“But before we film the dance number,” Sinatra went on, “Maurice Chevalier and Louis Jourdan will perform their song from the picture… It’s called ‘Live and Let Live.’ ” Sinatra looked directly at Khrushchev with a more restrained smile, now. “And I think that’s a marvelous idea, don’t you?”
On cue, trotting out from the back of the set came the legendary Grand Old Man of world show business, Chevalier, looking dapper in a black tuxedo with silver quilted lapels that complimented his silver hair; he was followed almost immediately by the much younger Jourdan, handsome, tanned and suave, wearing a gray suit with double-breasted vest and black Stetson bowler.
If either Frenchman had any qualms about following the likes of Frank Sinatra, he didn’t show it, as they launched into their number.
In his famous French accent, Chevalier advised Jourdan to live and let live, and Jourdan — in an equally thick accent — countered with advice to be and let be. With a gesture to his ears, Chevalier suggested they should hear and let hear, and Jourdan pointed to his eyes to recommend they see and let see.
A cute number, and Harrigan noted that when the pair sang in unison — to the effect that the business of the one was the business of the other — a smiling Khrushchev sat forward and nodded in agreement.
Harrigan frowned — that was peculiar. How in hell could the premier have understood those last words? Troyanovsky hadn’t had time to translate…
Maybe Khrushchev was just nodding his approval of the performance.
As the Frenchmen continued their act, Harrigan walked the floor. He had paused among the technicians, when a hand settled firmly on his shoulder.
Harrigan about jumped out of his skin.
“Sorry Jack,” a voice whispered in his ear, followed by a wry chuckle. “Should’ve known better than to come up behind a gunfighter like you.”
Harrigan let out some air. Were his nerves that shot? He turned to Sam Krueger, his Los Angeles-based FBI contact, and admitted, “Jesus I’m jumpy.”
“Who isn’t?” Krueger smirked. The FBI man stood several inches shorter than Harrigan, his sandy hair cut military short, his eyes hard and professional in the round, pleasant face. He curled a finger for Harrigan to follow him.
Harrigan did, whispering, “What the hell is it, Sam?”
Krueger shook his head: not here.
When Harrigan had first met the FBI agent at the Los Angeles Airport, just before the Russians landed, he’d been immediately impressed with Krueger’s competence, and his friendly yet professional manner. Perhaps the agent had sensed — or seen the dark-circled eyes that gave it away — Harrigan’s fatigue, and had stepped up to the plate, in this critical game, to play Roger Maris to his Mickey Mantle. It was Krueger’s job to stay out in front of Harrigan, checking security at each of the sights Khrushchev would visit in the city.
Harrigan trailed Krueger over to the edge of the set, where beneath a fake gaslight lamppost, the FBI agent handed Harrigan a piece of paper.
Harrigan frowned as he read it. “Hell, Sam,” he whispered, “I might’ve expected a bomb threat at the Ambassador Hotel tonight… but three?” He folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. “We got a full fuckin’ moon tonight, or what?”
“Are you surprised? Guy this famous, this hated, comes to town, all the kooks come out. Knock this guy off, you’re famous right now — and half the country thinks you’re a hero.”
“The other half will be heading for bomb shelters. Do I need to—”
“My men are already on it,” Krueger told him, shaking his head, keeping his voice low. “We’re going over that hotel from top to bottom — broom closets to the honeymoon suite.”
“Good idea — you need to check every screw.” Harrigan looked at his watch. In four hours Khrushchev was scheduled to speak at the Ambassador at a banquet for a large civic group. Would there be enough time for a thorough check of the facility?
Krueger answered the unspoken question. “If there is a bomb,” Krueger said confidently, “we’ll find it… Probably just cranks. Typical hollow threats.”
“But we have to assume they’re not,” Harrigan said.
“Roger that… I’m heading back to the Ambassador, now.”
Harrigan nodded. “Understood. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He watched the FBI agent disappear into the shadows of the soundstage, then turned his attention back to the set where Chevalier and Jourdan had finished their routine. Bowing, they graciously received the enthusiastic applause, which rang through the massive chamber. Sinatra once again took center stage.
“And now,” the singer announced, “we’re going to film a real scene that will be used in the movie. Mr. Walter Lang, the director, will explain the procedure… Mr. Lang, I turn the show over to you.”
From his director’s chair at the front of the stage rose Walter Lang, who even at sixty was tall, dark, and handsome enough to be his own leading man, a beefier George Raft with similar slicked-back black hair, straight nose, and prominent chin. Lang strode onto the set with typical confidence, turning to face the audience, speaking in the strong, authoritative manner that was needed to keep the volatile likes of Sinatra and MacLaine in line.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice only slightly touched by his Memphis, Tennessee, upbringing, “I must have complete silence on the set. We are going to film the big dance number that comes at the end of the movie.”
Harrigan, of course, knew this was a lie… call it a fib. The camera had been checked earlier for security reasons — along with the other equipment — and contained no film. The sham was designed simply to show their V.I.P. guest a good time.
Lang returned to his director’s chair.
He called out, “Are you ready, girls?” Then, “Cue the music!”
A pre-recorded tape began to play a lively, orchestrated number.
“And… Action!”
Flowing from the wings of the second-story set, from both the right and the left, came a bevy of beautiful girls, twelve in all, slender red-haired Juliet Prowse among them. Wearing colorful velvet dresses, the women shrieked and squealed as they descended the staircase, lifting the hems of their petticoats in Moulin Rouge style to revel shapely, long legs encased in provocative black stockings.
When the last of the dancers reached the floor, a thirteenth appeared — Shirley MacLaine, similarly clad.
As she came dancing down the stairs, Lang stood from his chair and shouted, “Cut!”
The music stopped. The girls on the floor stopped mid-twirl.
“Shirley, darling,” the director said to the actress, “your entrance needs to be a little quicker.”
“All right, Mr. Lang,” she responded sweetly.
The director returned to his chair. “Places everyone! This will be take number two… Quiet, please!”
The soundstage fell silent.
“Cue the music!” Lang repeated. Then, “Action!”
The scene began again, this time continuing through MacLaine’s entrance as she joined in on the zestful choreography.
Amused by the harmless deception, Harrigan watched Khrushchev watching the dancers. The premier seemed to be a normal enough male, red blood running in the Red’s veins — he was smiling as the chorines jumped in the air, then fell to the floor in the splits, got up and whirled some more, shaking their legs before finally kicking them in the air.
But when the dancers bent over in unison, showing their lacy-pantied posteriors in a flirtatious flip to the Russian delegation, Khrushchev’s smile disappeared, and he turned a whiter shade of pale, bolting to his feet.