by Tapper, Jake
Margaret was about to call Sinatra’s name, but before she could, Fontaine grabbed her arm. At that moment, the curtains parted. “Ladies and gentlemen, here to sing Academy Award–nominated ‘The Devil May Dance’ from the motion picture El Cid, Mr. Frank Sinatra!”
As the audience erupted in applause, Margaret broke from Fontaine’s clutches and ran, instinctively grabbing a rope tied to a sandbag as the curtains opened. Holding tight, she was whisked up into the rafters as Sinatra and his dancers made their entrance and an elaborate backdrop was lowered to the stage. Fontaine, stunned, watched her fly up like a superhero and then coolly step onto a narrow wooden plank, part of an intricate network of scaffolding out of the audience’s view.
Okay, she thought, slightly amazed at what she had just pulled off, I’m safe for the moment. But where the hell is Charlie? And what do I do now?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Santa Monica, California
April 1962
“The first time the devil comes calling,” Sinatra sang, “he’s wearing the face of someone you love / He tells you your hopes are just silly / With no mettle, you settle, what dreams were made of.”
The audience fell under the spell of “the voice.” His ice-blue eyes at once romantic and predatory, Sinatra held the stand tenderly and embraced the microphone. The set behind him, depicting hell—molten lava erupting from small eddies, dark clouds, demons torturing damned souls—had landed onstage beneath Margaret as she’d flown upward. Now, two stories above and out of view of the audience, she stood on wobbly scaffolding, her familiar urge to swoon over the crooner now shoved to the margins of her mind. She watched Frank below as he closed his eyes and sang:
Next time the devil rings your doorbell
He’s your closest of friends and he says look away
The devil comes not bearing sharp horns
Or with hooves now
But with friendship, with memories
A fragrant bouquet
Wahhh-waaahhhh-wahh! From the orchestra pit, horns wailed and drums boomed, echoing throughout the building and causing the scaffolding to tremble slightly beneath Margaret’s feet.
She looked around to get a better sense of the space she was in. Above and behind her were steel-framed platforms, sets for musical numbers that had already happened or would follow Sinatra, that could be lowered onto the stage. Above that, lighting, props, whatever, hung from the rafters. The hellscape backdrop that had landed behind Frank would soon be hauled up behind a thick black curtain that kept everything out of view. On the brick wall behind Margaret was a steel door from an exterior hallway on what must’ve been the top floor of the auditorium; anyone who opened it and stepped through would plunge to the stage. And between her and the crowd, Sinatra sang with every fiber of his soul:
You will not know the circumstance
He hugs you, he loves you, and he enchants
And the devil may dance
The devil may dance
Margaret negotiated the scaffolding, quickly realizing that at this height and with the musical performance so loud, no one could hear her. With each step she took, the scaffolding wobbled; it was secured only from above. Her safest path seemed to be to follow the beam she was on to another piece of scaffold, jump onto it, then onto another, which led to a sturdy-looking ladder leaning against the wall.
Third time the devil’s at work now
Success is yours if a corner you cut
No one will be wise to this sad compromise
No one but you and the ache in your gut
A quickly pulsing bass-drum roll led into an extensive instrumental section—crying trumpets, sympathetic violins, disorienting cymbals. Beneath Margaret, the devil dancers sashayed around the stage and subtly gyrated. Slowly, cautiously, she walked to the end of the scaffolding, grabbed the thick black chain for balance, and began shifting her weight onto the next beam.
Above her, the random top-floor door opened, revealing the silhouette of a man. The figure was too stocky to be Charlie, but Margaret had allowed herself a moment of fantasy to imagine that it was. Where was Charlie now? The man retreated, then a different silhouette appeared, this one clearly Manny Fontaine, tux jacket gone, sleeves rolled up. He watched her for a moment, then, unbelievably, he leaped through the air and grabbed hold of a chain. It swung, and he shimmied down to the scaffolding she had just left with an athleticism that surprised her.
“The folder,” he said.
The deep chords of a pipe organ filled the arena, conveying menace. The sound almost drowned out Fontaine’s words. She stepped carefully along the narrow metal plank. Goddamn high heels.
“I don’t have it,” she said.
He jumped to the end of her plank, causing it to wobble and wheel. They both braced themselves as if they were surfing.
“You do,” he said. “And we have your friend.”
She suddenly realized he was right; she did have the real papers—not the forgeries Charlie had delivered earlier that evening. They were rolled up into a tube and crammed at the bottom of the purse she still had over her shoulder, though she wished she had remembered to ditch it along the way. She could just give him the papers, she thought, but then she’d have no leverage.
“Is this all worth it?” she asked, jumping to a lighting rig that swung back and forth like a carnival ride. “To cover up your sleazy sex club with little girls?”
“You’re an idiot,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief, continuing toward her like a cat.
The door above them opened again. From her new vantage point she could see the same man whose name had been recorded earlier as requiring a seat-filler, the United Artists executive Les Wolff.
“Cut the shit,” Wolff hissed.
One slip and she or Fontaine or both of them could crash to the stage while tens of millions watched on television.
