The Devil May Dance

above the murmuring.
Once in royal David’s city
Stood a lowly cattle shed,
Where a mother laid her baby
In a manger for his bed
“We know a lot of folks in Hollywood,” Kennedy said. “Sinatra’s working on a picture now for United Artists. It’s about a soldier who goes into politics, like my brother. Like you.”
“Your brother was a sailor, I believe. I might’ve heard that somewhere,” said Charlie sarcastically, given the vast amounts of PT-109 folklore to which the nation had been subjected—campaign tie clips, a bestselling book, a newspaper serialization in the Herald Tribune, a TV dramatization, yet another heroic retelling in Reader’s Digest, and there was much more to come. A Hollywood studio was currently casting for the feature film of the story—would the lead be played by Warren Beatty? Peter Fonda? The White House would get final approval; Charlie hoped to God that wasn’t what Kennedy was referring to.
“It’s called The Manchurian Candidate,” Kennedy continued. “I don’t really care for the project as it’s been explained to me. Sinatra called to talk to the president before accepting.”
“Right,” said Charlie, still thoroughly confused.
“You’re about to enter an election year, so congressional recesses are going to be long,” Kennedy said. “The head of the studio is a friend, Arthur Krim. What if you became a consultant to the picture? For the next month or so, you can help coach them all in how to walk and talk like soldiers. You can cozy up to Frank and see how legit these rumored Mob ties are. Befriend him. Let me know everything you learn. Everything.”
Charlie knew he’d be well out of his element among the Hollywood set. “And after I do that, you’ll make your decision about your brother’s visit,” he said.
“Yes,” Kennedy said.
“So if I figure out what this favor is that Giancana asked of Frank, you’ll resolve this situation with my father?”
“We announce the LA trip next month, February latest,” Kennedy said, ignoring the question. “You won’t have much time.”
“Absolutely,” Charlie said, hating that he was acquiescing to what was essentially extortion. Nearly a decade in Congress could turn any would-be James Dean into Sal Mineo.
“This stays between us, Charlie,” Kennedy said. “Addington here will be your point of contact. Don’t trust phones.”
“Copy,” Charlie said. “And maybe then—”
“No quid pro quos, Charlie,” Kennedy said, anticipating Charlie’s next question.
Charlie nodded. His dad was in a cell and he had to get him out. He had no choice. He would do whatever Kennedy told him to do.

Chapter FourHollywood, California
December 1961
One minute she was missing her children and the next she was lusting for the wiry crooner with the icy blue eyes. Sinatra, whose ballads had once driven schoolgirls to shriek and even faint, was no longer a skinny kid but rather a middle-aged man with an expanding waist and a matching chip on his shoulder. But his charisma was unmistakable—and Margaret stared as he sauntered across the movie set, stepping over cables and around equipment, bringing with him an atmosphere of excitement and, yes, sex. She felt guilty for being there. The kids are fine with their grandmother, she thought, grateful that her mother, Catherine, had flown from Ohio to New York to take care of Lucy and Dwight. Catherine had been staying with Margaret’s sister, who was in the midst of a family crisis that made Margaret’s problems seem trifling by comparison—Margaret’s teenage niece, who’d always been somewhat troubled, had run away from home.
She mulled over all that, then resumed drooling over Sinatra. In this particular scene, Major Bennett Marco—played by Sinatra—was sweating. Standing at attention, ramrod straight, unblinking, but with a sheen on his forehead and upper lip that betrayed his nerves. Next to him, in front of the gathered crowd, Senator John Yerkes Iselin, played by James Gregory, glanced sideways at Marco, trying to assess his stability. Marco looked ready to hit him.
“You have something to say, soldier?”
“Cut!” John Frankenheimer, lanky and intense, sprang from his canvas director’s chair and shot an exasperated look at his crew. The actors broke character and exhaled.
“What was wrong with that?” Major Marco had lost his military poise and become once again Frank Sinatra, irritated and impatient.
“The boom was in the frame,” Frankenheimer said.
“Sorry!” yelled Joe Edmondson, the soundman.
“Let’s take ten,” Frankenheimer said. Sinatra glared at him, then looked around the set for a cigarette.
The set—a Senate hearing room—sat in the corner of an immense soundstage that housed various other sets for the film. In one section, the set designer had constructed a train car. In another, the first floor of a house. In the middle of it all stood the Spring Lake Hotel lobby, where a poster promised FUN WITH HYDRANGEAS. Dozens of lights hung from thick chains. Construction workers, crew members, makeup artists, caterers, executives, and others heard Frankenheimer’s announcement and began buzzing.
“Whatever happened to those wireless mikes you were working on?” Frankenheimer asked Edmondson. “These booms will be the death of me.”
“Still working on them. Last prototype was too staticky.”
The director shook his head. “It’s 1961, for the love of God. We’re still using technology from Birth of a Nation.” Frankenheimer turned to Charlie. The director had initially seemed irritated to have the congressman and his wife foisted upon him. But after Margaret praised his earlier television work on Playhouse 90, and Charlie proclaimed The Young Savages the best film of the year, Frankenheimer warmed right up.
“Does this feel right to you, Congressman? Would an army major get in the face of a senator like that?”
“Soldiers tend to defer to people in power,” said Charlie. “Especially those in the civilian command structure. But if he’s desperate enough, maybe.”
Charlie and Margaret had flown to Los Angeles on the Justice Department’s dime, dropped off their belongings at the Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica, and gone to the set. The studio had told Frankenheimer to use Charlie as a resource for any question that was military or political. Margaret’s decision to accompany Charlie was explained to Frankenheimer as a fringe benefit for him because