Instead of being disturbed by the singer’s outburst, Charlie found himself experiencing an odd sense that this was familiar. He wondered why. Yes, he had now been in the scene long enough that these explosions were no longer out of the ordinary, but was that it? His mind turned to a faint memory from his childhood: He was sitting in the living room listening to “The Adventure of the Speckled Band” on NBC Radio’s The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. He was maybe nine? Ten? From the study he’d heard his father viciously berating his mother. Something about an ignorant statement she had made over dinner; his dad never made those mistakes in front of important company, he said. Charlie turned up the volume. His dad had scrapped his way up the ladder without any sophisticated education and never let anyone forget it. The screaming continued. Young Charlie turned up the volume again. Winston came out of the study, but before he could aim his rage at his son, Charlie ran into his room, slammed the door, and cried into his pillow.

“Do you think it’s okay for us to be here?” Margaret asked Charlie as they made their way around tombstones.

“They seem to think it’s okay,” Charlie said, shrugging, coming back to the moment.

Dean Martin ran over to one of the young women and lifted up her skirt from the back. She shrieked; everyone laughed.

“‘It was the wont of the immortal gods sometimes to grant prosperity and long impunity to men whose crimes they were minded to punish,’” Margaret said, quoting another great Roman. “‘They did so in order that a complete reverse of fortune might make them suffer more bitterly.’”

“No one here’s suffering yet, folks,” Lawford said, overhearing. “But try me tomorrow around seven a.m.”

They stumbled through the damp, dark grounds of the cemetery, drinking from flasks and bottles, exclaiming when someone discovered a notable burial site. It was truly a Who’s Who of Hollywood’s departed: Bogart, Gable, and Lombard were some of the names shouted across the headstones and tombs.

“Hey, isn’t Fatty Arbuckle here somewhere?” Sinatra asked.

Dean raised a martini glass he’d somehow managed to transport from Puccini. “If so, we should pay our respects.”

“Pay our respects to a fat old perv who killed a girl by shoving a Coke bottle up her yoo-hoo?” asked the redhead, disgusted.

“That’s a filthy lie!” Sinatra yelled with rage. “He was smeared by that dead slut’s lying friend and those yellow journalists with Hearst. Two mistrials and they kept going at him. The guy wouldn’ta ever hurt a fly! The hell he went through because of those dirty prosecutors!”

The mention of dastardly DAs made Charlie think of his father, alone in the prison infirmary. Margaret saw the expression on Charlie’s face and reached for his hand.