“You can chalk it up to hap-pen-stance!” Sinatra sang, the choreographed section over. Even in this state of hyper-attention to her balance and her goddamn high heels and the movement of the lighting rig, Margaret couldn’t help listening, and she glanced down at the stage. He was really cooking now, impassioned and selling it with his whole heart.
You convince yourself and you’re entranced
And the devil may dance
The devil may dance
What does Satan have on you now?
What have you done that fills with remorse?
A corruption, an evil, you cannot disavow
And you’re fearing no clearing, so it’s jail or divorce
The realization hit her like a punch. “You’re not just running a kiddie-sex ring, you’re running a blackmail ring,” she said to Wolff.
He didn’t respond.
“You film everything!” she said. “And Chris Powell found out. Maybe through the church.” She was deducing it all on the spot, but for the first time the randomness made sense.
“What a diabolical scenario,” Wolff said. It was dark, but Margaret could discern a smirk.
“It’s brilliant,” Margaret said. “A bunch of predators—why not victimize them? They deserve it. And they won’t complain about it!”
Wolff chuckled. “You’ve seen too many movies where the bad guy confesses everything before he kills the pretty girl,” he said. “You’re not Ingrid Bergman, and I’m not Charles Boyer. We just want the papers.”
“The thing I can’t figure out,” Margaret continued as if he hadn’t said a word, “was why you didn’t just blackmail Powell.”
Wolff didn’t say anything.
“I’m a very bright woman, Mr. Wolff, I have a PhD in zoology. But I confess I don’t have your genius when it comes to evil. Educate me.”
Wolff laughed, amused by her effrontery.
“I’m serious—you’ve clearly outwitted not just me but this whole city. I don’t know where you went to school or if you have much of an intellect, to be perfectly candid. I mean, I get that out here a deep tan, charisma, and a certain loo
k—not to mention your ability to act the part—can go a long way. But I gotta admit, you’re pretty brilliant with this stuff.”
“You have to remember,” Wolff said, “not everyone can be blackmailed. Some people care more about other things than about their careers or reputations, so blackmail doesn’t work.”
“And Powell loved Lola more than his career or reputation?” Margaret asked. “Or maybe he was just disgusted that you used her as a whore when she was a child.”
“Who knows what motivated him,” Wolff said with all the nonchalance of someone wondering if it might rain. “Just an actor. A speck of dust.”
Margaret reached the end of the lighting rig, grabbed one of the chains, and jumped to the last remaining piece of scaffolding, causing the beam to sway wildly away from her. She clung to the chain as Fontaine, below, tried to grab her. He almost fell after attempting to lunge but caught himself and swung back onto the metal ledge, deploying his Special Forces training and Eighth Army Ranger expertise to help neutralize a mom trying to stop a child-sex-slave ring.
“I don’t know where you think you’re going,” Fontaine said.
The water grew warmer o’er the span of a lifetime
Now it’s boiling, you’re roiling, you look to your friend
But that pal you saw dancing, advancing, romancing
Wants your soul, that’s his goal, and this is the end
Margaret steadied herself, then inched along the swinging beam to the ladder. She was almost there when Fontaine jumped onto her scaffold. Margaret lost her balance; her flailing right arm hit the ladder, and she grasped a rung. Fontaine slid forward on his stomach, grabbed her by her hair, and yanked her toward him. She was still holding on to the ladder, which pulled away from the wall.
Margaret tried to hit him, claw him, scratch him, anything, with her free hand. She was holding on to the ladder with all of her strength, but she knew she couldn’t do it for much longer. Part of her just wanted to give up.
She instinctively let go of the ladder and grabbed Fontaine’s right arm, half dragging him off the swinging metal beam. He clutched Margaret by her hair but she tightened her grip on him and pulled herself up on his arm, relieving the pressure on her scalp. They hung there at this impasse for seconds, though it felt longer, neither sure of what to do.
Margaret looked up at the rafters of the building, then down at the floor, then at Fontaine. He appeared furious and terrified in equal measure.
She lunged for the chain holding up one corner of the beam on which Fontaine was lying. After grappling with it blindly for several seconds, she managed to release the clasp—it was the same kind she’d used on the bridle of her pony as a kid. The beam jerked and Fontaine let go of Margaret and grabbed at the air around him.
The next few moments for Margaret seemed to pass in slow motion; released from Fontaine’s grip, she pushed herself away from the scaffold and lunged for the ladder.
Onstage, Sinatra was bringing the song to its boisterous, soulful climax, the deep menacing notes from the pipe organ serving as a musical rumbling of the beast, Satan, as Sinatra cautioned the crowd with his closing refrain:
Don’t say you weren’t warned in advance
You can’t hide safe ensconced in your manse
Fontaine seesawed left and right.
You felt safe in his eyes at first glance
And now inside you’s a hate you can’t lance
The chain she’d released flew upward and the sandbag fastened to its other end shot down and hit Fontaine’s head with the force of a speeding Mack truck.
And the devil may dance
The devil may dance
The devil may dance
The song crescendoed under Sinatra’s desperate pleas; cymbals crashed and bass drums erupted. A wild standing ovation from the audience drowned out the noise of Manny Fontaine and the sandbag hitting the floor.
