“So you kept a lot of scandal out of the news,” Charlie said.
“Kept a lot of lies out of the news,” Sinatra corrected him.
“And you also learned a whole bunch of other stuff,” Margaret said.
George Jacobs appeared with a new glass of Jack Daniel’s on the rocks for his boss. “Do you want me to bring it to you?” he asked. “I don’t mind—it’s hot.”
“Sure, if you don’t mind, George, that’d be swell,” Sinatra said.
Jacobs—in shorts and a white polo—walked past Charlie, down the stairs, and into the pool to deliver the drink. “You two want anything?” he asked. Margaret looked at her watch; it was just after two p.m.
“What do you have?” Charlie asked.
“Anything you want, Congressman,” Jacobs said. “Bourbon, scotch, rye, vodka, gin, tequila, rum, cognac, brandy, liqueurs, beer, white wine, red wine, rosé, and every mixer known to man—orange juice, pineapple juice, cranberry, lemonade, sour, margarita mix, Bloody Mary—”
Charlie peeked at Margaret, who was watching him with interest.
“Just a plain lemonade would be fine,” he said. “Margaret?”
“Water would be grand, George,” she said.
“And George,” Sinatra added. “Bring that present I have for him.” He pointed at Charlie.
Sinatra took a sip from his glass, then waited until Jacobs had gone back inside. Margaret looked up to the spectacularly blue sky, completely cloudless, with a lone hawk soaring in the distance.
“I learned some things, yes, although I don’t run Nightlife anymore,” Sinatra said. “Rosselli rewrote the original contract and took it over. There wasn’t much I could do about it. Soon the fellas realized that the hacks collected a lot of information that powerful people would pay to keep out of print. The business became much more about what wasn’t published. Catch and kill, they call it.”
“Do you know about everything they catch?” Charlie asked.
Sinatra took another swig. “No, not at all. Johnny promised to keep me out of it. But I knew enough to try to help you with your niece. I asked Charlotte to look into Itchy Meyer, to look into whatever rumors there were about Les Wolff, to get you whatever they’d compiled on these young girls through the years.”
“Was Rosselli sitting on the skinny on Les Wolff? For money?” Margaret asked.
“For money, for power, for real estate, for influence, for favors, for trade, for barter,” Sinatra said. “I don’t know what Rosselli has on this girl sex ring in terms of proof. I didn’t know Wolff killed Powell and Lola to shut them up until Charlotte told me she suspected as much.”
“So you knew her,” said Charlie.
“We talked on the phone sometimes,” he said.
“Who killed her?” Margaret asked.
Sinatra shrugged. “I dunno. Who killed her, who killed Powell, who killed Lola and stuffed her in your trunk? I gotta believe Wolff ordered it all but I don’t know if Rosselli did the deed or if those Scientology creeps did it.”
He clammed up and nodded as Jacobs reappeared with his refill, a water for Margaret, and a lemonade and a manila folder for Charlie. Jacobs handed over the drinks to the couple, but before he could give Charlie the folder, Sinatra stopped him.
“No, bring it to me, along with a smoke, if you got one,” he said.
Jacobs waded into the pool again carrying a small round tray that held the new drink and the folder and, from his pocket, a pack of Marlboro Reds. Sinatra lit the cigarette with the gold lighter Jacobs handed him at the precise moment he needed it. He inhaled deeply, then took a gulp of whiskey. Then he lit the folder on fire.
“Mr. S.—” protested Jacobs.
“I got it, George,” Sinatra said, holding up the cardboard so as to catch as much of the flame as possible.
“What is that?” asked Charlie.
“The only two remaining photographs and the negative of your very brief moment in the hot tub with Lola,” Sinatra said, dropping the destroyed remnants back onto the tray.
“Thank you, Francis,” Margaret said.
“Not a thing, Margaret,” Sinatra said. “This is a good boy you have here. And now this photo is gone forever.”
“That’s an incredible gift, Frank,” Charlie said. “Thank you.”
“No worries, pally,” Sinatra said, raising his glass.
“Makes me feel sheepish asking one last favor of you, though.”
“Don’t,” Sinatra said. “Shoot.”
“I had a tough reelect in 1960, as you might imagine, with your boy at the top of the ticket,” Charlie said. “I was worried, so I did something I normally wouldn’t do: I took my dad’s advice. I hired a consultant he recommended.”
He looked at Margaret, to whom he had finally told the story during their drive. She nodded supportively.
“He was a slippery fella,” Charlie said. “I didn’t know how slippery until after the election when I had to cash the metaphorical checks he wrote. One of the unions in my district had come through in a big way. They now wanted some favors.”
“Right,” Sinatra said. “Momo said something about this that night in Vegas.”
“It started small—stuff to help workers,” Charlie said. “Better workman’s comp, oversight on safety regs. Then one night came the ask I dreaded: to pressure the U.S. attorney, who I had helped get the job, to back off on an extortion case.”
Sinatra smirked. He could relate. “What did you do?”
“Nothing yet,” Charlie said. “I put it off for as long as I could, hoping it would resolve itself.”
“That’s what I did too,” Sinatra said.
“He also drank a lot more,” Margaret added. “Which was similarly effective.”
Sinatra laughed. “That was also part of my brilliant plan.”
Charlie smiled. “And then this all happened and I’ve been busy. But now that it’s over…”
“Right,” said Sinatra. “The bill collector still gonna come calling.”
“I need you to tell Momo something,” Charlie said. “Among the documents in the safe at Tarantula’s was a file about him.” Sinatra raised his eyebrows. “All sorts of details about all sorts of stuff.”
Sinatra waited.
“I left it on the ottoman in your living room,” Charlie said. “It’s his. Tell him if these
