The Devil May Dance

months ago with Chris Powell, that kid who died.”
“Oh yeah, poor guy,” said Rosselli. “And hello there, pretty lady,” he said appreciatively as the bikini-clad Judy made her way to the bar.
She ignored him and ordered a screwdriver. “I thought you were going to bring me a drink,” she said to Charlie.
“I always knew I liked you, Judy,” said Martin, and once again Charlie observed the power she held over these men by simply ignoring them. Judy settled herself comfortably on a barstool and waited for her drink.
“What was the story with Powell?” Charlie asked. “I heard he and Frank were fighting over a girl.”
“Lola,” said Judy.
“Frank doesn’t really care about any of these dames,” Martin said. “Not since Judy here broke his heart.”
“I’m telling you,” Rosselli said, laughing. “Did you see the shit he pulled with Lauren Bacall?”
“You two are worse than a couple of eighth-grade girls,” Judy said, prompting a chuckle from Maheu, whom Charlie had almost forgotten.
“What do you think happened to Powell?” Charlie asked, even though he also wanted to hear about the shit Sinatra pulled with Lauren Bacall.
“Dunno,” said Martin. “Didn’t know him well. Did you, Johnny?”
“I saw him a few times in LA at poker,” said Rosselli. “Had a tell like Durante’s nose.”
“Did he owe anyone money?” Charlie asked.
“Not that I know of,” said Rosselli. “And anyway, I never heard of anyone getting whacked for not paying. Maybe a broken leg, sure. Like when Harpo and Chico asked me to get money from Jack La Rue. But in this case…doesn’t make sense.”
The sun beat down on them. Maheu guzzled his screwdriver and ordered another. A foot-long iguana scampered at the edge of the pool.
“I need to go back in,” Judy said. “Jesus, it’s like we’re ten feet from the sun.”
“Is Sam coming down?” Rosselli asked Judy.
“Here he is now,” she replied, waving toward the stairs where Giancana, wearing a tan linen suit, was making an entrance.
“Momo!” Martin shouted. He polished off his drink and motioned for another. “Swing over to this tree and join your fellow chimpanzees.”
Giancana smiled, walked over to the bar, and shook the hands of the men. He patted Judy affectionately on the back and then—subtly, though not so subtly that Charlie didn’t notice—on the rear.
“I heard Elvis is PO’d they have to reshoot a bunch of scenes from his boxing picture,” Martin said.
“’Cause of Powell?” Charlie asked.
“Who’s that?” asked Giancana.
“That dead actor,” said Judy. “From the hotel.”
“Ah, right,” said Giancana. Then, to the bartender: “Scotch rocks.”
“I heard he tried to get help for his gambling problem,” said Judy. “Some sort of new therapy. From the guy who wrote that Dianetics book a few years ago? He has a church now. Science—no, Scientology, I think it’s called.”
“Oh, right,” said Martin. “I’ve heard about that. Gloria dabbles, I think.”
“Gloria?” asked Charlie.
“Swanson,” said Martin.
“That broad ain’t been right since Joe Kennedy stopped shlonging her,” observed Giancana.
“What’s this?” asked Charlie.
“When the Ambassador was out here making Tom Mix cowboy pictures before the war, he and Swanson had a thing,” Maheu said. Charlie studied his face; he was pretty sure he had never seen him before, though Maheu’s blandness rendered the lack of recognition unreliable. How did he know him?
“Also Marlene Dietrich,” said Judy.
“Yeah but he really boned Swan-song,” said Giancana, who had an odd habit of messing up names.
“Swanson,” Maheu corrected him.
“Whatever,” said Giancana. “He set up Gloria Productions for her. She was a partner, and he billed everything to the company, including gifts he bought her, real estate, minks, whatever. Gloria Productions lost millions, and when she found out and confronted him, he announced he was no longer part of the company and vamoosed back east.”
“She’s really never recovered,” Martin observed. “Add yet another broken soul to the roster. No wonder she’s seeking help from that wack job, what’s his name, L. Ron…”
“Hubbard,” said Maheu. “L. Ron Hubbard.”
“Maybe the Ambassador’s bill is coming due,” Rosselli said.
“What do you mean?” asked Judy.
“The Ambassador had a stroke,” Maheu said.
“You didn’t hear?” asked Rosselli. “That’s why Frank ran off, to call the president.”
Judy’s face flushed and she seemed genuinely shocked. She put her hand to her chest as if she needed to stabilize herself. “That’s so horrible!” she finally said, on the verge of tears. She ran off herself.
“This one’s sad, and Frank’s mad,” said Giancana. He shook his head, disgusted with both of them, though Charlie wasn’t sure why. In fact, the only thing Charlie knew right then was that soon he and Margaret would be back in New York City with their kids and he knew even less about Sinatra than he’d thought he did, which didn’t bode well for anyone.

Chapter NineLos Angeles, California
January 1962
“What sorcery is this?” asked Margaret, leaning over the steering wheel of her rented white Chevy Impala and pointing toward the sky. She and Charlie had just returned to Los Angeles after a month in New York City with Lucy and Dwight, and the last thing she’d expected to see here was snow.
“Holy cannoli,” said her passenger, Sheryl Ann Gold, née Bernstein. A former intern in Charlie’s congressional office, she’d moved to Los Angeles a few years ago and now swore she’d never set foot in DC again as long as she lived. Margaret spared a glance at the younger woman, grateful for an old friend in an unfamiliar city. “It can’t be.”
But it was. For the first time in thirty years, it was snowing in Los Angeles. More precisely, it was snowing, sleeting, hailing, and raining all at once. Bewildered locals stood with their mouths agape, staring at the heavens. Children had begun to dance and run around their front lawns; even some adults got in on the act. Margaret had picked up Sheryl Ann at her Santa Monica apartment, and as they drove east, the snow fell more heavily, covering the city like a thin layer of sea foam. Margaret steered the car cautiously, passing blocks of indistinguishable, recently built one-story homes. Sheryl Ann turned up the