The Devil May Dance

by Tapper, Jake

  How odd and how sad that Charlotte memorized a suicide note, Margaret thought. A police siren cried in the distance. Goode shook her head as if to remind herself of where she was, took a last drag of her cigarette, then stubbed it out with her foot.

  “It’s a rough town,” she said with a shrug, her tough exterior restored.

  “It’s not any nicer in Washington,” Margaret said.

  “No, I know,” Goode agreed. “We have Sinatra, you have Kennedy.”

  “Oh, jeez,” Charlie said. “Let’s not get into that—Margaret has faith in her boy in the White House.”

  “You do?” Goode asked.

  “He added a women’s rights plank to the New Frontier,” Margaret said. “He’s appointed women to high-ranking posts. President’s Commission on the Status of Women, chaired by Eleanor Roosevelt!”

  “It’s all crap,” Goode said. “He’s like all the rest of them. He’s a pig.”

  Margaret started to protest, but Goode’s face took on an angry expression. “Your worldview bears little resemblance to the real worlds of women like me and Peg Entwistle, all of us trying to make a living,” she said.

  Margaret was stunned by the sudden shift in Goode’s mood, all her tour-guide bonhomie replaced by a barely contained rage. Within minutes she was driving them back home, an aggressive silence filling her junker. The night took an even worse turn when they got back to the hotel and the receptionist alerted Charlie that the Justice Department had left an urgent message: his father had had a heart attack.

  Chapter Seven

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  December 1961

  “Zippedy-zoo-bah-zee-bah,” Dean Martin sang. “Zabbety-zoo-bah-zee-bah boom.”

  “Scat,” said Sinatra.

  “That’s indeed what I’m doing, pally,” Martin said. “Scat.”

  “No, I mean scat like ‘get outta here, that sounds horrible,’” said Sinatra, prompting an explosion of laughter from the crowd watching the show in the Copa Room of the Sands Hotel.

  It might have been just a random Monday night in December, but every night in Vegas was New Year’s Eve. At a table near the back of the room, Congressman Isaiah Street raised his eyebrows and polished off his scotch.

  “What white folks find entertaining never ceases to amaze,” he said to Charlie and Margaret.

  To thank Charlie for keeping John Wayne from stomping him, Sinatra had invited the Marders to take in a Rat Pack show. Charlie had then invited Street, a decorated Tuskegee Airman, Chicago Democrat, and one of only five Black members of Congress. He had been Charlie’s closest friend since 1954, when they’d met in Ike’s Platoon. So when Charlie called needing to talk, Street hopped on a plane. He discussed sensitive matters in person only, assuming, probably correctly, that J. Edgar Hoover had tapped the phones of every Black man with power.

  “That’s Rosselli over there,” said Margaret, pointing out the handsome mobster. He chose that very moment to casually pinch the rear of a passing Copa Girl. Her face initially expressed shock, then Pavlovian deference.

  “Who’s he with?” Street asked, craning his neck as Rosselli pulled out a chair at a table near the stage. “Is that Momo?”

  “Sure looks like him from here,” Charlie said. He pushed his chair back from their tiny square table (dinner and two-drink minimum, $5.95 per person, not a room for people without some means). “I’m going to go over there and check it out.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” Margaret asked.

  “No, but I suspect a middle-aged white guy will blend better at this stag party than either of you.”

  “Point, Charlie,” said Street.

  “What is this thing called love?” Sinatra sang. Onstage, he and Martin slouched on stools, drinks in hand.

  “Frank, if you don’t know, then we’re all in trouble,” Martin quipped. Then, in a singsongy voice: “Did you ever see a Jew-jitsu?”

  “I did,” Sinatra responded, raising his hand.

  Davis, who had considered himself a Jew since the 1950s and had formally converted earlier this year, ran onto the stage in mock offense.

  “Be fair!” Davis barked at Martin as Sinatra pretended to hold him back. “Would you like it if I came onstage and asked, ‘Did you ever see a Wop-cicle?’” The audience ate it all up like the free breakfast buffet.

  Charlie tried to saunter through the dimly lit room, filled to its maximum four-hundred-person capacity, but there was not a lot of room for sauntering. The crowd was clustered in groups of four, the tables inches from one another and set out in ten long rows. The Copa Girls followed the rules of the highway, moving on the right, passing on the left, yielding when necessary.

  He approached Rosselli’s table. The mobster was leaning back in his seat expansively, a cigar in one hand and a highball in the other. Onstage Dean Martin protested Davis’s arm on his shoulder, saying, “I’ll go out and I’ll drink with ya, I’ll pick cotton with ya, I’ll go to shul with ya, but don’t touch me,” again to uproarious laughter from the room. Charlie got a good look at the people at the table: handsome Rosselli, ferrety Giancana, and an attractive dark-haired woman who was maybe twenty-five. He returned to Isaiah and Margaret, the only two people in the room who didn’t look delighted by what was happening onstage.

  “Rosselli, Giancana, and a lady I haven’t seen before,” Charlie reported.

  “I called a friend at LAPD about Powell’s murder,” Street said. “An eyewitness saw a car with Illinois plates speed away from the hotel, guys with fedoras inside. But the cops are wary. They’ve seen the LA Mob pull this move before, replacing plates and wearing costumes to implicate Momo and the Chicago syndicate.”

  “So the theory 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 lau
ghter 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, Dean Martin began singing “White Christmas,” prompting more yuks when he alluded to Davis’s hue. From there, he segued into a Rat Pack Noel medley. Margaret turned to the subject preoccupying her, her niece, hoping that Street might have some ideas on how to track her down. He didn’t, but he promised he would think about it.

  It was after one a.m. when a familiar face appeared behind Street. The short, wiry man squeezed Street’s shoulders affectionately.

