs remained seated behind the wheel. Charlie waited to hear if he had anything else to tell him.

  “I worry about Mr. S.,” Jacobs finally said. “I worry about the Mob pushing him to do this, and I worry about him being rejected by the president. This time maybe he won’t recover. He’s still not over Ava.”

  “He’s still upset about Ava?” Charlie said. Frank and Ava’s tumultuous marriage had ended almost a decade before, when she cheated on him with a bullfighter in Spain.

  “He hasn’t been the same since,” Jacobs said. “Might be good for the pain in the torch songs, but it’s bad for him. And I cannot imagine what he will do if the president does the same thing. To be completely candid, he’s head over heels in love with him too. I’m really worried, Congressman. Please do what you can to help him.”

  Jacobs stared off into the distance, then exhaled dramatically. He turned off the engine and got out of the car. Charlie followed. They walked into the living room, now silent, though music was coming from Sinatra’s room down the hall. Charlie saw Lola outside, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, with only her face showing. Her face glowed in the sun; her curves were somehow even more beckoning to Charlie wrapped in the blanket.

  “Ethereal,” he whispered to himself.

  He stood there staring at her. The pounding of bass drums from Sinatra’s hi-fi shook him awake. Happy squeals from Lawford’s room flew through the house like parakeets.

  Sinatra bellowed to Jacobs from his room: “George, I need some champagne! Bring it in a bucket with ice!”

  Charlie’s visit to the Compound had borne fruit; he now knew Giancana’s ask. He had escaped before doing anything truly stupid. He turned to Jacobs. “Well, I think I’m going to hit the road,” Charlie said.

  “Probably wise,” Jacobs said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Beverly Hills, California

  January 1962

  They were two bottles of Chianti into the night when Charlie felt the need to remind Charlotte Goode that the conversation the three of them were having was off the record.

  “You’ve already said that, and I’ve already agreed,” Goode said, “though I should be demanding the opposite. I deserve a great scoop after saving your wife from that freaky cult.” She finished her glass, lifted the empty bottle for inspection, and waved down the waiter for a replacement.

  “We’ll give you one, I promise, when this ordeal is over,” Margaret pledged. “And it should be over soon.”

  Puccini was packed and rowdy, with “That Old Black Magic” and other favorites blaring, so Charlie was less worried about being overheard than he normally would have been. He was surprised by what Charlotte already knew about their assignment. Much of it she had picked up from sources and shoe-leather reporting—following Margaret to the Church of Scientology, for instance—while Margaret, in a rush of adrenaline and gratitude, had filled in the rest after their dramatic car ride.

  After leaving the Compound and arriving safely at the Miramar Hotel, Charlie had called Addington White and demanded a meeting. White subtly reminded him that Hoover might be eavesdropping on the line and agreed to fly to Los Angeles later that day.

  Both Charlie and Margaret felt some relief. They’d been sent by Attorney General Kennedy to find out what Giancana had asked of Sinatra, and now they knew. Hopefully this would be the end of their Tinseltown mission. Charlie had enjoyed his work as a consultant to The Manchurian Candidate—his input had inspired some last-minute rewrites of the scene in which the American GIs were captured by the Chinese, and he liked Frankenheimer. But it was time to go back east, get his dad out of prison, and return to the life they’d built. Thinking of Lucy and Dwight and the phone conversation they’d had earlier that evening, Charlie felt an ache; he missed them so much.

  “Honey, look,” said Margaret, motioning with her chin toward the unmistakable profile of Alfred Hitchcock on his way to a prime table, diners and waitstaff forced to move aside to accommodate his considerable girth. Manny Fontaine and a top studio executive, Les Wolff, sailed in his spacious wake. Fontaine had told them Wolff’s story: Tan and broad, the studio big shot was a former actor who had rocketed to the upper echelons fueled only by oily charm and the look of a CEO. Most of the other Hollywood machers were overweight or pale or chinless or all of the above.

  At their table, Charlie faced the expansive mirror hanging from the wall while Margaret and Goode viewed the room. Fontaine spotted Charlie in the reflection and they waved to each other; no time to talk.

  “Horrible Hitch,” Goode said. “A grotesque masher. That poor girl he just plucked from obscurity to star in his latest.” She tilted her head back and gulped down a shrimp from her shrimp cocktail like a ravenous seal. Charlie politely mimed to her that she had cocktail sauce on her cheek, and Goode wiped it away.

  “I didn’t know that about Hitchcock,” Margaret said. “Charlie, that bird woman we met on set is working on that picture, his latest.”

