“Not like hitting-you tough,” clarified Judy, making Charlie wonder once again just what their relationship was. She signaled that she was dating Giancana, but the quiet looks and moments of affection between Sinatra and her were unmistakable.

“No, no,” Lola said. “Like mean tough.” She seemed to have an incident or incidents in mind. Lola was a curious sort, Charlie thought. Beneath the stereotypical bimbo veneer, she’d clearly formed some critical views of her host.

“A few years ago the papers reported Sammy said something sideways about Frank and Frank gave him the silent treatment for months,” Martin recalled as he stood and walked toward Charlie’s table, where Jacobs had placed a pitcher of orange juice, vodka, and ice after cleaning up the empty glasses and full ashtrays from the night before.

“What had Sammy said?” Charlie asked, lifting his drink so Jacobs could wipe the glass table with a wet cloth.

“I don’t remember,” Martin said. “Something true, no doubt.” He sat down and poured himself a screwdriver. “Let me ask you a question.” He leaned toward Charlie and said conspiratorially, “I heard from a reporter that Bobby’s got a bug up his ass about Frank having Mob ties. It’s all bullshit—Frank’s no closer with the Mob than anyone else in showbiz.” He emptied his drink in one gulp then returned to leering at the ladies.

“I don’t know one singer who doesn’t know at least a few connected guys,” Jacobs said, lighting Martin’s cigarette. “I mean, they own the clubs.”

“The clubs! The studios! The unions!” Martin said. “Also, I mean, a whole lot of these cats were bootleggers back in the day, back in Jersey. Well, that’s not even a crime anymore.”

Charlie looked over at Judy, who was writing in a small pink journal. Weird. What could she be writing? As she scribbled away, she and Lola continued chitchatting, unconcerned or unaware that the men could hear them.

“Why did you break up with Frank anyway?” Lola asked Judy.

The two women apparently didn’t know each other that well, Charlie realized. He had assumed they were friends. Blonde and brunette, Betty and Veronica, Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell; kind of a stupid assumption, he saw now.

“Well,” Judy said, seemingly taking a moment to reflect on it, “I suppose the final straw was when Frank brought this colored girl into our bedroom one night. That’s just not me.” Realizing Jacobs was nearby, she quickly added: “Her being colored was not the issue. A third party being in the room—that was my problem.”

Jacobs nodded noncommittally, acknowledging that he’d heard it all. Charlie wondered how often he had to shrug off comments like that.

“He’s a regular civil rights visionary, our Saint Francis,” said Martin.