“You have no idea whether Slovik was going to be glorified. You’re still defending the goddamn blacklist and fucking McCarthy.” Sinatra rose to his feet and planted his hands on the poker table. Lawford, Davis, and Martin looked at one another and then stood too. Martin put his arm around Sinatra and tried to guide him to the back of the room. Lawford approached Wayne.

“If Frank wants to come outside and settle this like a man, I’m happy to oblige,” Wayne said to him. “And don’t bring your friends from Chicago,” he added, nodding toward the glowering duo who’d been observing the exchange. “We settle this mano a mano, with fists, not guns.”

Charlie and Margaret had both assumed cooler heads would prevail but before they knew what was happening, they were swept up in a tide as Wayne, Sinatra, and the rest of the Rat Pack all barreled through the crowd and out onto the dark street. Paparazzi quickly realized they were about to hit a major payday.

As the two men squared off, streetlights cast an air of menace. Flashbulbs burst, tomorrow’s headlines and bonuses practically visible on the journalists’ eager faces. Wayne and Sinatra stood a few feet apart, surrounded by a circle of onlookers. Dean Martin, swaying slightly, was trying to convince Sinatra to let it go, while Lawford had stationed himself next to Wayne. The other Rat Packers joined the waitstaff in trying to block the view of the photographers.

Charlie wanted to make himself useful, but he didn’t know how. He spotted the two thugs lurking behind Sinatra with uneasy looks on their faces. Martin was advising his friend not to fight in front of a crowd of reporters with a man who could clearly kick his ass, but Sinatra had been in fights before, had once even been arrested for punching New York Daily Mirror columnist Lee Mortimer.

Separated from her husband in the chaos, Margaret found herself jostled and pushed until a woman lightly grabbed her wrist. “Just stick with me, honey.” She was in her late forties, slightly plump, and pretty, with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and a reporter’s notebook in her hand. She wore too much lipstick, and it was too orange, though Margaret gave her credit for picking a shade that matched her hair, which was as bright as a pumpkin.

Martin was so close to Sinatra, they looked as if they were slow-dancing. Wayne pushed Lawford away gently once, then more aggressively. That’s when Charlie wiggled through the crowd and got between the two men. Charlie was a few inches shorter than Wayne but probably outweighed him, mostly with muscle. He smiled at the actor and shook his hand, thinking on his feet.

“Congressman Charlie Marder of New York,” he said. “I’m out here helping on Manchurian Candidate and we just can’t have Frank banged up.”