“Francis, Francis, they go after you because you’re the sun, the moon, and the stars!” Davis said. “You released a dozen singles last year, and this year you’ll release a dozen more! You’re in the middle of shooting a picture that might win you another Oscar! People are talking about ‘The Devil May Dance’ winning Best Original Song! You’re wooing the loveliest ladies in the world and living the life of Riley. Of course they attack you! Wouldn’t you attack you if you were one of these rat-faced worms?”

Charlie marveled at the blatant sycophancy on display, but Sinatra drank it all in, then resumed his tirade.

“They’re losers!” Sinatra shook his head in disgust. “Pale eunuchs. Never came up with an original thought in their lives. What would they do if I weren’t here for them to write about, for them to lie about?”

“That’s why they do it, Francis,” Davis told him. “They feed off your life force.”

“So what they do makes sense to you, Sammy?” Sinatra said with an edge to his voice.

“Hey, hey, hey,” said Martin, rising from his seat. He went over to Davis and Sinatra, rubbed their backs and squeezed their shoulders. Charlie observed the trio—the king and his court—with bewilderment. All three were rich and powerful and among the most famous men on the planet, but Martin and Davis treated Sinatra as if he were royalty. It didn’t seem entirely born of Sinatra’s greater talent or star power or the favors he had extended to all of them. No, it felt more like what Charlie, an only child, had observed among his enlisted men in France during the war: some men naturally stood point, regardless of rank. But these soldiers, away from combat, required constant attention. These leaders—the Sinatras—needed drama.

Charlie stood and bent over to pick up the newspaper, curious about what had set Sinatra off. It was a piece by UPI’s Hollywood correspondent Vernon Scott about Sinatra’s return to form. It began with a low point, remembering when he’d been a “washed-up crooner” dumped by Ava Gardner. It went on from there more flatteringly, but Sinatra had focused only on that first line, ignoring the rest. Charlie shook his head. It seemed Sinatra felt tortured, somehow, by phantoms within his soul, unable to see these awful threats were the products of his own mind.

L. Ron Hubbard steered Margaret and Sheryl Ann Gold through an oak door and into a cluttered conference room.

“How about that snow!” he exclaimed, looking outside. “It shows the power of our energy, once we go clear.”

The women nodded uncertainly.

“I woke up this morning and I thought it would be nice to have snow in January, even if we’re in Los Angeles,” Hubbard said.

Margaret shot a glance at her friend. “You mean you’re the one responsible for the snow?”

“Yes!”