Sporting an enormous helmet of blond hair and blindingly white teeth, Marilyn slunk to the microphone. For a few seconds it wasn’t clear that she knew what to do.

Margaret grabbed Charlie’s hand and gripped it tight as if somehow she could squeeze wherewithal into Marilyn’s brain by twisting Charlie’s fingers. Soon, however, the starlet began her breathless cooing into the microphone.

“Haaaa-pee…birth…day…tooo…youuuu,” she sang. “Haaaa-pee birthdayyyy…tooo-oooo-oooo yooooouuuu—”

The crowd ate it up, hooting and grunting as if she were a burlesque dancer at a stag party.

“They think it’s sexy,” Margaret said to Charlie, “but she’s about to pass out.”

After the performance, Lawford offered Charlie and Margaret a ride in his limo to a private gathering at the Upper East Side town house of United Artists chairman Arthur Krim.

“We have our own ride,” Charlie said. “We’ll meet you there.”

The van that took them to East Sixty-Ninth Street parked as close to the house as possible. They thanked the driver and walked up the stairs of the enormous brownstone. Margaret gasped as they were led from the reception room to the atrium, decorated in neo–French classical walnut. Krim stood on the patio in the center of the property. Charlie and Margaret looked up to the glass ceiling, which revealed stars in the inky night sky.

Weeks before, Manny Fontaine’s dead body had been discovered in a back alley of a Hollywood neighborhood known for homosexual activities. Les Wolff’s hospital stay had been publicly attributed to a mild heart attack. As he shook Arthur Krim’s hand, Charlie wondered how much the studio chief knew about what had actually happened.

“Good to see you, Congressman,” Krim said. “And Mrs. Marder, lovely to have you here. Thank you both so much for helping with The Manchurian Candidate. I hope it isn’t too controversial when it comes out! John feels very hopeful.”

Charlie stole a look at his wife, who was nodding charmingly. She had predicted that Krim would act as if he knew nothing. Whether or not that was the case, he wouldn’t behave any other way.

“How’s Les?” Margaret asked impulsively.

“Recovering nicely, thank you,” Krim said. “I’ll tell him you send your best.” He smiled broadly. “Bob’s upstairs,” Krim said, walking to the atrium where Charlie glimpsed Marilyn Monroe.

As she and her husband reached the second floor of the luxurious brownstone, Margaret was stunned by the detailed balustrade, multipaned windows, and gigantic oak arch. Charlie patted her on the back; she had been after him to upgrade to a more spacious town house as the kids got bigger.

“I can always leave politics and become a fixer for the Mob,” he whispered. “Or get into show business.”

“Please, not show business,” she said.