Sinatra cleared his throat and looked at Charlie. “I talked to our friend about Lola. He says he doesn’t know anyone who would do such a thing.” It took Charlie a second before he realized Sinatra was likely referring to Giancana. Fontaine looked pointedly up at the sky, the very picture of a man who hadn’t heard what he’d just heard.

Charlie nodded and took a deep breath, inhaling the pipe smoke Sinatra blew his way. It reminded him of his father’s pipe tobacco, of scotch and his dad’s dimly lit study, and of how badly, despite the early hour, Charlie wanted a drink. His jitters were getting worse. He couldn’t quite see his way out. His dad was lying in a bare-bones hospital ward in federal prison, his niece was still missing, and yet with all this angst, he couldn’t allow himself an ounce of self-pity for being so reckless with Lola. Such a photograph could end his political career in a second.

“I mean, that girl got around,” Sinatra said. “Not saying she had it coming. Just that who knows who she upset.”

“Speaking of which, Frank, I caught Beans phoning a florist in North Dakota,” Fontaine said.

“Yeah?” Sinatra said, confused.

“Sending flowers to the Bechmanns?”

“Who?” Sinatra asked.

“Lola’s real name was Mary Bechmann,” Charlie said.

“Ah,” said Sinatra.

“Did you ask Beans to send her family flowers?” Fontaine asked.

“I may have,” Sinatra said, irritated, looking up from the Oscar nominees. “Is there a problem?”

“Do you think that’s wise?” Fontaine asked. “No one knows you knew her. Why let the parents know?”

Sinatra frowned. “Just tryin’ to be nice.”

“Of course, of course,” Fontaine said reassuringly. “But let the studio take care of that. Lola was working on Kid Galahad, she had a bit part, so UA is going to send flowers. Okay?”

“She was a fun time, Lola,” Sinatra said. “But young, you know?”

“Sixteen,” Charlie said.

“What?” Sinatra said, genuinely shocked.

“That’s what the cops said.”

“That can’t be true!”

“It is, Frank,” Fontaine said.

“That’s horrible,” Sinatra said. “Looked a lot older.”

“At least eighteen,” Fontaine said.

Charlie couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“I met her at a party at Lawford’s,” Sinatra recalled. “She walked in wearing one of those short skirts.” His facial expression made it clear his memory was taking him down a tawdry path. “Oh, Charlie, don’t get so high and mighty,” Sinatra said, noting his look of disgust. “I saw you talking to her. You weren’t discussing the Bay of Pigs.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Charlie protested.

“Your face is a Sunday sermon,” Sinatra spat.

“Who else was she with?” Charlie asked. “Who else did she date?”

“Everyone,” Sinatra said. “Powell, obviously. Last time I saw her was at a party at Van Heusen’s.”

“Whatever happened to that?” Charlie asked. “Powell.”