The Devil May Dance by Jake Tapper (books to read fiction txt) 📗

is it’s the boss of the LA crime family—what’s his name?” Charlie asked.

“Frank ‘One Eye’ DeSimone,” said Street.

“Right, so One Eye is trying to frame Momo for killing a Sinatra rival?” Charlie asked. “But why?”

Street shrugged. “Maybe One Eye is losing control of his territory—maybe he wants to show some muscle.” He turned to Margaret. “I told Charlie earlier over drinks, before you joined us, I tried visiting Winston at the Tombs, but they wouldn’t let me see him.”

“Why not?”

“They claimed he was in the infirmary and too ill to have visitors. I phoned Governor Rockefeller, but he wouldn’t take my call.”

Charlie’s heart sank as he again imagined his once indomitable father alone and hopeless. “We need to get something to the AG about—” He gestured toward Sinatra, who was in the midst of the intro to “Luck Be a Lady.”

“They won’t even let Charlie talk to him on the phone,” Margaret said.

“They really seem to relish being bastards, the Kennedys,” Charlie said. “The good news is, the prison doctors told me they don’t think it was a heart attack after all.”

“If it wasn’t a heart attack, then what was it?” Street asked.

“I don’t know; they don’t know,” Charlie said. “Nothing life-threatening, they don’t think. They also ruled out a stroke. But he isn’t talking.” They all sat sadly at the table.

“Why is he at the Tombs anyway—isn’t that a city jail?” Street asked.

“Feds have a wing,” Charlie said. “And the AG gets a lot of leeway.”

“I’m amazed it’s stayed under wraps,” Street said.

“Not really in anyone’s interest to have it out there,” Margaret said. “Kennedy doesn’t want to be seen as punishing political enemies, and Winston doesn’t want the public humiliation.”

“Might be the only thing they’ve ever agreed on,” Charlie said.

“Luck, let a gentleman see…” Every time Sinatra began a new verse, he was interrupted by a slurred quip from Martin.

“Does Dean pretend to be drunk or is he actually drunk?” Street asked.

“Both,” said Charlie. As if on cue, Sinatra turned to the audience, cocked his head toward Martin, and mimed knocking back a drink. More laughter from the adoring crowd.

“I just had a bowl of bourbon and some crackers,” Martin protested.

A young cocktail waitress breezed past them, drawing wolf whistles from a tableful of old men to Margaret’s right. She frowned, thinking of Violet. Her sister had been ecstatic to hear that her daughter was alive, less so when she heard the details of Itchy Meyer and Violet’s stupefied state. Margaret had promised she would find her and save her.

“It’s too bad the presence of Momo and Handsome Johnny here tonight isn’t enough for the AG,” Street said.

“I wish we were anywhere close to finding out what the favor was,” said Charlie. “Momo’s ask.”

“And how are you planning to go about that?” Street asked.

“We’re working on it,” Margaret said, snapping back to attention. “Charlie stopped John Wayne from rearranging Frank’s face, so he likes us now. We’re hoping we’ll get an invite to Sinatra’s place in Rancho Mirage, hang out at the pool, let the liquor flow.”

“Loose lips sink ships,” said Charlie.

“You know, I might have an in with these guys too,” Street said.

Davis was starting to walk off the stage; Sinatra and Martin were singing “Boys’ Night Out,” arms around each other’s shoulders, swaying jokily.

“Hey there, mister, build a fence ’round your sister, it’s the boys’ night out,” the two sang.

“Better keep smiling, Sammy, so everybody knows where you are,” Sinatra said. Riotous laughter.

Suddenly, Street seemed irritated; Margaret asked him why. They were speaking in hushed voices, but a woman at an adjacent table turned around and shot them a peevish look. “Ssshh!” she said.

“That whole Stepin Fetchit routine they have Sammy doing, it’s bullshit,” said Street, lowering his voice even more. “I hate that they make him do that Buckwheat schtick. Especially after everything Sammy’s been through.”

“Been through?” asked Margaret.

“That flat nose he has,” Street said. “That’s from all the beatings he took during basic at Fort Warren.”

Charlie shook his head in disgust. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Black soldiers before Truman integrated the military. Or after, for that matter.

“One time, a bunch of privates covered him with white paint, wrote nigger on his chest, coon on his forehead,” Street said. “He could have gotten them court-martialed, but he wouldn’t give up their names.”

“Jesus,” said Charlie.

“How do you know all this?” Margaret asked.

“I met him at a bar back in Chicago, I think around ’51,” Street recalled. “This was before I met Renee, so don’t ask me why I was out drinking, Margaret!”

Margaret batted Street’s arm lightly as the woman at the adjacent table glared at them again. Street returned her look with stony indifference, and she turned away, flustered.

“He was touring with his dad and uncle, the Will Mastin Trio,” Street said. “They were performing at Chez Paree, and I recognized him from articles in the Chicago Defender—that’s the Black paper. You should get a subscription, Margaret. Langston Hughes writes a column for them.”

“I will,” she said, blushing. Street was always trying to appeal to Margaret as a fellow progressive, which embarrassed her establishment Republican husband, as did Street’s oft-stated belief that she had at least twenty-five IQ points on her lesser half.

“Okay, okay,” said Charlie. “Back to when you met Sammy Davis?”

“It wasn’t anything cinematic,” Street said. “After the show, he was sitting at the bar by himself; I don’t think anyone else recognized him. I bought him a drink, and we traded war stories. I fought Jerry in Europe, he fought yokels in Wyoming. Special Services, entertaining the troops. The way he said it, he was trying to warm the hearts of racist NCOs, trying to make them, at the very least, appreciate his talent. Seems like that’s become a mission for him.” Street shook his head. “An odd cat. But a good man.”

Street took another sip of scotch. Charlie caught the eye of a Copa Girl and did a whirl with his finger—another round of drinks. Onstage,