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 rat-fink motherfucker and you, Lawford, are a worthless piece of shit. You will never be in another picture with us, you will never be in another show with us, you are dead to me. Dead. Do you hear me? Fucking dead!”

Charlie kept waiting for Jacobs to pop in again to calm his boss; when he didn’t, Charlie realized the valet was likely hiding.