The memo contained a list of potential enlistees, including Sinatra, Edward R. Murrow, Marlene Dietrich, Orson Welles, Danny Kaye, Liberace, Walt Kelly, Sid Caesar, Pablo Picasso, Greta Garbo, and more. These celebrities are well guarded, well barricaded, over-worked, aloof, the memo said. If you want one of these celebrities as your game, write us at once so the notable will be yours to hunt without interference.

“What does it say?” Sheryl Ann asked.

“The church desperately wants celebrities to join,” Margaret whispered. “There’s a section here on the wooing of Gloria Swanson, and how it’s helped them—”

“They’re coming!” Sheryl Ann cautioned under her breath as Julius walked toward the door; Margaret stuffed the documents down the back of her dress. But instead of coming into the room, Julius closed the door—and they heard a key turning in the lock.

Chapter Eleven

Rancho Mirage, California

January 1962

“And here’s the pièce de résistance,” Sinatra proclaimed, half-hearted French accent easily defeated by Hobokenese.

He was finishing up a tour of the Compound. Outside the ranch-style mansion, on the front lawn, a sign: FORGET THE DOG, BEWARE OF THE OWNER. Throughout the property: ocotillo and saguaro cacti and citrus trees. Sinatra led Charlie, Lola Bridgewater, and Judy past the pool house, which had been converted into a briefing room in preparation for JFK’s visit, then flung out his arm—“Ta-da!”—toward a sleek arrangement of concrete and granite occupying most of what used to be manicured lawn. Half a dozen masons were building a patio of sorts.

Lola looked confused. “What is it?” She had a high, chirpy voice, like a nightingale. With her bleached-blond hair, she was a near-perfect composite of Jayne Mansfield and Kim Novak. Both she and Judy were still in clingy pajamas that left little to the imagination.

“It’s a helipad!” said Sinatra.

“For Marine One,” said Judy.

Lola wrinkled her nose. Marine One?

“That’s the name for whatever Marine Corps helicopter is transporting the president,” explained Charlie, ever the historian. “Ike used a Sikorsky Seahorse. I think Kennedy uses a Sea King.”

Sinatra lit a cigarette and looked at Charlie. “I loved that license-to-kill riff I hear you laid down to Wayne,” he said. “Where’d you serve, Congressman?”

“France,” said Charlie, “right after D-Day.”

“I was four-F—busted eardrum,” said Sinatra. “Begged them to let me join.”

Charlie didn’t know how to respond to men who rushed to explain why they didn’t serve. He had no absolution to offer. “Well, you did as much to lift up the spirits of the troops as anyone alive,” he said. “You did your part.”