Fontaine reappeared, looking noticeably less relaxed than he had a few moments earlier. He approached them, ashen-faced.

“Manny, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Margaret said.

“The police are here. One of our actors on a different picture was found dead this morning.”

“Oh my God, no,” said Charlie. “Who was it?”

Fontaine seemed almost out of breath. “Chris Powell. He was a boxer in the Elvis flick Kid Galahad they’re shooting next door.”

“Did you know him well?” Margaret asked.

“What happened?” asked LeGrue.

“I don’t know yet. I knew him a bit. He was trouble, that kid. He and Sinatra got into it a few times. Fighting over a dame. This isn’t going to be good for anyone.”

Chapter Five

Beverly Hills, California

December 1961

Flashbulbs popped as the custom-made red Ghia L6.4 approached the Daisy, a drinking club on North Rodeo Drive—private, but no secret to the photographers and reporters who scavenged nightly for scoops they could sell to the tabloids. Dusk was beginning to settle on Beverly Hills, exaggerating the artificial bursts of light.

“These goddamn shutterbugs are everywhere, like mosquitoes,” snarled Peter Lawford from the front passenger seat as his driver eased his way through the swarm. The car was one of only twenty-six built; a few had been gifted to Rat Packers for the free publicity. Margaret and Charlie exchanged a glance in the back seat—once again, DC and normal life seemed a long way away.

“Take us around the block,” Lawford instructed the driver. “Let me get myself together.” He pulled down the visor, peered at himself in the tiny mirror, took out a comb, and began tending to his thick brown locks. Charlie had noticed that Lawford seemed limited in the use of his right arm and hand, a disability he hid rather well by making pronounced and dramatic gestures with his left.

Charlie had phoned Lawford a week ago after Attorney General Kennedy, the actor’s brother-in-law, had assured him that Lawford would help Charlie and Margaret insinuate themselves into the Rat Pack. Lawford, a bridge between the two worlds ever since his marriage to Patricia Kennedy—who came between Jack and Bobby in birth order—was only too happy to assist. He’d joined them at the Miramar for brunch last Sunday, and this was their second outing.

The brunch had been fun enough. Lawford spoke with a clipped British accent and seemed on the surface to be the embodiment of class and erudition, a real-life version of Dashiell Hammett’s Nick Charles, whom Lawford played on the NBC TV series. In actuality he was, Margaret thought, probably about half as bright. He was, however, full of gossip about both Hollywood and Washington, and seemed a good entrée to Sinatra.

As the driver rounded the block, the voice of a radio newsman filled the car.