The Devil May Dance

radio.
Giesler’s estate is worth eight hundred thousand dollars, most of which will be controlled by his widow in two separate trust funds, his will indicates. The colorful attorney represented a number of clients from the worlds of Hollywood and organized crime, getting both Charlie Chaplin and Errol Flynn acquitted of charges involving minors and representing both Bugsy Siegel and Mickey Cohen. Giesler defended Lana Turner’s daughter in what was ultimately ruled justifiable homicide against her mother’s boyfriend, mobster Johnny Stompanato…
“So his clientele were mobsters and statutory rapists,” Sheryl Ann said.
“Nice work if you can get it,” Margaret responded.
“The stories you hear in this town about young girls,” said Sheryl Ann. “It would curl your hair. It’s sick.”
“Yeah.” Margaret frowned. “I’ve seen a bit of it firsthand.” She had already told her friend about her niece and her frustration at not being able to find out more. The bartender and doorman at the Daisy had had no idea who Margaret was inquiring about; the LAPD operator told her to call back when she had something resembling actual information; Itchy Meyer at MGM wouldn’t take her calls. Sheryl Ann said she would think about a way to help, but she hadn’t had any ideas.
Margaret adjusted the AM dial, as if changing the station would have an impact on eradicating the evil it carried.
Former Vice President Richard Nixon, running for governor and participating in a March of Dimes parade, has been caught in the storm riding in the back of a convertible and wearing nothing but a summer suit…
The women laughed, familiar with Nixon’s awkwardness and his run of bad luck.
“Poor Dick,” said Sheryl Ann, switching to a music station and landing on “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” and a cascade of a-weema-wehs. “He has a storm cloud over his head. Like what’s his name in Li’l Abner.”
“Joe Btfsplk.”
“Yeah, him.”
“Speaking of storms, the weather must have followed me and Charlie,” said Margaret.
Days before, back in New York, Margaret had been overjoyed to be home with Lucy and Dwight and taking a break from the frenetic pace of their temporary California life. Even Christmas with two young children felt calm by comparison, though it was a calm interrupted far too soon. Charlie had been explaining to Lucy over breakfast that taxidermists had nothing to do with paying taxes when the phone started ringing.
“I thought you pay them and then the man gives you a stuffed bear,” Lucy said, delighting her father.
“Daddy, Daddy,” said Dwight, coming from the bathroom where Margaret had been brushing his hair. He ran up to his father and hugged him as Charlie tried to reach the ringing phone.
“I’ll get it,” Margaret said.
“Daddy, what’s up?” Dwight asked, performing one of their daily routines.
“What’s up is…your grandma’s going to take you to the Bronx Zoo today!” Charlie said.
“Daddy, what’s down?”
“Stock market’s been going down for a while,” Charlie said. “The Kennedy slide.”
“And what’s—what’s right, Daddy?”
“You’re what’s right, Dwight. You and your sister are what’s right with the world!”
“And Daddy, Daddy, what’s left?” Dwight asked, beaming with pride.
“Only thing that’s left is for me to give you a big hug,” Charlie said.
They did this every morning and it was Charlie’s favorite part of the day.
“Charlie.” Margaret poked her head into the dining nook off the kitchen. “It’s Addington White. He says it’s important.”
Charlie raised his eyebrows at Lucy as he got up from his chair. “Be right back, princess.” Lucy returned to her cornflakes and her Casper the Friendly Ghost comic book. Charlie smiled, recalling the time Lucy had asked him if Casper was just Richie Rich after evil cousin Reggie finally murdered him, the natural climax of that dark rivalry for the hand of the fair Gloria. He wasn’t sure if the joke was original or not, but either way, the child had a lovely, dark sense of humor, just like her mom.
He grabbed the phone.
“Charlie, we need to talk,” the Justice Department investigator barked on the other end of the line.
“Merry Christmas to you too, Addison, and thank you, we did have a lovely holiday,” Charlie replied, but Addison was in no mood for pleasantries.
“Meet me at Solly’s at eleven. Bring Margaret.”
Two hours later, with Margaret’s mother, Catherine, back on babysitting duty, they arrived at the narrow, nondescript Eighth Avenue diner. Charlie supposed that White had chosen to meet in person out of an abundance of caution; it was safe to assume Hoover would be listening to their phone calls.
The bell jingled as they walked in to smells of burned toast. The cacophony of short-order cooks yelling in the back mingled with Jimmy Dean on the jukebox:
Kinda broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip. And everybody knew ya didn’t give no lip to Big John…
In a dingy vinyl booth at the back, White raised an eyebrow in greeting while they hung up their snow-dusted coats and hats.
“Anything good?” Charlie asked.
“On this earth? I am less and less confident of that with each passing day,” said White wearily. “But if you don’t mean existentially, the meat loaf tends to be free of ptomaine.”
“Didn’t know you were such a philosopher,” said Margaret, sitting down. “Kant say I’m particularly surprised.”
“I guess he figured sooner or later we’d Sartre it out,” added Charlie, waving over the waitress.
“Camus order for me, sweetie?” Margaret asked, chuckling.
“You two are a regular Nichols and May,” White said, smiling despite himself.
“Eh,” said Margaret. “Puns are a Nietzsche form of comedy.”
The waitress came—coffee and toast for Charlie, coffee and a short stack for White, just coffee for Margaret, who often skipped meals in a constant and unnecessary attempt to diet.
“So let us move from ‘to do is to be’ to ‘doo be doo be doo,’” Charlie said, grabbing the cream at the edge of the table and passing it to Margaret, who groaned as he attempted a pun too far. “We don’t know yet what the ask was that Giancana made of Sinatra. But we have established that Sinatra is not merely friendly with mobsters, he’s close to them. In