…Castro’s admission that he is a Marxist-Leninist. President Kennedy vowed the U.S. would never accept any government not chosen through free and fair elections. In local news, police say they have no leads in the death of actor Chris Powell, whose corpse was found earlier this week in a room at the Santa Monica Hotel. Powell’s role in the Elvis Presley film Kid Galahad will be recast, United Artists says. In sports—

“When we get out of the car, these bloodsuckers are going to bombard me with questions about Powell,” Lawford said.

“Did you know him?” Charlie asked. “I heard he and Frank fought about a girl.”

“It’s seldom truly about the girl,” Lawford said.

The car circled back to the entrance of the club and Lawford turned on his beaming white smile, hopped out of the car, helped Margaret out, and waved to the throng.

“One over here, Peter!” shouted a squat gray photographer. He resembled a toad, warts and all, topped by an obvious toupee. “Any comment on Powell?”

“Hi, Joey!” Lawford said, ignoring the question. “Say hi to Congressman Charlie Marder and his wife, Margaret. Charlie’s in town advising on Frank’s new picture. Charlie, this is Joey Tarantula,” he said, pronouncing it “Tah-ran-too-la.”

Tarantula snapped photographs of the three while shouting out a steady stream of questions, an accumulation of tabloid filler and innuendo: “Cops say it looks like a Mob hit. And what’s this I heard about Powell and Frank fighting over a girl?” Lawford ignored it all. “Thanks, Joey!” Lawford said, guiding Charlie and Margaret to the Daisy. The doorman nodded at Lawford and waved them in.

The Daisy, which had opened earlier that year, was the first private bar and dance club in the Greater Los Angeles area, a place for the rich and famous to drink and carouse without having to worry about gossip columnists or riffraff. The building took up a quarter of a city block, and membership was offered to a select group of Hollywood stars and power players as well as a few attractive, aspiring (and willing) young men and women carefully chosen and brought in by talent scouts.

A cocktail waitress rushed to them, took their drink orders, and practically sprinted to the bar. In the large main room of the club, oak-paneled and filled with a smog of cigarette smoke, were a well-stocked bar and a dozen small tables. At one of these, an aging Charles Boyer flirted with a barely adult Natalie Wood. Debbie Reynolds sat with a coterie of admirers; Kim Novak and Jayne Mansfield were at adjacent tables, each with an older man, each acting as if the other weren’t present. Standing at the bar, Tony Curtis slapped Troy Donahue on the back; near them, Sandra Dee was knee-deep in a drink that didn’t look so wholesome.

The waitress returned with bourbon rocks for Lawford and Charlie and a daiquiri for Margaret.