The Devil May Dance

seventeenth fairway of the Tamarisk Country Club and most often referred to as the Compound. Charlie, Martin, Davis, and Sinatra were wolfing down pancakes fresh from the griddle courtesy of Sinatra’s valet, a fastidious young Black man named George Jacobs. It was sunny and in the mid-fifties; the cold front hitting Los Angeles remained at a comfortable distance. The day before, they had all been sunbathing by the pool.
“Son of a bitch!” said Sinatra, slamming his Bloody Mary onto the glass breakfast table with enough force to splatter tomato juice across his newspaper.
Dean Martin raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, Il Duce?”
“These goddamn columnists. They’re obsessed with me,” Sinatra fumed. He grabbed the newspaper, rolled it up into a ball, and threw it onto the ground. “Assholes!” he yelled. He took a gulp of his drink and glared across his vast lawn toward the mountains in the distance. Sammy Davis leaned over to put a comforting hand on Sinatra’s shoulder.
“Francis, Francis, they go after you because you’re the sun, the moon, and the stars!” Davis said. “You released a dozen singles last year, and this year you’ll release a dozen more! You’re in the middle of shooting a picture that might win you another Oscar! People are talking about ‘The Devil May Dance’ winning Best Original Song! You’re wooing the loveliest ladies in the world and living the life of Riley. Of course they attack you! Wouldn’t you attack you if you were one of these rat-faced worms?”
Charlie marveled at the blatant sycophancy on display, but Sinatra drank it all in, then resumed his tirade.
“They’re losers!” Sinatra shook his head in disgust. “Pale eunuchs. Never came up with an original thought in their lives. What would they do if I weren’t here for them to write about, for them to lie about?”
“That’s why they do it, Francis,” Davis told him. “They feed off your life force.”
“So what they do makes sense to you, Sammy?” Sinatra said with an edge to his voice.
“Hey, hey, hey,” said Martin, rising from his seat. He went over to Davis and Sinatra, rubbed their backs and squeezed their shoulders. Charlie observed the trio—the king and his court—with bewilderment. All three were rich and powerful and among the most famous men on the planet, but Martin and Davis treated Sinatra as if he were royalty. It didn’t seem entirely born of Sinatra’s greater talent or star power or the favors he had extended to all of them. No, it felt more like what Charlie, an only child, had observed among his enlisted men in France during the war: some men naturally stood point, regardless of rank. But these soldiers, away from combat, required constant attention. These leaders—the Sinatras—needed drama.
Charlie stood and bent over to pick up the newspaper, curious about what had set Sinatra off. It was a piece by UPI’s Hollywood correspondent Vernon Scott about Sinatra’s return to form. It began with a low point, remembering when he’d been a “washed-up crooner” dumped by Ava Gardner. It went on from there more flatteringly, but Sinatra had focused only on that first line, ignoring the rest. Charlie shook his head. It seemed Sinatra felt tortured, somehow, by phantoms within his soul, unable to see these awful threats were the products of his own mind.
L. Ron Hubbard steered Margaret and Sheryl Ann Gold through an oak door and into a cluttered conference room.
“How about that snow!” he exclaimed, looking outside. “It shows the power of our energy, once we go clear.”
The women nodded uncertainly.
“I woke up this morning and I thought it would be nice to have snow in January, even if we’re in Los Angeles,” Hubbard said.
Margaret shot a glance at her friend. “You mean you’re the one responsible for the snow?”
“Yes!”
This strange moment was interrupted by a knock at the door: the wiry fellow in the Hawaiian shirt. Margaret wondered if the man had missed the memo on the weather pattern Hubbard was creating for the day. Hubbard motioned toward Margaret and Sheryl Ann. “These two were asking about Chris Powell.”
“Julius Mercer,” he said as he shook their hands. “I run our Los Angeles office. I’m very sorry for your loss.” He paused. “I’m sorry, ladies, I didn’t catch your names?”
“Beatrice Powell,” said Margaret. “Chris was my little brother. And this is my sister Sophie.” She and Sheryl Ann looked nothing alike, Margaret thought. Cousin would have been better. Damn it. Did she see Julius and Hubbard exchange a look?
“Let’s all have a seat, shall we?” Hubbard motioned toward the conference table. This was followed by an uneasy silence as they all sat down. Hubbard slid into his seat at the head of the table so close to Sheryl Ann, on his left, that their knees were touching, and Margaret began to wonder if they’d made a mistake in coming. Sitting in the diner with Addington White, she’d thought the sleuthing seemed like a harmless task to help Winston. Now she was in the presence of the actual L. Ron Hubbard in a building full of his acolytes, and given the grim history of religious zealotry around the world, the whole assignment seemed foolhardy. Worried that Hubbard might detect her concern, Margaret smiled at him, and he returned it with a flirtatious grin.
“The Secret of Treasure Island isn’t the only picture I worked on, you know,” he told her. “You ever see Dive Bomber or The Plainsman or Stagecoach?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I wrote them too, but the dumb Jew producers denied me the credits.”
Margaret heard Sheryl Ann draw a sharp breath beside her. “So,” Margaret said firmly. “Our brother Chris.”
“Chris came to us last year with a serious gambling problem,” said Julius, handing a green file to Hubbard.
“What do you ladies know about our church?” Hubbard asked, looking through the papers in the file.
“Just that Chris thought it would help him,” Margaret said.
Hubbard looked up. “He was right to come to us.” His tone had shifted from genial host to stern instructor.