About a year and a half before, Charlie remembered, Sinatra had hired screenwriter Maltz, one of the Hollywood Ten who’d been jailed for refusing to tell Congress whether he’d ever been a member of the Communist Party. Sinatra wanted him to write his picture about Private Eddie Slovik, a soldier whom the U.S. Army had court-martialed and executed for desertion at the end of World War II. But veterans’ groups and John Wayne protested the hiring of the Commie, and Wayne, an outspoken Republican, quickly dragged “Sinatra crony” Senator Kennedy into the controversy. The Kennedys leaned on Sinatra to scrub the project, which he did.

“The month after Frank had to fire Maltz,” Lawford continued, “Frank and Wayne went at it at a charity event.”

“An actual fight?” Charlie asked, surprised because he’d never heard of the altercation and, frankly, because Wayne was so much bigger than Sinatra.

“No, no,” Lawford said. “Christ, Wayne would kill him. They were just in each other’s face. Wayne asked him if he wanted to step outside. Frank said yes, but Lord Almighty, we all knew he didn’t. So we got in there and separated them before anything could happen.” Lawford emptied his glass. “Then of course later that night, Frank roughed up a parking-lot attendant.”

“I just wanted to tell ya that I hope there’s no hard feelings,” Wayne was saying. “My guy didn’t win, and yours did. I think he’s too liberal but I wish him the best.”

Sinatra shrugged and flashed a brief, insincere grin. “Thanks, Marion.”

“Now, there’s no reason to get cute, Frank,” Wayne growled.

“There was no reason for you to open your stupid mouth about Maltz!” Sinatra said, his cheeks flushing.

“Yeah, well, I was asked what I thought about your hiring that Commie. I said my opinion didn’t matter much, they should ask Kennedy, your buddy who’s now running the country,” Wayne said, lighting a cigarette. “It’s true, though, I do have this weird thing about Communists and radical liberals. I don’t know what it is.” He took a drag. “Maybe it’s the treason?”

“Last time I checked, we had a Bill of Rights in this country,” Sinatra snapped.

“Look, Frank, the radicals were taking over our business,” Wayne said. “They were starting to control who could do the writing. They were preaching about the beauty of Communism, for the love of Christ. Your amigos over in Cuba, that’s the way they want to live, fine, they can destroy their own country, but that’s not the way we do it here.”

Charlie stole a glance at the two silent men at the end of the table. They remained in their seats but were clearly on alert, carefully watching the six-foot-four cowboy challenging their paisan.

“Maltz wasn’t preaching,” Sinatra said. “He was telling an American story. He’s pro-America.”

“He was glorifying a deserter.”