“So why do you have a recording of Rosselli, Giancana, and Maheu talking about this all?” Margaret asked.
“Frank wired this whole place, ostensibly in preparation for the president’s visit,” Charlie recalled. “And got the private recordings pressed into an LP.”
“Yep,” said Sinatra.
“You know about the files Charlotte Goode gave us, right?” Margaret asked.
“Is that the stuff Manny and Les chased you down for?” Sinatra asked. “About those twisted parties?”
“So you knew about that too?” Margaret asked.
“I know about Charlie taking the boys to that freak show at Disneyland,” Sinatra said. “As for Les Wolff, it’s been said he likes beautiful women as much as I do, and many of them are on the younger side. But I didn’t know any more than that.”
“Younger side?” asked Margaret.
“Yeah, some guys like ’em young, what can I tell you,” Sinatra said. “I mean, Natalie Wood was a teenager when Bob Wagner married her. Chaplin’s wives were kids. Elvis has that young girl squirreled away for him once she’s ripe. It’s not my thing, as you know, but good Christ, look at Lolita!”
“It’s reprehensible,” said Margaret. “I just don’t even remotely understand this. Fifteen-, sixteen-year-olds are children.”
“Don’t tell me, Mags, I’m with you,” Sinatra said. “Tell society.”
“What did Peter and Sammy tell you about Disneyland?” Charlie asked.
“Private party on Tom Sawyer’s Island,” Sinatra said, “young girls. Rich guys. You got in a fight. Saved your niece. That’s about it.”
“But you say you’ve heard about Les Wolff and girls on the younger side,” Margaret noted. “What had you heard?”
“Just…y’know…that he liked some of these younger girls,” Sinatra said a bit defensively. “You see them at parties and restaurants, they could be anywhere from fourteen to twenty-four.”
“But you never did anything about it,” Margaret said. “A major player in your world serving up children to gluttonous robber barons and you just shake his hand when you see him?”
“Look—I didn’t know any of that for a fact—” Sinatra didn’t know how to handle what she was throwing at him. Since Ava Gardner, no woman had challenged him. “It was whispers. When Errol Flynn got pinched and tried for statutory rape, even goddamn William F. Buckley joined the—what was it called? The initials were ABCDEF—”
“American Boys’ Club for the Defense of Errol Flynn,” said Charlie.
“Right. Margaret, you’re being ridiculous,” Sinatra said, clearly growing irritated. “I didn’t do any of this crap.”
“But that’s the whole point, isn’t it, Frank?” Margaret said, her voice rising as well. “You’re sulking like a teenybopper because JFK wouldn’t stay here, and meanwhile you’re surrounded by sin and corruption and you expect the world to think you’re oblivious to it all! Giancana, Rosselli, Maheu—”
“Margaret,” Charlie cautioned.
“—and now you are simultaneously asking me to believe that, one, you didn’t know what Les Wolff was up to,” she continued, “and, two, that everyone knew what Les Wolff was up to and all sorts of men like girls—”
“Okay,” Sinatra said, “watch your mouth!”
“You deserve your due,” Margaret said. “You’ve done a whole lot for civil rights, Francis, forcing the integration of the Strip in Vegas, the anti-discrimination movie. You’ve pushed for Black musicians to be treated equally and with respect. But you couldn’t stop the Kennedys from blackballing Sammy from the inaugural gala, so I guess how effective you are is an open question—”
“You can fuck right off,” Sinatra said, “you have no idea what I’ve done, the risks I’ve taken!”
“But,” Margaret continued, “given that half the goddamn country is female, including Nancy and Tina, what have you done for women—not only women, damn it; girls—who are human chattel in the suite next door?”
“I told you, goddamn it, it’s all been rumors! What, do you want me to chase down every bit of gossip I hear? I’m not Jack Anderson! What do you expect me to do? This is Hollywood!”
“You sure do a lot when you see discrimination against Sammy and Nat King Cole!” Margaret said. “And that’s great! That’s laudable! But what about fifty percent of the population?”
“What the fuck are you on my dick about?” Sinatra yelled, boiling like a teakettle.
“My goddamned niece was missing,” Margaret exploded, “she’s a child and she had fallen into the underbelly of this city of wanton sleaze and you never did a thing to help me, you never lifted a finger or even expressed one single sentiment of concern! You just sat there—”
“Who the holy fuck do you think told Charlotte to get you those files, you dumb cooze?” Sinatra erupted. “It was me. I did it!”
Charlie and Margaret sat stunned, mouths agape, shocked not just that Sinatra had confessed to what they’d theorized might have been the case but that their plan to enrage him into an admission worked. They could barely contain their smiles.
Sinatra, still worked up and in a lather, was almost panting.
He looked at Charlie and Margaret, exhaled, thought about what had just transpired—it was rather out of character for Margaret to yell at anyone—then smiled.
He took a moment to collect himself. He exhaled dramatically.
“You are the smartest fucking broad I have ever met,” Sinatra finally said.
Margaret grinned. “To be fair, this was a team effort,” she said.
“Look, Frank,” said Charlie, “we’re just trying to figure out how all the pieces fit in the puzzle here.”
“So you told Charlotte to give us this information,” Margaret said.
Sinatra took another moment.
“I own a piece of Hollywood Nightlife. Dino and me.”
“Nothing bad appears about you or the Rat Pack in their pages,” Margaret observed. “Which tends to set the tone for all the others.”
“Bogie told me once,” Sinatra said, “he said, ‘You have to remember one thing, Frank, there’s only one way that anyone can fight a newspaper, and that’s with a newspaper.’ I got sick of the garbage smearing me. They called me a Red. They called me a Commie. Punching Lee Mortimer didn’t do anything. So I bought a paper. Secretly. We hired away the sleaziest but best slime merchant in town, Tarantula, who hired Charlotte Goode—who lived up to her name—and a staff of
