That made me smile.
“It’s not funny, Nathan.”
“It’s kind of funny, Peter.”
He sighed. Took another draw on his cigarette, then sighed again, with smoke this time.
“What else?” he asked.
“I really am here to help,” I said. “That’s why I’m telling you that Marilyn’s place has been bugged.”
I’d expected more of a reaction, but all I got was him twitching a sort of noncommittal smile.
“Really,” Lawford said. “Well, that’s interesting. Who by?”
So that didn’t worry him. But he was interested.
“Apparently,” I said, “everybody but the Boy Scouts of America, and I haven’t ruled them out. Maybe by you or your in-laws, I don’t know. But I’m here to pass along one of those words to the wise you hear so much about.”
“All right.”
“Tell that reckless son of a bitch in the White House to use some discretion for a goddamn fucking change.”
Lawford chuckled dryly. “As if he’d listen to me. As if he’d listen to anyone… But Nathan, I do thank you for this.”
He started to rise, assuming I was done, but I waved him back to his chair. He frowned and drew on his cigarette.
“Something else?” he asked.
“Yeah. But maybe I can spare myself the bother of telling this twice.”
“How so?”
“I think I ought to share this with your houseguest.”
He half-smiled again, but the eyes weren’t twinkling. “And what houseguest would that be?”
“I don’t know. It’s either Jack or Bobby. Was that Secret Service or FBI out there?”
CHAPTER 6
“Jack has always had a fascination with show business,” Bobby Kennedy said, “that I just don’t share.”
We were standing at the edge of the ocean, hands in our pockets, slacks rolled midway up our calves, bare feet in the foam, watching the orange of the sun fight the blue of the ocean in that twilight time that Hollywood calls “magic hour.” Sorrento Beach was known for volleyball, but nobody was playing this late afternoon.
He gave me that boyish, almost bucktoothed grin; he looked like a college kid in the blue polo and rolled-up chinos. Well, a tired college kid.
“For a fella like Jack?” he said, and chuckled soundlessly. “Having Peter for a brother-in-law, well, ah, that’s your classic kid-in-the-candy-store situation, isn’t it?”
The cadence echoed his famous brother’s, but with fewer of the characteristic hesitations; also, his voice was higher-pitched, the words coming quickly.
He looked like a condensed edition of Jack, a well-tanned five feet nine or so compared to the president’s six one, his eyes bluer than Jack’s gray-blue, his hair darker and more tousled. Not as handsome, though by no means homely. He was intense and intensely shy, but he had a temper and could strike like a viper, if so inclined.
After Peter Lawford had fetched his brother-in-law, Bobby and I had a brief, smile-and-handshake reunion- Bob was not the warmest guy, even with a friend-at which point Lawford suggested we repair to his den, and the comfy couches there.
I had suggested that what I had to say was best for Bobby’s ears only, leaving it to the attorney general’s discretion just how much (if anything) he wanted to share with his actor in-law.
Who took no offense, waving, smiling, retrieving his sunglasses (but leaving Ship of Fools behind), and disappearing inside the mammoth beach house.
“Shall we, ah, talk here by the pool, Nate?”
“Why don’t we take a stroll instead?”
Bobby’s eyes slitted, reading my hesitance to be even this close to the house. “Uh, yes. Nice afternoon for a walk on the beach.”
So we ended up with our feet in the soothing surf, walking slowly along, stopping a while, then sloshing back, with black suits shadowing us from well up the slope of the beach, far enough away that we could talk freely.
There had been a little small talk. Just enough to pass for us both being civilized. He asked about Sam, I asked about his growing brood. Then we got to it.
I said, “I don’t think Jack understands that movie stars are people. He comes out here and it’s all make- believe to him. Fun and games.”
That grin flashed again, but beneath the brown bangs, the eyes were troubled. “You’re preaching to the choir, Nate. I was sent to put an end to this silly dalliance. I’ve spoken to Marilyn about it, personally.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and, uh, I feel confident she’ll be cooperative.”
In a way, this was typical-Bobby cleaning up after Jack. For years, the middle brother had operated as the family hatchet man. Old Joe had groomed him for it.
“I didn’t know you were acquainted with Marilyn.”
“I met her earlier this year, right here at Peter’s, at a party. Ethel found her quite charming. We spoke current events-surprisingly knowledgeable girl. I even danced with her. You haven’t, uh, lived till you’ve seen Marilyn Monroe do the Twist.”
“As long as I don’t have to see you do it, too, I’m interested.”
He smiled politely.
“You need to be careful, Bob. You’re dealing with a very intelligent woman who has an ego as big as it is fragile. Cross her at your own risk. She’s a star among stars.”
He shrugged. “I know she’s famous. I said before she’s intelligent. Also creative and well-informed. But there are dangers here besides the, uh, potentially embarrassing presidential indiscretions.”
“Such as?”
He gave me an awkward glance. “Don’t laugh, Nate. But she has Communist affiliations.”
Only I did laugh. “Is that the ghost of Joe McCarthy I see, haunting us all of a sudden?”
His tone grew defensive. “No, she really does. Her psychiatrist, her doctor, too, and even that housekeeper of hers, go way back with the party.”
“This is not a Peter Lawford party we’re talking about now, is it?”
He frowned; for a young face, it could really rumple. “Christ, man, she was married to Arthur Miller! If we hadn’t pulled strings for the guy, he’d have gone to jail for contempt of Congress.”
“This makes Marilyn Monroe a Commie?”
“No, it makes her naive and vulnerable, and potentially useful to the other side.”
I presumed he meant the Russians and not the Republicans.
He was saying, “Did you know that just recently Miss Monroe spent time in Mexico with a colony of left-wing expatriates?”
“She was buying furniture, Bob.”
“She’s a security risk, Nate.”
“What kind of pillow talk is Jack indulging in, anyway?” I gave up a disgusted grunt. “This bears the delicate bouquet of J. Edgar.”
“Yes it does,” he admitted, eyebrows up, then down. “And, ah, the director has indeed met with Jack several times of late, sharing… information. And concern.”
“Concern about the Commie angle? Or the sex?”
Bobby grimaced. “Both. The director seems convinced that Marilyn might go public and embarrass the administration. He actually said that her doing so would ‘serve the Communist agenda.’”
“You kids do know there’s a difference between undercover and under covers? Tell Jack to stop loaning J.
