“How’s your bird, Pope?” Martin asked, a Rat Pack inquiry about the status of a fellow traveler’s penis or, more broadly, his happiness in that arena. The others held their breath. Above them hung a half-moon, about which Sinatra started to sing:

Something, something, man in the moon

something, something, baboon,

something, something swoon…

Everyone exhaled; the wind had blown his dark mood away with the clouds. Lawford led the pack in a charge up the hill as Martin sang a song mocking the very young girlfriend of Sinatra’s rival Elvis Presley. “Are you lonesome tonight?” he crooned. “Are you horny tonight? Have you reached puberty yet, my dear girl?”

Sinatra cackled. He’d hosted the television special Welcome Home, Elvis after Presley’s discharge from the army, but Sinatra made no secret of the fact that he found most rock and roll deplorable; he thought the music was written and performed by cretinous goons, and Presley was the gooniest of them all.

Charlie and Margaret walked slowly, bringing up the rear. Margaret sighed, seeming annoyed.

“Stop pretending that this isn’t a little cool,” Charlie said, indicating the scene—they were hanging with icons of the zeitgeist, boozing in a celebrity graveyard in the middle of the night.

“Ring-a-ding-ding,” said Margaret dryly.

The crack of a gunshot echoed across the grass. It took Charlie and Margaret a moment to make out what was going on: Davis was firing Fat Tony’s gun at a grave. Or, more precisely, at the sculpted angel on top of a crypt.

“What th—” said Margaret, poking Charlie in the ribs.

“I think ‘Who the’ is more like it,” Lawford said to Margaret. “Doyle, the guy buried there, was a producer who screwed Sammy back when he was touring the country on the Chitlin’ Circuit with his dad and uncle.”

Charlie looked at the crypt. He didn’t recognize the name.

Davis yelled, “Son of a bitch!” as he fired off another round. The angel’s head exploded.

“There ya go, Smoky!” Martin cheered. He ashed his cigarette on a freshly dug grave, then took a swig from a paper cup.

“I’m not done yet,” Davis said, pulling the trigger once more. The blast hit the cherub in the crotch, shattering the statue. One of the pieces of concrete clipped Charlie.

“Oof,” he said, grabbing his shoulder.

“Honey!” Margaret cried.

“I’m fine,” he said, rubbing the bruise.

“Oh, man,” Davis said. “I am so, so sorry.”

Davis was soused but clearly concerned. He made his way precariously toward Charlie, wobbly and contrite. The singer was a wee man, not even five foot five, all bone and sinew, maybe ninety pounds dressed for winter.

“It’s nothing,” Charlie said.