“We have our own ride,” Charlie said. “We’ll meet you there.”
The van that took them to East Sixty-Ninth Street parked as close to the house as possible. They thanked the driver and walked up the stairs of the enormous brownstone. Margaret gasped as they were led from the reception room to the atrium, decorated in neo–French classical walnut. Krim stood on the patio in the center of the property. Charlie and Margaret looked up to the glass ceiling, which revealed stars in the inky night sky.
Weeks before, Manny Fontaine’s dead body had been discovered in a back alley of a Hollywood neighborhood known for homosexual activities. Les Wolff’s hospital stay had been publicly attributed to a mild heart attack. As he shook Arthur Krim’s hand, Charlie wondered how much the studio chief knew about what had actually happened.
“Good to see you, Congressman,” Krim said. “And Mrs. Marder, lovely to have you here. Thank you both so much for helping with The Manchurian Candidate. I hope it isn’t too controversial when it comes out! John feels very hopeful.”
Charlie stole a look at his wife, who was nodding charmingly. She had predicted that Krim would act as if he knew nothing. Whether or not that was the case, he wouldn’t behave any other way.
“How’s Les?” Margaret asked impulsively.
“Recovering nicely, thank you,” Krim said. “I’ll tell him you send your best.” He smiled broadly. “Bob’s upstairs,” Krim said, walking to the atrium where Charlie glimpsed Marilyn Monroe.
As she and her husband reached the second floor of the luxurious brownstone, Margaret was stunned by the detailed balustrade, multipaned windows, and gigantic oak arch. Charlie patted her on the back; she had been after him to upgrade to a more spacious town house as the kids got bigger.
“I can always leave politics and become a fixer for the Mob,” he whispered. “Or get into show business.”
“Please, not show business,” she said.
The attorney general sat uncomfortably on a couch ashing a cigar into a dish. Amid the ottomans and fancy sofas stood Addington White pouring drinks at a bar and, in a wheelchair across from Kennedy, Charlie’s father, Winston. In a suit and tie.
“Dad!” Charlie said, striding over to his father to hug him. His dad gave his back a weak pat. Winston smelled clean, freshly showered. He was thin but looked much healthier than Charlie would have expected.
“Your dad is a free man,” Kennedy said as White handed him a scotch on the rocks. “We appreciate the information you’ve given us.”
“So the whole time, you really wanted to know what the CIA was up to,” Margaret said. “‘To see what is in front of one’s nose needs a constant struggle.’ You cared about the Mob, but not Sinatra’s relationship to it—only the CIA’s.”
“I wanted to know anything going on with Mr. Sinatra’s less savory friends,” said the attorney general.
“Including Judy Campbell?” Charlie said.
“That I would have preferred to have learned before Director Hoover, but I didn’t,” Kennedy said. “He sat the president down a few weeks ago and told him that the woman who’d been calling on him all over—Palm Beach, Hyannis Port, the White House—had other paramours.”
Winston grunted, and Charlie looked at him. It had actually sounded like a chuckle.
“It’s okay, Winston, you can knock off your charade,” Kennedy said.
Winston couldn’t contain his smile. “You son of a bitch,” Winston said. “How’d you know?”
“Oh, we’d long suspected that you faked the stroke to avoid answering questions,” Kennedy said.
“What the—” Charlie said.
“I was going to tell you, son,” Winston said. “I only got sprung earlier today. When I got home, I called you, but no answer. Then I made some other calls and learned that you found out what these hooligans suspected but couldn’t prove: that the Kennedy administration is more in bed with the Mob than Frank is. And then, speaking of beds, your brother—”
Kennedy held up his hand. “First off, let’s differentiate between the administration and the CIA,” he said. “And let’s not pretend that you didn’t have a hand in connecting the Agency to Giancana yourself. That you and Maheu aren’t thick as thieves.”
Aha! Charlie thought. That must be why Maheu seemed familiar.
“All of this could have been avoided if you’d just cooperated, Winston,” Kennedy said. “But you wouldn’t.”
“Why not just ask us directly for help?” Charlie asked.
“Why not just ask a Republican congressman who’s a pain in the ass on the Oversight Committee with a dad who has his own questionable ties to move to Hollywood and spy on a movie star and a gangster?” said White. “To help a president he doesn’t support? Jeez, that’s a tough one.”
“We weren’t sure we could trust you,” Kennedy said.
“Well, now you know,” Charlie said. A couple weeks before, back in Washington, Charlie had given Addington White a debrief of their Los Angeles misadventures, leaving out only a few incriminating details. He was surprised to hear the evident mistrust, which he’d seen no evidence of in DC, expressed so clearly.
“Either way, now you have more leads than you thought you’d have,” Margaret added. “I guess there’s nothing criminal about Sinatra and his friends partly controlling Hollywood Nightlife, but at the very least you should be able to launch an investigation into Les Wolff.”
“Not much to investigate,” Kennedy said. “He hanged himself earlier today.”
An uncomfortable silence hung in the room now as well.
Unspoken went the inescapable conclusion that there would be no follow-up investigation. Powerful forces had once again reached out from the shadows, killed one of their own for self-preservation, and disappeared.
“What about the Church of Scientology?” Margaret asked. “Hubbard?”
“Nothing directly ties Hubbard or the church as an institution to any of this,” Kennedy said. “It’s a church, so we can’t just raid them. Their desire to have celebrity adherents is not evidence of conspiracy. And both witnesses to alleged wrongdoing—Julius and Wolff—are gone. No one has even seen Julius since April.”
“Speaking of loose ends,” White said, “do
