The Devil May Dance

pimp.”
“He’ll probably get another Oscar this year for that song he did for Frank for El Cid,” Goode said.
“‘The Devil May Dance,’” Charlie said. It was one of those tunes that stuck with him, both for the haunting melody and the lyrics that rang too true, about compromising with evil.
Margaret’s mind was packed with thoughts of such compromise as well. How did Van Heusen recruit these desperate, aspiring starlets? Who were the women who’d been with them in Vegas? Were they getting paid? How much? By whom? Was Judy as independent as she acted? It terrified Margaret that her niece might be a part of this underworld where the casting process turned into a sort of human trafficking.
Margaret grasped Charlie’s hand across the table. “We can’t leave Hollywood without finding Violet.” Charlie nodded, slightly distracted by the thought of the photograph of him in the hot tub. How would Margaret react? Would she believe him that nothing happened?
“Well, well, well,” said Goode, “look who’s coming to dinner.” She nodded toward two figures entering through the kitchen.
“Giancana,” Margaret said.
“Was Giancana there the night Frank and John Wayne almost went at it?” Goode asked. “I don’t recall seeing him.”
“No,” Charlie said.
“That was quite a night,” said Goode.
“Yeah, two draft dodgers squaring up, then chickening out. Super-impressive,” said Charlie.
“Wayne dodged the draft too?” Margaret asked.
“Three-A,” Goode said.
“For dads with dependents?” asked Margaret.
“Yeah, he’s got five kids,” said Goode.
“Just like half the guys in my platoon,” said Charlie.
“Oh, Marion Morrison,” said Goode, using Wayne’s given name. “He’s never been ‘John Wayne’ in any way, and the masses will never know that, because knowing requires reading.”
Charlie and Margaret exchanged a glance.
A chorus of cheers arose from Sinatra’s long table—Patricia Lawford, in a rare appearance, was making her way toward the group. Her husband stood to greet her, an expression of cheerful surprise on his face. He glided over to her, kissed her on the cheek, and guided her to the chair that a waiter was wedging in next to his.
“What a sham,” Goode said, rolling her eyes.
Before Charlie or Margaret could react, a dapper figure appeared by Charlie’s side. “Good to see you all,” Detective Ellroy Meehan said. “I trust you’re enjoying our fair city?”
“We’re grand, Detective,” said Margaret, smiling brightly. “How are you?”
“How’s your investigation into the Powell murder?” asked Goode.
“Hello, Charlotte,” Meehan said, a bit warily. He looked over his shoulder, then leaned closer to the table to speak confidentially. “We’ve figured out which mobsters were in town that day, and we’re right now winnowing down the list.”
Margaret furrowed her brow. She had read that exact sentence, attributed to “a police source,” in that morning’s Los Angeles Daily News.
“You’re sure it was a Mob hit?” Goode asked.
“He was in hock to the sharks,” Meehan said. “The way he was killed…I don’t want to be too graphic”—Goode snorted appreciatively—“but it had the signature of a specific button man.”
“We know he was shot in the eyes, Detective,” Margaret said coolly. “Thank you for protecting our delicate sensibilities, though.”
Meehan smiled. “If it shoots people in the eyes like a duck…” he said.
She briefly considered telling Meehan about Powell’s membership in the Church of Scientology and her trip to the Casa de Rosas, but then she thought better of it. For all she knew, they had filed a complaint.
Always on the hunt for someone more powerful to talk to, Meehan stole a look into the mirror on the wall behind Margaret and Goode, spotted a target, patted Charlie on the back in a moment of quick and quiet acknowledgment, and bade them adieu.
“Charlie!” bellowed a familiar voice. Sinatra, at the back table. “Congressman Charlie Marder, grab that gorgeous lady of yours and come back and join us, you little so-and-so!”
Goode winked at Charlie and Margaret and gestured for them to go ahead. They stood obediently; Margaret told Goode she would call her soon, and they made their way to the Chairman’s table in back.
“Come here and revive me, you exquisite creature,” Sinatra barked at Margaret, accidentally spilling valuable bourbon in her direction. “Too much death tonight. We were in the middle of toasting Ernie Kovacs when we heard Lucky Luciano croaked.”
“Oh, I hadn’t heard,” Margaret said, as she smoothed down the back of her maroon dress and sat to Sinatra’s left; Charlie squeezed in between his wife and Sammy Davis.
“Today,” said Manny Fontaine, who had joined their party as well. “Crazy story. Do you know Marty Gosch? A producer. Flew to Italy to pitch a picture he wants to make about Lucky’s life. Lucky had a heart attack at the airport.”
“He was in his early sixties,” said Giancana. The table was silent for a second as everyone waited to see how Giancana felt about Luciano’s demise. “That’s a hell of a ride for a guy like him,” Giancana said. “We should all be taken out by God and not by a wiseguy.” He raised a glass of red wine. “Salute.” Everyone joined him.
“Cento di questi giorni!” added Martin.
“He should never have been deported,” said Sinatra. “All the good he did for the U.S. during the war, he shoulda got a medal.”
A young woman at the table—she had red hair and sweet pinches of baby fat that appeared when she smiled, which was often—asked Sinatra what he was talking about. The singer was only too happy to air what was clearly a long-held grievance.
“You kids! You’re just babies!” Sinatra started. “Okay, so, during the war, Navy Intelligence was concerned that Italian spies were infiltrating the docks. So they reached out to Socks Lanza for help—any info to protect us from Mussolini’s double agents. Project Underworld. Socks gave ’em union cards so they could be undercover.”
“Socks controlled the docks,” Giancana said.
“Hey, that rhymes,” noted Martin. He began to croon “Socks…controlled the docks” to a round of titters and chuckles.
“Seussian,” Margaret said to Charlie; Lucy and Dwight loved The Cat in the Hat. They made sad pouts at each other, missing their kids.
“You shoulda seen Socks,” Martin added. “He was