“That you come along. She wants you to help celebrate.”
“Sure. Celebrate anything special, or just being alive?”
“Listen, Charlie, you can call her and ask her herself. I’m sending that ticket over to you. No arguments.”
He clicked off.
I sat and thought for a while. Everything lately about Marilyn in the papers (and on radio and TV) had been positive, thanks to her own efforts. Several columnists had leaked the news that she would likely be returning to Fox to complete Something’s Got to Give and do at least one more picture.
So I called the private number she gave me. I figured my odds of getting her were lousy, but maybe I could leave word with that bridge troll in the cat’s-eye glasses.
Only it was Marilyn who answered: “Hi! It’s Marilyn Monroe,” she said to whoever the hell was calling.
Which was me, so I said, “The actress?”
I could almost hear her smile. “Nate Heller? The smart-ass?”
“Speaking. What’s this about Tahoe?”
“Well, Frank wants to celebrate. I’m signing the new Fox contracts Monday, and he’s going to be in the next movie, I Love Louisa.”
“I thought it was called What a Way to Go! ”
“I hope it still will be. But that’s what they’re calling it for now. It’s going to have a whole bunch of top male stars, possibly Paul Newman and Dick Van Dyke and Gene Kelly and maybe Dean again… but for sure Frankie.”
“That’s very exciting. But I figured you’d have signed that new Fox deal by now.”
“Well… I shouldn’t talk about it on the phone.”
“Okay. But why do you want me along? I’m glad to have the chance to see you, honey, but Sinatra’s flying me in from Chicago for this. At your request, or so I’m told. Why?”
“I shouldn’t talk about that on the phone, either.”
That made two things she didn’t want her own phone tap picking up.
“If you want me there,” I said, “I’m there.”
“You’ll be sort of my… bodyguard. You do make a good bodyguard, don’t you?”
Huey Long had no complaints. Neither did Mayor Cermak.
“Sure,” I said.
It had been whirlwind. Like I’d blinked and there I was on Sinatra’s fancy little private Learjet, Christina, with its wall-to-wall carpet, fancy wood paneling, full bar, and piano, which incidentally nobody was playing. We were on facing couches, with seat belts that after takeoff the pilot gave permission to unbuckle. The company was interesting, even illuminating as to why I was present.
Marilyn was next to me, with Sinatra next to her. Across from us were Pat Lawford and her husband, Peter.
That’s right-seated directly across from Frank was Charlie the Seal himself, the hated presidential brother-in- law, the messenger who’d been shot for delivering the news that JFK was bunking at Bing’s in Palm Springs, not Frank’s.
Yet here the late Lawford sat, fully resurrected. That a certain awkwardness was in the air couldn’t be denied; nor that his attempts to make conversation with his host were met with only limited success.
But there they both were-Frank and Peter, together again.
What had it taken to reunite these two? A selfless wish to congratulate their mutual friend Marilyn on her triumph? A sudden realization that their friendship had been deep and meaningful, and sorely missed?
No. And no.
This had “Kennedy family” stamped all over it-a nervously toothy Pat making the smallest talk imaginable, while Sinatra tried not to pout and Lawford babbled, and Marilyn just sat and drank champagne served to us all by Sinatra’s cute brunette-bouffant stewardess Joni (that’s how her little silver-wing name tag read, anyway).
Was it early for champagne? That depends on whether you consider eleven in the morning early for champagne. None of us seemed to have a problem with it, though Sinatra was substituting Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.
Not that you could trust my frazzled judgment. That fancy first-class ticket had been for a red-eye last night, and I’d been cooling my heels in the airport lounge since 8:00 A.M. until Sinatra and his guests showed. I felt overdressed in an olive hopsack blazer and gray trousers-everybody else was in the most casual wear, knit sport shirts and slacks, including Pat, though Marilyn looked sportiest in a lime-green blouse, sunglasses (not so dark you couldn’t see her eyes), and white capris.
Pat sat forward, hands clasped, and told Marilyn how happy she was that the studio had come around. Marilyn said she was thrilled to be finally working with Frank, and Frank said the script could be better, and Marilyn said it can always be better. Peter joked about wondering if there was a part for a slightly graying child star, only he probably wasn’t joking.
Anyway, that was the level of repartee, and I didn’t get a moment alone with Marilyn until we were checked in, having been taken to the lodge by limo from the private airstrip near Crystal Bay, on the California side. She was in Bungalow 52 and I was in one of the standard cabins, but only a walk of two minutes to her little light-brown “chalet,” which was actually nothing fancy, bedroom and bath, but had a stunning lake view from its overhang porch-like balcony.
There, seated in patio chairs, she was still in the lime-green blouse, scarf, and sunglasses, while I’d gotten comfortable in a polo, shorts, and sandals. She was sipping champagne again, to my knowledge only her third glass of the day. Frank went on at nine, with dinner seating in the showroom at seven thirty.
“It’s five,” I said checking my wristwatch. “How many days do you need to get ready?”
She gave me a smile that looked like a kiss. “You think I can’t be on time? You think I can’t get ready without my entourage?”
“No,” I said.
“Ha! I’ll show you.” She reached over and touched my arm, and her voice warmed. “Thank you for this. Thank you for coming.”
“My pleasure. Why am I here?”
She sipped champagne. Looked out at the lake, which the sinking sun was painting a shimmering gold.
“Don’t you want me to answer your other question first?”
“What other question is that?”
“Why I’m not signing till Monday, when I’ve had the Fox deal in my lap for weeks.”
“Any time you mention your lap, I’m listening.”
She giggled. Maybe it was my wit. More likely the champagne. “I put off signing until the coup was over. Zanuck and Skouras? They have control again. Those Wall Street lawyers are oh-you-tee.”
“Then you’ve won.”
She was smiling like a princess. “Yes I have…” Then the smile dissolved. “… But I’ll always wonder.”
“What will you wonder?”
“Did Bobby help me or hurt me? He and his family had connections with the studio chairman of the board-the one that Zanuck just unseated? Bobby said he was helping. But I’ll always wonder-was he behind that smear campaign? Did he only pretend to call his friends at Fox and try to get me reinstated?”
“Why would Bobby want to smear you?”
She laughed soundlessly. “I’m disappointed in you, Nate.”
“… To discredit you generally, in case you decided to go public with what you know about him and Jack.”
“So you’re not just a dumb redhead.”
I sat forward and allowed an edge into my tone. “Listen, Marilyn, we’ve talked about this-people on this level, they’re dangerous. Hell, Frank’s dangerous. You know who co-owns this joint, don’t you?”
“Certainly I do. That awful little man, Giancana. I’ve met him.” She shivered. “Makes my skin crawl.”
“One of his girlfriends is named Judy Campbell, did you know that? An ex-playmate of Frank’s. She’s also one of Jack’s girls.”
“I thought Giancana was in love with Phyllis McGuire.”
My eyebrows went up. “Marilyn, this may be a tough concept for you, but some guys go with more than one
