“My mistake.” Margaret smiled. “But that’s why you had it done, right? I mean, it’s pretty brilliant. Appeared to be a Mob hit, and we’re out here looking into Sinatra and the Mob…”

“Thanks, I thought it was pretty inspired myself,” he said.

“You’re remarkably smart for a former actor,” Margaret said.

He laughed. “You interviewing me? You doing a feature for the Times?”

“Sort of,” Margaret said. “You know how Charlie and I were working on The Manchurian Candidate?”

“Yeah, whatever, sure.”

“You know John Frankenheimer, the director, and Joe Edmondson, his soundman?”

“I know John,” Wolff said. “I don’t much focus on the best boys and key grips.”

“John and Edmondson have been trying to figure out a way to mike a scene from a distance. Keep the booms out of the shots. Wireless-microphone technology. Heard about it?”

She watched Wolff’s face. His expression at first was confused; why was she talking about this? Then it clicked. A fire ignited in his eyes.

“No,” he snarled.

With her free hand, Margaret reached into her décolletage. “Edmondson’s been with us the whole time, listening on this microphone,” Margaret said as she struggled to retrieve the device from underneath her dress. “He’s been in a van outside the auditorium, recording this all.”

“You fucking bitch,” he said.

Margaret screamed, “Charlie Marder!” as loud as she could as Wolff grabbed her by the throat.

Down the stairwell and outside the exit door she saw the commotion as cops were shoved aside and paparazzi approached, waving cameras. Charlie barreled through the rapidly forming crowd. Wolff sensed the congressman rushing up the stairs and turned in time to see Charlie ram him against the wall. The studio executive, stocky and strong, was temporarily winded. But he quickly shook it off and tackled Charlie, and together they plummeted down the stairs.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Santa Monica, California

April 1962

Charlie hit Wolff’s sturdy mass so hard that he knocked the wind out of himself. For a few seconds he couldn’t breathe and was worried a rib might have punctured his lung.

Wolff had no such problem. He sat up on the congressman’s torso and began punching him in the face—once, twice. At first, Charlie wasn’t able to respond, and then only defensively, holding up his arms to block the pummeling. The stab wounds from last night didn’t make things any easier. Charlie could discern some sort of activity up the stairs but he wasn’t sure what it was. All he could focus on were the blows of the big man who was sitting on his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Margaret had fled, fueled by pure adrenaline, desperate to find help. Onstage a moment earlier, Shirley Jones had opened the envelope containing the name of the Best Supporting Actor.

“The winner is George Chakiris from West Side Story,” Jones said as the orchestra began playing “Maria.”