The Devil May Dance

do this, and I worry about him being rejected by the president. This time maybe he won’t recover. He’s still not over Ava.”
“He’s still upset about Ava?” Charlie said. Frank and Ava’s tumultuous marriage had ended almost a decade before, when she cheated on him with a bullfighter in Spain.
“He hasn’t been the same since,” Jacobs said. “Might be good for the pain in the torch songs, but it’s bad for him. And I cannot imagine what he will do if the president does the same thing. To be completely candid, he’s head over heels in love with him too. I’m really worried, Congressman. Please do what you can to help him.”
Jacobs stared off into the distance, then exhaled dramatically. He turned off the engine and got out of the car. Charlie followed. They walked into the living room, now silent, though music was coming from Sinatra’s room down the hall. Charlie saw Lola outside, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, with only her face showing. Her face glowed in the sun; her curves were somehow even more beckoning to Charlie wrapped in the blanket.
“Ethereal,” he whispered to himself.
He stood there staring at her. The pounding of bass drums from Sinatra’s hi-fi shook him awake. Happy squeals from Lawford’s room flew through the house like parakeets.
Sinatra bellowed to Jacobs from his room: “George, I need some champagne! Bring it in a bucket with ice!”
Charlie’s visit to the Compound had borne fruit; he now knew Giancana’s ask. He had escaped before doing anything truly stupid. He turned to Jacobs. “Well, I think I’m going to hit the road,” Charlie said.
“Probably wise,” Jacobs said.

Chapter ThirteenBeverly Hills, California
January 1962
They were two bottles of Chianti into the night when Charlie felt the need to remind Charlotte Goode that the conversation the three of them were having was off the record.
“You’ve already said that, and I’ve already agreed,” Goode said, “though I should be demanding the opposite. I deserve a great scoop after saving your wife from that freaky cult.” She finished her glass, lifted the empty bottle for inspection, and waved down the waiter for a replacement.
“We’ll give you one, I promise, when this ordeal is over,” Margaret pledged. “And it should be over soon.”
Puccini was packed and rowdy, with “That Old Black Magic” and other favorites blaring, so Charlie was less worried about being overheard than he normally would have been. He was surprised by what Charlotte already knew about their assignment. Much of it she had picked up from sources and shoe-leather reporting—following Margaret to the Church of Scientology, for instance—while Margaret, in a rush of adrenaline and gratitude, had filled in the rest after their dramatic car ride.
After leaving the Compound and arriving safely at the Miramar Hotel, Charlie had called Addington White and demanded a meeting. White subtly reminded him that Hoover might be eavesdropping on the line and agreed to fly to Los Angeles later that day.
Both Charlie and Margaret felt some relief. They’d been sent by Attorney General Kennedy to find out what Giancana had asked of Sinatra, and now they knew. Hopefully this would be the end of their Tinseltown mission. Charlie had enjoyed his work as a consultant to The Manchurian Candidate—his input had inspired some last-minute rewrites of the scene in which the American GIs were captured by the Chinese, and he liked Frankenheimer. But it was time to go back east, get his dad out of prison, and return to the life they’d built. Thinking of Lucy and Dwight and the phone conversation they’d had earlier that evening, Charlie felt an ache; he missed them so much.
“Honey, look,” said Margaret, motioning with her chin toward the unmistakable profile of Alfred Hitchcock on his way to a prime table, diners and waitstaff forced to move aside to accommodate his considerable girth. Manny Fontaine and a top studio executive, Les Wolff, sailed in his spacious wake. Fontaine had told them Wolff’s story: Tan and broad, the studio big shot was a former actor who had rocketed to the upper echelons fueled only by oily charm and the look of a CEO. Most of the other Hollywood machers were overweight or pale or chinless or all of the above.
At their table, Charlie faced the expansive mirror hanging from the wall while Margaret and Goode viewed the room. Fontaine spotted Charlie in the reflection and they waved to each other; no time to talk.
“Horrible Hitch,” Goode said. “A grotesque masher. That poor girl he just plucked from obscurity to star in his latest.” She tilted her head back and gulped down a shrimp from her shrimp cocktail like a ravenous seal. Charlie politely mimed to her that she had cocktail sauce on her cheek, and Goode wiped it away.
“I didn’t know that about Hitchcock,” Margaret said. “Charlie, that bird woman we met on set is working on that picture, his latest.”
“On The Birds?” Goode said.
“That’s the one.”
“Well, she should watch out too,” Goode said. “These mashers and flashers with their casting couches. MGM’s Arthur Freed whipped it out to Shirley Temple when she was just twelve! There’s a whole network of people making sure nobody ever hears about it and keeping hacks like me from reporting on it, but it happens every damn day.” Goode pointed to an older man dining with two pretty young men. “There’s Henry Wilson. An agent. He’s notorious for forcing his clients into bed. Male clients. Roddy McDowall calls him the slime that oozes out from under a rock.”
Margaret noticed a familiar face: Symone LeGrue. “Speak of the devil bird,” said Margaret, smiling and waving as LeGrue approached their table.
“Is that a real bird?” asked Charlie.
“In Ceylonese lore,” LeGrue said as she reached them. “Probably a species of nightjar or maybe a spot-bellied eagle-owl.”
“We just saw Mr. Hitchcock walk in. Are you dining with him?” Margaret asked.
“I am!” LeGrue said. “Where is he?” She looked around and saw the director wedging himself into a corner booth. “Listen,” she said, turning to