She instinctively let go of the ladder and grabbed Fontaine’s right arm, half dragging him off the swinging metal beam. He clutched Margaret by her hair but she tightened her grip on him and pulled herself up on his arm, relieving the pressure on her scalp. They hung there at this impasse for seconds, though it felt longer, neither sure of what to do.

Margaret looked up at the rafters of the building, then down at the floor, then at Fontaine. He appeared furious and terrified in equal measure.

She lunged for the chain holding up one corner of the beam on which Fontaine was lying. After grappling with it blindly for several seconds, she managed to release the clasp—it was the same kind she’d used on the bridle of her pony as a kid. The beam jerked and Fontaine let go of Margaret and grabbed at the air around him.

The next few moments for Margaret seemed to pass in slow motion; released from Fontaine’s grip, she pushed herself away from the scaffold and lunged for the ladder.

Onstage, Sinatra was bringing the song to its boisterous, soulful climax, the deep menacing notes from the pipe organ serving as a musical rumbling of the beast, Satan, as Sinatra cautioned the crowd with his closing refrain:

Don’t say you weren’t warned in advance

You can’t hide safe ensconced in your manse

Fontaine seesawed left and right.

You felt safe in his eyes at first glance

And now inside you’s a hate you can’t lance

The chain she’d released flew upward and the sandbag fastened to its other end shot down and hit Fontaine’s head with the force of a speeding Mack truck.

And the devil may dance

The devil may dance

The devil may dance

The song crescendoed under Sinatra’s desperate pleas; cymbals crashed and bass drums erupted. A wild standing ovation from the audience drowned out the noise of Manny Fontaine and the sandbag hitting the floor.

Margaret grasped a rung of the ladder and clung to it as it thunked back against the wall. She settled herself, then carefully descended to the stage.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Santa Monica, California

April 1962

Margaret reached the final rung as several dozen she-devil dancers exited the stage, grinning exuberantly as they poured into the wings. Les Wolff emerged from the dark, grabbed Margaret, and yanked her back into the shadows. She reached for the dancers around her and desperately shouted for help, but it played as a lark.

“I’m serious! Help me!” she called out, but Wolff laughed and held her tighter.

“Oh, Margaret, you’re too much,” he said, smiling, pulling her arm behind her back and jamming it up. He steered her toward the stage and down a separate hallway.