The Devil May Dance

Margaret and placing a hand on her shoulder, “I’m in LA all week. We’re shooting interiors at Universal. Come by, I’ll show you the birds.”
“I’d love to,” said Margaret.
“Call me.” LeGrue took a business card out of her purse, handed it to Margaret, and waved goodbye.
“I don’t know how much either of you are into stargazing,” Goode said, pointing half a shrimp toward a corner booth. “But there’s Natalie Wood and Rita Moreno. Have you seen West Side Story?”
“We did,” said Margaret. She sipped her glass of wine and looked on warily as Charlie knocked back his second bourbon and waved for a third. “Bit of a sore subject.”
“I hate musicals,” Charlie said, slumming with a glass of wine while he waited for the bourbon.
“It’s one of Charlie’s seven defining characteristics, along with his freakishly keen sense of smell,” Margaret said. And his drinking, which was getting higher and higher on the list, she thought.
“Lotta Oscar buzz,” Goode said. “Likely nominations for both of those gals, though it’s also possible Natalie gets a nod for Splendor.” Goode, too, was drinking at a rapid clip and her mind seemed to race; she quietly started humming “Officer Krupke” from West Side Story, which made Charlie wince. And then, maybe reminded by the song, she brought the conversation back to their mission. “So what did the Feds say after you told them what Giancana wanted from Frank?” she asked.
“We don’t talk details on the phone,” Charlie said.
“Ah, right, because Bobby doesn’t trust Hoover,” Goode said. “Isn’t that old queen more or less devoted to bringing down the Mob, just like Bobby is?”
“My guess is Kennedy doesn’t want Hoover to have anything more on his brother than he already does,” Charlie said.
A sudden racket of cheers and applause erupted near the door as Sinatra, Martin, Davis, Lawford, Shirley MacLaine, and several young women Charlie and Margaret didn’t recognize entered the restaurant. As they were ushered toward a large table at the back, Charlie shot Margaret a look. They were caught off guard by the Rat Pack’s appearance, though they felt stupid being so surprised, given that Sinatra and Lawford owned the restaurant. Spotting them sitting there, Davis broke free of the group and approached their table.
“Madame Marder, enchanté,” Davis said, taking her hand and planting a kiss on it.
Charlie stood and shook his hand. “Good to see you again, Sammy.”
Davis smiled and patted Charlie on the shoulder. “We’re toasting the memory of Ernie Kovacs,” Davis said. “Join us when you’re done.” He added pointedly: “You and Margaret.” He sauntered off.
“No journalists allowed,” Goode noted.
“Frank does have strong feelings about the press,” said Charlie.
“As does Sam-I-am,” Goode said. “Mr. Davis had my editor kill my piece excoriating him for postponing his wedding just so Frank could kiss Kennedy ass.” She paused to dive into her mashed potatoes, which had arrived along with their steaks. “I wonder if the girls they have with them tonight are actresses or some of Van Heusen’s hires.”
“Pardon?” asked Margaret.
“Jimmy Van Heusen, Frank’s songwriter,” Goode said. “He supplies call girls for the singers who keep him in silk and caviar. Ships ’em in like trays of sturgeons.”
“He does that? The guy who wrote ‘High Hopes’?” Margaret asked, stunned.
“And lots of great romantic ballads,” Goode said. “He’s won three Oscars.”
“Where does he get them from?” Charlie asked. “The girls.”
“The lost and found?” Charlotte shrugged.
Charlie thought about Lola and the other young women at Sinatra’s compound. Were they call girls? They didn’t act like they had much of a say in the matter.
“Why would guys like Frank need to pay women to sleep with them?” Margaret asked.
“They don’t pay them to have sex with them,” Goode said. “They pay them to leave.”
Margaret shook her head and excused herself to the restroom, taking in bits of conversation on her way:
Tracy, Berle, Caesar, Hackett, Jon Winters—it can’t miss!
She’s working on Billy Wilder’s latest.
You don’t remember Joe Sr. and Bobby swooping into town and stopping every issue of Hush-Hush from hitting the stands?
They had to cancel it because of bad weather. It’s supposed to be rainy at Cape Canaveral for a few days.
Elgin Baylor had forty-two points and twenty-two rebounds!
Van Heusen’s extracurriculars stuck in Charlie’s craw. He recalled the time during college when he and two friends had ducked into a dark bar across the bridge, in Brooklyn, that people of negotiable standards were rumored to frequent. As they were sidling up to the bar, Charlie caught a whiff of the cologne his father wore. He turned to survey the room and saw a woman who was decidedly not Charlie’s mother seated on his father’s lap. Charlie had left immediately, his friends on his tail.
Goode looked over her shoulder at Margaret’s retreating figure, then leaned across the table and said in a low voice, “You should know, Congressman, that Hollywood Nightlife recently received some compromising information about you.”
Charlie felt his heartbeat quicken. “What’s that?”
Goode took a bite of her steak. “We were sent,” she said, sporadically pausing to chew, “photographs…of you and a topless young woman in a hot tub.” She took a swig of her wine.
“Jesus,” Charlie said, stunned. He reflexively reached for his glass. “Nothing happened. The girl took off her bikini top, and I got out of the Jacuzzi almost immediately.” He took a big gulp. Charlie tried to think back to who might have taken the picture, and how.
“If you’re wondering who the enterprising shutterbug was, some of our rivals at Confidential and Hollywood Scandal Sheet have no problem climbing trees. If you’ve got a Nikon telephoto, you’re in business.”
“You’re not going to publish it, are you?”
Goode shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s why I’m telling you about it. But if I have a copy, there are others. I’ll see if the negatives are for sale, but let’s talk later—here’s Margaret.”
Margaret shook her head as she took her seat. “I just can’t get over it,” she said. “Van Heusen writes all those lovely, romantic Oscar-winning ballads while also serving as a