In the dim light of the nave, Charlie read:

ROSSELLI: You ask Winston?

GIANCANA: I leave messages with his secretary.

ROSSELLI: Christ, he doesn’t call you back? What the sainted [expletive deleted]—

“I don’t know what any of this is about,” Charlie said.

“Keep reading,” said Kennedy.

GIANCANA: What happened with Frank?

ROSSELLI: We talked. I said, “Frankie, can I ask one question?” He says, “Johnny, I took Sam’s name and wrote it down and told Bobby Kennedy, ‘This is my buddy. This is my buddy. This is what I want you to know, Bob.’”

GIANCANA: Well, I don’t know who the [expletive deleted] he’s talking to. Maybe one of these days he will actually do what he promised.

ROSSELLI: He says he wrote your name down.

GIANCANA: Well, one minute he tells me this and the next minute he tells me that. The last time I talked to him was at the hotel in Florida and he said, “Don’t worry about it, if I can’t talk to the old man, I’m going to talk to the man.” One minute he says he talked to Robert and the next minute he says he hasn’t talked to him. It’s a lot of [expletive deleted]. Why lie to me?

ROSSELLI: If he can’t deliver, I want him to tell me, “John, the load’s too heavy.”

GIANCANA: When he says he’s gonna do a guy a little favor, I don’t give a [expletive deleted] how long it takes, he’s got to give you a little favor.

The transcript ended there. Charlie handed the papers back to Kennedy.

“I don’t know what they’re talking about either,” Kennedy said. “I don’t know what favor Giancana wants regarding me or my father or my brother. No one ever brought any of this up to me.”

“Who’s Frank?” Charlie said.

“Sinatra,” Kennedy said. He reached into his briefcase and withdrew another transcript.

FORMOSA: Let’s show ’em. Let’s show those asshole Hollywood fruitcakes that they can’t get away with it as if nothing’s happened. Let’s hit Sinatra. Or I could whack out a couple of those other guys, Lawford and that Martin, and I could take the coon and put his other eye out.

GIANCANA: No, I’ve got other plans for them.

“Who’s Formosa?” Charlie asked.

“Just another one of these thugs,” Kennedy said. “You know the kind, they got ’em in New York too.”

Charlie looked at him again, trying to read his face. Did he know about the union toughs? He saw no indication one way or the other in Kennedy’s eyes.

The carol drew to a close, and the church was briefly, dramatically silent save for the hushed stirrings of worshippers lighting candles and finding seats. Charlie looked around; no one seemed to recognize him or his famous pew mate.