“Oh, that’s nice of you, Charlie, I’ll take a lemonade,” Margaret said.

“Me too,” said May.

“Mimosa, thanks,” said Judy, as if a congressman fetching her a drink were an everyday occurrence.

“Hey there, Charlie,” Martin said as Charlie joined him at the bar. “How’s your bird?”

“Hey, Dean,” Charlie said. “Um, I guess it’s good. How’s yours?”

“Not so good,” Martin said. “And forget the bird, I gotta find that monkey.”

“Monkey?”

“The one that beat on my head and shit in my mouth,” Martin said. It was a hangover joke he’d clearly made before. Sporting only his red bathing suit, sunglasses, and a deep tan, Martin turned toward the pool and leaned back against the bar. He was surprisingly fit.

“Ah, look at the talent here!” he said, surveying the bevy of attractive young women—Copa Girls, dancers, models, actresses, and some, like Judy, whose occupations weren’t clear. “Next time your wife turns in early, you should sample the local wares. Vegas is a confectionery—it’s a chocolatier, a patisserie.” He nudged Charlie’s ribs with his elbow in case his words had somehow been too subtle. “Go ahead, buddy, bite yourself off some marzipan!”

“I’m good,” Charlie said. “Thanks.” He reminded himself that he had a job to do and couldn’t afford to alienate anyone.

Martin took off his sunglasses and squinted at Margaret. “You have two kids, you said? It doesn’t show.” His gaze remained on Margaret. “I’m sure things are different from the rabbit days when you first got together, though, right?” He slapped Charlie on the back.

“Your scotch, sir,” said the barkeeper. Martin reached back without looking and waited for the drink to be placed in his hand. He rattled the ice in his glass, swallowed half its contents, then stood a little straighter and adopted a sterner tone, as if speaking to a recalcitrant child. “You’re a man, Charlie, and you are perfectly entitled to behave as a man does, taking what you want and what you need.”

Charlie contemplated this. Truth be told, it was no different from how powerful men in Washington and New York City behaved.

“And speaking of what you need,” Martin continued, “pardon my French, but just why the fuck are you out here? None of it makes much sense to me. I’m not a fan of politics, but it seems fishy for a Republican congressman to take leave from his job to work on a picture and hang around with an actor who likes Democrats. Goldwater send you? Nixon?”

Charlie laughed. “I thought you weren’t a fan of politics.”

“I read the papers,” Martin said, smiling.