The Devil May Dance by Tapper, Jake (the reading list .TXT) 📕

like an Oscar, I’d imagine,” said Charlie, positioning himself on the other side of the room.

“That was something special,” Sinatra said. “Hey, Charlie, I got Joey tickets to the Oscars this year but per usual, he’ll be a no-show. You want ’em?”

Rat Pack member Joey Bishop was almost never around, working steadily on his new sitcom and preferring a comparatively normal life with his beloved family. Bishop’s membership in the Rat Pack was pretty much confined to movie sets.

“Yes, of course,” Charlie said.

“You’ll need to stand up and applaud like hell when I sing!” Sinatra said playfully.

“A given,” Charlie said.

“George!” Sinatra called. His valet walked into the room. “Go get Joey’s Oscar tickets that he’s never gonna use and bring them to Charlie. Put them in the car so he doesn’t forget them.”

“At once, Mr. Sinatra,” Jacobs said. “Do you want me to give him the screenplay you asked him to look at?”

“What’s this?” asked Lawford.

“Oh,” Sinatra said. “A picture about the U.S. accidentally dropping an A-bomb on North Carolina. Charlie’s going to give it a scrub to see how realistic it is.”

“Peachy,” said Lawford.

“Oh, and I got something else for you, Charlie,” Sinatra said. “An LP. Listen to it when you get back to your suite.”

“Will do,” Charlie said.

“What is it, Pope?” Lawford asked. “No parting gifts for me?””

“Oh, it’s nothing, Pete,” Sinatra said. “I was fiddling around the other night in the recording studio out back, and we recorded a jazzier version of ‘The Devil May Dance.’ We cut a few thirty-threes. I have one extra. I can get you one next time.”

Small talk continued for another hour, with Sinatra minorly obsessed with Jack Paar’s departure from The Tonight Show that week, his last live show airing the night before. Paar had said he was leaving because the daily grind had grown too tough, which Sinatra found silly: “Some of this showbiz stuff is long days and hard work, but c’mon, we aren’t coolies building the railroads!”

What most animated Sinatra, however, was that Paar, who would be replaced by Johnny Carson in the fall, had devoted way too much time in his last show to settling scores with his enemies in the press.

“I mean,” Sinatra said, “it’s all pussy and jelly beans. What is he bellyaching about?”

Paar had taken some hits a year before for comments he’d made defending Castro—credulous and naive homages to the Cuban leader about how beloved he was and how he wasn’t a Communist. And although Castro’s declaration that he was a Marxist-Leninist the previous December had prompted Paar to admit he’d made a mistake, on his last night as host of the show, he was unabashed and untethered and determined to exact revenge. “Phony patriotism,” Paar had said of columnist Walter Winchell. “He wrapped himself in the American flag whenever you criticized him, and he wore the American flag like a bathrobe.”

“Why even bring that shit up?” Sinatra asked. “No one watching was thinking about Castro. People don’t put on Jack Paar because he’s talking about Cuba. They put him on because he doesn’t.”

Charlie glared at Lawford. There was never going to be a better moment for Lawford to drop the bad news on him like an A-bomb on Goldsboro. But Lawford was looking down, still clearly afraid.

“Speaking of current events,” Charlie said. “Peter has some news on the JFK visit.”

“Yeah?” asked Sinatra, crossing his arms. “I wondered when I was going to get the final word—he’s supposed to be here in a week and a half!” He looked at Charlie, who nodded toward Lawford. “Yeah?” he said directly to Lawford.

“I’m afraid it isn’t good news, Frank,” Lawford began.

“It was fucking Bobby, wasn’t it?” Sinatra asked, his face turning pink. “Fucking choirboy. Fucking Puritan.”

“I pleaded with him to reconsider,” Lawford said. “They say it was a Secret Service decision. Security. They don’t think this compound is safe enough for a visit. It’s nothing personal, Frank!”

Sinatra stood, enraged. “George! Get the president on the phone! This is fucking bullshit!” He grabbed a decanter of bourbon in one hand and a tumbler in the other, poured some bourbon, took a swig, then replenished the glass. “George!” he bellowed. He started pacing around the room maniacally.

Jacobs yelled from the kitchen: “Just got through to the White House! I’m on hold!”

“Let me know when you get that son of a bitch on the phone,” Sinatra snarled. He turned to Charlie. “The president’s been dodging my calls for months.”

“Look, Jack called Patricia,” Lawford continued, an emotional dam having been broken. “He said that as president, he just couldn’t sleep in the same bed as Giancana had. She protested, but—”

“That hypocritical fucking mick,” Sinatra said, shaking with rage, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. He stared at Lawford, then threw his tumbler across the room; it shattered against the wall, leaving a stain.

“I cannot fucking believe the nerve of this guy, his brother, his whole fucking family,” Sinatra said. “Your fucking family, Lawford!”

Jacobs came into the room. “Mr. S., I’m sorry, but President Kennedy can’t come to the phone.”

“Call fucking Bobby, call that goddamn rat-fink choirboy motherfucker and get that fucking piece of shit on the phone right now!” Sinatra yelled. Jacobs nodded and retreated to the kitchen. His boss stared out the window toward the pool. No one said a word.

“So where is he fucking staying?” Sinatra finally asked. “He’s coming to California, right? That’s been announced. Where is he fucking staying?”

Lawford swallowed. Charlie took it all in, half horrified and half thrilled to witness it.

“He’s…he’s staying with the Crosbys,” Lawford said softly.

Sinatra’s blue eyes seemed to turn ice white. “Bing?” he yelled. “He’s staying with fucking Bing Crosby? Fucking Republican Bing Crosby? Right here in goddamn fucking Rancho Mirage?”

Shaking, he picked up a vase containing daisies and tulips and threw it at Lawford, who ducked. The vase smashed against the door to the kitchen.

“Fucking Bobby, if the old man hadn’t stroked out, he would have taken care of this!” Sinatra spat. “Fucking Bobby is a