“I left it on the ottoman in your living room,” Charlie said. “It’s his. Tell him if these terms are acceptable, I would like it if we could be square. I don’t want to hear from his friends in New York anymore. If the union goes another direction next election, that’s fine.”

“Got it,” Sinatra said. “I shall pass it along.”

They sat there for a few minutes as the sun started to duck behind Mount San Jacinto to the west.

“Frank?” Margaret said meekly. “I want to ask you—and I don’t want to seem at all unappreciative, but I want to ask…”

“Go ahead, baby doll,” said the singer.

“What I don’t get is, if you know about all of these crimes, blackmail or murders or the girls or what have you, why didn’t—why don’t you go to the police?” she asked.

Sinatra looked at her incredulously. “You think the police don’t know?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You think that, say, Detective Meehan isn’t part of this?” Sinatra asked. “Why do you think he had such a hard-on for you and Lola? If Bobby hadn’t vouched for you, you’d be in Alcatraz by now.”

“Jesus, really?” Margaret asked. “Meehan?”

Sinatra laughed. “This whole system stinks, girlie. You think the police have no idea about Les Wolff’s bobby-soxer parties?”

“They do? But—”

“Come on,” Sinatra said. “You think all these powerful men do whatever the fuck they want with whatever girl they want and law enforcement doesn’t know? C’mon!”

Sinatra looked at Charlie and Margaret as if he were the serpent in the Garden of Eden. They were worse than naive; they were stupid.

“That’s the grand hypocrisy of me being tagged by Bobby as some bad boy because I’ve stayed friends with some guys from the old neighborhood,” Sinatra said. “The fact that gossip kept TP away from here, so instead he went to Bing’s, where he shlonged Marilyn. And don’t get me started on Cuba!”

Charlie looked at the aging crooner. At first, Sinatra had reminded him of his father at his apex, savvy and charismatic, a man of action and energy who made things happen, someone whom he wanted to impress. But five months into this adventure, Sinatra looked defeated and deflated as he floated in the pool. He still reminded Charlie of his father, but in his later, sadder years, when the weight of all that he had done and accepted was taking its toll whether or not he understood why.

“So the cops are in on it?” Charlie asked. “All of it?”

“Depends what you mean by ‘in on it,’” Sinatra said. “Some of them know. Hubbard’s group and the Mob helped Les Wolff. But beyond that, I have no details. I don’t know who did what and what was illegal and what was just sleazy.”