The director shook his head. “It’s 1961, for the love of God. We’re still using technology from Birth of a Nation.” Frankenheimer turned to Charlie. The director had initially seemed irritated to have the congressman and his wife foisted upon him. But after Margaret praised his earlier television work on Playhouse 90, and Charlie proclaimed The Young Savages the best film of the year, Frankenheimer warmed right up.

“Does this feel right to you, Congressman? Would an army major get in the face of a senator like that?”

“Soldiers tend to defer to people in power,” said Charlie. “Especially those in the civilian command structure. But if he’s desperate enough, maybe.”

Charlie and Margaret had flown to Los Angeles on the Justice Department’s dime, dropped off their belongings at the Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica, and gone to the set. The studio had told Frankenheimer to use Charlie as a resource for any question that was military or political. Margaret’s decision to accompany Charlie was explained to Frankenheimer as a fringe benefit for him because of her keen academic eye for detail and her ability to advise Angela Lansbury on the behavior of congressional spouses. Oh, the stories Margaret could tell—of the voice-of-God television anchor with breath like a warthog and hands like a squid, the strutting cowboy-booted senator who shrank from confrontation as if he’d been gelded, the 2 Corinthians–quoting reverend who seemed personally to cotton more to Sodom and Gomorrah. Margaret had seen it all—in power, out of power, shiny new thing, old hat, all the highs and lows. Charlie had been stunned that she’d insisted on joining him with the kids still so young and needy, but she had convinced him that she might come in handy. Plus she could meet some movie stars and get a little time in the sun. The truth was she was worried about Charlie and his drinking and his having to fend for himself three thousand miles from home.

“Of course, Marco’s in something of a manic state,” Margaret noted. “He wouldn’t be thinking clearly.”

“Yes, the manic state conveyed so subtly by coating my face with petroleum jelly,” Sinatra said.

More than two decades of fame and fortune had done little to smooth the rough edges of Sinatra’s New Jersey origins; there was a combative arrogance to him that reminded Charlie of his dad. Since arriving in Los Angeles, he hadn’t heard from Addington White, didn’t know if his father had been moved to a less harsh prison or how he was doing. He hadn’t felt so disconnected from his father since the war, and given the precarious state in which he’d last seen him, a hum of anxiety was his constant companion.