“Your brother was a sailor, I believe. I might’ve heard that somewhere,” said Charlie sarcastically, given the vast amounts of PT-109 folklore to which the nation had been subjected—campaign tie clips, a bestselling book, a newspaper serialization in the Herald Tribune, a TV dramatization, yet another heroic retelling in Reader’s Digest, and there was much more to come. A Hollywood studio was currently casting for the feature film of the story—would the lead be played by Warren Beatty? Peter Fonda? The White House would get final approval; Charlie hoped to God that wasn’t what Kennedy was referring to.

“It’s called The Manchurian Candidate,” Kennedy continued. “I don’t really care for the project as it’s been explained to me. Sinatra called to talk to the president before accepting.”

“Right,” said Charlie, still thoroughly confused.

“You’re about to enter an election year, so congressional recesses are going to be long,” Kennedy said. “The head of the studio is a friend, Arthur Krim. What if you became a consultant to the picture? For the next month or so, you can help coach them all in how to walk and talk like soldiers. You can cozy up to Frank and see how legit these rumored Mob ties are. Befriend him. Let me know everything you learn. Everything.”

Charlie knew he’d be well out of his element among the Hollywood set. “And after I do that, you’ll make your decision about your brother’s visit,” he said.

“Yes,” Kennedy said.

“So if I figure out what this favor is that Giancana asked of Frank, you’ll resolve this situation with my father?”

“We announce the LA trip next month, February latest,” Kennedy said, ignoring the question. “You won’t have much time.”

“Absolutely,” Charlie said, hating that he was acquiescing to what was essentially extortion. Nearly a decade in Congress could turn any would-be James Dean into Sal Mineo.

“This stays between us, Charlie,” Kennedy said. “Addington here will be your point of contact. Don’t trust phones.”

“Copy,” Charlie said. “And maybe then—”

“No quid pro quos, Charlie,” Kennedy said, anticipating Charlie’s next question.

Charlie nodded. His dad was in a cell and he had to get him out. He had no choice. He would do whatever Kennedy told him to do.

Chapter Four

Hollywood, California

December 1961