“This is a preposterous number of fabulous people,” Margaret said, taking a swig of her drink.

“Where else can they go on a Saturday night?” Lawford replied.

While overwhelmed by the sheer number of celebrities, Margaret was surprised at how much tinier they appeared in person. Liz Taylor was so short she almost resembled an elf, and walking in, Margaret had towered over several leading men. Also surprising were Rock Hudson’s drinking companions. They weren’t exactly the nubile young starlets Margaret might have expected; the strapping heartthrob, a vision of all-American swinging bachelorhood, had surrounded himself with four slim, handsome—even pretty—young men.

A framed photograph hung on either side of the doorway. One was an image of Sinatra punching a photographer in the nose, and the other showed Dean Martin holding a finger to his lips, an instruction: Shh.

“Our crew’s in the back,” Lawford said, pointing. Live jazz played in one of the rooms; the Daisy had so many, it was hard to keep track. Charlie recognized the tune: “Pfrancing,” from Someday My Prince Will Come. He polished off his bourbon in one gulp and began to lose himself in the tempo and the strutting trumpet solo, which sounded to him like a man crying.

“It’s like Miles Davis himself is here,” Margaret said. She was trying to keep cool, but she had her hand on his arm, and he could tell she was a bit thrilled. They followed Lawford through the crowd of stars, ogling in every direction and catching snippets of gossip:

So there was Rock in a mink, looking as fabulous as you might imagine, and the studio sent the goddamn pic to every paper from here to Piscataway like it was a joke, like ha-ha-ha, look at the he-man in the mink. If they only knew!

Ed Sullivan is boycotting anyone who goes on Paar. That’s just the reality of it.

No, no, no, you’re drunk, West Side Story is gonna end the year number one, Guns of Navarone two.

Nuremberg and Tiffany’s won’t be in the top ten. They didn’t make any money. They were just for awards.

As the journalists might say, Chris Powell couldn’t be reached for comment.