“Here he is now,” she replied, waving toward the stairs where Giancana, wearing a tan linen suit, was making an entrance.

“Momo!” Martin shouted. He polished off his drink and motioned for another. “Swing over to this tree and join your fellow chimpanzees.”

Giancana smiled, walked over to the bar, and shook the hands of the men. He patted Judy affectionately on the back and then—subtly, though not so subtly that Charlie didn’t notice—on the rear.

“I heard Elvis is PO’d they have to reshoot a bunch of scenes from his boxing picture,” Martin said.

“’Cause of Powell?” Charlie asked.

“Who’s that?” asked Giancana.

“That dead actor,” said Judy. “From the hotel.”

“Ah, right,” said Giancana. Then, to the bartender: “Scotch rocks.”

“I heard he tried to get help for his gambling problem,” said Judy. “Some sort of new therapy. From the guy who wrote that Dianetics book a few years ago? He has a church now. Science—no, Scientology, I think it’s called.”

“Oh, right,” said Martin. “I’ve heard about that. Gloria dabbles, I think.”

“Gloria?” asked Charlie.

“Swanson,” said Martin.

“That broad ain’t been right since Joe Kennedy stopped shlonging her,” observed Giancana.

“What’s this?” asked Charlie.

“When the Ambassador was out here making Tom Mix cowboy pictures before the war, he and Swanson had a thing,” Maheu said. Charlie studied his face; he was pretty sure he had never seen him before, though Maheu’s blandness rendered the lack of recognition unreliable. How did he know him?

“Also Marlene Dietrich,” said Judy.

“Yeah but he really boned Swan-song,” said Giancana, who had an odd habit of messing up names.

“Swanson,” Maheu corrected him.

“Whatever,” said Giancana. “He set up Gloria Productions for her. She was a partner, and he billed everything to the company, including gifts he bought her, real estate, minks, whatever. Gloria Productions lost millions, and when she found out and confronted him, he announced he was no longer part of the company and vamoosed back east.”

“She’s really never recovered,” Martin observed. “Add yet another broken soul to the roster. No wonder she’s seeking help from that wack job, what’s his name, L. Ron…”

“Hubbard,” said Maheu. “L. Ron Hubbard.”

“Maybe the Ambassador’s bill is coming due,” Rosselli said.

“What do you mean?” asked Judy.

“The Ambassador had a stroke,” Maheu said.

“You didn’t hear?” asked Rosselli. “That’s why Frank ran off, to call the president.”

Judy’s face flushed and she seemed genuinely shocked. She put her hand to her chest as if she needed to stabilize herself. “That’s so horrible!” she finally said, on the verge of tears. She ran off herself.