Margaret grasped a rung of the ladder and clung to it as it thunked back against the wall. She settled herself, then carefully descended to the stage.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Santa Monica, California
April 1962
Margaret reached the final rung as several dozen she-devil dancers exited the stage, grinning exuberantly as they poured into the wings. Les Wolff emerged from the dark, grabbed Margaret, and yanked her back into the shadows. She reached for the dancers around her and desperately shouted for help, but it played as a lark.
“I’m serious! Help me!” she called out, but Wolff laughed and held her tighter.
“Oh, Margaret, you’re too much,” he said, smiling, pulling her arm behind her back and jamming it up. He steered her toward the stage and down a separate hallway.
“Help!” Margaret cried. “He’s kidnapping me!” Heads turned. Wolff slapped a hand over her mouth. She shook her head from side to side. Wolff employed his acting chops and Hollywood charisma. “It’s true!” He laughed. “I’m kidnapping her!”
Margaret looked around wild-eyed, hoping to find a friendly face. But the actors, dancers, stagehands, and producers backstage were unsure about the sincerity of her panic and happily smiled back at Wolff, who was well-known and who, they knew, could make or break their careers. He pushed her past a cluster of official-looking men and women at a table full of gold statuettes.
“Help me!” she said, turning away from his big, hot paw. He kept his hand over her mouth, smiling at the people glancing over at them. “She forgot to take her pill this morning,” he said and shoved her through an exit door. It shut behind them and they entered a silent corridor beside a dark stairwell with an open door at the end of the hall.
Margaret bit his hand. “Fuck!” he exclaimed. He slapped her face, stunning her silent. “If you want to survive this,” he said, “you need to behave.” He grabbed her arm again, pulled it back behind her, twisted it harder.
The open door down the staircase led to organized chaos—theater ropes and bright lights and women with clipboards; some kind of press area for Oscar winners?
With her free hand, Margaret rubbed her reddened cheek. “Big studio boss going to kill me yards away from paparazzi?” she asked. “Seems unwise.”
“You’d be amazed at what journalists don’t cover,” he said.
A tall young man in a black suit entered the stairwell from backstage. He had dirty blond hair and was clean-cut and chiseled, a Tab Hunter knockoff.
“Oh, good,” Wolff said. “We need to figure out a way to get her out of here.”
“Who are you?” Margaret asked. He ignored her.
“You need to move. Whoever wins Best Supporting Actor will come right through here in about ninety seconds,” the young man said. He hopped down the stairs, then peered out the open exit door. “Easy path for us as long as she keeps her mouth shut.”
“Which she’ll do if she wants this to end well,” Wolff said. “She’ll give us the file too.” With his free right arm, he suddenly grabbed her purse and violently yanked it from her, breaking its strap. He tossed the purse to the young man, who began rummaging through its contents. He plucked out a roll of papers as if he’d found the Dead Sea Scrolls, unspooled it, skimmed through, and gave Wolff a thumbs-up.
“So you did bring the real ones,” Wolff said.
“Where is Sheryl Ann?” Margaret asked.
“We can tell you that as soon as we get out of here,” Wolff said. “You and the congressman can go back to Washington, and everything’ll be hunky-dory.”
The poor man’s Tab Hunter walked outside the exit door for a few seconds and quickly returned. “I see some friendly faces out there. They can help us escort her out.”
“You think I’m going to let you drag me out that door?” Margaret asked.
“Yes, unless you trip and knock yourself unconscious and we have to carry you to safety,” the young man said with a malevolent glare.
“Where are we anyway?” Margaret asked, though she seemed to be talking more to herself. Adjacent to the stage, on
the side of the building—she was trying to get her bearings.
The wannabe Tab Hunter went down the hall to gather those friends.
“So Lola told Chris Powell, and he confronted you,” Margaret said to Wolff. “And you killed him.”
Wolff smirked. “No, I would never do anything like that,” he said. “That’s crazy.”
“Well, of course you would never do it,” Margaret said. “You’re too important, too powerful. You probably haven’t even clipped your own nails since Truman.”
Wolff laughed. “That’s probably true.”
“No, you wouldn’t do it,” Margaret continued. “So someone else would do it. For you. Someone who has a lot of zealots at his disposal, people who will do whatever he tells them to do. Someone who heads an organization trying to curry favor with powerful people and recruit new members. Maybe a religious organization. Kind of.”
Wolff continued to smile at her. He was impressed, and Margaret saw she was right.
“So the church is wrapped up in this too,” she said. “They’re your henchmen.”
He was staring at her, almost amused. “I’ll tell you, you can say what you want, but those folks are smart. And efficient.”
“You have”—she chose her words carefully—“a lot of friends. Cops, mobsters, church elders.”
Wolff thought about that. “It’s good to have friends,” he finally said. “And that’s why you and your husband can’t win. Powerful men need a safe place to unwind, away from the prying eyes of the public and the press. Pursuit of happiness is in the Constitution, lady.”
“Actually, it’s in the Declaration of Independence,” Margaret said.
“So you went to the better school,” Wolff said.