Ahead, the members of the Rat Pack and their hangers-on were oblivious to the Marders’ concerns; they were soaked in bourbon, singing, laughing, and loudly gossiping about ghosts as they stumbled around the graveyard. Charlie and Margaret could make out pieces of their conversations.
There goes Wallace Beery. He won an Oscar too, Frank! Remember he and a couple mobsters beat that guy to death at the Troc?
Suzan Ball. Lucille’s cousin. Twenty-one? Cancer. Bit parts. Aladdin and His Lamp.
Here’s the Garden of Memory. Some reverence, folks, Bogie is over there. Bogart, Sinatra’s hero, was credited with coining the term Rat Pack to describe an altogether different group of friends, but both the term and Bogie’s beloved Lauren Bacall had been posthumously co-opted by his protégé Sinatra.
Charlie and Margaret headed back, and the snatches of conversation soon grew too distant for them to hear. They made their way over the hills on narrow paved roads to the parking lot. The others held their breath. Above them hung a half-moon, about which Sinatra started to sing: Something, something, man in the moon something, something, baboon, something, something swoon… Everyone exhaled; the wind had blown his dark mood away with the clouds.
Lawford led the pack in a charge up the hill as Martin sang a song mocking the very young girlfriend of Sinatra’s rival Elvis Presley. “Are you lonesome tonight?” he crooned. “Are you horny tonight? Have you reached puberty yet, my dear girl?” Sinatra cackled. He’d hosted the television special Welcome Home, Elvis, after Presley’s discharge from the army, but Sinatra made no secret of the fact that he found most rock and roll deplorable; he thought the music was written and performed by cretinous goons, and Presley was the gooniest of them all.
Charlie and Margaret walked slowly, bringing up the rear. Margaret sighed, seeming annoyed. “Stop pretending that this isn’t a little cool,” Charlie said, indicating the scene—they were hanging with icons of the zeitgeist, boozing in a celebrity graveyard in the middle of the night.
“Ring-a-ding-ding,” said Margaret dryly. The crack of a gunshot echoed across the grass. It took Charlie and Margaret a moment to make out what was going on: Davis was firing Fat Tony’s gun at a grave. Or, more precisely, at the sculpted angel on top of a crypt. “What th—” said Margaret, poking Charlie in the ribs.
“I think ‘Who the’ is more like it,” Lawford said to Margaret. “Doyle, the guy buried there, was a producer who screwed Sammy back when he was touring the country on the Chitlin’ Circuit with his dad and uncle.” Charlie looked at the crypt. He didn’t recognize the name. Davis yelled, “Son of a bitch!” as he fired off another round. The angel’s head exploded. “There ya go, Smoky!” Martin cheered. He ashed his cigarette on a freshly dug grave, then took a swig from a paper cup. “I’m not done yet,” Davis said, pulling the trigger once more. The blast hit the cherub in the crotch, shattering the statue. One of the pieces of concrete clipped Charlie.
“Oof,” he said, grabbing his shoulder.
“Honey!” Margaret cried. “I’m fine,” he said, rubbing the bruise. “Oh, man,” Davis said. “I am so, so sorry.” Davis was soused but clearly concerned. He made his way precariously toward Charlie, wobbly and contrite. The singer was a wee man, not even five foot five, all bone and sinew, maybe ninety pounds dressed for winter.
“It’s nothing,” Charlie said.
Earlier, Margaret, the ever-prepared former Girl Scout, had stashed the small first-aid kit she brought with her on all family excursions in the trunk of their rented white 1962 Impala convertible.
“We’re missing all the fun,” Charlie said as a gunshot followed by the pop of an exploding light bulb cracked in the distance. “I’m really fine, honey.”
“Sure sounds like fun,” Margaret said as she held out her hand for the keys. Charlie reluctantly produced them. She inserted the key and opened the trunk while Charlie looked to the hills, where the echoes of crooning and guffaws sounded almost like local wildlife.
“Yumpin’ Yiminy, now it’s a clambake!” yelled Sinatra. “More booze!” Another bottle materialized as the pack continued its run through the cemetery, minus Giancana and Fat Tony, who’d turned to walk back to their car.
