The Devil May Dance Jake Tapper (the best electronic book reader txt) 📖

before that for “All the Way” from The Joker Is Wild, both of which starred Sinatra. There was a lot of buzz that he might get nominated and win again this year for another Sinatra ballad, “The Devil May Dance” from El Cid. Van Heusen, Davis confided, was also a major supplier of party girls for Sinatra’s fiestas. The girls’ provenance was never completely clear but that didn’t matter to the guys who pawed them.

At four a.m., Charlie and Street realized they were both nodding off midconversation.

“We oughta…” said Charlie, failing to finish his sentence.

“Yeah,” said Street, yawning.

“I’m hitting the latrine,” said Charlie. “Call me for breakfast.”

Street grunted and walked to the elevator bank. Charlie staggered into the restroom, relieved himself, and splashed water on his face. He was having difficulty not walking into walls. Then he found himself at the elevator bank and realized he had been waiting for a few minutes. He probably should press the Up button, he concluded, too drunk to feel sheepish.

Someone approached him, then Charlie was in the elevator, then he was in Sinatra’s suite sitting on a couch with a drink in his hand. He was unsure how he’d gotten there.

Charlie looked around the room, a deluxe suite with a television and a hi-fi. Sinatra sat at a giant card table with Momo, Handsome Johnny, and some other toughs; Dino stood at the bar. There were some women too, including the raven-haired knockout who’d been sitting with Giancana at the show.

“Looks like Sleeping Beauty is awake,” Martin quipped.

“I only had to kiss him five times,” Sinatra said, prompting obedient chuckles.

“Wow, Vegas drinking is a whole different order of business,” Charlie said, rubbing his head. He stood. “Aspirin?”

“Give him an aspirin, Dago,” Sinatra said.

“Sure,” Martin said. He handed two white pills and a cocktail to Charlie. “And a little hair o’ the proverbial canine. Come on, why don’t you play a hand or two?”

Charlie was dimly aware he was past the point of good judgment, but he downed the aspirin, then made his way unsteadily to the poker table and sat down.

Giancana extended a meaty right hand. “Sam Hill,” he said, his eyes at once menacing and dull. Charlie was too drunk to care what the man called himself.

“I think you know Handsome Johnny and Wassy Handelman,” Sinatra said.

“We weren’t formally introduced,” Charlie said, nodding to the two men he’d seen at the Daisy. “I think you know my father,” Charlie said to Giancana. “Winston Marder?”

Giancana didn’t look up as Sinatra dealt him two cards.

“Rings a bell,” Giancana said. He had a high voice. Girlish.

“Say, speaking of rings,” Sinatra growled, “where’s that ring I gave you, Momo?”

“In your mother’s wazoo,” Giancana said.

“Ah, come on, Momo, why you gotta bring his sainted mother into it?” Martin asked.

“Seriously, that was a nice ring,” Sinatra said.

“What’s this?” asked Charlie.

“Star sapphire pinkie ring Frank had made for Sam,” said Martin.

The dark-haired woman appeared at the table, and Sinatra looked up at her appreciatively. “Let me smell your hair, Judy,” Sinatra said.

“Smell your own hair, Frank,” said Judy.

“Yeah, Frankie, want me to take it off and hand it to you?” Giancana asked.

Sinatra waved at him dismissively and offered a tight smile; he looked like he was making a great deal of effort not to show how angry he was. Something in the way the Chairman of the Board had crudely flirted with Judy reminded Charlie of something, but he wasn’t sure what, something about his dad from long ago…but the memory was hazy and just out of reach. The people of questionable character around the table also evoked Winston, a man who, like Sinatra, had risen high above the streets he’d come from, who dined with senators and foreign leaders but never lost touch with the rougher men who muscled control of businesses and unions, who made things happen and made problems and people disappear.

Why would Sinatra consort with the likes of these thugs? Charlie wondered. But he knew they could be charming and, at times, fun. Charlie remembered the allure and style of some of the gangsters his father knew—Siegel and Lansky, Luciano and Frank Costello. Charlie had a fond memory of Three Finger Brown—aka Tommy Lucchese—plucking a quarter out of his ear when he was a boy. Being a sociopath didn’t necessarily mean an absence of charisma; in fact, it often seemed to require it.

His father. His thoughts snapped back to the task at hand. He needed to find out what favor Momo wanted from Sinatra. It wasn’t like he could just ask. He had no desire to join the long list of those who had gotten on the wrong side of the men in this room. He had to think. Although, stewed as he was, thinking was nearly impossible.

“You know, Congressman, we have mutual friends,” Giancana said, studying his cards.

Charlie was unsure what to say. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’m glad.” He wondered if Giancana knew about his problems back in New York, how the union thugs, after helping Charlie secure reelection votes, were now asking Charlie to lean on a U.S. attorney to take it easy on one of their associates, to drop the charges. Could he have known that?

As if in response to the confused look on Charlie’s face, Rosselli jumped in: “So we’re all friends here.”

“Is that right, Charlie?” asked Martin.

“I, uh—” Charlie stammered. “I have a good relationship with some of the local unions.”

“They backed you last time,” Rosselli said. “Without them, you wouldn’t be here. Without them next time around, you’re done.”

“Um,” said Charlie, “they were helpful.”

“It’s good to have friends,” Giancana said. He looked up at Charlie, but his eyes were dead. “But it’s not nice to forget that.” He held eye contact for a few more seconds.

Even in his state of inebriation, Charlie recognized that the Mob boss was threatening to end his political career and maybe also his life. But his thoughts were interrupted by a pang of nausea so strong that he rose abruptly and, to the