Jacobs stared off into the distance, then exhaled dramatically. He turned off the engine and got out of the car. Charlie followed. They walked into the living room, now silent, though music was coming from Sinatra’s room down the hall. Charlie saw Lola outside, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, with only her face showing. Her face glowed in the sun; her curves were somehow even more beckoning to Charlie wrapped in the blanket.

“Ethereal,” he whispered to himself.

He stood there staring at her. The pounding of bass drums from Sinatra’s hi-fi shook him awake. Happy squeals from Lawford’s room flew through the house like parakeets.

Sinatra bellowed to Jacobs from his room: “George, I need some champagne! Bring it in a bucket with ice!”

Charlie’s visit to the Compound had borne fruit; he now knew Giancana’s ask. He had escaped before doing anything truly stupid. He turned to Jacobs. “Well, I think I’m going to hit the road,” Charlie said.

“Probably wise,” Jacobs said.

Chapter Thirteen

Beverly Hills, California

January 1962

They were two bottles of Chianti into the night when Charlie felt the need to remind Charlotte Goode that the conversation the three of them were having was off the record.

“You’ve already said that, and I’ve already agreed,” Goode said, “though I should be demanding the opposite. I deserve a great scoop after saving your wife from that freaky cult.” She finished her glass, lifted the empty bottle for inspection, and waved down the waiter for a replacement.

“We’ll give you one, I promise, when this ordeal is over,” Margaret pledged. “And it should be over soon.”

Puccini was packed and rowdy, with “That Old Black Magic” and other favorites blaring, so Charlie was less worried about being overheard than he normally would have been. He was surprised by what Charlotte already knew about their assignment. Much of it she had picked up from sources and shoe-leather reporting—following Margaret to the Church of Scientology, for instance—while Margaret, in a rush of adrenaline and gratitude, had filled in the rest after their dramatic car ride.

After leaving the Compound and arriving safely at the Miramar Hotel, Charlie had called Addington White and demanded a meeting. White subtly reminded him that Hoover might be eavesdropping on the line and agreed to fly to Los Angeles later that day.