The Devil May Dance by Jake Tapper (jenna bush book club .txt) 📕

out that door?” Margaret asked.

“Yes, unless you trip and knock yourself unconscious and we have to carry you to safety,” the young man said with a malevolent glare.

“Where are we anyway?” Margaret asked, though she seemed to be talking more to herself. Adjacent to the stage, on the side of the building—she was trying to get her bearings.

The wannabe Tab Hunter went down the hall to gather those friends.

“So Lola told Chris Powell, and he confronted you,” Margaret said to Wolff. “And you killed him.”

Wolff smirked. “No, I would never do anything like that,” he said. “That’s crazy.”

“Well, of course you would never do it,” Margaret said. “You’re too important, too powerful. You probably haven’t even clipped your own nails since Truman.”

Wolff laughed. “That’s probably true.”

“No, you wouldn’t do it,” Margaret continued. “So someone else would do it. For you. Someone who has a lot of zealots at his disposal, people who will do whatever he tells them to do. Someone who heads an organization trying to curry favor with powerful people and recruit new members. Maybe a religious organization. Kind of.”

Wolff continued to smile at her. He was impressed, and Margaret saw she was right.

“So the church is wrapped up in this too,” she said. “They’re your henchmen.”

He was staring at her, almost amused. “I’ll tell you, you can say what you want, but those folks are smart. And efficient.”

“You have”—she chose her words carefully—“a lot of friends. Cops, mobsters, church elders.”

Wolff thought about that. “It’s good to have friends,” he finally said. “And that’s why you and your husband can’t win. Powerful men need a safe place to unwind, away from the prying eyes of the public and the press. Pursuit of happiness is in the Constitution, lady.”

“Actually, it’s in the Declaration of Independence,” Margaret said.

“So you went to the better school,” Wolff said.

“I don’t think the Founders were condoning statutory rape,” she said.

“Those girls are old enough to know what they’re doing,” Wolff said.

“And yet young enough to be blackmailed over.”

Wolff sighed. “Your husband is a congressman. I’m amazed you’re this naive,” he said. “Leverage is the key to any negotiation, whether it’s a three-picture deal or tax breaks. Everyone is always pursuing leverage.”

“So that’s why you stuffed Lola’s corpse in our car—leverage. To get us out of town.”

“I didn’t stuff anyone anywhere,” he said.

“My mistake.” Margaret smiled. “But that’s why you had it done, right? I mean, it’s pretty brilliant. Appeared to be a Mob hit, and we’re out here looking into Sinatra and the Mob…”

“Thanks, I thought it was pretty inspired myself,” he said.

“You’re remarkably smart for a former actor,” Margaret said.

He laughed. “You interviewing me? You doing a feature for the Times?”

“Sort of,” Margaret said. “You know how Charlie and I were working on The Manchurian Candidate?”

“Yeah, whatever, sure.”

“You know John Frankenheimer, the director, and Joe Edmondson, his soundman?”

“I know John,” Wolff said. “I don’t much focus on the best boys and key grips.”

“John and Edmondson have been trying to figure out a way to mike a scene from a distance. Keep the booms out of the shots. Wireless-microphone technology. Heard about it?”

She watched Wolff’s face. His expression at first was confused; why was she talking about this? Then it clicked. A fire ignited in his eyes.

“No,” he snarled.

With her free hand, Margaret reached into her décolletage. “Edmondson’s been with us the whole time, listening on this microphone,” Margaret said as she struggled to retrieve the device from underneath her dress. “He’s been in a van outside the auditorium, recording this all.”

“You fucking bitch,” he said.

Margaret screamed, “Charlie Marder!” as loud as she could as Wolff grabbed her by the throat.

Down the stairwell and outside the exit door she saw the commotion as cops were shoved aside and paparazzi approached, waving cameras. Charlie barreled through the rapidly forming crowd. Wolff sensed the congressman rushing up the stairs and turned in time to see Charlie ram him against the wall. The studio executive, stocky and strong, was temporarily winded. But he quickly shook it off and tackled Charlie, and together they plummeted down the stairs.

Chapter Twenty-NineSanta Monica, California

April 1962

Charlie hit Wolff’s sturdy mass so hard that he knocked the wind out of himself. For a few seconds he couldn’t breathe and was worried a rib might have punctured his lung.

Wolff had no such problem. He sat up on the congressman’s torso and began punching him in the face—once, twice. At first, Charlie wasn’t able to respond, and then only defensively, holding up his arms to block the pummeling. The stab wounds from last night didn’t make things any easier. Charlie could discern some sort of activity up the stairs but he wasn’t sure what it was. All he could focus on were the blows of the big man who was sitting on his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Margaret had fled, fueled by pure adrenaline, desperate to find help. Onstage a moment earlier, Shirley Jones had opened the envelope containing the name of the Best Supporting Actor.

“The winner is George Chakiris from West Side Story,” Jones said as the orchestra began playing “Maria.”

“I don’t think I’ll talk too much,” Chakiris said onstage. “I just want to say thank you very, very much.”

The orchestra played “Maria” again, and Chakiris walked backstage, toward Margaret. He was grinning from ear to ear as two women holding clipboards greeted him in the wings. They steered him toward the door, where Margaret approached him and held out her hands for the gold statuette. He automatically handed it to her, presuming she was with the Academy.

Margaret turned and ran back down the stairs, raised the Oscar high, and brought it down on Les Wolff’s head.

She heard a crack.

The studio executive fell forward, unconscious.

Margaret wondered what had cracked. She examined the statue—there was a red smear on the edge of the base, which she wiped off with her thumb. Otherwise it looked fine.

Charlie pushed Wolff off him.

Margaret turned around to see George Chakiris and two women holding clipboards, all three with