Charlie was too stunned to speak at first. “That’s her sister’s daughter, our niece Violet,” he finally said. “She ran away from home six months ago.”

Chapter Six

Beverly Hills, California

December 1961

Margaret’s relief at seeing her runaway niece vanished quickly. Violet was glassy-eyed and looked as if she barely understood that someone, let alone her aunt, was approaching.

“Violet?” Margaret said. “Violet!”

No response. Violet looked around the room, past Margaret. She must be stoned, Margaret thought. On pills or something.

“Hi there,” Margaret said, extending a hand to introduce herself to Itchy Meyer, hoping to break the strange spell. He shot her a dirty look and then stood, took Violet’s hand, and briskly ushered her out of the club. Margaret was stunned. She called after her niece but was ignored as they walked out the door. She scrambled to catch her, but by the time she got through the crowd and made her way outside, they had vanished.

“What happened?” Britt asked Margaret when she returned, shoulders slumped in defeat.

MacLaine arched a perfectly penciled eyebrow as she examined the cards in her hand. “Here’s a guess,” she said. “He realized you might hasten her escape from his greasy paws, so he made up an excuse to vamoose.”

“He didn’t even bother acknowledging me,” Margaret said. “Out the door like Chuck Yeager.”

“She isn’t even eighteen yet, is she?” asked MacLaine.

“She isn’t even seventeen,” said Margaret.

“Not even seventeen and she’s got a figure like that!” Martin said under his breath. Charlie looked at Margaret, who thankfully didn’t seem to have heard over the din of the busy social club.

Britt batted Martin’s arm lightly with the back of her hand. “They’re worried about their niece, guys,” she said. “You can’t see the forest for the trees.”

“I can’t see the forest for her fun-bags,” said Martin. Margaret heard this time and made a face of disgust.

“The good news is it doesn’t look like she’s skipping meals,” said Lawford.

“Peter,” scolded MacLaine.

Charlie thought about objecting to Lawford’s comment, albeit against his better judgment—after a decade in Washington, DC, he had calluses on his tongue from biting it so much. But before he could say a word, he heard a familiar drawl.

“Hello, Francis” came the voice.

Charlie and Margaret turned and saw a tall, craggy-faced man. John Wayne.

“Duke,” said Sinatra uneasily from across the table.

“Haven’t seen you since that night at the Moulin Rouge,” Wayne said.

“Oy,” said Davis.

Lawford leaned closer to Charlie and said quietly, “They almost came to blows that night.”

“What about?” asked Charlie.

“Albert Maltz.”