“No, no, about the Kennedys treating him like a vat of bad moonshine,” Charlie said.
Their drive through the unending developments and lush mountains of western Los Angeles, Pomona, Rancho Cucamonga, and San Bernardino took two hours, but they were two hours without mayhem, without interruption, without anyone trying to kill them. The city seemed to stretch beyond any limits other than the mountain ranges, every town blurring into one giant sprawl.
“I’ve noticed you haven’t had a drink,” she said.
“It’s only been a day,” Charlie said, his eyes on the road, though he was happy she’d noticed.
“More than that. The return from Disneyland, the trip to Isaiah’s hotel, Frankenheimer’s, the Oscars, saving Sheryl Ann.” She ticked each one off. “Unless you snuck one when I wasn’t looking?”
“No, ma’am,” he said.
“That’s a lot of stress, to say nothing of how sore your face and back must be,” she said.
Charlie nodded. “And rib,” he added. She reached over, grabbed his right knee, gave it a squeeze.
“You don’t need to hide anything from me,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
“Your drinking—” she began.
“I know,” he said. “I know, but I might need—”
“I’m always here,” she said. “I know you can do it.”
“It’s been one day.”
“And that’s how we will do it,” she said. “One day. Then another. Then another.”
The burden of Charlie’s weaknesses and Margaret’s disapproval didn’t vanish in that moment, but it became a task they would finally tackle together.
Most of their time in the car, however, was spent meticulously analyzing every detail of the information they’d gleaned. By the time they arrived in Rancho Mirage, they felt as though they had a decent theory of the case.
“Enough to bluff our way into the actual facts, at any rate,” Charlie said. Margaret smiled with anticipation.
They got out of their car; Jacobs answered the front door.
“Mr. S. is in the pool,” he said and shook his head. It had not been going well.
Sinatra lay splayed on a raft, his eyes hidden behind gold-accented aviators, his skin a deep bronze. He wore a red short-sleeved shirt, but it was unbuttoned, and his gut protruded over his aqua bathing suit. It was impossible to tell if he was awake.
Charlie and Margaret looked at each other, unsure what to do.
“If he woulda called me to say that it was politically difficult to have me around, I’d’ve understood,” Sinatra suddenly said. “I don’t want to hurt him. But he couldn’t even bother to pick up the phone.”
“Politicians are selfish pricks, Frank,” Margaret said. “Take it from the wife of a four-term congressman.”
Sinatra laughed. “You got a good one here, Charlie,” he said. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? A snack? A drink? It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
Margaret sat on the edge of a chaise while Charlie took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and stuck his feet in the water.
“It’s nice,” he told his wife.
“Not as hot as the Jacuzzi, though, I would assume,” she said. He grimaced and Sinatra winced. “Oh, Charlie, I’m just kidding,” she added. “Frank, Frank—it’s fine. Charlie told me the whole story.”
“So let me ask you kids, speaking of the whole story,” Sinatra said, his face aimed at the beating sun. “What did you tell that little Puritan? Bobby.”
Charlie looked at his wife, then back to his host. Sinatra knew that Charlie was there as a spy for Kennedy? How the hell did he know?
“Oh, don’t be surprised,” Sinatra said. “I put two and two together after your talk with George.”
“I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “They have my dad at Sing Sing.”
“I know,” Sinatra said. “So what did you tell him?”
“That you have friends with rough pasts but we didn’t see any evidence that you were involved in anything illegal,” he said. “And we told him that the president should stay here,” Charlie lied, because who wanted to deal with the ire?
“I know a lot of people,” Sinatra said. “If the Justice Department were to look into every acquaintance I have who’s got dirt under their fingernails, they’d be pretty busy.”
“So is that why you gave me that recording?” Charlie asked. “And that pink paper?”
“We assumed that was from Judy’s diary,” Margaret said. “With all of the president’s contact information.”
“You were trying to show me that the president’s got some dirty fingernails too?” Charlie asked.
“Ain’t his fingernails that’s the issue,” Sinatra said. “The Kennedys should look in the mirror.”
“And you want Charlie to hold up the mirror?” Margaret asked. Sinatra smiled.
“So clear something up for us: Who is Maheu?” Charlie asked.
“He’s just one of these guys,” Sinatra said. “Go-betweens. Was FBI, did intelligence during the war, makes a lot more dough as a contractor. Works for that nutball Howard Hughes. Does a ton for the CIA. The Agency got him to ask Rosselli to whack Fidel.”
“And you introduced them?” Margaret asked. “You’re quite the yenta.”
“I met Dulles through Jack at a thing a couple years ago,” Sinatra said. “Dulles asked me to introduce Maheu around, I did, and business was done. This was before the Bay of Pigs.”
“But aren’t you worried about getting in trouble with the law?” Margaret asked.
Sinatra raised his head. “Jack is the law,” he said.
“So Jack himself asked the CIA to ask the mobsters to kill Castro?” Charlie asked.
Sinatra lifted up his sunglasses, looked at Charlie, then lowered them again. “I thought you did oversight in the House,” Sinatra said.
“Kennedy would claim he didn’t know about any of this, anyway,” Margaret said. “Plausible deniability.”
“And Bobby wouldn’t necessarily know,” Charlie said. “CIA wouldn’t tell FBI. Competing agencies, plus everyone hates Hoover. Though Bobby would learn enough to wonder.”
“Bingo,” said Sinatra. “You’re getting warmer.”
“So that’s what Bobby actually wanted us to investigate,” Charlie said.
“Warmer still,” said Sinatra.
“Why not stop it?” Margaret asked.
Sinatra cocked his head like a cat contemplating whether to pounce. “What do you want me to do?” he asked. “CIA works for Jack, Momo’s a friend, Castro’s a tyrant. You want me to stop the president from protecting us from a Commie? That’s not my