  “On The Birds?” Goode said.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, she should
watch out too,” Goode said. “These mashers and flashers with their casting couches. MGM’s Arthur Freed whipped it out to Shirley Temple when she was just twelve! There’s a whole network of people making sure nobody ever hears about it and keeping hacks like me from reporting on it, but it happens every damn day.” Goode pointed to an older man dining with two pretty young men. “There’s Henry Wilson. An agent. He’s notorious for forcing his clients into bed. Male clients. Roddy McDowall calls him the slime that oozes out from under a rock.”

  Margaret noticed a familiar face: Symone LeGrue. “Speak of the devil bird,” said Margaret, smiling and waving as LeGrue approached their table.

  “Is that a real bird?” asked Charlie.

  “In Ceylonese lore,” LeGrue said as she reached them. “Probably a species of nightjar or maybe a spot-bellied eagle-owl.”

  “We just saw Mr. Hitchcock walk in. Are you dining with him?” Margaret asked.

  “I am!” LeGrue said. “Where is he?” She looked around and saw the director wedging himself into a corner booth. “Listen,” she said, turning to Margaret and placing a hand on her shoulder, “I’m in LA all week. We’re shooting interiors at Universal. Come by, I’ll show you the birds.”

  “I’d love to,” said Margaret.

  “Call me.” LeGrue took a business card out of her purse, handed it to Margaret, and waved goodbye.

  “I don’t know how much either of you are into stargazing,” Goode said, pointing half a shrimp toward a corner booth. “But there’s Natalie Wood and Rita Moreno. Have you seen West Side Story?”

  “We did,” said Margaret. She sipped her glass of wine and looked on warily as Charlie knocked back his second bourbon and waved for a third. “Bit of a sore subject.”

  “I hate musicals,” Charlie said, slumming with a glass of wine while he waited for the bourbon.

  “It’s one of Charlie’s seven defining characteristics, along with his freakishly keen sense of smell,” Margaret said. And his drinking, which was getting higher and higher on the list, she thought.

  “Lotta Oscar buzz,” Goode said. “Likely nominations for both of those gals, though it’s also possible Natalie gets a nod for Splendor.” Goode, too, was drinking at a rapid clip and her mind seemed to race; she quietly started humming “Officer Krupke” from West Side Story, which made Charlie wince. And then, maybe reminded by the song, she brought the conversation back to their mission. “So what did the Feds say after you told them what Giancana wanted from Frank?” she asked.

  “We don’t talk details on the phone,” Charlie said.

  “Ah, right, because Bobby doesn’t trust Hoover,” Goode said. “Isn’t that old queen more or less devoted to bringing down the Mob, just like Bobby is?”

  “My guess is Kennedy doesn’t want Hoover to have anything more on his brother than he already does,” Charlie said.

  A sudden racket of cheers and applause erupted near the door as Sinatra, Martin, Davis, Lawford, Shirley MacLaine, and several young women Charlie and Margaret didn’t recognize entered the restaurant. As they were ushered toward a large table at the back, Charlie shot Margaret a look. They were caught off guard by the Rat Pack’s appearance, though they felt stupid being so surprised, given that Sinatra and Lawford owned the restaurant. Spotting them sitting there, Davis broke free of the group and approached their table.

  “Madame Marder, enchanté,” Davis said, taking her hand and planting a kiss on it.

  Charlie stood and shook his hand. “Good to see you again, Sammy.”

  Davis smiled and patted Charlie on the shoulder. “We’re toasting the memory of Ernie Kovacs,” Davis said. “Join us when you’re done.” He added pointedly: “You and Margaret.” He sauntered off.

  “No journalists allowed,” Goode noted.

  “Frank does have strong feelings about the press,” said Charlie.

  “As does Sam-I-am,” Goode said. “Mr. Davis had my editor kill my piece excoriating him for postponing his wedding just so Frank could kiss Kennedy ass.” She paused to dive into her mashed potatoes, which had arrived along with their steaks. “I wonder if the girls they have with them tonight are actresses or some of Van Heusen’s hires.”

  “Pardon?” asked Margaret.

  “Jimmy Van Heusen, Frank’s songwriter,” Goode said. “He supplies call girls for the singers who keep him in silk and caviar. Ships ’em in like trays of sturgeons.”

  “He does that? The guy who wrote ‘High Hopes’?” Margaret asked, stunned.

  “And lots of great romantic ballads,” Goode said. “He’s won three Oscars.”

  “Where does he get them from?” Charlie asked. “The girls.”

  “The lost and found?” Charlotte shrugged.

  Charlie thought about Lola and the other young women at Sinatra’s compound. Were they call girls? They didn’t act like they had much of a say in the matter.

  “Why would guys like Frank need to pay women to sleep with them?” Margaret asked.

