“Absolutely, my friend!” Davis said. “Frank’s the one who got the theater to hire us. More than that, Frank insisted—insisted—that we all got paid the same. The white acts and the colored acts. Then he pretended it was a surprise to him. ‘Glad we’re working together, Sam,’” Davis said, doing a spot-on impression.

“His orchestras had to be integrated, he said. He forced the Copa to seat me,” Davis continued. “He’s the one who got the Sunset Strip desegregated. Before him, I couldn’t sing here; I couldn’t sleep here.” Davis leaned in and lightly poked Street’s chest. “Listen, Congressman: This cat has done more for civil rights than all your Kennedys put together.”

Street threw his hands up in surrender and smiled ear to ear. “Don’t get me started on those motherfuckers!”

By two thirty a.m., Margaret was barely able to stay awake; she said her good nights to the men, and about an hour later Davis headed to the airport to catch a flight back to Los Angeles on the single-engine plane of Jimmy Van Heusen, Sinatra’s friend and songwriter. With lyricist Sammy Cahn, Van Heusen had won the Best Original Song Oscar two years before for “High Hopes” from the film A Hole in the Head, and two years before that for “All the Way” from The Joker Is Wild, both of which starred Sinatra. There was a lot of buzz that he might get nominated and win again this year for another Sinatra ballad, “The Devil May Dance” from El Cid. Van Heusen, Davis confided, was also a major supplier of party girls for Sinatra’s fiestas. The girls’ provenance was never completely clear but that didn’t matter to the guys who pawed them.

At four a.m., Charlie and Street realized they were both nodding off midconversation.

“We oughta…” said Charlie, failing to finish his sentence.

“Yeah,” said Street, yawning.

“I’m hitting the latrine,” said Charlie. “Call me for breakfast.”

Street grunted and walked to the elevator bank. Charlie staggered into the restroom, relieved himself, and splashed water on his face. He was having difficulty not walking into walls. Then he found himself at the elevator bank and realized he had been waiting for a few minutes. He probably should press the Up button, he concluded, too drunk to feel sheepish.

Someone approached him, then Charlie was in the elevator, then he was in Sinatra’s suite sitting on a couch with a drink in his hand. He was unsure how he’d gotten there.

Charlie looked around the room, a deluxe suite with a television and a hi-fi. Sinatra sat at a giant card table with Momo, Handsome Johnny, and some other toughs; Dino stood at the bar. There were some women too, including the raven-haired knockout who’d been sitting with Giancana at the show.

“Looks like Sleeping Beauty is awake,” Martin quipped.