“Swell, Johnny,” Sinatra said. “Charlie just explained to me how brilliant your picture is.”
Frankenheimer paused, apparently not sure how to take Sinatra’s remark. Then he must have decided, for any number of reasons, to act as if it were a sincere compliment because he smiled and spread his arms, welcoming the praise. “Well, like everyone else in this town, I’m always happy to hear about my underappreciated genius,” he said. “This scene reminding you at all of your time in the service?”
“Not really,” Charlie said, looking at Sinatra’s fellow actors. “These guys look fresh from the beauty salon.”
“We could have ’em roll around in the dirt, but it’s a night scene,” Frankenheimer said. “It wouldn’t show up.”
Sinatra took a drag and watched the smoke float to the sky as he exhaled. “You’re going to be in New York with us, right?” he asked. The climax of the film would take place in Madison Square Garden during a political convention; Sinatra’s character would attempt to stop a brainwashed soldier from assassinating a presidential nominee.
“You bet,” said Charlie. “Can’t wait to see my kids and sleep in my own bed.”
“Charlie!” yelled Margaret from the bottom of the hill. “Come down here!”
“What is it?” he yelled back.
“People in New York are desperately trying to reach us!” she shouted. “The studio just sent a messenger.”
“What is it?”
“Your dad!” she yelled. “He’s taken a turn for the worse, and the warden says we need to get on the next plane to New York!”
Chapter SixteenNew York City
February 1962
“You shoulda been here yesterday, Charlie,” Sinatra said. “I fished Laurence Harvey outta the lake in Central Park.”
Charlie grimaced as a gust of cold wind prompted him to tighten his coat against the morning chill.
“It was like twenty-five degrees out,” Sinatra said, packing tobacco into a pipe. “Colder than today. They had to clear three inches of ice off the lake before he jumped in!”
“No business like show business,” Charlie said, coughing softly as morning rush-hour traffic spewed exhaust fumes on Eighth Avenue.
They were leaning against the stone wall near the entrance to Madison Square Garden, patriotic semicircled political bunting hanging from the marquee above their heads. Hundreds of extras dressed in summer clothes streamed past them into the arena, carrying signs and umbrellas for candidates “Big” John Iselin and Benjamin K. Arthur. Sinatra, taking a smoke break, was in full army uniform as Bennett Marco, complete with his service cap, a poor substitute for the crooner’s signature fedora. Standing on the dirty street, braving the cold, he looked every bit a man of the people—but the police, private bodyguards, and yellow wooden barriers keeping gawking crowds at a safe distance told the real story.
Sinatra’s entourage continued its excessive doting; Brownie approached him to take his tobacco pouch so as to avoid a bulge in his pressed military jacket.
“How you holdin’ up, boss?” Brownie asked. “You take any bites outta the Big Apple last night?”
“I’ve often gone to bed at seven a.m. here,” Sinatra said. “This is the first time I’ve gotten up at seven a.m.”
Brownie smiled, then jumped onto the sidewalk after a garbage truck honked at a taxicab.
The actor took a long drag from his pipe. “The acting in this one is a challenge, Charlie,” Sinatra said. “What with Marco having been brainwashed. I’m not a trained actor, so it takes a lot of doing. I hope it comes out all right.”
Charlie nodded. “I’m sure it will be great,” he said.
“You saw that the White House announced the California trip,” Sinatra said. “It was in the papers.”
“I saw,” said Charlie.
“Secret Service came to Rancho Mirage the other day to do an inspection,” he said, then added wistfully, “but they said they were looking at several properties, including something else in the neighborhood and even High-Anus Port.”
Manny Fontaine emerged from the nearby arena door with urgency, looking out of place on the gray New York street with his deep tan and bright blue sport coat. “Mr. Sinatra, I come bearing wonderful news,” he said, beaming, as he approached. “The Oscar noms are out and you’re up for best song!”
“That’s fantastic, Frank!” Charlie said, slapping him on the back.
“Who else?” Sinatra asked.
Fontaine pulled a list from his inner pocket. “Best Picture: West Side Story, Guns of Navarone, The Hustler—”
“No, no, no, Manny, who am I up against for Best Song?” Sinatra asked.
“Um, um…here it is: ‘Moon River,’ ‘Town Without Pity,’ ‘Pocketful of Miracles,’ and ‘Bachelor in Paradise.’”
“You can beat them,” said Charlie.
“‘Moon River’ will be tough,” said Sinatra. “Let me see that list, Manny.”
“Judgment at Nuremberg and West Side Story are nominated for eleven Oscars each,” Fontaine said. “Nine for Hustler.” He passed the list to Sinatra and shivered. “Jesus, you two, it’s colder than a witch’s tit—how does anybody live in this place?”
“Oh, good, Monty is up for Best Supporting,” Sinatra said. “And so is Judy!” Charlie assumed he was referring to his From Here to Eternity costar Montgomery Clift and one of Sinatra’s many former paramours, Judy Garland. While Sinatra perused the list, Fontaine blew warm air into his fists and crossed his arms tightly across his chest. He turned to Charlie.
“Congressman,” he said in low voice, “I just want you to know, at the behest of Les Wolff, I spoke with the proper folks at the LAPD about the, uh, incident the other night at Forest Lawn. And we’re on top of it. The studio is cooperating with the investigation, and we will do everything we can to keep your name out of it.”
Charlie looked at Fontaine. Shit. He hadn’t known word had spread. “Thank you,” he finally said.
Sinatra cleared his throat and looked at Charlie. “I talked to our friend about Lola. He says he doesn’t know anyone who would do such a thing.” It took Charlie a second before he realized Sinatra was likely referring to Giancana. Fontaine looked pointedly up at the sky, the very picture of a man who hadn’t heard what he’d just heard.
Charlie
