Alarmed, she whispered, “Are you saying my house is bugged?”
“I’m just saying it’s possible.”
“God.” Her hands were fists now, tiny and white. “What should I do?”
“Just take care about what you say, and where you say it. If you’re going to have a conversation that nobody else should hear-such as this one-then find a safe place to talk.”
She pointed to the cement at her feet. “Like here.”
“Like out by the pool. In your yard. Away from this house.”
She thought about that. The furrow between her brow only made her look prettier.
“All right,” she said. “That’s good advice.”
“Yes it is. Now. Is there anything else you want to share with me?”
“Huh?”
“Anything else going on in your life that worries you.”
“Besides the studio.”
“Besides the studio.” If I’d sat forward any farther, I’d have fallen off the chair. “Marilyn, I’m somebody you can tell things to. I’m not Greenson, that’s not what I’m talking about-I don’t need to hear chapter and verse about your childhood. But stuff going on today? I can protect you in ways your good doctor can’t.”
She smiled. “You mean, because you’re a big bad private eye.”
“Yeah. I’m not as young as I used to be. But I am still big and bad. If you need protection-and I don’t mean to scare you, honey, but if you need a guy with a gun? I’m that guy.”
She frowned again, more confused than worried or scared. “You have a… gun?”
I smiled, shook my head. “Not on me. But yes. Back in my bungalow at the Beverly Hills.”
Her chin was crinkling with amusement. “So I’m safe, if somebody attacks me… in your bungalow at the Beverly Hills.”
“Yeah. Unless, of course, it’s me who’s attacking you. But I promise only to do that in the most friendly way.”
She laughed softly. Touched my face with her hand. “You don’t have to attack me. Just ask, Nate. Just ask.”
I kissed the hand and gave it back to her.
“I’m serious,” I said.
“You’re sweet.” She shook her head and the tousled white-blondeness bounced and her smile was bigger and better than in CinemaScope. “But Nate-don’t you know that everything’s turning around for me? Have you seen the interviews?”
“Yeah. That was a great one you gave Flo Kilgore. I loved where you said when a studio executive gets a cold, he can call in sick, but not a star. That you’d like to see a top executive act in a comedy with a temperature and a sinus infection.”
Her eyes sparkled and her smile made dimples. “From sources inside the studio, I know for a fact that thousands of letters and telegrams of support have come in from my fans all around the world.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
“And Fox thinks they know how to work the publicity mill?” She started ticking off on her fingers: “How does this grab you? Vogue, Life, Redbook, Cosmo -articles or interviews, all with full photo spreads. Top photographers. I’m shooting one tomorrow with Bert Stern, and I’m busy all next week.”
I had to grin at her. “They didn’t know who they were messing with.”
“And Peter Levathes-you know who he is? He’s the head of the studio-he wants to come over next week to talk to me, here at the house.”
“What for?”
“For the terms of my reinstatement, Nate! They’ve already offered me a two-picture deal-we’ll finish up Something’s Got to Give, then we do a musical, What a Way to Go!”
“That’s great.”
“Guess how much per picture? Just guess. Half a million each! My first million-dollar contract. Let Liz Taylor stick that up her fat ass!”
There was just enough of the comedienne in that delivery to make me laugh.
I reached out and took both her hands in mine. “I am so pleased for you. And I think you’re doing the right thing, putting the focus on your professional life.”
Her head tilted; she was smiling but not quite following me. “What do you mean, Nate?”
I gave her back her hands. “Well, uh, all I mean is, sometimes we focus on our personal lives, other times on our professional, and I think for you, now’s a good time for… not personal.”
“What are you talking about?”
I was talking about Jack Kennedy, and her dreams of being a First Lady, and threats of woman-scorned press conferences; but I couldn’t bring myself to spell it out. Not even safely away from any likely bugging devices.
The troll who tended Marilyn’s toll bridge stepped out from the living room onto the skirt of the pool opposite where we sat. Her sleepy voice echoed across the pool: “Someone here to see you, dear.”
“Who?”
The guest answered that question himself.
Joe DiMaggio, wearing a cream-colored sport shirt and tan slacks, looking as tanned as any movie star, not counting his creamy pale ex-wife, waved shyly.
Marilyn leapt to her feet and clapped her hands in delight. “Joe! You came!”
She instantly forgot all about me, and ran like a schoolgirl around the pool and into the arms of the big, rather goofy-looking lug who had been called our greatest living baseball player, as well as the Yankee Clipper, Joltin’ Joe, and, for a time, Mr. Marilyn Monroe.
They were talking, and I overheard him saying, “I woulda got here sooner, babe, but I was in London.”
“Doing PR for those PX people,” she said, nodding.
I learned later that DiMaggio had been working for a corporation back east that supplied American military post exchanges. But at the moment what she said sounded like gibberish to me.
“That’s right, babe, but when I heard about your troubles, I quit ’em on the spot, and now here I am.”
“Oh, Joe… you’re the best…”
She was hugging him. In her bare feet, she looked very small, compared to her ex-husband’s six foot two. His dark brown hair had gone largely white, but otherwise he was still the rugged, boyish-looking slugger.
I came around and joined them, giving them plenty of space.
“Joe,” I said with a nod. “Good to see you. Nate Heller.”
Marilyn moved to one side, but remained under a protective DiMaggio arm, and he grinned awkwardly and held out his hand. It was the firm grip you’d expect, but he didn’t overdo.
“I remember you, Nate. Nice seeing you.”
I’d helped him out of a jam once, though it had almost got me in dutch with Marilyn.
Of course, by now I was that celebrated third party in a three’s-a-crowd scenario. Even Mrs. Murray had had the sense to do her disappearing act.
So I said brief good-byes and headed through the house and out to my Jag.
I got in and just sat there a while, trying to digest my conversations with first Greenson and then his patient. I caught a glimpse of Marilyn, arm in arm with DiMaggio, showing him around the grounds, pointing out flowers she’d planted, telling him what she’d done, and what she planned to do.
It was as if they were the happy, domestic couple Marilyn’s ex had always hoped they’d be. Except instead of a picket fence, they had a stone wall.
How happy would Joe be, I wondered, if he knew his competition for the once and maybe future Mrs. DiMaggio was the president of the United States?
Plus, I was pretty sure DiMaggio was a Republican.
CHAPTER 9
