The Devil May Dance

Pablo Picasso, Greta Garbo, and more. These celebrities are well guarded, well barricaded, over-worked, aloof, the memo said. If you want one of these celebrities as your game, write us at once so the notable will be yours to hunt without interference.
“What does it say?” Sheryl Ann asked.
“The church desperately wants celebrities to join,” Margaret whispered. “There’s a section here on the wooing of Gloria Swanson, and how it’s helped them—”
“They’re coming!” Sheryl Ann cautioned under her breath as Julius walked toward the door; Margaret stuffed the documents down the back of her dress. But instead of coming into the room, Julius closed the door—and they heard a key turning in the lock.

Chapter ElevenRancho Mirage, California
January 1962
“And here’s the pièce de résistance,” Sinatra proclaimed, half-hearted French accent easily defeated by Hobokenese.
He was finishing up a tour of the Compound. Outside the ranch-style mansion, on the front lawn, a sign: FORGET THE DOG, BEWARE OF THE OWNER. Throughout the property: ocotillo and saguaro cacti and citrus trees. Sinatra led Charlie, Lola Bridgewater, and Judy past the pool house, which had been converted into a briefing room in preparation for JFK’s visit, then flung out his arm—“Ta-da!”—toward a sleek arrangement of concrete and granite occupying most of what used to be manicured lawn. Half a dozen masons were building a patio of sorts.
Lola looked confused. “What is it?” She had a high, chirpy voice, like a nightingale. With her bleached-blond hair, she was a near-perfect composite of Jayne Mansfield and Kim Novak. Both she and Judy were still in clingy pajamas that left little to the imagination.
“It’s a helipad!” said Sinatra.
“For Marine One,” said Judy.
Lola wrinkled her nose. Marine One?
“That’s the name for whatever Marine Corps helicopter is transporting the president,” explained Charlie, ever the historian. “Ike used a Sikorsky Seahorse. I think Kennedy uses a Sea King.”
Sinatra lit a cigarette and looked at Charlie. “I loved that license-to-kill riff I hear you laid down to Wayne,” he said. “Where’d you serve, Congressman?”
“France,” said Charlie, “right after D-Day.”
“I was four-F—busted eardrum,” said Sinatra. “Begged them to let me join.”
Charlie didn’t know how to respond to men who rushed to explain why they didn’t serve. He had no absolution to offer. “Well, you did as much to lift up the spirits of the troops as anyone alive,” he said. “You did your part.”
“There’s a military picture I’m trying to get made that I’d love to talk to you about sometime, Charlie,” Sinatra said. “The air force accidentally drops an A-bomb on North Carolina. B-fifty-two breaks up midair, crew has to ditch the two nukes they’re carrying. One almost detonates nears Goldsboro. Two guys killed in the crash. Big cover-up.” Sinatra looked right at Charlie. “You don’t think it sounds far-fetched, do you, Congressman? I can see it in your eyes. Doesn’t it feel like there’s a part of this government that’s gone off the rails? Like there are people who have no accountability and just do whatever they want? Wiretaps, thuggery, assassinations…”
“Like in Manchurian?” Charlie asked.
“Except real,” said Sinatra.
“And you don’t know the half of it,” Charlie said, thinking about his work on the House Oversight subcommittee. “I’m not even sure what the foreign policy principles are anymore. Bay of Pigs was such a fiasco, it’s hard to understand how the president got talked into it.”
“Yeah,” agreed Sinatra. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—Fidel is a real Commie, not the fake kind you see in Hollywood. Rough stuff. I wouldn’t cry if he slipped in the shower.”
“Of course,” said Charlie. “He’s a monster and he’s in Khrushchev’s pocket. But that’s not the point. It’s what do we do in response.”
“Exactly,” said Sinatra. “It’s who we are, not who they are. You’re like the first sane person I’ve talked to about this. Everyone else is just pro-Jack or pro-Ike, pro-Commie or anti-Commie. No nuance. No conversation.”
“Putting on the team jerseys,” said Charlie.
“Exactly,” Sinatra said again, smiling. He reached out and squeezed Charlie’s shoulder, then gave him a brotherly slap on the back. Charlie felt a little foolish for speaking so candidly with the express purpose of bonding with a celebrity. But what choice did he have? It was either that or let his dying father rot in jail. Either way, Sinatra was right on the issue, and Charlie was pleased to hear a more sophisticated Hollywood take on Cuba than he’d expected.
Charlie looked at Lola. She smiled back patiently. Judy examined her nails.
“Anyway, Charlie,” Sinatra said, “maybe you could read this script I got. It’s similar to the point I was trying to make with the Eddie Slovik script I was working on till Wayne stuck his fat face in.”
“Not the first or the last favor you did for the Kennedys,” Charlie said.
“Ha,” Sinatra said. “Don’t bring that up in front of Sammy! But I have all the rights to this script, and contractually the studio has to make it. After my Oscar, they offered me carte blanche but then they got all hinky a few months ago when I told them I wanted to make the picture. We may end up in court. I don’t get why they’re so against it.”
“I’d be happy to take a look,” Charlie said.
“Good man,” Sinatra said, squeezing Charlie’s shoulder again, and Charlie was relieved that the ruse was working so well. He also had to admit it was almost impossible to resist the urge to please this man, whose moods were infectious and whose excitement about his script had a nervous edge to it, like a boy in love and afraid of how his affections were being received. “Charlie, I know you’re Republican, but you know the Kennedys maybe better than any of us.”
Charlie shrugged. Sinatra probably didn’t want to hear that at that moment, he thought of them as cutthroat, calculating bastards.
“I think the kid brother is getting cold feet about TP staying here. Maybe you could put in a good word, let them know how fine the accommodations are,” Sinatra said, and Charlie suddenly