“So the theory is it’s the boss of the LA crime family—what’s his name?” Charlie asked.

“Frank ‘One Eye’ DeSimone,” said Street.

“Right, so One Eye is trying to frame Momo for killing a Sinatra rival?” Charlie asked. “But why?”

Street shrugged. “Maybe One Eye is losing control of his territory—maybe he wants to show some muscle.” He turned to Margaret. “I told Charlie earlier over drinks, before you joined us, I tried visiting Winston at the Tombs, but they wouldn’t let me see him.”

“Why not?”

“They claimed he was in the infirmary and too ill to have visitors. I phoned Governor Rockefeller, but he wouldn’t take my call.”

Charlie’s heart sank as he again imagined his once indomitable father alone and hopeless. “We need to get something to the AG about—” He gestured toward Sinatra, who was in the midst of the intro to “Luck Be a Lady.”

“They won’t even let Charlie talk to him on the phone,” Margaret said.

“They really seem to relish being bastards, the Kennedys,” Charlie said. “The good news is, the prison doctors told me they don’t think it was a heart attack after all.”

“If it wasn’t a heart attack, then what was it?” Street asked.

“I don’t know; they don’t know,” Charlie said. “Nothing life-threatening, they don’t think. They also ruled out a stroke. But he isn’t talking.” They all sat sadly at the table.

“Why is he at the Tombs anyway—isn’t that a city jail?” Street asked.

“Feds have a wing,” Charlie said. “And the AG gets a lot of leeway.”

“I’m amazed it’s stayed under wraps,” Street said.

“Not really in anyone’s interest to have it out there,” Margaret said. “Kennedy doesn’t want to be seen as punishing political enemies, and Winston doesn’t want the public humiliation.”

“Might be the only thing they’ve ever agreed on,” Charlie said.

“Luck, let a gentleman see…” Every time Sinatra began a new verse, he was interrupted by a slurred quip from Martin.

“Does Dean pretend to be drunk or is he actually drunk?” Street asked.

“Both,” said Charlie. As if on cue, Sinatra turned to the audience, cocked his head toward Martin, and mimed knocking back a drink. More laughter from the adoring crowd.

“I just had a bowl of bourbon and some crackers,” Martin protested.

A young cocktail waitress breezed past them, drawing wolf whistles from a tableful of old men to Margaret’s right. She frowned, thinking of Violet. Her sister had been ecstatic to hear that her daughter was alive, less so when she heard the details of Itchy Meyer and Violet’s stupefied state. Margaret had promised she would find her and save her.

“It’s too bad the presence of Momo and Handsome Johnny here tonight isn’t enough for the AG,” Street said.