  “Sammy!” said Street, standing to hug the singer.

  “I saw you from the stage,” Davis said, grabbing a seat.

  “All the way back here?” asked Charlie, surprised.

  “You wouldn’t understand, my friend,” Davis said, patting Street on the back. “Not a lot of our kind can afford these Vegas shows. And I’ve been following this cat’s career for quite some time now!”

  “Well, thank you, Brother Davis!” said Street with a smile. A waitress appeared, unbidden, with a drink for Davis. He took it and lit a new cigarette from the one still burning.

  “You, sir,” Davis said, pointing to Charlie, “you, sir, are a mensch for helping Frank avoid that ass-stomping!”

  “What exactly did you say, Charlie?” Street asked.

  “Get this, man,” Davis said. “Charlie whispered to Wayne all the ways he knows to kill a man with his bare hands.” Davis started laughing uncontrollably. “By the time Charlie mentioned testicles, Gunga Din was Gunga gone, baby.”

  Charlie was stunned. “How do you all know that?” he asked. “I only told Margaret.”

  “And you certainly didn’t go into such exquisite detail,” Margaret observed.

  “Oh, grapevine, baby,” Davis said. “Wayne told people. He thinks you’re psychotic, my man!” Davis and Street were both laughing now. Davis patted Charlie’s arm. “This is great. It’s why Frank loves you. It’s why you’re here!” He raised a glass and they all toasted Charlie’s terrifying Davy Crockett. “To the Alamo!” they cried. Clink-clink.

  “Is May here tonight?” Margaret asked.

  “No, she’s home with the baby,” said Davis. “I’m flying back in a few hours. I promised her I’d take Christmas and New Year’s off.”

  “Yes, congrats on the wedding, Sammy,” Street said. “I read it was going to be last September, then I saw it was delayed a few months. She got jitters?”

  Davis swiveled around dramatically to see if anyone was listening; he always moved with broad determination, as if a camera were recording every gesture.

  “The old man, President Kennedy’s dad, made a specific request that I not get married before the election,” Davis confided. “The election was tight, and Jack was so publicly associated with our gang, he was worried about a backlash if I married May before the vote. Frank asked me to hold off, so I did. And I was rewarded by being blackballed from the inaugural gala. Pun intended.”

  “You were blackballed?” Charlie asked incredulously. The Streets had brought the Marders to the event, which was held at the National Armory, hosted by Sinatra, and featured Gene Kelly, Milton Berle, Jimmy Durante, Tony Curtis, Janet Leigh, Laurence Olivier, and Bette Davis, among other stars.

  “Nat King Cole and Sidney Poitier performed,” Margaret recalled.

  “Maria Cole and Juanita Poitier ain’t white,” Davis noted. “This is, of course, entre nous. Frank would be furious if he found out I told you all this.”

  “See, that really gets me,” Street said. “Why do you put up with that from Frank?”

  “From Frank?” Davis said. “That wasn’t from Frank. That was from the president, man. Or, more accurately, from his dad—el padrino, the Ambassador.”

  “Okay, but Frank delivered the message, and he’s the one making all those darkie jokes onstage,” Street said. “You’re up there saying, ‘Okay, Massuh Dean, Massuh Frank!’”

  Charlie k
new that Street, like Jackie Robinson, hid his righteous anger behind a polite veneer. Rarely, and only in discreet settings, would he express outrage at the indignities he suffered as a Black man in the United States of America. Charlie had never heard Street talk like this in public. He suspected his friend had imbibed a bit much, as had they all. Charlie tensed, unsure of how Davis would react.

  The singer took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled slowly.

  “We’re just having fun out there, man,” Davis finally said. “I make jokes about them too. The audience loves it. You need to understand something about Frank. He took me under his wing. I was living in Harlem, my family was on welfare. We were just a hoofing act! Frank saw us and hired us for his show, paid us twelve hundred and fifty dollars a week. All the money in the world. Frank would come out, open up, sing a couple songs. He’d say things like ‘I want you to keep an eye on the little cat in the middle.’ He’d say, ‘You watch him, he burns the stage out!’”

  “Really?” Margaret said. She’d never heard any of this before.

  “Absolutely, my friend!” Davis said. “Frank’s the one who got the theater to hire us. More than that, Frank insisted—insisted—that we all got paid the same. The white acts and the colored acts. Then he pretended it was a surprise to him. ‘Glad we’re working together, Sam,’” Davis said, doing a spot-on impression.

  “His orchestras had to be integrated, he said. He forced the Copa to seat me,” Davis continued. “He’s the one who got the Sunset Strip desegregated. Before him, I couldn’t sing here; I couldn’t sleep here.” Davis leaned in and lightly poked Street’s chest. “Listen, Congressman: This cat has done more for civil rights than all your Kennedys put together.”

  Street threw his hands up in surrender and smiled ear to ear. “Don’t get me started on those motherfuckers!”

  By two thirty a.m., Margaret was barely able to stay awake; she said her good nights to the men, and about an hour later Davis headed to the airport to catch a flight back to Los Angeles on the single-engine plane of Jimmy Van Heusen, Sinatra’s friend and songwriter. With lyricist Sammy Cahn, Van Heusen had won the Best Original Song Oscar two years before for “High Hopes” from the film A Hole in the Head, and two years before that for “All the Way” from The Joker Is Wild, both of which starred Sinatra. There was a lot of buzz that he might get nominated and win again this year for another Sinatra ballad, “The Devil May Dance” from El Cid. Van Heusen, Davis confided, was also a major supplier of party girls for Sinatra’s fiestas. The girls’ provenance was never completely clear but that didn’t matter to the guys who pawed them.