The Devil May Dance

turntable. “Don’t Cry, Joe (Let Her Go, Let Her Go, Let Her Go)” began playing.
But Texas Twang and Freckles couldn’t figure out how to dance to it after the much faster song that had preceded it. Even this new “swingier” version of Sinatra’s 1949 recording felt old. Charlie caught one of the young women rolling her eyes at her friend.
“Put on the covers, George,” Sinatra ordered.
Jacobs brought out an LP and soon they were all listening to Sinatra singing Carl Perkins’s “Blue Suede Shoes.”
“Just a lark,” Sinatra explained. “Made an album of rock covers for my daughters. Maybe we’ll release it sometime.” Everyone smiled at the privilege of being let in on the secret while dancing to Sinatra singing Richard’s “Tutti Frutti,” then his take on Gene Vincent’s “Be-Bop-a-Lula,” followed by his version of “Tequila” by the Champs.
“Fantastic,” Charlie called out to Sinatra. He was half sincere, half ass-kissing, and worried for a second that he had gone too far. But Sinatra raised a glass in return and Charlie exhaled.
As the sun began to sink behind the mountains, taking its comfortable warmth along with it, Sinatra and his guests kept themselves warm with the help of Jacobs’s endless supply of cocktails: screwdrivers and mai tais, then the spiciest margarita Charlie had ever had, then a surprisingly strong Pimm’s cup—a purposeful nod by Jacobs to Lawford’s British roots. Before long, most of the others were dancing while Charlie lingered in the hot tub, pruning like an octogenarian, and Sinatra sat at the Jacuzzi’s edge, feet submerged.
“The place looks great,” Charlie said to his host. “You’re ready for JFK’s visit.”
“You know, Congressman, I don’t even know for sure that TP is going to stay here,” Sinatra said. “I haven’t gotten a straight answer or even a call back from anyone real since the Ambassador had his stroke.”
“What does Lawford say?” Charlie said.
Sinatra let out a short laugh. “Worthless. A bum.” He said it loud enough for Lawford to hear, but the Kennedy in-law, well oiled by now, was focused only on the young women dancing on the pool deck. Charlie and Sinatra watched Lawford wrap a towel around the waist of the gal with the Texas twang, then pull her toward a lounge chair and onto his lap.
“Thing is,” Sinatra said, “they owe me. TP owes me. Peter and I flew to Palm Beach three summers ago, in ’59, to meet with the Ambassador. He had lots of asks—money, benefit concerts, a goddamn theme song. But he also wanted me to hit up Momo for help with the unions. And I did. Skinny D’Amato got the miners for the West Virginia primary, and you better believe Momo was busy in Chicago on election night. I made that happen.”
Charlie took it all in. The whispers of Mob assistance had never been investigated by law enforcement, so he hadn’t known what to believe. But here was the Chairman of the Board, confirming it all.
Before he could respond, Judy and Lola approached them. Judy kicked off her leopard-print mules, sat next to Sinatra, leaned close, and whispered in his ear; whatever it was, it made him smile. With one languorous move, Lola took off her shirt, revealing a bikini, and joined Charlie in the hot tub.
Lola draped her arms along the Jacuzzi edge and surveyed the scene, then leaned back and closed her eyes. Judy, meanwhile, worked double time to make sure none of the other young near-naked women were able to get Sinatra’s attention.
Jacobs’s next tray included much-needed solid food. Lawford reluctantly accepted a sandwich; he balanced the plate on one leg and Texas Twang on the other, as if she were a side order of chips.
“Oh, Charlie,” Lawford said absentmindedly. “I saw your cousin the other day.”
Charlie didn’t know what he was talking about.
“That girl, the young girl,” Lawford said, looking at him. “With the—” He motioned with his hands, suggesting two immense scoops of breast.
“My wife’s niece?” Charlie asked.
“That’s the one,” Lawford said.
“Where?”
“A party,” said Lawford.
“A party where? When exactly?”
Then, to Charlie’s amazement, Lawford turned away and went back to the dish on his lap.
Lola’s eyes were trained on Charlie. “This isn’t your scene, is it?”
“I don’t really ring-a-ding-ding,” Charlie said.
She gave a knowing grin, rooted in the confidence of youth. Charlie had never felt that kind of assuredness. Folks might have inferred strength from his reticence or from the wounds he’d carried out of a trench in France. What trenches had Lola fought in? Charlie tried to look away but found that difficult. He felt his heart beating faster.
Lawford came over to the hot tub; he was holding hands with Texas Twang, who was in turn holding hands with Freckles.
“Loosen up, Charlie, baby,” he said with a lazy grin, swaying slightly on his feet. “You’re on recess.”
“How long you been married, Congressman?” Lola asked.
“We’ve been together since ’41,” Charlie said. “Got married when I got back from France, in ’45.”
“Jeez Louise, I haven’t been alive that long,” said Freckles.
From the other side of the house, where construction workers had been laboring since that morning, came the sound of a power drill, temporarily drowning out everything else.
“When’s the last time you did some drilling, Congressman?” asked Freckles once the noise had stopped.
They all laughed, including Lola. Charlie gave an insincere chuckle.
It had been a couple weeks. Or maybe more. More, definitely. The travel and the jet lag hadn’t been very conducive to his and Margaret’s love life. Charlie living in DC Monday through Friday and coming home only on weekends didn’t help either. Dwight’s nightmares meant that when he was back in New York, their bedroom now slept three. His drinking was also causing him to stay up later and her to turn in earlier, if he admitted it to himself.
The cold front had been making its way east. A cloud blocked the sun and now there was no denying an uncomfortable drop in temperature. The young women began to shiver theatrically. “Come inside and let’s find a way to warm up,