Charlie and Margaret shook their heads no.
“What about all that evidence we gave you of the larger conspiracy in the studios for these parties? The photos and the receipts?” Charlie asked.
“And the recording of Les Wolff talking about it all?” added Margaret.
“We have the tapes,” White said. “We will be reviewing. And looping in the appropriate authorities, LAPD, et cetera.”
“What if they’re in on it too?” Charlie asked under his breath.
“What’s that?” White asked.
“You heard me,” said Charlie.
“How’s your niece?” Kennedy asked Margaret, tabling the other discussion.
“She’s okay,” Charlie volunteered after it became clear Margaret wasn’t going to respond. “Back in Ohio with her folks.”
Winston stood up from his wheelchair, shoved it away, and walked over to the table where a decanter of scotch beckoned. He looked surprisingly limber.
“So what’s up with Sinatra?” Winston asked, bemused. “The Irish princes throw the Sicilian jester into the moat?”
Kennedy rolled his eyes at Winston, an opponent whom he could barely control even after he’d imprisoned him.
“We’re going to stop that picture he wants to make about the nukes landing on North Carolina,” White said, slurring a bit, maybe a bit in the bag. “That script you shared with us.”
“Why?” Charlie asked.
“It’s classified,” White said.
“That’s enough, Addington,” Kennedy said.
Charlie and Margaret exchanged looks. What on earth?
“So was that Sinatra sending you a message via a screenplay?” Winston asked. “A hint that he’s willing to expose truths? Motivated by revenge? Or maybe he’s still deep down the same bleeding-heart Commie-symp he’s always been?”
Kennedy ignored the question.
“So,” Winston said, filling the dead air, “are you going to call off Giancana’s hit on Castro?” He smiled, finishing his glass of scotch. He was having fun.
Kennedy didn’t respond. White looked down at the ground.
After a second, Kennedy stepped toward Winston. “As you know, that wasn’t a Justice Department proposal.”
“Surely it would be a war crime, which would be an issue of concern, I would think, for an attorney general,” Margaret jumped in. “Western societies don’t contract mobsters to kill foreign leaders, even despots.”
Winston laughed aloud. “We don’t?” he asked, pouring himself another drink. “C’mon, little girl.”
Kennedy turned to Charlie, exasperated, as if Charlie had any control of either his father or his wife. “We can’t talk about this here,” he said.
“Should we talk instead about what the Agency got your brother to sign off on a year ago?” said Winston. “And how you kept the press from reporting on the Alabama National Guardsmen killed in Cuban airspace after that goat-fuck?”
Kennedy frowned at Winston.
“Wait, what?” Charlie asked.
“They didn’t declassify that for you, did they, on your Oversight Committee?” Winston said. “Four Alabama Guardsmen were killed during the Bay of Pigs. Castro’s even got one of their cadavers on ice as proof of an American invasion.”
“The Agency is responsible for any number of fiascos,” Kennedy agreed. “Some of these were plans that President Eisenhower signed off on. It’s one of the reasons we got rid of Dulles.”
“Dick Bissell is your problem, Bobby,” Winston said. “Not Dulles.”
“Don’t I know it,” he replied.
“Hoover is just as dangerous,” White added.
“It’s all a goat-fuck,” Kennedy said, “as Winston says.”
“Look at you, one of the most powerful men in the world and you’re acting as if you’re powerless,” said Margaret with equal parts disgust and disappointment in her voice. “You fought so hard to get to the White House. Why? How are you different from Nixon? What are you doing with this power?”
From downstairs echoed the bubblegum voice of Marilyn Monroe, followed by deep laughter.
“Are you fighting for women to be seen by your brother as something other than depositories?” Margaret asked, motioning vaguely toward the stairs. “What about civil rights? I voted for your brother. What was it all for? Anything other than power?”
Kennedy sat down on a maroon felt sofa; a table lamp shining on his face deepened the bags under his eyes. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth as if there were something stuck in his molars. Addington White sat down at the edge of the sofa.
“We probably should head downstairs and meet our guest of honor,” White said. “Not to mention we need to show the Krims some love.” He turned to Margaret. “You really should meet Mathilde Krim. She does cancer research at Cornell. Very impressive woman.” Kennedy and White began walking to the door.
“Before you go,” Charlie said, “I have to ask…”
Kennedy put his hands on his hips, irritated in anticipation. “Yes?”
“Are you just going to abandon Sinatra?” Charlie asked. “You and your brother? After all he did for you?”
“Abandon?” Kennedy asked.
“You treat him worse than you treat Marilyn,” Margaret said.
“He’ll be fine,” White said.
“You didn’t even invite him to this birthday party!” Charlie said.
“He’s a big boy,” White said.
“What’s he going to do?” asked Kennedy. “Become a Republican?” He chuckled; it became a snort. The concept was completely alien. “Endorse Goldwater?”
“Join Ronnie Reagan’s crusades against socialized medicine?” White added, joining in the laughter. Kennedy patted his arm and the two walked out of the room giggling. “We’ll see you downstairs,” White said as he exited. Then he quickly returned: “Obviously, nothing we discussed here leaves this room.” He emphasized the point with a grave expression, then left again.
Winston looked at his son and daughter-in-law. He was in better spirits than Charlie had seen him in years.
“I’m going to mingle,” he said. “Maybe Miss Monroe needs a dance partner. I haven’t had any fun in months!” Winston chuckled, knocked back his drink, and practically bounded out of the room and down the stairs.
Charlie put his arm around his wife. “You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said. “How do you feel about giving the dirt from Tarantula’s vault to those barracudas?”
“Fine,” he said. “I feel even better that we kept copies for ourselves for insurance purposes.” He held her tight. “And speaking of insurance,” he added, subtly caressing her under her bra, where