  “They don’t pay them to have sex with them,” Goode said. “They pay them to leave.”

  Margaret shook her head and excused herself to the restroom, taking in bits of conversation on her way:

  Tracy, Berle, Caesar, Hackett, Jon Winters—it can’t miss!

  She’s working on Billy Wilder’s latest.

  You don’t remember Joe Sr. and Bobby swooping into town and stopping every issue of Hush-Hush from hitting the stands?

  They had to cancel it because of bad weather. It’s supposed to be rainy at Cape Canaveral for a few days.

  Elgin Baylor had forty-two points and twenty-two rebounds!

  Van Heusen’s extracurriculars stuck in Charlie’s craw. He recalled the time during college when he and two friends had ducked into a dark bar across the bridge, in Brooklyn, that people of negotiable standards were rumored to frequent. As they were sidling up to the bar, Charlie caught a whiff of the cologne his father wore. He turned to survey the room and saw a woman who was decidedly not Charlie’s mother seated on his father’s lap. Charlie had left immediately, his friends on his tail.

  Goode looked over her shoulder at Margaret’s retreating figure, then leaned across the table and said in a low voice, “You should know, Congressman, that Hollywood Nightlife recently received some compromising information about you.”

  Charlie felt his heartbeat quicken. “What’s that?”

  Goode took a bite of her steak. “We were sent,” she said, sporadically pausing to chew, “photographs…of you and a topless young woman in a hot tub.” She took a swig of her wine.

  “Jesus,” Charlie said, stunned. He reflexively reached for his glass. “Nothing happened. The girl took off her bikini top, and I got out of the Jacuzzi almost immediately.” He took a big gulp. Charlie tried to think back to who might have taken the picture, and how.

  “If you’re wondering who the enterprising shutterbug was, some of our rivals at Confidential and Hollywood Scandal Sheet have no problem climbing trees. If you’ve got a Nikon telephoto, you’re in business.”

  “You’re not going to publish it, are you?”

  Goode shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s why I’m telling you about it. But if I have a copy, there are others. I’ll see if the negatives are for sale, but let’s talk later—here’s Margaret.”

  Margaret shook her head as she took her seat. “I just can’t get over it,” she said. “Van Heusen writes all those lovely, romantic Oscar-winning ballads while also serving as a pimp.”

  “He’ll probably get another Oscar this year for that song he did for Frank for El Cid,” Goode said.

  “‘The Devil May Dance,’” Charlie said. It was one of those tunes that stuck with him, both for the haunting melody and the lyrics that rang too true, about compromising with evil.

  Margaret’s mind was packed with thoughts of such compromise as well. How did Van Heusen recruit these desperate, aspiring starlets? Who were the women who’d been with them in Vegas? Were they getting paid? How much? By
whom? Was Judy as independent as she acted? It terrified Margaret that her niece might be a part of this underworld where the casting process turned into a sort of human trafficking.

  Margaret grasped Charlie’s hand across the table. “We can’t leave Hollywood without finding Violet.” Charlie nodded, slightly distracted by the thought of the photograph of him in the hot tub. How would Margaret react? Would she believe him that nothing happened?

  “Well, well, well,” said Goode, “look who’s coming to dinner.” She nodded toward two figures entering through the kitchen.

  “Giancana,” Margaret said.

  “Was Giancana there the night Frank and John Wayne almost went at it?” Goode asked. “I don’t recall seeing him.”

  “No,” Charlie said.

  “That was quite a night,” said Goode.

  “Yeah, two draft dodgers squaring up, then chickening out. Super-impressive,” said Charlie.

  “Wayne dodged the draft too?” Margaret asked.

  “Three-A,” Goode said.

  “For dads with dependents?” asked Margaret.

  “Yeah, he’s got five kids,” said Goode.

  “Just like half the guys in my platoon,” said Charlie.

  “Oh, Marion Morrison,” said Goode, using Wayne’s given name. “He’s never been ‘John Wayne’ in any way, and the masses will never know that, because knowing requires reading.”

  Charlie and Margaret exchanged a glance.

  A chorus of cheers arose from Sinatra’s long table—Patricia Lawford, in a rare appearance, was making her way toward the group. Her husband stood to greet her, an expression of cheerful surprise on his face. He glided over to her, kissed her on the cheek, and guided her to the chair that a waiter was wedging in next to his.

  “What a sham,” Goode said, rolling her eyes.

  Before Charlie or Margaret could react, a dapper figure appeared by Charlie’s side. “Good to see you all,” Detective Ellroy Meehan said. “I trust you’re enjoying our fair city?”

  “We’re grand, Detective,” said Margaret, smiling brightly. “How are you?”