“Ha,” Sinatra said. “Don’t bring that up in front of Sammy! But I have all the rights to this script, and contractually the studio has to make it. After my Oscar, they offered me carte blanche but then they got all hinky a few months ago when I told them I wanted to make the picture. We may end up in court. I don’t get why they’re so against it.”

“I’d be happy to take a look,” Charlie said.

“Good man,” Sinatra said, squeezing Charlie’s shoulder again, and Charlie was relieved that the ruse was working so well. He also had to admit it was almost impossible to resist the urge to please this man, whose moods were infectious and whose excitement about his script had a nervous edge to it, like a boy in love and afraid of how his affections were being received. “Charlie, I know you’re Republican, but you know the Kennedys maybe better than any of us.”

Charlie shrugged. Sinatra probably didn’t want to hear that at that moment, he thought of them as cutthroat, calculating bastards.

“I think the kid brother is getting cold feet about TP staying here. Maybe you could put in a good word, let them know how fine the accommodations are,” Sinatra said, and Charlie suddenly understood why he’d been invited to Rancho Mirage. “You know, Juliet and I recently got engaged; this will look like a Norman Rockwell painting by the time they get here.”

Sinatra had earlier that month surprised the world by announcing he would wed South African dancer Juliet Prowse, whom he’d met on the set of Can-Can, though no date had been set and no one in Sinatra’s circle, including the man himself, talked about it much.

“When Ike was president I had to deal with this bullshit. I wanted to go to Korea with the USO, but the army denied me clearance,” Sinatra said. “I had to meet with generals, then the State Department. I told these fuck-sticks what was what. Witch-hunting! I said, ‘Have any of you run a check on me?’ They said there were items in the press that raised questions about my sympathies. I said, ‘Gentlemen, if you feel I’m a risk, you can stick the Korean War in your ass.’ Fuck them, they think I’m a risk.”

Charlie was kept from inquiring further about this by the appearance of Sinatra’s valet, neatly dressed in a bright white polo shirt under a dark blue cardigan and holding a bourbon (also neat) in each hand. “You have a phone call, Mr. S.,” Jacobs said, placing a tumbler in his boss’s outstretched hand. Sinatra nodded and turned toward the house. Jacobs gave the other bourbon to Charlie, who looked at his watch. Ten a.m.

“George, do you happen to have a smoke?” Charlie asked.