The Devil May Dance

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 EightLas 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