Charlie and Margaret stayed in place, leaning on a thick, slightly cracked tombstone. “Irish exit,” Charlie said, motioning toward the departing mobsters.
Then Margaret screamed. From the gauzy illumination of a distant streetlamp, Charlie saw the shape in the trunk, a big shape. It was a body. Charlie stepped closer. He recognized the face, as did Margaret, who turned away. He looked with horror at the woman that they’d last seen days before and that he’d seen quite a bit of in the past few weeks. Her eyes were two bloody caverns; they must have been shot out. There was some brain and bone residue in the trunk but not enough to suggest she had been shot there. Her mouth was agape, her jaw helplessly, horrifically slack. Charlie and Margaret stood frozen until the sudden arrival of the Rat Pack, who apparently had raced over in response to Margaret’s shriek.
Sinatra looked into the trunk. “Charlie,” he said. “Just what the hell have you done?”
In the past few years Margaret was often reminded of the army’s slogan that “every man has his breaking point.” She was constantly looking for ways to prevent Charlie from reaching his. Whatever the doctors were labeling it, combat exhaustion or combat neurosis or battle fatigue, Margaret knew it would be with him forever. Beyond that, his life in Congress, where he’d been for almost a decade now, was infinitely frustrating—accomplishing anything good required Sisyphean efforts, while ethical compromises were everywhere. And at some point along the way, Charlie found that the constant fundraising and glad-handing to stay in office for his New York constituents had begun to eclipse the work itself...
After the heavy and complex first book, Tapper took a lighter theme to close out the political life of Charlie and Margaret Marder. I call it a farce, even though some of it might be true. A decade had passed and Margaret was constantly watching how Charlie was dealing with the pressure, and, even though Charlie was trying to hide it from her, his increasing need to use alcohol to keep him going.So when another favor was requested, which involved the simple task of being a consultant on an upcoming movie, both seemed to think it was a good way to fill up time between sessions and maybe do a little vacationing... The Movie was called "The Manchurian Candidate" and Sinatra was to play the lead...
The Favor: The Kennedy Family wanted to know just how close and involved Sinatra was to the Mob! And would his involvement with the presidential candidate be a burden or a good thing...
So Charlie and Margaret were often at the set while the film was being made, with Charlie giving his feedback related to what happens in particular political-related scenes...
And for the rest of the time, Charlie was spending lots of time enjoying the partying that always seemed to be going on... Even when he was at a party, without Margaret, he enjoyed himself, except he was soon placed into another situation when one of the beauties that always was around wound up in the hot tub with Charlie...and a picture was snapped! Fear of its going public was bad enough, but when the girl was found in Charlie's car trunk, he was once again afraid--afraid he was guilty of murder and would spend the rest of the days in prison for a crime he didn't remember, but could have(?) done... Finally, drinking so much, Margaret got involved and Charlie shared it all!
[Talking with Robert] Charlie had to smile at the excess. “You don’t want the president to stay there?” Throughout the 1960 election, Sinatra and the Rat Pack had gone all in for Kennedy, and the campaign had been only too happy to capitalize on the fame, the glamour, the money. Sinatra had even rerecorded his Oscar-winning song “High Hopes,” written by Sinatra songmeister Jimmy Van Heusen, with new lyrics: Everyone is voting for Jack ’Cause he’s got what all the rest lack Everyone wants to back—Jack Jack is on the right track!
As if reading Charlie’s mind, Kennedy shrugged. “When I started at Justice, an agent asked me how he could be expected to go after Mob bosses when my brother’s most famous supporter is paisans with a bunch of them. I took his point. Unfortunately, the FBI doesn’t have any evidence supporting the rumors that Frank is mobbed up, but now he shows up in this wiretap.”
In fact, the majority of the book is in casual settings with various members of the Rat Pack, partying... So, here's some of the music at those times...
“Our crew’s in the back,” Lawford said, pointing. Live jazz played in one of the rooms; the Daisy had so many, it was hard to keep track. Charlie recognized the tune: “Pfrancing,” from Someday My Prince Will Come. He polished off his bourbon in one gulp and began to lose himself in the tempo and the strutting trumpet solo, which sounded to him like a man crying. “It’s like Miles Davis himself is here,” Margaret said. She was trying to keep cool, but she had her hand on his arm, and he could tell she was a bit thrilled. They followed Lawford through the crowd of stars, ogling in every direction...
