Why would Sinatra consort with the likes of these thugs? Charlie wondered. But he knew they could be charming and, at times, fun. Charlie remembered the allure and style of some of the gangsters his father knew—Siegel and Lansky, Luciano and Frank Costello. Charlie had a fond memory of Three Finger Brown—aka Tommy Lucchese—plucking a quarter out of his ear when he was a boy. Being a sociopath didn’t necessarily mean an absence of charisma; in fact, it often seemed to require it.

His father. His thoughts snapped back to the task at hand. He needed to find out what favor Momo wanted from Sinatra. It wasn’t like he could just ask. He had no desire to join the long list of those who had gotten on the wrong side of the men in this room. He had to think. Although, stewed as he was, thinking was nearly impossible.

“You know, Congressman, we have mutual friends,” Giancana said, studying his cards.

Charlie was unsure what to say. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’m glad.” He wondered if Giancana knew about his problems back in New York, how the union thugs, after helping Charlie secure reelection votes, were now asking Charlie to lean on a U.S. attorney to take it easy on one of their associates, to drop the charges. Could he have known that?

As if in response to the confused look on Charlie’s face, Rosselli jumped in: “So we’re all friends here.”

“Is that right, Charlie?” asked Martin.

“I, uh—” Charlie stammered. “I have a good relationship with some of the local unions.”

“They backed you last time,” Rosselli said. “Without them, you wouldn’t be here. Without them next time around, you’re done.”

“Um,” said Charlie, “they were helpful.”

“It’s good to have friends,” Giancana said. He looked up at Charlie, but his eyes were dead. “But it’s not nice to forget that.” He held eye contact for a few more seconds.

Even in his state of inebriation, Charlie recognized that the Mob boss was threatening to end his political career and maybe also his life. But his thoughts were interrupted by a pang of nausea so strong that he rose abruptly and, to the mild and unconvincing protests of the group, waved good night and ran to the elevator. He got out on his floor, rushed into his suite, passing a sleeping Margaret, and reached the bathroom with seconds to spare. After his stomach had emptied itself, Charlie collapsed onto the hotel bed, wondering who was in more trouble, Winston or his son.

Chapter Eight

Las Vegas, Nevada

December 1961

Sinatra stood above the shallow end of the pool at the Sands and observed the lovely Judy as she made her way up the steps and over to a chaise, twisting her dark wet hair into a ponytail, leaving a trail of drops that quickly evaporated on the concrete.