“More than rumors,” Fontaine said, pushing a beefy thumb into Charlie’s lapel for emphasis. “Yes, Powell was in Kid Galahad, that stupid Elvis boxing movie, but he was a good actor. There was talk of him playing Frank’s younger brother in Come Blow Your Horn. You know, the Neil Simon play. You seen it? Anyway, Frank didn’t want Powell in the picture. Fought it. Maybe felt threatened by his looks and talent?” Fontaine shrugged. “Guess he won’t have that problem anymore.”

“Good Lord,” Lawford said under his breath to MacLaine when he returned to the table and found Sinatra ranting. “Who brought up Louella?”

“Handsome Johnny,” MacLaine said, motioning toward one of the two anonymous men at the other end of the table. “Said his girlfriend was reading it to find out more about Hollywood. It was like dropping a match in the Strait of Hormuz.”

“He has every reason to be upset,” Britt offered, also speaking in the hushed tone they had all adopted as if to avoid waking a sleeping baby. “Parsons goes into detail about everything, him leaving Nancy for Ava, the troubles he had with his voice in the fifties. Lot of dirty laundry. And she trashes a number of his performances.”

“That’s a pity,” said Lawford.

Sinatra continued his diatribe. Martin and Davis nodded along with his assessment of the gossip columnist and tried to convince him to forget about her. Charlie, returning to the table, tried to make sense of it all.

“She’s a nasty old cooze, Frank, just forget about her,” Martin was saying.

“Her latest column was nice, Pope,” said Davis. “She interviewed Janet Leigh, who gushed about how happy she was that you cast her in Manchurian, how you’re a great neighbor to her and Tony out in Rancho Mirage.”

“Who are those men at the end of the table, anyway?” Charlie quietly asked Lawford.

He shrugged. “Friends of Frank’s.” He didn’t seem to want to say any more.

Lawford took a swig of bourbon. “I read the book. There was a lot in there about Frank having successfully launched the greatest comeback in the history of showbiz. I wish he wouldn’t focus so much on the negative.”

“Why does he care?” Margaret asked. The passion and presence she’d seen in Sinatra just minutes before had morphed into something else: spite. He was a downed power line, writhing spasmodically. Out of control and best avoided.

“Honestly, I think what’s really pissing him off is Parsons’s crack about him losing his hair,” Lawford said.

“What was that?” Sinatra asked Lawford.

“Just talking about that cunty book, Frank,” Lawford said.

“Cunty is right,” Sinatra agreed, venom in his voice. The word echoed past their group, stopping conversations at other tables. The room got a little quieter.

“Well, you know what they say,” Margaret said, taking a sip of Charlie’s bourbon, “ask not what your cunty can do for you.”