“Congressman, this one is a keeper,” Sinatra said, pointing at Margaret. “C’mon! Let’s get some swinging music going in here!” He raised his glass and held it up to Margaret. From the speakers came a rapid race of trumpets and trombones, soon interrupted by Sinatra’s voice singing an old Mexican song from the 1930s that he’d covered in May and released on Swing Along with Me in June. Granada, I’m falling under your spell And if you could speak, what a fascinating tale you would tell…
“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.
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 tohim 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.”
By the Way, there is no song, "The Devil May Dance"--it was a title created by the author...
Charlie and Margaret, ten years from the first possible death sentence for Charlie are also worried about his father who was arrested and Charlie has not been able to visit. Stress grows and it was time to take the offense and find out exactly what was going on! Politics always seems to be...messy...doesn't it? Me, I enjoyed the music more than anything. I found, even though they were all friends, I was offended by the racial slurs constantly in their comedy... But then, I'm not much for comedy at the expense of...anybody... Guess my empathy gets in the way...
I enjoyed this much more than the first book, simply because of the setting. Sure the mob was there in many scenes, but it didn't necessarily seem like they were involved politically, even though that was the purpose of Charlie and Margaret's involvement. Have to admit that I was more impressed with Margaret as a character. She was a strong woman who still loved her husband, even though he was not doing well in dealing with the politics of, seemingly, every part of their life... But the ending was satisfactory, if not thrilling or spectacular... From a historical perspective, it was indeed a trip back into the 50s, with The Rat Pack leading in bringing music into so much of the book! It's worth my recommendation for you to check it out!
In the meantime, I'd like to share a little bit of the words directly from the author, Jack Tapper, about today's political division...
A personal note:
I know many of you don't have the time I have to follow what is happening, by watching multiple sites for news information. At the same time, I must point out that it is only through Americans themselves that we can...and hopefully will...maintain our democracy. Right now, I have decided to go to the polls on May 17th, the day before I go in for hip surgery, BECAUSE I DON'T TRUST WHAT THE REPUBLICANS HAVE DONE AND MAY DO TO PREVENT MAIL BALLOTS FROM BEING CORRECTLY COUNTED.
We all saw Trump's Big Lie that the presidential election was not real...that it was a big lie! And republicans are doing everything to change or manipulate voting activities to try to again force questions regarding who wins in the primaries! YOU must help ensure that our democracy--the privilege to vote, is not made into a farce once again... lies controlled by the republican party that is infecting our nation...
Book Readers Heaven will do all that it can to share the truth. I care little about politics, as my comments on Tapper's two books have shown. I do care about the rights of ALL PEOPLE TO BE EQUAL...
Will you help me? SEARCH OUT THE TRUTH ABOUT YOUR CANDIDATES...
SEARCH OUT THE TRUTH ABOUT WHAT IS BEING TAUGHT IN SCHOOLS...DO NOT LISTEN TO REPUBLICAN CANDIDATES THAT ARE LYING TO INCITE AGAINST MISINFORMATION AND/OR making OUTRIGHT LIES!
REMEMBER IF REPUBLICANS SUCCEED IN BANNING ALL THE BOOKS THAT THEY WANT TO, THEN RECOGNIZE THAT ONLY WHITE MALE REPUBLICANS WILL BE TOTALLY HAPPY... and Free...
That is not what Democracy is or was in America... Please do everything you can to learn who speaks truth and responds to our constitutional rights in all ways...
Bill has an extensive sports background which you will learn about only by meeting people who talk about it on the way. He's insecure in one very important area of his personal life, and that is reflected in many of his choices made along the way. Bill is a husband and father with two young daughters. The daughters do not biologically belong to him or his wife.
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_vA02pQ2IerQf8wuteMwTO83Ezid3A72SK87sJglfCbaDhtuKUN7YOx7VIe9k-CgZUVNUQStVaDCCkzMz5zogRHIbDgMmOshdcRr184z7TY02OE3FnUaQzzQU6F06lyaSc3KMSa3FFuWO50c7XaXIxb=s0-d)
