“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!”