mature pipes tossing off songs like he was making them up as he went: “Come Fly with Me,” “One for My Baby,” “Luck Be a Lady,” “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” the son of a bitch was a genius.
Like Marilyn.
But for that brief intermission with Lawford, the evening had gone well, I thought. Marilyn hadn’t really had all that much champagne-if she’d eaten more than just a salad, she might not have shown the effects of those three or four glasses.
Then things got weird.
Right after Sinatra’s closer, “Chicago” (had that been for me?), when we were still seated, after the lights had come up and before Frank could come out and join us, somebody else did.
Standing between Marilyn and me, like an evil dwarf, was Sam Giancana, elegant in his continental formal wear, well-tanned and ugly as hell, his hair dark going gray and thinning, his oval face home to tiny dark eyes, a lumpy nose, and a sideways slash of a smile.
“I just wanted to welcome you to the Cal-Neva,” the Outfit boss said to us all. “Mrs. Lawford. Miss Monroe. Nathan. Peter.”
Nobody knew what to say.
Finally I managed, “Pleasant surprise, seeing you, Sam. But I didn’t think you were allowed at Cal- Neva.”
His smile could darken up any room. “Ah, but I’m on the California side, Nate. It’s Nevada where I’m persona non grata… Don’t mean to interrupt.” He nodded to one and all, then looked right at Marilyn, who had a stricken expression. “Have a lovely weekend, Miss Monroe.”
He was moving away. No bodyguards. I found myself following him, catching up with him halfway out.
“Sam-what’s the idea?”
“Nothing’s the idea, Nate.” He was still moving, but not that quickly. The showroom was crowded, and exiting took a while, though some guests lingered for an after-dinner, after-show drink.
I was at his side. “Did Sinatra know you were going to be here?”
“Why, did you think he sang ‘Chicago’ for you?”
I pretended that didn’t deserve an answer.
We kept moving.
I said, “Is the point to scare Marilyn shitless? Because I think it worked.”
“I hope it did. She needs to concentrate on what she’s good at. Posing. Acting. Fucking.”
That was ungracious, but I didn’t point it out; I think he knew.
“She’s not going to cause any trouble, Sam.”
“You guaranteeing that, Nate? Putting your personal assurance on it?”
“Well… no.”
He stopped. He bestowed another awful smile on me, even put a hand on my shoulder.
“Just know that I appreciate you being here,” he said, looking up at me in a fatherly fashion, “and helping us corral this crazy cunt.”
He patted my shoulder, and moved on.
I didn’t follow him.
When I got back to the table, Sinatra was standing there, tux tie loosened, smiling, asking his seated guests if they’d enjoyed themselves. Lawford was forcing a smile-not his best performance-and Marilyn looked pale and sick. Almost as sick and pale as Pat Lawford. Apparently Pat had recognized Giancana, which was interesting in itself.
I went up to Frank and he, too, put a hand on my shoulder. Gave me a grin so dazzling it rivaled Johnny Rosselli’s.
“Dig the show, Nate?”
I gave him my coldest look, which is pretty fucking cold.
“Which one?” I asked.
CHAPTER 12
Nobody argued when Sinatra invited everybody to join him in the cocktail lounge. It was one of the resort’s most popular spots, with a big circular bar under a colorful stained-glass dome. Frank had reserved the section by the tall windows overlooking the lake, whose surface was playing mirror for the sickle-slice moon. There, on stools, sat the Lawfords, Sinatra, Marilyn, and I-no sign of Giancana, but then green-felt tables lined the periphery. Definitely the Nevada side.
The drinking was heavy and the talk was light, dominated by praise for Frank’s show (Lawford’s fawning got fairly sickening). Resort guests who said hi to Frank would get nods and smiles, even if he was in the midst of conversation; he was a convivial host unless somebody overstepped.
One guy in his forties with a thirtyish female on his arm came right up and said, “Frank, I want you to meet my girl.”
Sinatra gave him a snarl of a smile and said, “You want me to meet your girl? Does she want to meet me? Can’t she speak for herself? Who are you to do the talking? Is she deaf and dumb, this girl of yours?”
The couple froze in shock, then melted away.
Peter, finding a little spine somewhere, said, “For Christ’s sake, Frank, why do that?”
Sinatra shrugged and returned to his martini. “I don’t know. I can’t help it. Some people are just so goddamn dumb.”
A few celebrity types stopped by to pay their respects to the Chairman of the Board-a nickname bestowed on Sinatra when he thumbed his nose at Capitol Records, who’d revived his career, and started his own label, Reprise.
The respect-payers included singer Buddy Greco, between shows in the Indian Lounge, and restaurateur Mike Romanoff and his wife, Gloria. Greco was a talented guy and cocky, and treated Sinatra like an equal, which was dangerous. Romanoff was that well-liked fraud who pretended to be Russian royalty, a dapper, homely little septuagenarian with a mustache and a beautiful brunette wife many decades younger.
I knew Romanoff only slightly, from his restaurant, and his wife not at all; but they were close friends of both the Lawfords and Sinatra, because “Prince” Michael had been part of Humphrey Bogart’s original Rat Pack, of which Frank’s current crop was an extension.
As they gabbed, Marilyn probably appeared bored or even in a haze to onlookers; perhaps that was why no one, famous or otherwise, came over to talk to her, just acknowledged her with a smile. Even resort guests didn’t speak to her or ask for an autograph, merely moved slowly by, gazing, as if at Mount Rushmore.
I knew she’d been shaken badly by Giancana’s presence. And in forty-five minutes or so, she’d put away enough champagne for a small wedding party. She’d spilled some, and it shimmered on her black dress like embedded jewels.
I whispered, “Want to get out of here?”
She just nodded, and gathered up her little black purse.
I went over to Sinatra. “I’m gonna walk Marilyn home.”
“Walk her all the way to Brentwood,” he said unpleasantly, “far as I care. I hate a sloppy broad.”
I gave him a look.
He gave me one back. “You think I arranged that? I didn’t know Momo would be here. He comes to a lot of my openings. You’re not calling me a liar, are you, Nate?”
“Not while you’re my client,” I said. “Maybe off the clock, next week, I’ll have a different opinion.”
He decided to laugh at that.
I went over and took Marilyn by the arm and walked her out into a warm but breezy night. The occasional splash of neon and the shrill sounds of gambling and drink were at odds with the beauty of the Cal-Neva grounds, the fir trees, the rocky hillsides, the shelves of granite, touched lightly by moonlight.
“That awful man,” she said, and shuddered. She was clutching my arm as if afraid to fall from a height.
“I don’t suppose you mean Romanoff,” I said. She might have meant Sinatra. But I didn’t think so.
