Rancho Mirage, California

April 1962

There was no answer at Sinatra’s Beverly Hills estate, so Charlie called the Compound in Rancho Mirage. George Jacobs answered and confirmed that his boss was there with some friends but said he couldn’t come to the phone.

“He’s not doing so hot?” Charlie asked.

“Mr. S. went from being the First Friend to just another greaser from Hoboken,” Jacobs said.

“He’s still upset,” Charlie told Margaret after he hung up.

“About losing the Oscar to ‘Moon River’?” Margaret asked.

“No, no, about the Kennedys treating him like a vat of bad moonshine,” Charlie said.

Their drive through the unending developments and lush mountains of western Los Angeles, Pomona, Rancho Cucamonga, and San Bernardino took two hours, but they were two hours without mayhem, without interruption, without anyone trying to kill them. The city seemed to stretch beyond any limits other than the mountain ranges, every town blurring into one giant sprawl.

“I’ve noticed you haven’t had a drink,” she said.

“It’s only been a day,” Charlie said, his eyes on the road, though he was happy she’d noticed.

“More than that. The return from Disneyland, the trip to Isaiah’s hotel, Frankenheimer’s, the Oscars, saving Sheryl Ann.” She ticked each one off. “Unless you snuck one when I wasn’t looking?”

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“That’s a lot of stress, to say nothing of how sore your face and back must be,” she said.

Charlie nodded. “And rib,” he added. She reached over, grabbed his right knee, gave it a squeeze.

“You don’t need to hide anything from me,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

“Your drinking—” she began.

“I know,” he said. “I know, but I might need—”

“I’m always here,” she said. “I know you can do it.”

“It’s been one day.”

“And that’s how we will do it,” she said. “One day. Then another. Then another.”

The burden of Charlie’s weaknesses and Margaret’s disapproval didn’t vanish in that moment, but it became a task they would finally tackle together.

Most of their time in the car, however, was spent meticulously analyzing every detail of the information they’d gleaned. By the time they arrived in Rancho Mirage, they felt as though they had a decent theory of the case.

“Enough to bluff our way into the actual facts, at any rate,” Charlie said. Margaret smiled with anticipation.

They got out of their car; Jacobs answered the front door.

“Mr. S. is in the pool,” he said and shook his head. It had not been going well.

Sinatra lay splayed on a raft, his eyes hidden behind gold-accented aviators, his skin a deep bronze. He wore a red short-sleeved shirt, but it was unbuttoned, and his gut protruded over his aqua bathing suit. It was impossible to tell if he was awake.