"There you see 3, 4 and 5," she points. "Three was where Marilyn stayed. It had the circular bed, and that's where she got it on with JFK. There's all sorts of catacombs underneath here. When I first started working here I stepped in the wrong place and fell 6 feet through the floor."

"Was there anything down there?" I ask.

"No," she replies, "but I broke two of my toes."

Lake Tahoe is the third-deepest alpine lake in North America, a puddle of endless mysteries. Many have drowned in its freezing water over the years, but their bodies are never found. Perhaps through osmosis, the Cal-Neva is also endlessly mysterious, a creepy ghost from America's alternative history. From the 1940s through the 1960s, the place jumped with movie stars, politicians and hoodlums. In later years, it sat boarded up and neglected, until a Southern California businessman bought it in 1985 and reopened it as a resort and spa. The original casino tables and wagon wheel light fixtures remain, and the gift shop sells Rat Pack memorabilia. But underneath all the scrubbing, the air still reeks of gangsters and sex.

The buildings sit off the main road, back in the trees, and were constructed on the very border of California and Nevada. A painted line bisects the fireplace of the Indian Room, and extends across the floor, out the window, through the swimming pool and into the lake. In the years before air travel became Greyhound with wings, Cal-Neva was where you whisked away your mistress and caught a show by Lena Horne or Red Skelton. While picking up the family Christmas tree at Lake Tahoe each year, Joe Kennedy reportedly brought along his secretary for surreptitious scrumps.

According to various biographies, Sinatra bought the place in 1960, in partnership with Giancana, and reserved three bungalows with the best views of the lake -- one for himself, the other two for broads and pals. He added on the Frank Sinatra Celebrity Showroom, installed a helicopter pad on the roof and hired Skinny D'Amato to be manager, and for the next three years, the horses were out of the chute.

Those titillated by the most recent wave of Rat Pack-era nostalgia -- including the Kevin Costner film "Thirteen Days," about the Cuban missile crisis, and an upcoming Marilyn Monroe miniseries based on Joyce Carol Oates' latest tome -- will be happy to hear that the 350-seat showroom is still in use today. The hallway leading to the room is lined with memories of drinking and other high jinks, including photos of Monroe, Sinatra and other members of the Rat Pack. One shot is of Sinatra in a laughing crowd, wearing a Cal-Neva Shriner fez while a blond in a low-cut dress looks on. Another shows Sinatra chatting with a smiling Monroe, their table bristling with liquor bottles and glasses.

I climb onto the stage of the empty room and clap my hands. The acoustics are perfect. I imagine the man swaggering around with the band cooking behind him, a paisano on his home turf, in his prime -- not merely crooning like that pussy Perry Como. Sinatra knew how to swing dick and give 'em a show. Razzle-dazzle horn section, a few slow heartbreakers for the chicks and naughty patter in between -- like this boozy one-liner Sinatra tossed out during a gig recorded in 1962:

"This is a new concoction we whipped up yesterday afternoon when we were out here rehearsing. It's, ah, it's half prune juice and a touch of Tang; it's called a prune-tang."

After the shows, Ol' Blue Eyes had his choice of backstage blow jobs. Dino (Dean Martin) himself once said, "When Sinatra dies, they're giving his zipper to the Smithsonian."

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