The Devil May Dance - Tapper, Jake (short novels in english .TXT) 📗

Slovik, a soldier whom the U.S. Army had court-martialed and executed for desertion at the end of World War II. But veterans’ groups and John Wayne protested the hiring of the Commie, and Wayne, an outspoken Republican, quickly dragged “Sinatra crony” Senator Kennedy into the controversy. The Kennedys leaned on Sinatra to scrub the project, which he did.

“The month after Frank had to fire Maltz,” Lawford continued, “Frank and Wayne went at it at a charity event.”

“An actual fight?” Charlie asked, surprised because he’d never heard of the altercation and, frankly, because Wayne was so much bigger than Sinatra.

“No, no,” Lawford said. “Christ, Wayne would kill him. They were just in each other’s face. Wayne asked him if he wanted to step outside. Frank said yes, but Lord Almighty, we all knew he didn’t. So we got in there and separated them before anything could happen.” Lawford emptied his glass. “Then of course later that night, Frank roughed up a parking-lot attendant.”

“I just wanted to tell ya that I hope there’s no hard feelings,” Wayne was saying. “My guy didn’t win, and yours did. I think he’s too liberal but I wish him the best.”

Sinatra shrugged and flashed a brief, insincere grin. “Thanks, Marion.”

“Now, there’s no reason to get cute, Frank,” Wayne growled.

“There was no reason for you to open your stupid mouth about Maltz!” Sinatra said, his cheeks flushing.

“Yeah, well, I was asked what I thought about your hiring that Commie. I said my opinion didn’t matter much, they should ask Kennedy, your buddy who’s now running the country,” Wayne said, lighting a cigarette. “It’s true, though, I do have this weird thing about Communists and radical liberals. I don’t know what it is.” He took a drag. “Maybe it’s the treason?”

“Last time I checked, we had a Bill of Rights in this country,” Sinatra snapped.

“Look, Frank, the radicals were taking over our business,” Wayne said. “They were starting to control who could do the writing. They were preaching about the beauty of Communism, for the love of Christ. Your amigos over in Cuba, that’s the way they want to live, fine, they can destroy their own country, but that’s not the way we do it here.”

Charlie stole a glance at the two silent men at the end of the table. They remained in their seats but were clearly on alert, carefully watching the six-foot-four cowboy challenging their paisan.

“Maltz wasn’t preaching,” Sinatra said. “He was telling an American story. He’s pro-America.”

“He was glorifying a deserter.”

“You have no idea whether Slovik was going to be glorified. You’re still defending the goddamn blacklist and fucking McCarthy.” Sinatra rose to his feet and planted his hands on the poker table. Lawford, Davis, and Martin looked at one another and then stood too. Martin put his arm around Sinatra and tried to guide him to the back of the room. Lawford approached Wayne.

“If Frank wants to come outside and settle this like a man, I’m happy to oblige,” Wayne said to him. “And don’t bring your friends from Chicago,” he added, nodding toward the glowering duo who’d been observing the exchange. “We settle this mano a mano, with fists, not guns.”

Charlie and Margaret had both assumed cooler heads would prevail but before they knew what was happening, they were swept up in a tide as Wayne, Sinatra, and the rest of the Rat Pack all barreled through the crowd and out onto the dark street. Paparazzi quickly realized they were about to hit a major payday.

As the two men squared off, streetlights cast an air of menace. Flashbulbs burst, tomorrow’s headlines and bonuses practically visible on the journalists’ eager faces. Wayne and Sinatra stood a few feet apart, surrounded by a circle of onlookers. Dean Martin, swaying slightly, was trying to convince Sinatra to let it go, while Lawford had stationed himself next to Wayne. The other Rat Packers joined the waitstaff in trying to block the view of the photographers.

Charlie wanted to make himself useful, but he didn’t know how. He spotted the two thugs lurking behind Sinatra with uneasy looks on their faces. Martin was advising his friend not to fight in front of a crowd of reporters with a man who could clearly kick his ass, but Sinatra had been in fights before, had once even been arrested for punching New York Daily Mirror columnist Lee Mortimer.

Separated from her husband in the chaos, Margaret found herself jostled and pushed until a woman lightly grabbed her wrist. “Just stick with me, honey.” She was in her late forties, slightly plump, and pretty, with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and a reporter’s notebook in her hand. She wore too much lipstick, and it was too orange, though Margaret gave her credit for picking a shade that matched her hair, which was as bright as a pumpkin.

Martin was so close to Sinatra, they looked as if they were slow-dancing. Wayne pushed Lawford away gently once, then more aggressively. That’s when Charlie wiggled through the crowd and got between the two men. Charlie was a few inches shorter than Wayne but probably outweighed him, mostly with muscle. He smiled at the actor and shook his hand, thinking on his feet.

“Congressman Charlie Marder of New York,” he said. “I’m out here helping on Manchurian Candidate and we just can’t have Frank banged up.”

Wayne looked at him warily as Charlie extended the handshake longer than was normal. Charlie rubbed his chin with his left hand and kept the hand over his mouth so no one could read his lips as he leaned in to Wayne’s ear. “I was with the First Battalion, One Hundred Seventy-Fifth Infantry,” Charlie said quietly. “Landed at Omaha Beach. Before we shipped out to kill Krauts, we went to Fort Benning, where we learned how to kill with our bare hands. The way you fight in movies, you wouldn’t last a second in combat. In real life, it’s rabid-dog stuff.”

Wayne tried to pull away, but Charlie held on to his